Church of the Big Sky

Country Roads

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 19:33:00 +0000

Just got back to suburbia yesterday afternoon, after a few much-needed days off in rural West Virginia. I'll write about it later, but here's a little visual taste of the week:

Off to celebrate a friend's birthday. More words and better pictures later...

44

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 02:52:00 +0000

So, I turn 44 in a few hours. Whooooo.

My mother was 44 years old when I was born. I'm so damn tired most days, I have no idea how the hell she dealt with a newborn *and* eight other children at the same time. Okay, so my oldest sister was 20 by then, so maybe you can discount her as a "child" at that point, but still...

Hard to believe I've made it this far with so little to show for it. No marriage or children. No house. A (recent) series of crashed cars and nasty spinal injuries. A job at a place I love, but with the same career trajectory as the little mountain climber in the Price Is Right "Cliffhangers" game.

Figure 1: Merujo

Figure 2: Merujo's career path

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but I honestly thought I'd be a little higher on the food chain by now.

*Sigh*

Then again, don't we all? I mean, here I am TWENTY years ago:

Me, on the steps of the Lenin Library, near Red Square, Moscow

Now, that girl was going places! Of course, I killed so many brain cells on cheap vodka and champagne over the course of four years in Mutha Russia, I probably derailed the My Brilliant Career gravy train without ever noticing.

BTW, here is a short list of jobs I've turned down over the years:

1. Moving company manager for all of Mutha Russia (too many foreign business folks found dead in ditches back then to make it attractive)
2. Russian heavy metal lyric translator in London (seriously - that job was offered to me at the bar in the Hard Rock Cafe on my 21st birthday in 1986 by a producer from Island Records - should have taken it, but I think my mother would have killed me for not finishing my college degree)
3. Hooker. (That was in Central Asia. And I'm still not sure if the offer was to really be a hooker or just a third wife or something similiar...)

Ah well. All water under the bridge. (Or flooding it, crushing it, and dragging it down river.) I may not have a very upwardly mobile job these days, but I work with some seriously awesome people at a really amazing place. And we have our own theme music. By Elmer Bernstein, no less! (And yeah, that music still gives me chills like it did when I was a little kid.)

And so, here I am. Still alive. Still kickin'. Kinda. If you count limping and screaming "OW OW OW" as you go "kickin'"...

I'm hoping for a very good birthday tomorrow. No party. No cake. But I am going off the grid for a few days. No Facebook beyond sending a few birthday greetings of my own in the morning, no rampant Twittering. It's Alone Time for Merujo. Hopefully, by the end of the week, I'll have tapped out a good number of words, some of which may lead down a very intriguing path. One I'll tell you about later, if it pans out.

And, if my back (which has caused me a lot of pain and tears this week) decides to cooperate, maybe I'll do a little hiking and archery.

Yes, archery.

Me, with sharp, pointy sticks. