Taxes

Having reignited the old flame for pumping iron, we have been taking cabs around the most isolated and primitive -- except for minimum low wage finishing school of counter service -- of our civilization. Exercise facilities are usually hidden under peak-roofed metal bunkers in the back of Costco parking lots or tractor dealerships so you have to take a cab. To do this is to purchase ones self a ticket to the weird theater of the elderly, insane and obese. In a military town in Georgia we were delighted by a very large woman driver and her very slight copilot hidden under a mound of potato chip bags. Also prominently featured was the couple's bouncing baby boy, bouncing standily between the seats on the transmission. In Columbia, sc we had a driver who took us to the bar while sounding exactly like the actor Craig Robinson from the office series. Texarkana has a toothless old hack who gets autographs of travelers on the back of a small notepad. Not on the paper, but on the cardboard back. There's a big guy in davenport iowa who sound's like a girl on the phone and is the only cab in town; his rates are quite cheap in addition.

There is quite a coot in orange Texas I think who drives a cab as an alternative to working at the Texaco station, where theonly benefit you get is a free wheelchair she said. Having prospered in California as a " stay at home hippie" for much of her life, she finds drivng a cab a natural way to do as little as possible. This woman bellowed many times the word "tink" in an effort to convince her passengers that Sandy Duncan, who is from Orange, played tinkerbell in Peter Pan, which is not true. She has new teeth and is wracked with emotion when she drives past the Texas roadhouse restaurant, so much that she gave our front seat passenger a deadarm. This was on the way back from a gym that appeared to have been the site of numerous cub scout meetings pre-renovation. She couldn't find the gym exactly because they had "built all these houses and shit."

WGA again

Seth McFarlane at WGA strike rally

Another Display

There's a future here.

found this

Cleaned out my suitcase the other day and found this wrapped up in a pillowcase I must have stolen somewhere.

mccafe act I

In an attempt to understand things as they might eventually be, we've started going to fast food restaurants, including Wacarnold's, for things like toilets and coffee. I've known for some time now there's been something called a McCafe available in beta form from the midwestern state locations of this restaurant . A McCafe is a smelly tiled room with doors on either side and an antique looking clock on one wall, and a row of indigents in black polo shirts leaning against a counter on the other. Behind the lineup of have-nots is a maze of shelving that is very brightly lit. There are often two shades of 12" tiles on the floor, and sponge painted walls to fashion the feeling of being in a stuccoed vault. Most things on the menu are hyphenated, or should be, hinting at a vague flavor to be combined with whipped cream or butter to fashion an enormous beverage that costs between $2 and $4. "Foamo-Vanilla Breath" and "Cool Mocha Endulife" are two popular choices available in Large and Super exclusively. Aerosolized oil overwhelms as you try to catch enough breath to mouth softly what must be such a foreign phrase to their ears; "I'd like a double espresso." Their plastic stare moves from my clothing (which is designer-label only now) to my iPhone ("it lights up like a Zenith," they think) to the computer terminal in front of their deeply creased wrists. Nothing else happens for a few seconds until The Huddle is called.

Most of the place hints at effeciency: "next register" signs large enough to read in your sleep; numbered grids on the counter to indicate where your purchase will be eventually be placed; buttons and levers dispensing anything liquid enough to squirt; stacks of boxed food items ready to be bagged and tagged for distribution. But ordering espresso causes these portly pushers to huddle and question and calculate for so long as to become a wicked stooge-like parody of their own inconceivable selves. Usually they call someone named Anne or Roy to help, who is always mustachioed regardless of gender and wearing a stained striped shirt and bowtie. Eventually, a huge cup with a dot of tan liquid within is placed in my manicured hand, pungently steaming it's elite intentions.

love: is it real?

I feel so deeply for my new cell phone that i'm afraid of losing myself. You know, it's like what were my dreams before i got it? Am I supposed to just look at this screen all day until the battery runs out? How do we find alone time, time to paint, to converse aloud with others? There won't be time for these things anymore.

saved by a thread

I absolutely demolished the protective film I bought for the screen of my new touch-sensitive phone, but then I discovered that there were threads missing from the belt clip. So I returned it and nabbed a new one with a new protective film before the youth at the AT+T COR store knew what hit him. Now I have a protective film bit

Pants

I bought a new pair of jeans the other day. Having traveled for over a year in the company of a posse of divas and dandies, each of whom I appreciate as individuals in addition to the weirdness they seethe, I have become aware of designer jeans. I think they read some magazines or something and watch graphical representations of beautiful people associated with particular styles of clothing and thus maintain the frantic desire that funds our clothing industry. What i previously had taken to be designer I understand is merely famous- or brand-name. Like what Sears sells. Like Kathie Lee Gifford is not considered a "real" designer, nor is Eastern Mountain Sports.

I've known for some time that people I work with might spend over $100 on a pair of jeans, but I don't think this is a necessarly or prudent investment. Often these will get left in a hotel room, after all, or slept in . But there is the fact that most of my clothing has been handed down, is an event giveaway or is paint covered. I haven't painted a room - seriously painted, with a cute smock and cap - especially not with Benjamin Moore Mayan Treasure for over 2 years now, so not only are things paint covered, but this has been the case for more than 2 years. What I consider to be my new boot-cut jeans are actually 3 years old and had an exclusive Flanabrand contract for many months a few years ago, resulting in ripped knees. I find this an exciting fashion choice and have worn them like this a few times.

So I now have jeans that have multiple page ads in Vanity Fair and inStyle. Sweet.

phone!

this is posted from my new phone and is thus very short

couple unrelated bits

we thought you should know about a couple of websites to keep tabs on what the stupids are doing:

my right wing dad

There's also something called snopes.org. These are places that people catalog and investigate email forwards. You know that I have an acquaintance who last year said that they wouldn't vote for Obama because he is a black Muslim. This person may have gotten their information from one of the hundreds of email forwards propagated by the snowball of nationalistic people who syllogise their way out of dealing with people who are less privileged or far away from themselves.