Me vs. the machines

Some time this year (last year? the year before? hell, I don't know; life is what happens when you're blogging about your cats), they replaced the soap dispensers at work with the fancy kind that magically sense a dirty hand and noisily crank out sanitary foam for your handwashing pleasure. These machines — there are two per bathroom for optimum convenience!!! — have a mystical set of standards for occasions on which they will actually dispense soap to the dirty-handed. Hold your tongue to the roof of your mouth, stand on one foot, use your toes to speed dial your mother, and sing "Old Time Rock 'n' Roll" to the tune of "O Tannenbaum," and you might coax the thing into giving you a dollop of foam. Every other Thursday or so.

I've endured my share of farcical battles of wit with those machines and have spent more time than I care to recount bitching at them or about them or in their general vicinity to anyone perched on a porcelain throne nearby who may or may not care to hear my ranting. My favorite move is the one where you hold your hand out beneath the dispenser for five minutes, waiting patiently, and the instant you pull away, hey, here comes a little foam turd for you and now it's on the counter. Awesome. It's especially insulting when I fail at my quest to get soap and wash my hands simply in plain water, and then go to dry them, only to be rebuffed by the automatic paper towel dispenser as well. The paper towel dispensers — there are two per bathroom for optimum convenience!!! — usually aren't nearly as finicky as the soap dispenser (although I have spent many, many minutes of my life waving at them like they're long-lost friends, trying to get them to recognize me and help a sister out), but they are quite often simply broken and/or out of paper.

In other words, I fucking hate these machines. They are a perfect example of machinery created to make our lives easier that, in fact, only complicates things. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the manual dispensers we had before. Sure, you had to touch them and some people get weirded out by that, but come on. What's more unsanitary -- touching a soap dispenser's handle -- which is giving you soap with which you will then wash off your hands -- or going without soap altogether half the time because the frigging things aren't even working?

Oh, and here's the kicker. I found out from a co-worker yesterday that part of the reason why the damned soap things don't work sometimes is because they run out of battery power and just sit there, unusable. They especially tend to run out of batteries on the weekend. So people working Saturday and Sunday often go without soap. Co-worker said the maintenance staff was going to start checking the batteries on Friday afternoons to make sure we could make it through the weekend.

How ridiculous is that? It makes me want to scream when I think of all the little double A batteries (hell, those stupid things may use C batteries for all I know) we're burning through and then sending to landfills for no fucking reason other than perceived convenience. I don't know. It just ... ugh. It's a bit much for me, and I'm pretty much the shittiest environmentalist you will ever meet. (Case in point: Weeks and weeks ago, I bought two of those Schnucks bags meant to be reused to replace the plastic bags, and I have been back to Schnucks exactly once with them. All other times ... of which there have been many, many ... I have managed to forget them, and returned home with a carload of plastic bags. Yeesh.)

So my plan is to buy a big bottle of dollar-store soap and bring it in this weekend for the weekend crew to use and refill it as needed. Maybe it will be just me using it, maybe not. Whatever. I don't care. But I am not fighting with those fucking machines again.

Trippin'

Today I took a little tumble in the liquor store. Literally. You know, I've spent enough time rambling about my stupid life on the internet that I just about had myself convinced that I couldn't really be embarrassed anymore. Ha. Nothing like a good old-fashioned falling down to pour a nice little cocktail of humility and shame over your head.

Still, it made me laugh. Once you recover and move far, far away from the epicenter of the ordeal, you can't help but imagine how you must have looked to everyone else. First, to your shopping companion, who's turning to say something to you, only to realize you're not there anymore; you're splayed on the floor with your knees spread jutting in opposite directions, your torso hovering awkwardly above the linoleum as you grasp for something, anything, near you, a look of pure terror on your face. Then there's the people behind the counter, who, just a split second earlier had been nodding to greet you upon your arrival to their fine shoppe and suddenly see you drop out of view, as if plummeting through a trap door, thoughts of lawsuits flashing through their heads.

Of course, no fall would be complete without The Save.

