Spam o' plenty

My new hobby is spamming my co-worker Dan. Which is completely ironic, since that's what I do for a living. Now it's seeped into other areas of my life. At last count I have sent Dan 4 links and 2 pictures today, including a link to this blog. I found out though that he doesn't always open the links I send him. What? You're kidding me. I pick each link with care; it's always pertinent to our IM conversations. Here's an example.

[Dan] : is leela the slut or the Katey (sp) Segal character?
[Jen] : I loved when they had to use Fry to defeat the brains, and Nibbler had this big deep voice. Katy character
[Dan] : i do remember that one. fry makes homer look like a super genius
[Jen] : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nibbler_(Futurama)
[Jen] : don't you love that I am constantly sending you shit?
[Dan] : you and my mother
[Jen] : great
[Dan] : sorry
[Dan] : i love it because i don't have to actually click on it, unlike work-related links
[Jen] : but you could, if you wanted
[Jen] : I like to give the people I send shit to a choice
[Dan] : "if i wanted" being the clause that stands out
[Dan] : you are a true mother teresa
[Jen] : wait, I have to show you this. You'll die. You HAVE to click on this.
[Dan] : ok, i'm waiting with baited breath

You see how the wikipedia link fit in right there? And it led into another link situation, all relevant to the conversation. Dan needs to get on the link wagon. He needs these links, he just doesn't know it yet. But I figure continuous spamming will enlighten him, and make him realize that reading the crap I send him will make him a better man.

Bus Etiquette 101

So I'm riding the bus home last night. I'm sitting in the back, hoping that no one extremely large, smelly, or invasive sits next to me. It's my hope every night on the bus ride home. Last night, I didn't wish hard enough.

Jimmie, and I spell it with an ie because I surmise he does this for reasons unknown, sat down next to me smelling of oil and sweat, dirt and lust. Crap I thought. He was small, with stubby hands and stout legs that were too close to my bodice. Crap I thought again.

For the first part of the ride, mayhap the first 5 minutes, Jimmie sat silently, contemplating how he would break the ice with me; configuring the right words to win my love. I was reading my book, openly and abashedly reading; a signal to all those who find themselves next to me on the #19, "Shh, it's quiet time." Jimmie was absent the day they taught that signal. What follows is an abridged version of the actual conversation. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

"Pretty good book huh?" Jimmie said, sidling ever so imperceptibly closer.
Yes Jimmie, it's a great book. That's why I am reading it. Why don't you fuck off?
"What's it about?"
"It's about Mormons and how some of the Fundamentalist..."
"I have some Mormons on my mom's side."
Of course you do Jimmie. That's why you're here.
"Do you work downtown? I'm working on Burnside. So are you married?
Oh Jimmie, why are you asking me these questions? You are a dirty, small-handed, tobacco-chewing, red-haired midget monkey man. Of course I want to go out with you.
"No, I have a boyfriend."
"Aww, that's too bad because I was gonna ask you out to lunch tomorrow."

Now let me interrupt here for a moment: This conversation is all taking place while I have the book open, head down, turning pages. I am reticent to confab with Jimmie, but Jimmie will not shut it. The other passengers on the bus can feel me cringing.

"How old is your boyfriend?"
Actually Jimmie, I don't have a boyfriend, but I do have a cat.
"Twenty-nine."
"What's he do for a living?"
"He's a musician."
"Where'd you meet him?"
"A bar."

Then Jimmie starts to name the bars in which I may have met my musician boyfriend. Who does not exist. Dear God, what fresh hell is this? Why must I have to deal with this kind of conflagration? Why can't I read my book about Mormon Fundamentalists who murdered an innocent woman and her baby in peace? What did I do in a past life to merit the Creep on the Bus episode? I am too nice. I have a kind face. I have a pretty mouth. But from now on I am gay. Or a leper. Or a gay leper. Perhaps I should stop brushing my teeth or quit bathing. Would that help? Would that deter the Jimmies of the world?

No, it probably wouldn't. If I see Jimmie again, I'll just catch the next bus.

