Post-Birthday Bashing

Photo: Phoebe was here! The scene, looking down from my 3rd-story bedroom window, onto the balcony below.

If I had to describe my birthday in six words or less, it would be this:

Super crazy fun time with friends!

I received so many wonderful gifts--Grizzle got me a robot!!!--which I really wasn't expecting; I also have so many cupcake leftovers, if I actually eat all of them in the next week, I will gain another human. So I should stay away from them...right after I eat this one...and this other one....

Thanks to all who showed up for the soiree, it was a really good group of people; I actually paid my brother to come up, since he had no money. I'd say we had 20 people here (in my one-bedroom apartment), chilling, playing Session Rochambeau, listening to records, and cackling up a storm. I was trying to smoke as much as humanly possible, since May 7 was my quit date--I even have some left over, but I'll just chuck 'em. I'm done, and have also cut out my triggers, like everything I can think of. It was really awesome seeing Joshy--he's like half the person he used to be (since he's losing so much weight--good for you!), but still the coolest person I know. I feel really lucky that I love the Esq's closest friends, because it really sucks if you don't. Of course, his friends are all exceptional like the Esq, so I'm not too surprised. My friends are all stuck-up, stinky drunks. Just kidding. :) And by that, I mean that some of you are, but most of you aren't.

In a way that only Snotty can, I chopped my hair off on my birthday, because I was tired of the rats' nest. So six inches off the back and I got the color done yesterday--I feel brand new! Brand new and thirty-fucking-two. But still.

Today is: shopping for jeans, lunch with the Griz, job-searching (although my last interview went really well), a movie, and Stacie's birthday bash at Nectar. Life is rough.

Birthday Wish List

Photo: The way to my heart--cupcake speakers for my Ipod!

My birthday wish list:

A baby panda. NO, not to EAT. Not this time.

Artwork c/o Souther Salazar.

To be a member of this family, for just one hour.

World peace. Fame and fortune.

My own robot (besides the Esq); the kind that has feelings and will hug you, like Johnny Number 5.

Bacon. (Anthony got me bacon-related birthday gifts, like a wallet and St. Anthony, Patron Saint of Bacon--thank you so much, I ate them last night.)

Private birthday performances by these bands (A is the opener, B is the headliner):

A: Helio Sequence
B: Goldfrapp (minus the last album)

A: Scissor Sisters
B: Madonna (just these albums: Like a Prayer, Erotica, Music, Confessions, Best Of)

A: Cocteau Twins
B: The Smiths

A: Hot Chip
B: Daft Punk

A: Neko Case
B: Johnny Cash

A: The Specials
B: The Clash

A: The Bags
B: Throwing Muses

A: Adele
B: Mark Ronson

A: Royksopp
B: Bjork

A: Tina Turner
B: Stevie Wonder

A: Alan Thicke (a la Growing Pains)
B: Robin Thicke (c/o Alan Thicke)

That's a Thicke double-threat! But I'm just kidding. I would never see Alan Thicke in concert. I'd take any of those combinations, or all at once, or just one; either way, I'd be happy.

More birthday wishes:

A unicorn.

A hypogriff.

A Cyclops.

A dragon.

A mythical petting zoo.

Thinner thighs.

A Rewind button for when I say or do retarded things; maybe two buttons, since they'll get a lot of action.

A man. You know, one of those guys who is always being nice to you, anticipating your needs, buying you cupcakes, rubbing your feet, making you laugh all the time; someone really smart who makes every day special, like a barfy pink Hallmark card filled with money. Got this last year, so I'm covered.

World peace domination.

Notes from a Smartphone

Photo: Janet Jackson's fist, or, The Fist of Poetic Justice.

I have one of those 'smart phones'--a Palm--and the best function on it is the daily notepad calendar; this is where I record my day, good ideas for the blog, and funny stuff that happened. Sometimes, I write in "Snotty Shorthand", which is basically a system I came up with to be more efficient--so I could save time and typing energies. For example, "Snotty Shorthand" would be abbreviated like SS, or "funny stuff that happened" would read like "f stf hp"; unfortunately, most of it gets lost in translation, since that isn't so much 'shorthand' as it is 'idiotic'. Sometimes, if the night before has been chaotic and filled with interesting or awkward moments (my personal favorite), I'll forget all I've written down and must unearth it the next morning, sifting through confusing notes and strange half-stories. This morning, I woke up, turned on my phone, went to my notes, and marveled at how diligent I am at doing everything half-assed; after translating enough of it, I also realized it was a blog: my notes and what they mean, because someone should be able to understand them, sheesh.

Snotty's Notes, listed by the hour; time and original (translated) notes are bold, while the rest of it is just commentary:

8:00 Genuinely fake. I thought it would be a good blog description for someone; sometimes I feel like genuine fake leather.
9:00 Dear Something letters: Like Dear Well-Intentioned But Totally Incompetent Manager, Dear Snotty in 1985, Dear Diet Coke That is Delighting My Tastebuds and Giving Me Brain Cancer, Dear Outdated Bumpersticker, Dear Clown Feet.
10:00 The AP Stylebook and Briefing On Media Law. I need this book, that's all. It's useful.
11:00 Children on leashes and dogs without leashes annoy me equally.
12:00 The image of indifference. Manthony and I agreed that this phrase describes most people from the Northwest. We subscribe to it, as well.
1:00 Why I hate Sarah Silverman. This could be a whole blog. I find her terminally unfunny, unless she's in an interview, just being herself; then she's almost charming. Otherwise, I could live my entire life without seeing her face or hearing her voice, ever again.
2:00 Need brighter lightbulbs.
3:00 Gang mascot: wolf. Yesterday I tutored Cameron at 826 again; I also made the acquaintance of Poopie McBlowhard, another stuck-up tutor, but that's a story for another time. Cameron informed me that the gang of sirens I'm leading are 'like a gang of female wolves!' Big surprise of the afternoon: our gang mascot is a wolf. Eee! I love it when things are thematic.
4:00 TMNT 3rd movie. Scott from 826 told me about this, and now I have to see it. Apparently they tried to address the ever-important mass-and-physics question of time travel with great ease and aplomb. No, I'm not fucking kidding--I think he actually said that. Sounds interesting enough to me.
5:00 Guys smell. Bryn said, guys should smell like leather and new car to please the ladies; I said men should smell like cupcakes and commitment. That smell is going to work, every time.
6:00 Grow. Hair. I was reminding myself to cancel my haircut appointment tomorrow; I don't really need it.
7:00 Note to self: no more fisting. This was in reference to a convo I had with Anthony. Somehow we ended up talking about sex, which led to things we don't do or understand, and fisting was in there. I do not want to be a brown, fleshy popsicle or an insecure meat puppet. Since I've had a child, I can't understand why any mother would want to try fisting; as I told Anthony, it seems like a reverse birth. Because giving birth was so fucking great the first time, I'd like to re-create that moment over and over and over again, in my actual birth canal; sounds like a blast.

It's my birthday. I'll freak out about that later.

To Whom This Concerns

Angry half-letters that I will never send:

***

Dear Metabolism,

Is there a problem? In the grand scheme of things, you work for me; and yet 'work' is something you rarely do. You claim you can't process complex carbohydrates? Well I say horseshit.

***

Dear Dog Who Keeps Pissing on Our Lawn,

While I enjoy things that are white--furniture, albums, pride, my boyfriend--you are a mangy, off-white disaster and I hate you. The world--nay, the neighborhood we live in is filled with green, sweeping lawns and well-tended gardens; go regularly piss in their yards. They won't even notice.

***

Dear Upcoming Job Interview,

If you even think about asking me where I'm going to be in five years, I will probably say YOUR MOM'S HOUSE. 20 years ago I wanted to be a princess; 15 years ago I wanted to be an opera singer; 10 years ago I wanted to be a manicurist; five years ago I wanted to be an interior designer; this year I want to be an author. My prediction of where I'll be in five years falls into one of two camps: shark tamer or drag king. Because anything is possible . And that's why this is the dumbest interview question ever. Don't even go there.

***

Dear People Who Wear Really-Really-Really White Pants,

What gives? Is this a cult? Do your women not have periods? Do you know Tom Cruise? You're simultaneously blinding me and begging me to throw a Costco-sized Ragu jar at you. Who cares if I miss? It'll splatter in your direction, and that's really all that counts.

***

Dear Coldplay Song That I Am Resentfully Listening To,

I GET IT: you're catchy and British. But all of your songs sound the same, and you're married to Gwyneth Paltrow; with my schedule, it's hard to commit to resenting you more. I'm going to try, though. I'm going to give it my all.

Perfect Pitch

Photo: Earth to Brenda K. Starr--there is nothing right about this photo.

Three artists I'll bet you never thought I worshiped:

Bobby McFerrin. Two words: Perfect. Pitch. Two words about his live performances: Epic. Transmogrifying. Two words about how I acted at his concert: Giddy. Transmogrified.

Chick Corea. Yeah, he worked with the great Miles Davis; he also touted Scientology, which is a religion for couch-jumping retards. But I'll always remember him for the Brazilian-Jazz fusion band he founded, Return to Forever. I always liked his hippie sensibilities.

Christina Aguilera. Yeaaaaah, suck it. We all have weaknesses; mine is cheesy pop ballads. At least I didn't say Brenda K. Starr. Blecch.

I don't even know why I thought of this tonight. I've been alone for too long, that's what it is. The Esq better get here soon, or I'm gonna go loco.

A Balcony of Intellectuals

Photo: I have no idea what his penis looks like.

Cory and I were talking on the balcony for over an hour, just now; we were having one of those deep, meaningful discussions that mean absolutely nothing. It was so deep, in fact, that I remember only one thing he said and one thing I said, and it was this:

Me: That's a rule. No one should know what their best friends' husbands' penises look like. No one.
Cory: Totally.

Pooping for Jesus

Movies I wish I had seen but have no interest in seeing now:

Babe. I like my pig frying in a pan, not adorably teaching me obvious life lessons.

The Godfather. Scream all you want, Scorcese fans (or should I say "men")--it may be the greatest film of all time, but I'm also completely over it. If it makes you feel better, I read the book. It was good, overall.

Cheech & Chong. Anything involving these two has to rob you of I.Q. points.

Jaws. I've seen enough of it to know that I don't need to see all of it.

Platoon. War movies are all the same, and I always know the ending, because I was bored to death by every depressing detail in high school history class.

The Pianist. I know it won a lot of Oscars; I don't care. Watching a thin man get thinner and thinner is not my idea of a good time, no matter how good his intentions.

Gladiator. It's a boy movie, about homoerotic boys fighting other boys in skirts. Plus, Russell Crowe--gross.

The Passion of the Christ. After hearing about the gratuitous violence--done to Jesus and for Jesus--I decided to pass; the fact that Jesus and I are frenemies matters little. As Joshy said, it's basically two hours of Jesus getting his ass kicked. I also have little to no respect for Mel Gibson, which leads us to...

Braveheart. The title alone, much like The Lion King, kept me away from this one; Mel Gibson starring in it was just icing on the cake.

Caddyshack. Now this is one that I might consider watching, if I was in the right mood and had the right snacks. Chevy Chase is a hit or miss for me, so I'll know in the first ten minutes of the movie. For now, though, it's a low priority.

Footloose. Nothing pleases me less than dancing hicks, Kevin Bacon, and the 80's; I hear this movie includes all three. No thanks.

Casablanca. The Casablanca I have in my head, from years of build-up through literature and film, can't possibly compare to the Casablanca made so long ago. I know it's a classic, but I think I'm going to pass. Same goes for Citizen Kane.

The Shining. Too scary and I don't like pooping my pants.

Iron Man Alive!

Photo: Stop! In the naaame of looove! Before you breeeak my heeeart....

New foods I've eaten in the past 48 hours:

Dried white peaches
Rice cracker medley
Pink Lady apples (the best!)
Whole Foods crab & artichoke dip
Perrier and fresh-squeezed OJ
Pagliaccio salad (three times--it's my new favorite)

Songs I've listened to in the last hour:

Melt My Heart to Stone (Adele)
Dry the Rain (Beta Band)
Love is Strange (Buddy Holly)
Golden Years (David Bowie)
In My Mind (Thom Yorke & the Posies)
Ghost Town (The Specials)
Fa-Fa-Fa (Datarock)
Over and Over (Hot Chip)
Disco Science (Mirwais)
Cosy in the Rocket (Psapp)
Got It (Sebadoh)
Stinging Velvet (Neko Case)
Aganju (Bebel Gilberto)
Epoca (Gotan Project)
Alison's Starting to Happen (The Lemonheads)
As (Stevie Wonder)

Guess what I'm not listening to? The new Mariah Carey album. Mimi's a mess and I can't support it.

Favorite chapter titles of the book I'm reading, LOOK AT MY STRIPED SHIRT!; Confessions of the People You Love to Hate:

This Gangbang is So Awkward
Half of This Relationship is Not Working
Damn, My Pencil-Thin Beard is Perfect!
This Office Snack Situation is Unacceptable
These Personalized License Plates Should Get the Word Out That I'm a Huge Douchebag
We're Just Like Sex and the City!
I Am the Greatest Pretend Worker This Company Has
You Can't Plinko For Shit, You Dumb Bitch
Can't You Just Get a Cab to the Abortion Clinic?

That last one almost killed me, I was laughing so hard.

Movies I've watched in the past 24 hours, for better or for worse:

The Princess Diaries (figured we'd get that one out of the way first)
Oceans 11
Zoolander
Iron Man

What was that? Oh yeah, we saw Iron Man; we went this afternoon, and it rocked my freaking balls off. See? Look at me. No balls. Toldja.

Movies like this are usually 100% saturated in fat from the cheese wagon; not this one. It had a sardonic flavor to it, an undercurrent of...snarky...which surprised me little when I saw that it was directed by Jon Favreau. Dry humor, good line delivery, lots of guns and fire and fired guns and gunfire; it was smart, in a breezy way, but still mysterious. I appreciated that they tried to sell an actual story to me, and although I wasn't totally transported into the world of Marvel, I was definitely engaged for the entire movie. One thing the Esq felt it lacked was a satisfying showdown near the end--the Big Boom was never fully realized; he still said he enjoyed it, but his description made the movie sound like the biggest prick tease ever. One thing I felt it lacked was Gwyneth Paltrow. Oh wait, she was in it. One thing I think they could have gotten rid of in the first five minutes of the movie was Gwyneth Paltrow. The wide-eyed, professional Bobblehead did little except look like a frightened daywalker and say next to nothing. Her best line in the movie was one of her first, which was annoying. That woman does almost nothing for me. Fine, I liked The Royal Tennenbaums, Sliding Doors, and Shakespeare in Love; other than that, the woman does nothing for me. Did you see her cover on Vogue? Hideous.

Back to Iron Man. I think it's a fun summer flick, so all should check it out--plus, movies like this should be seen on the big screen, not the blurry, 19-inch TV you got from your grandparents. Go see for yourself.

***New pics posted at the Sanitarium!

Gorgeous Tiny Chicken Machine

Photo: Bjork's army.















The question of the day:

What makes Japanese people so fearless about their hair?


























I was at Ten Pachi yesterday, my favorite salon of the moment, sitting in Manthony's Haircut Moral Support section while he took the plunge and cut his hair. He didn't end up cutting much length, but the overall shape made him look super ferosh. Anyways, the first couple of times I went there, I was impressed by the design and feel of the place. An added bonus: the music was fantastic. But the last few times I've been in, there's been a different feel to the place--nothing bad, it was just like I'd finally opened my eyes in the salon. When I finally sat down and thought about it--the key factors to the new vibe, the visual clues they'd left for me, my own gut instincts--I realized why it felt so alien: it was like being in Japan.
























And when I say Japan, I mean Bjork's idea of Japan: running naked through a Seussian forest with a giant, anthropomorphic stuffed panda bear, singing songs in a dead language to a field of red unicorns on crack .... and Wayne Coyne *swoon* has to be in there somewhere, leading the unicorn army, maybe, or appearing as a wood nymph. Having tea and eating kitties, you know Bjork. It's always something with her. *meow*






















I'm exaggerating. BUT. Each time I go into the salon, it's usually 90% Japanese girls (and some Korean), one out-of-place white guy, and me. The white guy is out of the chair in 15 minutes flat; I get a boring trim while waiting for hairstyle inspiration to strike me. There is a sameness to the females who get services there; tiny, silent girls with broad, delicate features, the same ill-fitting skinny jeans that every girl is wearing, a striped t-shirt, a conceptual hoodie, and flat shoes adorned with some sort of unnecessary accessory (of the gold or metallic variety). What sets them apart is the boldness of their hairstyles. Any color, any trend, any shape or size or accessory; it seems like they're the ones willing to go the extra mile in looking unique bizarre. How do they have jobs? Are their clients blind? Do they cover it up if they have a family reunion to attend? Do they all work for fashion boutiques where green and yellow tiger-striped hair is IN? Is it a just-on-the-weekends thing? And since the hairstyles are so "cutting edge", what's the etiquette for when you see someone with the same original hairstyle? Do you fight? Or do your stuffed panda bears fight? It's so confusing, and I have so many questions.
























I have an appointment next Thursday, for a cut and color with Lissy, who I love; I want to do something *wild*, but I think I like boring hair now. Boring, natural-colored hair, yep. Here's my favorite parody of Japanese shows with eye-raping fashion and no point at all:



I want my own panda.

Buzzkilling the Craigslist

Photo: My next career move.















I guess I'm technically done at my job; my last day was officially last Friday. Rolling panic and happy freedom have been battling each other all day. I've been a slave to Craigslist lately, and I've decided that I need to be a Craigslist copywriter; I'll just start my own business. Like, you give me $10, and I'll write you the best freaking ad out there. Bad Craigslist ads are the WORST. I'd rather have 100 Band-Aids ripped off of my body simultaneously than read one more misspelled, grammatically incorrect, punctuation-free, randomly-capitalized Craigslist ad that does nothing to excite the reader.

CREATING AN AD THAT IS COMPLETELY CAPITALIZED
AN MISSING PUNCTUATION SEEMS TO BE POPULAR
ESPECIALLY IF YOU WANT TO GET YOUR POINT ACROSS
LOUDLY & STUPIDLY. I ALSO THINK ADS LIKE THESE WILL
END UP GIVING YOU BRAIN DIARRHEA, OR CANCER.

Here's a real example:

PARA LEGAL FOR IP FIRM SALARY IS DEPENDENT ON SKILLS- ability-years in legal field and references. Looking for someone who has good understanding of legal. needs exp in IP.and litigation. join fast paced nationaly rated profesional law firm. new position to join stable staff, ability to work well with others, excellent benefits and working conditions ,no mandatory overtime. contact Margaret McClory 206-467-6617 -E-mail margaret4jobs@comcast.net

What is the point of putting periods at the end of your sentences if you hate to capitalize anything normal? This ad is for a paralegal job in downtown Seattle--not for Rick's Shrimp Shack in the middle of Snoqualmie Pass. If I was a paralegal, I would never--ever--answer this ad, and yet it could have been a good job! So many ads are passed by because of shoddy copywriting. Even worse are the personal ads that shed little to no light on what the person might actually be about. The Esq said that the Craigslist personal ads were a good place for me to start, because they're always so awful. Apparently, he hates it when people start any ad with, "I swear I've never done this before, this is so not like me"; I do, too. If it's so not like you, why are you sitting there creating a profile for yourself and posting an ad on Craigslist? The first sentence in your ad makes you a self-conscious liar from the get-go. That's annoying.

I think it's good for people to seek out other people, whether it's online or outside. And I know that spelling is somewhat innate, but if you can place a fucking Craigslist ad, then you must have fucking SPELL CHECK to go along with it. It's not just the grammar, it's the overall look of something. I was online, looking for good examples of this, and Mr. Doofus (he was nameless) posted a Craigslist personal ad--today--in the Men4Women category; what caught my eye was the headline, which is usually a good thing. Unfortunately, it said this:

So Am I gonna ever meet somebody on here? -38 (Issaquah)

Inside were two short sentences: I am still trying! Don't know why but still am! These two particularly damning statements (along with the whiny, grammatically-challenged headline) were accompanied by a blurry photo of some ruddy-faced daywalker with food in his mouth, holding up a half-eaten burrito. It saddens me, knowing that this man has no idea why he is single. Maybe it's because your Craigslist ad smells of your online dating failures, or maybe it's the photo--a photo, let me remind you, of your partially-eaten food, while the other part resides inside of your blurry gingerface. Or maybe--maybe it's evolution for the dating world. Maybe the intelligent ads reach the intelligent folks, and the ads that contain very little English in them attract ...well, they attract whoever those people are. One of my favorite ads was:

ya betta have a fine ass ima teired of fat chix' and don be lazy.

First off, if you're a grown woman who has at least finished the first grade, you already know to stay away from this idiot. Second, if you're too lazy to spell the word *don't*, then I mean ... come on. Come. On. Also, thanks for the random apostrophe, which is nowhere near where it should be. A smart woman will read this and see that, compared to the species as a whole, this man is wack. An idiot would read this and think, this guy seems pretty nice, even if he seems a little stern. I think I'll email him, even though I have no idea who he is, what he looks like, where he is, whether he's single, or if he even has a job; that woman deserves whatever comes her way.

So ... Craigslist aside, what do I want to be when I grow up? I almost hope I never know. It seems like that information should remain within my grasp, but stay wholly unattainable. It's morphing, like I am, all the time. I like thinking more about the things I might learn or the stuff I might do on my way to becoming someone; not who I am now, but the 'somebody' I might be in the future. My mom always reminds me that any time spent thinking about the future is time I could have been spending on my present; but presently, I'm thinking about the future.

A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker; and maybe a Craigslist copywriter. Tour guide, teacher, gossip columnist; a bored barista, a friendly receptionist, a nanny who eats your children--I'm qualified for a lot. Right now, though, I have to prepare for the impromptu Employment Liberation Dance Party we're throwing tonight at Whoreleen's house--all to celebrate my first official day of unemployment. Once there, we will boogie the night away, laughing and twirling, the makers of memories and merriment--then lift our glasses high in gratitude, yelling, "Thank God the rent got paid!"

A List of Insignificance

Photo: She annoys me, too.











Things I find annoying that are fairly insignificant:

*Putting on a pair of freshly laundered pants, then sitting in them for three hours; I hate it when they lose their shape and the seat of my pants are hanging by my knees.

*Wilted lettuce. I know it happens, but something about its' wastefulness really bugs me.

*A warm, sunny day with rain. Pick a team, that's all I'm saying.

*Misspelled text messages; I'm talking about the ones I erroneously send to people before checking them. I feel uber-lazy or like I have meathooks for hands.

*Asymmetrical things; edgy haircuts, contemporary furniture design, clothing, buildings, eyebrows.

*The texture of fish. I love to eat fish, but I'm not in it for the rubbery, concrete-colored coating.

*The smell of sulfur. Matches are my enemy.

*People who don't care about acceptable parallel parking; do they not see how everyone is in a straight line while they're parked at a right angle?

*Guys who like, love, and worship only Asian chicks; the sex-kitten hero worship can reach a yellow-fevered pitch, which tends to drown out any real social life the guy could be happily having. This is especially annoying when the guy hasn't actually dated an Asian girl, much less met one, in his entire freaking life.

*Ugly dogs. Why do we love them? They're everywhere.

*The color purple; it's too finicky. One shade this way and it's a symbol of royalty, one shade lighter and it's the chosen color for an 80's hair band. I'm almost a fan of aubergine, but only when it suits me.

*People who use the words 'retarded' and 'whatever' too much in a conversation. Like me.

*Squeaky swings. I can hear one through my bedroom windows, coming from the park across the street. That is the only soundtrack you would ever need to film a children-of-the-undead slasher flick; and yet, it's the soundtrack of my dreams. Delightful.

*Trees without leaves. I just feel hopeless looking at them. And fat.

*DVD jewel cases (is that what they call them?). The plastic number your DVD's come in. They're cold, ungrateful, and hard to open. Great design strategy.

*Round-toed dress shoes. The 21st Century called, and the message was this: your shoes suck.

*Carpet stains. In anyone's house, including mine (although I live in a hardwood palace). It doesn't matter what they are; they could be water, or milk from the baby's bottle, or a ketchup stain someone left at the last summer barbecue. Whatever it is, I will always think it's blood and that something sinister happened in your household. Thank you, Jon-Benet.

*Spiral notebooks. They seem so young and hopeful to me, but I can never find a use for them.

*Coffee drink orders that are longer than this blog. To be fair, I'm not a coffee drinker, I'm a hot chocolate girl; so anything that is longer than 'tall caramel latte' is going to piss me off. But before the iced grande half-caf, non-fat, no-foam, single-shot, soy vanilla latte you ordered, you had to have consumed something else.... what was it, juice? ...milk? ...water? I can guarantee, all of those things are better for your overall health than coffee. Liberate yourselves!

Ah, Seattle.

A Much-Needed Facelift

Photo: Facelift powered by Snotty.











Two hours later, and I'm still sitting at my computer; I feel like my eyes are peeling and my brain is melting. No, I'm not doing crystal meth (again? you ask)--I'm trying to fix The Vomitorium. Getting content on the blog was my first priority; now that I'm 60 posts in, I'm starting to work on the brand. It's easy to pick the first template that comes your way; I chose Minima, which is Blogger's default template, because I knew I'd be changing it later, so it didn't matter what it looked like in the beginning. Now, with peeling eyes and a melting brain, I finally care.

It seems fun, designing your own blog, or creating a page that represents who you are. And in theory, it is fun. Choosing your favorite colors are fun, and finding a font you love can be fun (except for a nerd like me, because I find most fonts to be monotonous and disappointing). Designing a blog includes those things, but it's not "fun" for someone like me. I just want to take a photo of what I want (which is in my mind only), and then throw it at my computer monitor, where it will miraculously turn into my new and improved web page; that isn't how it's done, though. There's a lot of back and forth between different tutorials, note taking, constant music changing (I need FOCUS music, the kind that makes me *focus* and not dance around my kitchen--so don't listen to Gotan Project, Hot Chip, or Massive Attack while doing this, because they will assist you in nothing but failure), refreshing my HTML skillz (an all-day process, I assure you), reading through a thousand lines of code looking for just one thing, saving-saving-saving-losing data, image searching, frustrated shrieking, hunger pangs, and giving up. Since it will take me at least two more hours before I give up (and beg the Esq for assistance), I figured I would take a break and detail how incredibly frustrating this is for someone who never uses the math-science-logic side of their brain, which is left, or right, or whatever.

This page had better look crazy awesome by the end of all this. Or, I might end up in a bathtub filled with my own weary blood, one never knows. That's a nice thought. Being in the bathtub, I mean--minus the fatal, self-inflicted wounds.

Magical Me

Photo: My favorite kind of magic.

A few things I'm getting into (or back into):

Cooking. (The Esq is probably shouting 'Hallelujah!') It's been really fun; two nights ago I had a wild hair and we grabbed a bunch of BBQ food at Trader Joe's to throw on the grill. I realized that 'spring food' (fresh veggies, fruits, barbecued meats, yummy salads, sparkling lemonade, homemade dessert) makes me into a happy bunny. It's healthy and fresh, and I feel good preparing it (and eating it!). We had a spring potato medley (I love purple potatoes) doused in butter, olive oil, and rosemary; chicken skewers--the Esq's mom marinated half of the chicken with teriyaki, sesame oil, ginger, brown sugar (nummers), and I did my half with garlic, rosemary, olive oil and sea salt; simple spinach salad with pear and smoked gouda; heirloom tomato skewers, sweet potato skewers, grilled pineapple skewers...I will skew anything, hear me now, anything at all. I also made dessert: big oatmeal cookies covered with sauteed apples in a brown sugar and cinnamon sauce, and topped by a homemade vanilla whipped cream. All made by Yours Truly from scratch, thank you very much. Cooking allows me to focus, so that my mind can actually wander. It's a pleasant balancing act, throwing on some good music and hammering out the details of a recipe. We've decided to put 'diet' at the top of our priority list, and cooking real meals is the key to most of it; the only part about cooking I hate: the clean-up. Also, thanks to Princess Lil Red and my mama, who are always helping me in cooking emergencies, which is always.

Stretching. Or "yoga", whatever. Before it was hip and trendy yoga, it was boring and necessary stretching. Let us not forget that. We were at Sara Rose's place--having a very nice vegan meal, I might add (YES, it's still me)--when she and Joe Ball began to stretch. This isn't unusual for Sara since she's a massage therapist and always stretching; but then Joe Ball joined in, and then I couldn't help but join in, and then the Esq started up...it was pretty amusing. Four people doing impromptu yoga together after a vegan meal. Sound like me? Didn't think so. But it was helpful--now I have to do it multiple times, every day, otherwise I'm a big, solid iceberg. So I'm getting super stretchy and downright bendy. It's cool.

Tutoring. I love the 826Seattle. Yesterday I worked with Cameron. The last time we saw Cameron, he was part of a blog about how middle school kids suck--he was the big dorky kid. I felt a special kinship towards him, since he was about as likable as a used tissue and as nerdy as they come, but very sweet for a 12-year old. Cameron fails socially, almost on every level. He is simultaneously shy and overbearing, too honest, too loud, and nerdy in an unapproachable way. I think he's really funny and interesting, but I'm also 20 years older than him; I can ferret out the good stuff because I have the patience. After we'd worked for over an hour straight, I suggested taking a break, because I'm nice. I did not suggest taking a break so that we could play Magic the Gathering. And yet that is what we did. And while we're on the subject, yes--I did look around to see who might be watching us, and yes--the non-nerd in me was screaming YOU HAVE MADE A GRAVE ERROR IN JUDGMENT; I DO NOT PLAY MAGIC THE GATHERING, SIR, I SIMPLY CANNOT AND WILL NOT. But I got over it--the conversation we had before, during, and after our card game was worth it:

Cam: (dealing cards) Have you played Magic the Gathering before?
Me: Ah, no.
Cam: I love Magic. *beams* I have Asberger's Syndrome.
Me: Oh. Oh? Ooh. That's, ah--mmmm.
Cam: Do you play Dungeons & Dragons?
Me: I've played a couple of times, but it was years and years ago.
Cam: I'm a Level 5 Human Palladin.
Me: (not laughing) Mm? That's pretty cool.
Cam: You know, I could let you join my team!
Me: I don't know, I'm not very good--
Cam: (reverently) I think you'd make a good Dungeon Master.
Me: Oh, ah, God--yeah, I dunno, Cam, I'm not really good at that kind of thing.
Cam: Yeah, well, if you play D&D like you play Magic the Gathering, you'll probably get creamed. *laughs hysterically at his own joke*
Me: I don't even know how to play, you're just playing for me.
Cam: (waves his cards dismissively) Well DUH--that's because you can't play a Kithkin creature card if you only have two mana, and I can't even believe you didn't play this Enchantment card--why aren't you tapping your Land cards? This Hill Giant could have totally done damage to my--(looks at me)--what?
Me: *blink*
Cam: If you join our D&D campaign, I think you'd be a dark elf assassin--wait, no! You'd be an Orc Wizard.
Me: Perfect.
Cam: You'd cast spells, and although Orcs are stupid and ugly, you'd be intelligent and beautiful. You'd beat people up with your flaming hand--a spell, of course--and have the ability to poke people, like a shocking poke.
Me: *muffled laughter*
Cam: You could summon a net and throw it, like Spiderman, only not like Spiderman.
Me: Makes sense.
Cam: And you'd be part of a gang called the Sirens; you'd lure married men to rob them blind with your charms!
Me: Like I don't do that already.
Cam: What?
Me: Nothing.

At this point, another little girl (12 or so) came up to us; she's special, too, but adorable and very curious. She also has a Napoleon Dynamite voice, which is disarming. She ran up to Cameron and this is what transpired:

Girl: Hey, what are you doing, because I. am. so. bored.
Cam: (puts cards away) Nothing.
Girl: Is that Magic? There's a group of people who get together at my school and play that after school.
Cam: So?
Girl: Do you play Dungeons & Dragons? I feel like I've seen you before. Do we go to school together? I'm the after school D&D leader, you should join!
Cam: *eyeroll* I don't even go to your school. *eyeroll*
Girl: Maybe you could just join the club, come to my school after your school gets out!
Cam: (huffy) Maybe not.
Me: (kicks him under the table) But that was really nice of you to ask, sweetie--do you want to sit down?
Girl: (sits down) What's that? -points to Magic cards-
Cam: Nothing.
Me: Cameron, just explain it to her.
Cam: *HUGE SIGH* FIIIIIIIIIIINE.

At this juncture I was just thinking, here's a cute girl that is special, his age, into the same nerdy things, and starving for friendship--I figured it would be good practice for him to talk to girls without telling them they were straight-up idiots (something I witnessed last time). I sat back and listened. They mostly talked about Magic and their D&D characters, bemoaning the last game they had lost or bragging about their conquests. I actually felt good about forcing them to interact. Ever the social director, that's me. I came back into the conversation here:

Girl: Basically? There's, like, two kinds of 'weird' to me--
Cam: (lights up) --am I one of them?!?!
Me: *snort*
Girl: Yeah. Like, there's weird like you-weird, and then there's just weird-weird, like too-weird.
Me: (wiping eyes) God, you guys are keeping me young.
Cam: (curious) How old are you?
Girl: Are you way older, like 22?
Me: You are now my favorite.
Cam: Hey! I thought you were 20!
Me: *beams* Just for that, I will go home and learn how to play Magic--rematch next week?
Cam: Sweet!
Girl: I want in.
Me: (tersely) But you're going down, both of you, and not in a blaze of glory.
Both of them: Yayyy!!!

So that's how I ended up here, awake at 7:30AM on my day off, watching How-To videos on YouTube, getting NERDIER by the second and learning how to play motherfucking MAGIC the GATHERING, just so I can participate with the strangest children I've ever met. *sigh* If I could have a tutor, I'd want it to be me; the geeks dig me.

Meet My Feet

Photo: Snotty's ancestral roots--Orcs--by way of the feet, at least.












Of the many things I loathe about my body, the feet win, hands down. Yesterday I told the Esq that my feet are a hybrid between the slimy, undead feet of an Orc and the hairy, matted feet of Chewbacca. But why, you ask? Because they are.

Looking at them now, I can also thank these necessary items for the feet I have today: falling down, too-small shoes, three-inch heels, weak ankles, late-night knife-dropping, kicking things, wild animals, Old Navy flip-flops, dirty floors, and the absence of a good pedicure. I can still get a pedicure at work before my last day (this Saturday), but after that I'll have to pay for it *pout* so who knows how often I'll get them done. My Planet of the Apes appendages, my Sideshow Bob clownfeet; God, how I hate them.

Here's the thing about feet: you can't do shit about them. If you have the money for the re-constructive foot surgery--where they shave down the toe bones and reconstruct the skin on the feet (and toes) to make them look prettier or appear more even--then good for you; I will also assume that your judgment has been compromised and you should be stripped of your titles, wealth, and influence. No one should have re-constructive foot surgery just so they can fit into a pair of Manolo Blahnik's. No one.

In an effort to make amends with my heinous, unnatural elephant feet, I now buy good shoes for them; I also implore the Esq to massage the hatefulness out of them, which sometimes works and, at other times, fails. I get a pedicure (or try) every 5-6 weeks, and put overpriced lotion on them when they seem dry or suicidal. I try. I hate those monkey toes and how they resemble a bruised banana, but I try.

One good thing: if I ever lose my hands in a debilitating accident, my feet will be able to take over without effort. I could probably play a Rachmaninoff concerto with these toes--or with enough yoga, I could probably teach myself the guitar, or the piccolo. I could cook, blog, and defend myself with these brown, fleshy waterskis; my feet might be ugly and totally unlovable, but they certainly are resourceful.

Bacon Haiku

Photo: Sir Francis Bacon--not my favorite kind of bacon, but better than Kevin.












A haiku written for Whoreleen:

Candy of the pig
Completing me forever
I love you, bacon!

Middle School Blues

Sixth graders: more frightening than a barrel of serial killers.

I volunteered as a tutor for the first time this week at 826Seattle, and it was an interesting character study of how Snotty regresses when surrounded by annoying pre-teens. I arrived at 3 P.M. to observe how everything works, and by 3:45 P.M. (that fast?), I was twelve again. 826Seattle was a fun place to volunteer, but being twelve again sucked.

The program lead, Toffer, asked me to sit with a group of girls who supposedly needed help with their homework. There was no homework, just goofing off and the flinging of things at boys with soprano voices. There were three of them, so I felt like they had safety in numbers (meaning I was unsafe), and they were sixth graders: two were eleven and one was twelve. Toffer introduced me to them, and I sat down, wary. There was a lot of eye-rolling, a lot of whispering behind hands, and loud, explosive giggling--the 'look at me having so much fun' laugh, tra-la-la. They were three very distinct characters, although fairly stereotypical.

One was a big-eyed blonde, the short and pert variety--she'll be the 'cute' one in high school, and probably a cheerleader (the kind that puts out, not the kind that's on the honor roll). Later on in life, I imagine she'll be sturdy and compact, cheeks ruddied, hair colored a brassy blonde--and to keep Father Time from creeping up on her, she will always laugh like she does now, which is a practiced, simpering Japanese giggle that comes from behind a demure hand. Her real laugh was a shout and a shriek and a cackle all at once; that's the one I liked. My favorite thing she said, while tossing her hair from side to side and standing like a pre-teen model, was this: (shoving Twix into her mouth too hard) "Don't you hate it when you put something in your mouth and it hits the back of your throat over and over again?" I got the innuendo, she did not; I had to excuse myself to go run to the bathroom and die from shame laughter. Talk about seeing into the future.

Another girl was African-American, and she possessed the attitude of four seasoned drag queens, two gladiators, Marilyn Manson, and her formidable momma--who, she calmly explained to me, was a powerful, man-hating attorney that could sue the pants off of me and all of my friends. It wasn't hard to figure out who this little one worshiped. She also bossed everyone around, and let people know how inferior they were to her; I was surprised at how much ease she had in doling out her judgments. "These two are going to (waves hand dismissively) public school--I'm going to private. I'd like to see them get into my private school--that would make me laugh." She reminded me of that hateful girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Veruca-dahling. She's a future attorney, for sure, just like her mom.

The last girl was just unfortunate in every way. She just ... she was beaten with The Stick, you know? It was kind of sad. She had an asymmetrical face somehow--I know we're all lopsided in some way or another, but she was really bringing Picasso back. And you know how if someone has a really great personality, their looks improve because they're just so awesome? Yeah, not the case here at all. She had that deep, nerdy "hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-huh" laugh, and British teeth (like me!...only she had "teef", which is a whole 'nother thing), and a heart, but not one of gold. She was mean. She was mean to others in the same way I imagine the Unabomber's family was mean to him, and look what happened there. Her Granpaw and Meemaw were probably brother and sister in the Adirondacks, and drank out of clay jugs on their porch together; if I was related to them, it would make me angry, too.

Point being, I didn't do well in middle school, just like everybody else--but I didn't want to re-live those feverish, awful years in my thirties, either. I kind of went back to being an overgrown, uncomfortable dork with no allies. When the little black girl said to me, "So this is the Cool Table here, and you're gonna want to be on our good side", I went INWARD. I thought, do these tiny bitches have actual power, or is their power an illusion? I remember the girls in my middle school seeming to be all-powerful: they skipped class, talked shit about teachers, made out in the bathroom with real live boys, and wore G-strings like common whores. They were untouchable.

It was around then that Toffer said to me, "I try to not base my self-esteem on what sixth graders think of me--it's hard at first, but you have to try." I laughed, grateful for the reminder. He was right: I don't need approval from a girl with a powerful mother and a chipped shoulder, or some snot-nosed future ho. I came here to tutor kids who need help in school, not babysit brats who have nothing better to do. I felt much better after Toffer's advice and my internal pep talk.

At the end of the day, the girls came up to say goodbye; I had earned their trust by accidentally saying the phrase "cheap ass" when describing my phone, which they thought was hilarious, and for not telling Toffer that they didn't have homework. All three approached me as though we were co-conspirators, and one whispered to me: "If you come here on Tuesdays and Thursdays, you can totally sit with us, since you're cool--but don't invite anyone else, okay?" I was sitting with Cameron, an immature, Star Trek-loving computer geek, trying to help him with geography--and although I flushed with pleasure at the thought of these girls thinking I was cool (because I have the self-esteem of a 12-year old), I was ready to stick to my principles.

I pointed at Cameron and said, "Only if he can join us once in a while--oh, and that kid over there (pointing to a painfully thin, painfully shy Indian kid)--he's pretty cool, too." They looked at me like I was crazy, and the future lawyer stalked off, tossing her hair dismissively. The blonde looked at both boys dubiously and said, "I mean, I guess ... not, like, permanently, but if they have to ... sure, alright." The boys turned bright red, grinning from ear to ear; Cameron had that awestruck look on his face, as though the Starship Enterprise had just landed in his backyard. The Indian kid looked pleased, but frightened. "Don't worry," I told him, "I'll sit with you guys, too. It'll be fun--and if it isn't, we'll move to our own table and start a freak show." One laughed, one looked relieved.

Finally. Finally I get the acceptance I'd been craving back in middle school, from none other than my middle school counterparts, 25 years later. But it wasn't enough to receive the unwarranted acceptance--I had to pass it on. So that's what I did: I gave those two a chance to sit with the cool kids and see what it's like. I loaned them my free pass. I also gave them an out, because they're smart enough to see that the Cool Kids' Table is made up of screechy bitches and stupid little boys; if I had to choose between the cool table and the freak table today, I'd definitely go with the freaks. Way smarter, way more interesting, and very little Abercrombie & Fitch. That's my kind of sixth grader.

Proud Snotty Keep On Burnin'...

Photo: My next profession.
















Ooh! I also put my notice in yesterday at work. *grin* I feel really liberated, panicked, happy, and stressed. All good things.

Here are the places I would prefer working, if anyone has a connection there:

-A magical fairy wonderland.

-The office of David (or Amy) Sedaris.

-Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

-A den of iniquity.

-A different planet in a different solar system.

-Johnny Depp's back pocket.

-The New Yorker.

-A Mexican wrestling ring.

-The Third Reich.

-A miniature bunny farm.

-A time travel company.

-A palace made of cupcakes.

-Your mom's house.

So keep your eyes peeled, whatever that means.

...and I'm rolling, rolling, rolling on the river.

The Hairy Beast

Photo: I wish I had a waterfall instead of hair, too.


















Me: (tugging on messy hair) Ugh, I'm hairy. I'm a hairy beast!
Esq: It's a beautiful bounty of hair!
Me: (disbelieving) Did you just say, 'a beautiful bounty of hair'?!
Esq: What else would you call this lustrous mane?!
Me: *dies*

Hot Chip: A Review

Every descriptive phrase I've ever hated came to mind last night; for example: "off the hook", "totally boss", and "all that" came to mind. Other good examples included "the shiz", "the Kubla Kahn", and "on like Donkey Kong". But I don't blame society: I blame the Hot Chip concert.

After turning back to retrieve our forgotten tickets, we were a little late--they were about 45 minutes into their set already, but we still saw a good solid hour of the best party music around. I don't know anyone who hates Hot Chip--you would also have to hate floor-thumping, heart-pounding, hands-flailing, brain-numbing, boogie-inspiring, death-defying, teeth-grinding, fist-pumping, ass-shaking, time-shattering, sock-rocking, sweaty, writhing, euphoria-inducing, good ol' fashioned FUN. And who hates fun? NAZIS, THAT'S WHO.

