March 2004

March 17, 2004
Apparently, Udo Kier's harrier brother was elected grande poobah of Spain.

Upon taking office, Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero (whose name, loosely translated in English, means "wooden shoes of the pointy-eared Satan") proclaimed, "Fear is tremendously undervalued in free societies, no? In Spain, we do exactly what our terrorists tell us to do."

Then, he turned on his heel, sprouted little bat wings, and flew away through some open French doors.

March 14, 2004
Odd. My much-treasured and fiercely-guarded ill will for fellow man and woman is so contextual. Example: when driving, pedestrians are beings constructed entirely of annoyance and possessing of the slowest moving legs that The Christ ever engineered. They amble out into the road without a glance toward oncoming traffic, as if the deed to the highway is pinned on their miserable fucking outerwear. Plus, they spend the entire protracted crossing either: A.) consuming roughly 40,000 of their anytime minutes, B.) pausing at intervals to calculate pi with neverbeforewitnessed precision, C.) glaring at you, or some lifesucking combo of the above.

However, when I'm the cellphone-talkin', pi-workin', meanstarin', jackass in (or, more often, out of) the crosswalk, it's the drivers that are the minions of a Dark Lord whose dual purpose for getting up in the morn is to sharpen His pointy tail and maim those that attempt to trespass in the lane on foot.

I reserve space in my heart for another similarly soul-poisoning ire. This particular jar of my lip-puckering bile is earmarked for those patrons of Starbucks who choose the seats adjacent to power outlets for their century-spanning patronage. This is especially ridiculous and callow (even for me), since I am vexed only when with laptop. And, furthermore, if I had possession of a battery whose average life topped 22 minutes, the issue would be mitigated entirely. But I don't.

Today, I took the luxury of snagging a sitter for the little girl so that I could get my Greg-Brady-looking locks chopped and then head Starbucks-ward to make a little progress on a book I've been reviewing for a friend and former boss. A tenuous plan, at best, considering Sundays are prime "I-think-I'll-gather-with-friends-I-haven't-seen-in-forty-years-and-arrange-our-seating-to-prevent-any-access-to-power-outlets-and-review-our-time-apart-minute-by-everfuckingloving-minute" time at Starbs. Surely enough, sometime between my entrée and the presentation of my latte, the three, possible, powered spots were taken by A.) an impossibly chested Asian woman and her supremely-potent-coke-dealing goon (sure, it's a guess, but an educated one), B.) a triumvirate of Ukranian expats discussing the Mutterland (German, Ukranian, whatever. The languages are equally lovely on the ear.) in decibles normally reserved for a Dokken concert circa '83, and C.) another laptop-toting loser, committing the Cardinalest of Cardinal sins - blocking the wall-power while solely relying on battery to make pc a go-go. Dick.

I spent 22 minutes nervously casing the place from my seat of power(less) like a peeping Tom who derives his jollies from gaping at ultrabland, earth-hued, interior decorating. No one was fucking budging. The creepier my desperate, not-so-furtive recon got, the firmer the offending mocha-suckers' roots grew. Finally, I prepared a little pathetic speech for the other cordless laptard: "Good day and excuse me, sir. I'm terribly sorry to bother you. But, ah, my laptop battery just died, and I can't find another seat with access to a power outlet, and since you're not plugged in, yet blocking any reasonable use of the fucking source of power in this joint, would you mind scooting down just one miserable The Passion of The Fucking Christ damned seat on the counter so that I just might plug in?"

Then, it happened. Just as my IBMasaurus warned, "Shitheel, how many times do I have to shut off mid-keystroke before you realize my battery is vestigial, at fucking best? You fairy." (and frankly, sure, Christina, I am beautiful, no matter what my laptop says, but... that parting shot hurt.) the Jennies from the Soviet bloc finished their government cheese, rose, donned their car coats and raccoonhats, and made like Communism.

Yum.

Victory can be sweeter than a double tall, soy, hazelnut, no vanilla, caramel macchiato.

March 11, 2004
Cell phones rang unanswered on the bodies of the dead as frantic relatives tried to call them.

What a wonderful world, Louis? Really?