Zydaco This

I went to an outdoor freebie Zydaco concert last week with "The Crew". The Crew consists of a bunch of wayward, tawdry comics that have nothing better to do on a Wednesday night than coordinate with military presicion the when and wheres of said concert. And buy Quiznos to bring to the park. And leave their cell phone at their mother's house before the concert so we have to go back a get it because the woman was going to call about the dining room table.

The ride to the park was worth money. Laura drove, Kara navigated, and I sat in the back with Quimby, the world's largest chocolate lab. They have a harness on it, kind of like a pony. I suspect he eats the homeless when Laura isn't looking. All those newspaper blankets add a lot of fiber to the diet, making the dog ever larger. Kara had a map but frankly it was a shitty map, and they did a lot of looping and cursing and saying, "I don't know Laura, there are no streets on this map." So much for the military precision. We never would have made it in the Corps.

When we found the park, Laura wanted to get a good spot and drove around to the back end of the park to get us "closer". It all made perfect sense. We got out and trundled our way across the street: Laura the Pregnant, Kara the Tiny, Me the Perpetually Asserting the Fact that I Have Red Hair, and Quimby, Slayer of the Homeless. We had to pass a fountain to get to the music gazebo. The fountain was full of plump children whose parents were too cheap to pay the $3 to get into the pool only yards away. Unsanitary? Yes. But dodging entrance fees is one of summer's little treats.

The band was playing when we got to the green, and I was fully prepared to walk away from the gazebo if a washboard was not involved in the music making; thank God there was. Whom do you suppose figured out a wash board could be turned into a musical instrument? A lackadaisical housewife? A cranky laundress? A bored hillbilly? Jimmy Jack Bobby Joe Lee, you're brilliant. We met up with the other half of the crew here: Maria the Latina, and Kellie the Gesticulator. We sat amongst the throngs of young families and their cotton-candy haired toddlers, drinking beers and talking about good times and paper hats.

When the concert was over we headed back towards the car, content and full of beer and happy Zydeco thoughts; Kara singing some song about crawfish pie. I said, "Crawfish pie? Do they leave the heads on?"
"No, it's like a pot pie," she responded.
"Yeah but don't some people suck the heads?" I asked.
"I don't suck the heads, Mike sucks the heads." she said.

I still have no idea who Mike is.

Drunk and dialing

So I just listened to my cell phone voice mail. Turns out I called myself last weekend when I had had one too many Jack and Diet Cokes. What a treat.

Now I've heard of calling others when in the middle of a bender, but never yourself. This leads me to believe one of two things: 1) I am so damned important that I can think of no one that I'd like to call more when I am drunk, or the more likely 2) I have no one to call when I am sauced and in need of a good reaching out and touching someone. This being without a boyfriend - read "object of phone harrassment" - is really beginning to get on my nerves. My answer to this was to sign up at wealthymen.com. That's right. A dating service that hocks rich men that can't get a date. I am delirious with anticipation. It's just as easy to sign up at shiftlessbums.com, but I'd rather give the guys with a few duckets in their bucket a try. I'll let you know what happens. And you can let me know where to send the wedding invitations.

Smell This

All right, I've been told if I don't write something in this damnable blog space, my friend Kara won't speak to me anymore. Well, I've got a birthday coming up and if she's not speaking to me, it's quite likely I won't be receiving un cadeau. Screw that. So while we're on that topic of my birthday, let's just say this; I am old. Not compared to say, oh I don't know, an octogenarian, or a Joshua tree, but old in the sense that people under 30 can smell my fear when at a party with scads of bubbly twenty-somethings. Stupid twenty-somethings. Smell this you little punks. I was walking on this earth when Tricky Dick was in the White House. I watched the original airings of Three's Company and the Brady Bunch. I was here before cell phones. So before you go calling me a blue hair, realize that I may have some knowledge inbetween my wrinkled ears; knowledge that may be useful to you. When the nuclear bombs go off and civilization needs to be rebuilt, I'll be the one who knows how to use a rotary phone.