"Wow, that's REALLY slippery!" you might announce as you try to right yourself and carry on with your shopping, which hadn't even really begun because you had just, JUST stepped into the store before gravity and the rainslicked floor joined forces to suckerpunch you. But everyone just gives you that wincing look of pity, the one that barely masks their desire to laugh. I know that look because I can never get it quite right when I witness someone fall. I usually guffaw before thinking. It's nothing personal; I'm just twelve years old and pratfalls greatly amuse me.

So, yuk it up, chumps. I'd laugh at you too.

Good god in heaven, I'll just go ahead and say it: It's been one of those weeks. One of those weeks where your brain is a cord of wood and the world is a flock of woodpeckers just fucking going at it, so fast they're in slow motion, boring holes in your consciousness, rattling your eyeballs, and making you want to scream the loudest scream that has ever existed.

Sounds dramatic but it's not, because everybody has had a week or two like that. Maybe a month. A year, if you're real unlucky.

I thought I was going to fucking choke someone Wednesday night. I felt like the Hulk, only not quite as chartreuse and way more passive aggressive. I don't know where all that bile came from. Some of it carried over from the weekend, which was not altogether bad, but had its moments of anxiety and anger. Some of it came from the phone call I got from Phil early this week telling me that Felix is really going downhill in his old age and we need to think about the near future, when he's going to either suddenly die or get sick and have to be put down. Sprinkle some guilt for being the deadbeat parent who only sees him every other week or so. Add some frustrating requests at work that will, of course, get worked out in due time but that still stress me out. Fold in the sight of two failing/ailing long-term relationships in my friend group/family, both of which came to a head very recently. Toss in, for good measure, a hunk of anxiety about the year being officially half over and my twenties eclipsing fast and my general uneasiness about exactly what any of that means and why I feel so compelled to worry about it incessantly. Garnish with a filthy apartment and an empty cupboard. And what do you get? A pissy-ass bitch pie.

What is that sound? Is it the wahmbulance? Good, because I called it three frigging days ago.

To the jackbag who hit my car and didn't even leave a note

I hope you and your sandwich-stealing friend get to share the cheap seats in Hell, you spineless fucktard.

I'm eyeing every vaguely red/maroon car in this town, looking for a similar pattern on the fender.

God, people suck so fucking much. Not even 2,000 miles on my damn car and already some idiot has got me queued up to have body work done. I could spit acid into the eyes of a thousand children right now.

Broken

The cats, in an attempt to prove once and for all that the sun orbits the Earth and Galileo was a punk-a$$ chump, just broke the Galileo thermometer my sister gave to me for Christmas a few years ago.

They were playing and one of them — probably Sally — was getting all monkey with it and climbing on the bookshelf and probably jumped off, making the shelf rock and sending the thermometer to the ground. At least, that's my theory. I didn't actually see what happened.

Luckily, it hit an area rug and not the hardwood, or it would have completely shattered. As is, it just broke off the little reservoir tip and leaked paraffin all into the rug. (This whole time I thought it was water in there. Good to know that it's really effing flammable!) And into the hardwood below. I scrubbed as best I could, but I'm sure it's going to leave a smelly stain. On the rug and the floor. And now it smells like paraffin in the whole apartment, which is making me have flashbacks to the ice storm of '94 (I think) when my family lived in our basement for two weeks, heated only by a kerosene heater and lit only by hurricane lamps. That was nuts.

So now, because I can't just throw this thing away, I've got to figure out something to do with the little temperature bulbs.

Confessions of an inexperienced car buyer

This week has been a big ball of suck with little chunks of awesomeness stuck to it. I'm busy picking the awesomeness off and putting it in my pockets for safekeeping. And then I'm going to toss the ball of suck and pretend it never existed. Ugh.

So, I found out Tuesday that my rental car needed to be returned Thursday. This came as a shock because I had been told this whole time that the rental was open-ended until I got a new car. No one gave me an end date. My insurance policy states that I get up to 30 days in a rental, so I wouldn't have dared push it past that. But I was taking my time, evaluating different cars online and making trips out to dealers to test drive. I didn't want to rush into anything.

And then suddenly the insurance company drops a bomb on me and says that I have two days left with the car. At that point, I had not even settled on what make or model I wanted to buy, much less the specific car. So Wednesday morning I hightailed it to Covington Pike (for the fabillionth time this month, I swear) and began at the Chevy place to test drive a Cobalt (my dad had found a decent, used Cobalt in Savannah that he thought might work if I couldn't find something better) to see if I even liked it at all. I wasn't terribly impressed — the generic GM interior is shockingly unattractive for what you pay, and the gas mileage isn't great — but the car drove well and I knew I'd be content with it if I couldn't find anything else I absolutely loved.

While I was on the lot, I wanted to look at some Aveos — both the sedan and the hatchback. Aveos are really inexpensive, especially the bare-bones Aveo5s. But the problem with the Aveo is that it feels cheap. I drove both a sedan and a hatch and they're both cute cars — the interior in them, while being made of super cheap plastic crap, is actually a lot more stylish (and youth-oriented, I guess) than the Cobalt interior. But they feel like go-karts and the hatchback was sooo whiny that it felt like at any moment it was going to crap out on me. Do not want.

I appreciated the patience and non-pushiness of the Chevrolet salesman. He ran and got keys three separate times for me, and a new battery for the Aveo5 that was lacking one. He didn't try to get me "in the box" and start talking numbers. I was in control of that visit. It was awesome. I took his card and told him I had some other lots to visit, and hopped over next door to the Nissan lot to check out a Versa, based on ML's recommendation in the comments of an earlier post.

The Versa impressed me, even if the salesman was kinda weird and didn't know much about the car. I drove a hatchback around the block and really, really liked it. The interior didn't look like cheap crap (and I'm not saying that I'm looking for a luxury interior; I'm just looking for an interior that my kultzy ass will not destroy within a week) and it was roomy as hell. I liked the ride a bit more than the Fit, but the sticker price struck me as being out of my target, and the gas mileage was slightly poorer than the Honda, so I sort of put it on my extended list and went next door to the Honda lot to check on a Fit again.

Serendipitously, there was Larry, hanging out on the front stoop, smiling as he saw me pull up. Ugh, that made me feel dirty. It was like a shark had spotted some chum dripping from a bucket. We walked on back to the Fits and I quickly found the one with the cheapest sticker price and we got in for another test drive. I tried to be more critical of the car that time around. Some things I didn't like: The seats seem cheap and rigid. The acceleration is a little goosey, and the gas pedal seems higher off the floor than it needs to be. The engine didn't seem quite as powerful as the Versa's (of course, that's a tradeoff for better fuel economy). But I really liked the instrument panel and all the different ways you could configure the seats.

After the test drive, I went into Larry's depressing office — which showed no signs of his humanity (pictures of his family or friends, a beach calendar, a real plant, nothing) and we started talking numbers. Although I had told him earlier that my ideal payment would be about $180, he asked, "So you're looking to get something at around $250?"

And there began my hour of hell, during which Larry tried every trick in the book on me. I'd talk him back down and finally settled on $200 as being my max, and he kept saying, "So, what would it take to get you in this car today? If I can get these numbers down to your numbers, are you telling me you'd take this car off the lot today? I've got to have some light at the end of the tunnel, here."

And I was just thinking, Dude, there's a light at the end of the tunnel: It's the door at the end of the hall and I'm about to walk right the fuck through it. But I remained polite and told him that no way was I making any promises and I needed to know their best offer before we could move forward. Up until that time, he was sticking solely with sticker price. I don't think he ever moved off of that, even a little. I know that small cars don't give dealers quite the profit leeway to play with that bigger cars do, but I don't give a shit. Their profit is not my fucking concern.

Larry wanted to run my credit, which I was unsure about, so I told him give me a minute to consult with my adviser. Ha. I went outside and called my dad and he seemed to think that if I was semi-serious about this car, that it would be OK to let them get my numbers so we could get a more accurate picture of what interest rates my numbers would earn me. I'm just paranoid and don't like a lot of hits on my credit report.

I went back in and Larry ran my numbers and told me I could get the car for $270 a month. My heart sank. That sounded really shitty, considering I have pretty good credit. Turns out they don't finance for the amount of time I was looking for unless you're financing more than $15,000. Larry then turned me over to the financing dude, who ticked out some shit on his computer and made stupid jokes to me about how he never sees payments as low as $270. "My payment on my motorcycle is higher than this!" It was at that point that I mentally checked out and just started texting people while the financing dude turned me over to yet another dude, who tried to be laid-back and cool to earn my trust. Fuck that. They kept leaving the room for ten minutes at a time to "call the banks" to shop for loan terms and get the payments down to my absolute ceiling, which was $220 (or so I told them). The lowest they could get the payments was to $240. They weren't working with me at all. They were just doing their silly salesman dance. Give me a fucking break. I know nothing about this process but I could see right through all of it because they don't even try to hide how shady they are. So I told them that if we couldn't make it work, we couldn't make it work. I saw them give up. I got a pat on the shoulder from the cool dude as he scowled and left the room.

And just to show that I have a superior sense of humor, as I left, I told the financing guy, "Thank you for your patience!" Ha. I crack myself up.

Anyway, that afternoon, I read this, and flushed the rest of my hope for humanity down the toilet.

The good news, though — and there is pretty effing good news — is that I mentioned to my dad that I was impressed with the Versa, and he checked out the Savannah Nissan place to see what they had in terms of deals on those (or even used ones, but they're too new to be popping up as used in most places). And I'll be damned. I'm going to buy my new car Monday (my first new car ever). Granted, I didn't do the haggling on it, but at this point I can swallow my pride and go fork over my money and take the deal. My dad's awesome and that's all there is to it. I think helping me out like this has actually helped him feel better than he's felt in a long time. At least, he sounds excited when I talk to him. So, everyone wins.

Except Larry.

Riddle me this

An anonymous commenter left this for me on the post where I mentioned that my police report still was not available to me:

The MPD handles over a hundred crashes a week (on average about 28per day) - and EACH one has to be reviewed by A traffic supervisor so it takes time to get them filed. These supervisors do not only approve these reports they have other supervisory duties as well including making the scene of certain crashes when needed for advice by the officer or PST.

Then once it is approved at the Traffic Office it is sent to Central Records to be manually filed - add that to all the criminal reports they recieve and it takes some time to get each report filed. A few years ago the State changed the format for TN accident reports - it went from a few pages to about 10 so not only does it take longer for an officer or PST to fill out but it also takes longer to be approved and filed. Due to the fact the crash reports require a manual drawn illustration of the accident these reports can not be completed electronically which would certianly expadite the process. The general rule is 7 days or so per report - factor in the holidays - and you can see that it can take a bit longer to get a copy.

Look, I'm not a hothead. In fact, I'm probably too easygoing for my own good. So I haven't bitched anyone out over the report being so late (15 days now, minus a few weekend days and New Year's Day and possibly New Year's Eve if that counts as a holiday too). I was just mentioning that I still couldn't get it. It's annoying.

So here's my question for anyone who might know, including the Anonymous who posted the info above:

If my accident record isn't available to me yet, how in the FRICK did my cell phone and mailing address become available to the FIVE OR SIX different ambulance-chasing doctor/lawyer teams that have contacted me repeatedly in the past two weeks? The first lady who contacted me told me, after I pressed her, they got my info from the public record. She didn't get any more specific than that.

Is there another public record other than this accident report that I am unaware of that would include my freaking cell phone?

I'm not being sarcastic; I seriously would like to know.

Crick

Well, kind of out of nowhere, my neck has seized up and I can hardly look all the way to my right. It hurts like a bitch, way down into the middle of my back and below my shoulderblade. I have muscle relaxers from the doctor, but I can't be expected to get any work done when I'm on drugs.

And the check engine light in my rental car came on the other day. They want me to come in and swap cars. Bummer. It's for the best, I guess; it's getting 16 freaking miles to the gallon. It's settled: I want a Prius.

Things I do not care for, in no particular order

• Shoving my hand into my purse only to have a bristle from my roundbrush stab me right under my cuticle.

• Multiple calls on my cell phone from sugary-sweet ambulance chasers.

• Five pounds of holiday weight gain, yeesh.

• Coming home to see a dude with multiple big garbage bags strapped to the roof of his not-too-shitty-looking van rooting in the dumpster.

• Not being able to cook.

• PMS.

Sifting

Cleaned out the car this morning. Kept apologizing to the car like it was pissed at me. What was left was mostly trash (I bagged up a lot of it but left it in the back seat) but a few things were worth keeping and I stuffed them into plastic bags and went on my melancholy way.

Sadly, the West Street Thugs tape that has been stuck in my tape player since, oh, 2004 did not make it out alive, er, at all.

Dad talked to the insurance adjustor and found out they're just moving the car to a more secure lot that doesn't charge for storage. (I am 26 and ashamed of my reliance on my parents for these seemingly simple tasks, but I know they just want to help and make sure I don't get screwed over. Still, I feel like a big baby letting my dad do all the heavy lifting during all this. Even though he's insisting to do it. I think it makes him feel good to help me out in such a big way since I'm usually so independent.) They've not yet made me an offer. I guess they're still waiting on the police report and the drunk bitch's insurance people to get their crap together.

I called to make an appointment with a doctor who comes highly recommended by two people I work with. I'm waiting on the call back from the lady who schedules appointments for people who've been in wrecks.

Instant mid-post update: The lady just called and said the doctor cannot accept new patience (<------ Freudian typo) patients who have been in car wrecks. WTF. Jesus Synchronized Swimming Christ, what does it take to get a doctor to see you in this town? I AM NOT GOING TO THE FUCKING EMERGENCY ROOM.

Instant post-post update: Just made an appointment at Primary Care Specialists for tomorrow. I went there last year when I had a sinus infection. I just remember seeing a doctor for about three seconds, and I don't remember her name. But I don't freaking care who sees me or for how long. I just want to get this out of the way.

This blog is about cars from now on, sorry.

I will never be able to afford a car this nice in Real Life.

My rental car is an ice-purple PT Crusier convertible. I'm sure car buffs would guffaw over me calling the Cruiser "nice," but to me it is. It's a pretty new car — 16,000 miles on it, and it still smells like the factory. I like the way it drives — I feel like I'm sitting up higher than I did in my Alero, and it feels smooth and tight the way older cars don't — but it's got pretty dismal blind spots when the top's up. I confess, I have not yet driven with the top down. Perhaps when it warms up to 50 degrees.

The adjustor told me today that the Alero is definitely totaled. They want to release it from the tow lot to a salvage yard. I said fine. My dad called, pissed that the insurance people had even talked to me. They were supposed to go through him. I'm stupid and don't know how to do all this without getting bilked, so he's insisting on handling it. He's pissed that the insurance company wants to send the car to a salvage yard before they've even offered us any money. This makes sense to me, I guess. I don't know the rules. I don't know the protocol. I am completely clueless. Everyone I talk to is offering conflicting advice. All I want is to go back to Saturday night and take Union instead of Linden, dammit.

Tomorrow (okay, later today) at 8 a.m., I have to go clean out the car. There is so much stuff in there. Granny's clothes, pieces of kitchen appliances, newspapers, bottles, sunglasses, books, plastic cups, bras (don't ask), maps, stamps, etc. I'm going to need an army of trash bags. I need to get my tags and my mats. It will be the last I see of my car, which is headed for a junkyard, to be picked at by vultures seeking cheap parts. Actually, I shouldn't think of it like that. I should think of it as organ donorship. Through the death of my car, others can live. Or something.

And I have to go to the doctor for real this time. I tried Sunday — Methodist Minor Medical wouldn't take my insurance — and again Monday — Baptist Minor Medical allowed me to wait for three hours and took my co-pay, only to have the doctor say she couldn't treat me and I'd have to go to the ER for a back x-ray. (Which I didn't do because it was New Year's Eve, Joey was in in town and I AM NOT INSANE.) So I guess I'll try to make an appointment with a doctor who does do big x-rays this time. I feel fine, I'm not all that sore, really, but everyone's nagging me to go get checked out and I'm tired of hearing it. And I'm just dying to waste an afternoon breathing germs in a doctor's waiting room.

I've been looking at car prices and specs online. I've been floored by how much cars cost these days. This makes me old or stupid or both. I remember the days when you could get a decent entry-level car for $10,000. Now I don't see much below $16,000ish. Even used cars are effing expensive.

Kinda got a crush on the Fit. I'm definitely looking for something that gets good mileage. Crude futures hit $100 a barrel, don'tchaknow?

How I spent my Saturday night

I was heading west on Linden at about 11:40, stopped completely to turn left onto Cynthia (yes, my blinker was on) waiting for freaking ever because of the steady stream of traffic coming from downtown (Liberty Bowl and U of M basketball revelry), when some car just fucking plows into me from behind and pushes me into oncoming traffic. Thankfully, the giant SUVs heading straight for my face swerved to miss me and I moved my car back into my lane.

Turns out the woman who hit me — and her tuxedoed companions — were coming from a wedding. And had been drinking. She had no license. First thing she said to me was, "I'm fucked. I'm going to jail."

And after she watched her car get towed and came over to me and said, "Do you see this? Do you know how much this is going to cost?! This is an Acura!," I was hoping that she was right. A night in the clink would surely help her out on the humility front. They put her in the back of the police car but I have no idea if they actually took her to 201 Poplar or let her go. I got all the info I needed from her and the cop and got the eff out of there.

So, I'm fine (back's a little sore; I'm going to have it checked out later today). My car is not fine. I guess all that talk about being in the market for a new car wasn't bullshit after all. Yay?

That's why they call them business socks, oooh*

Well, my hooptie is thismuchcloser to becoming junkyard scrap. Lately it's been doing this thing where it will shudder violently if I'm idling in drive or reverse, and it will stutter and stammer and act like a prissy toddler that doesn't want to do what I'm telling it if I'm driving and trying to accelerate the least little bit.

The TRAC OFF and SERVICE ENGINE SOON lights have been blinking in a display of holiday festiveness. I didn't know if the damn thing was going to get me from Memphis to Saltillo, but it did. And this afternoon I dropped it off at a mechanic in Savannah, who's keeping it overnight.

I know nothing about cars but I suspect it's either a transmission problem or fuel filter/injector issue.

Obviously I'd prefer it to be a fuel filter problem (as in, "Here's a new fuel filter; you're good to go, little lady!") but I suspect it will be whatever could possibly be the most expensive disorder on the menu. Mmmmmm, love that new transmission smell.

While in Savannah, I got a wild hair up my ass and coaxed Phil to drive me to Wal-Mart. I'm not sure why I'm occasionally hit with these urges to be COMPLETELY EFFING MENTAL but I believe I lasted all of five minutes inside there before crying uncle and demanding that we leave. And it wasn't really even all that crowded. It's just that it's Wal-Mart ... in Savannah ... a place I very much do not like to spend lots of time. A place teeming with that uneasy sense that you vaguely know every person you see, even if you don't recognize them. Or that, if you do, you've got to stop and talk. My dual nature (total asshole vs. polite country girl) rips my innards to shreds in such situations. I think the whole thing gave me indigestion.

We left and drove around Savannah to look at all the houses we made out in when we were kids. That was kind of fun. And we marveled at all the broke-ass meth lab houses and how some parts of Savannah look so, so shitty. And then we picked up Phil's mom and took her out to eat at Uptown, which has apparently changed owners but still serves up yummy chicken salad (albeit using a slightly different recipe). And I'll be damned if I didn't have a delicious Riesling there too -- a steal at $6 a glass! Made my car problems seem oh so distant.

Tomorrow morning I have to get up and check on my ride to make sure it will be functional by the time I need to leave for work (noon). Hopefully they will have fixed it. Otherwise, I'ma park my ass at Uptown and keep drinking. It will be one of those days.

*This title has nothing to do with the post. I've just been watching my new Flight of the Conchords DVD and needed to acknowledge that my obsession has been rekindled.

Rhetorical question

Do they send servers at the Deli to some kind of training where they learn how to ignore their patrons for as long as humanly possible?

We're doooooomed!

I just watched the replay of the Republican YouTube debate from last night.

As usual, I have some poorly thought out and superficial observations, based on my incomplete viewing because freaking Headline News Local Edition kept cutting in to tell me about Hannah Montana and the cold front that's coming.

• WTF is Mitt Romney's hair made of? Cellophane? Robot cellophane?

• I have always had a soft spot for John McCain, even though he can be an ass and even though I completely disagree with his take on the war (and his contention that "they'll follow us home" — what, they can't find their way now?) and the way he is sometimes so friggin' smarmy. So it hurts me to see him saddened by his colleagues' ridiculous hedging re: torture. You know he is the one person on that stage to whom the concept of torture is more than a concept. It also hurts to hear him talk about how he used to use guns, but doesn't have one anymore (but I know that's probably a carefully focus-grouped answer to appeal to mushy liberal types spying on these debates).

• Duncan Hunter clocked roughly eight words during the whole thing.

• Creepiest moment of the debate? There were several, but possibly topping them all was Romney's "I have two guns in my home; they are owned by my son Josh, hnyah hnyah hnyah." See for yourself (it's near the end of the clip):



• Second creepiest moment? Tancredo watching his campaign video. It's like watching him watching a video of himself masturbating. I am so sorry I just put that image in your head.

• I like Fred Thompson's sense of humor. Too bad he stands for everything I hate. Dude, Roe v. Wade is the No. 1 thing the country needs to tackle? Are you fucking serious, Rich Old White Man?

• I like Ron Paul's take on a lot of issues, but his skirting the issue on whether a woman should be charged with a crime if she got an abortion (if abortion was to be made illegal) was seriously cowardly. Note to pro-lifers — if you're going to outlaw something, you HAVE to come up with punishments for those who break the law. Otherwise, STFU. And Mitt Romney saying that Roe v. Wade should be overturned and the abortion decision returned to the states, but that he'd be happy to sign a federal abortion ban nearly made my head asplode.

• Mike Huckabee is kinda hokey when he gets to talkin' 'bout Jesus, but he had a classic one-liner and was just rhetorically on-point for the most part. I still think he's being a dumbass about his take on homosexuality and same-sex marriage, but I get that that goes with the Jesus schtick.

• I want to marry Nick Anderson.

• Kudos to the kid who asked the Confederate flag question. I love to watch politicians squirm at this question. It's essentially a no-win: Say the flag isn't racist and you will be pilloried as racist. Say it is and you risk losing that tantalizing bloc of hyperdefensive, working-class Southern white dudes that has become convinced that the Left is being run by gays and women who are on the rag. Squirm away, sirs!



Oh, and I think the bit about the two Americas and Romney wanting to throw something at his TV is fucking priceless. Get angry, Mitt! Throw some shit around when you're reminded than not everyone is as rich and privileged as you are! We're all in this boat together, except for the schleps who are stuck swimming. (For more on Mitt's totally clueless perception of the class war, see his response to the question about black-on-black violence.)

• I swear, the Republican take on gay people is damn near cavemanesque. They're going to boo a man who served for forty-plus years (and is openly gay) because he reminded them that every day, two people are discharged from the service not for misconduct, but for being gay? FUCK THAT. (I can only hope they're booing the deplorable actions the officer is describing, not the officer himself.)



• Yankees, Sox, blah blah sports-as-metaphor-for-election hooey.

In conclusion, fuck all these assholes.

More video here. The sexy highlights are here.

Should be a good day

It's awesome waking up early to get ready for a roadtrip, and then noticing little cat footprints — Where did those come from? — and following them into the kitchen where THE ENTIRE FLOOR IS COVERED IN WATER FROM WHERE THE PIPES UNDER THE SINK FELL APART WHILE THE DISHWASHER WAS RUNNING LAST NIGHT AS YOU SLEPT.

To the dude in the maroon Intrepid who honked at me (for slowing down at a green light) and then turned into my apartment complex lot ...

... because he apparently is my neighbor:

FUCK YOU.

There are two lanes. You're free to use the other one.