It wasn't just thump-thump-thump-thump, all night long; they really integrated their set with slower songs, funny dialogue ("...we'd like to introduce the next song...as the next Hot Chip song we're going to play..."), and fantastic lighting. I know that's what most musicians do, but I was really expecting more of an endless toil of indistinguishable rave-y music--mostly because Hot Chip has a very distinct sound, but I didn't know if it would translate in a live show. I know better now. I also thought I would be seeing the younger (early to mid-20's), punk rock hipster crowd there--the kids who wear the skinny jeans with their neon heels, asymmetrical haircuts, horizontally-striped hoodies, and a permanent look of disdain (a look you can't see since they're usually wearing sunglasses, inside of a club, at night). Some of them look pretty cool, but most of the time I'm wondering: why would you go out of your way to look dirty and poor? It's baffling to me.

Instead, it was an older, more mature crowd. It was a crowd of people who really loved the music, and boogied until the very last note left the building (and beyond). There are some parts to getting older that I don't mind, and one of them is dancing in public without really caring. I used to hate it, I was too self-conscious; now I see it as my right and responsibility to dance my arse off and get my money's worth. Standing around, staring at a stage? I could have that experience watching YouTube. I'm not like the people who were in our immediate area, though: two boring head-bobbers, a bunch of male yuppies in button-down shirts doing some shoulder-grooving, an arm pumper (body jumping straight up and down, arm going in the air every beat), a shuffler, and a 40+ chick who was doing some kind of dramatic modern dance right next to me. At one point, I looked over and could hear her inner voice crying, "I'm a tree, I'M A TREE!" and then her arms blossomed into the air, head tilted to the side, body rigid, music flowing over her. A weirdly beautiful thing to see at the weirdly beautiful Hot Chip concert.

And let us not forget that the last encore song of the evening was a spot-on cover of Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares to You". Let us not forget that.

Obama Loves Hitler!

Photo: And he probably lives in this building, too!










Let me begin this blog post with a disclaimer: I am no fan of Michael Moore's. I've seen some of his movies, and read some of his articles, and witnessed a few shenanigans, but I don't like him. He's just annoying. He's a loud, fat, annoying attention-getter, while I prefer my attention-getters to be thin, quiet, and good-looking. That being said, I still agree with him on many issues, and Hilary Clinton is one of them. Here were the highlights I agreed with in his open letter to the public, which was posted today:

I haven't spoken publicly ’til now as to who I would vote for, primarily for two reasons: 1) Who cares? and 2) I don't give a rat's ass whose name is on the ballot in November, as long as there's a picture of JFK and FDR riding a donkey at the top of the ballot, and the word "Democratic" next to the candidate's name.

Seriously, I know so many people who don't care if the name under the Big "D" is Dancer, Prancer, Clinton or Blitzen. It can be Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Barry Obama or the Dalai Lama.

Well, that sounded good last year, but over the past two months, the actions and words of Hillary Clinton have gone from being merely disappointing to downright disgusting. I guess the debate last week was the final straw. I've watched Senator Clinton and her husband play this game of appealing to the worst side of white people, but last Wednesday, when she hurled the name "Farrakhan" out of nowhere, well that's when the silly season came to an early end for me. She said the "F" word to scare white people, pure and simple. Of course, Obama has no connection to Farrakhan. But, according to Senator Clinton, Obama's pastor does.

This sleazy attempt to smear Obama was brilliantly explained the following night by Stephen Colbert. He pointed out that if Obama is supported by Ted Kennedy, who is Catholic, and the Catholic Church is led by a Pope who was in the Hitler Youth, that can mean only one thing: OBAMA LOVES HITLER!

Yes, Senator Clinton, that's how you sounded. Like you were nuts. Like you were a bigot stoking the fires of stupidity. How sad that I would ever have to write those words about you. You have devoted your life to good causes and good deeds. And now to throw it all away for an office you can't win unless you smear the black man so much that the superdelegates cry "Uncle (Tom)" and give it all to you.

But that can't happen. You cast your die when you voted to start this bloody war.

There are those who say Obama isn't ready, or he's voted wrong on this or that. But that's looking at the trees and not the forest. What we are witnessing is not just a candidate but a profound, massive public movement for change. My endorsement is more for Obama The Movement than it is for Obama the Candidate.

It's foolish to see the Democrats as anything but a nicer version of a party that exists to do the bidding of the corporate elite in this country. Any endorsement of a Democrat must be done with this acknowledgment and a hope that one day we will have a party that'll represent the people first, and laws that allow that party an equal voice.

Finally, I want to say a word about the basic decency I have seen in Mr. Obama. Mrs. Clinton continues to throw the Reverend Wright up in his face as part of her mission to keep stoking the fears of White America. Every time she does this, I shout at the TV, "Say it, Obama! Say that when she and her husband were having marital difficulties regarding Monica Lewinsky, who did she and Bill bring to the White House for 'spiritual counseling?' THE REVEREND JEREMIAH WRIGHT!"

Pennsylvania, the state that gave birth to this great country, has a chance to set things right. It has not had a moment to shine like this since 1787, when our Constitution was written there. In that Constitution, they wrote that a black man or a woman was only "three-fifths" human. On Tuesday, the good people of Pennsylvania have a chance for redemption.

******

I will never forget this day, the day Michael Moore and I saw eye to eye. But I agree; the election game is becoming more focused, with Hilary getting whiter and Obama getting blacker and McCain getting softer--it's like watching the political version of Mean Girls, or Heathers. And I am all about the Obama Movement, which includes Obama the Candidate. I don't care that Hilary already has her connections in the White House, I don't care that she's been a senator for longer, I don't care that she has a vagina (a statement which I would challenge on her behalf) and that I'm supposed to vote for her.

I consider all of my Hilary-supporting friends to be intelligent, well-read, engaging, and liberal; but I can't get on the old-school, war-supporting, screechy mud-slinging bandwagon. Her actions are speaking as equally loud as her fear-inspiring words. President Bush won the last election because of fear, fear of the unknown, fear of threats unseen, fear of "the enemy". Turned out the enemy was in our backyard all along, and Clinton supported it. But who am I kidding? I'm going to mark the 'D' on my ballot, no matter who it is. I just think that Hilary as President would be a solid step for "man", but Obama could be a giant leap for mankind. "Could" is never a good word to use, but that's what it means to take a risk. The rewards could be awesome and neverending, or they could be totally worthless. At least we can take that risk for ourselves, and reach for possibilities that are still unknown, but not yet impossible. I still think of Barack Obama as The Great White Hope; ironic, but true.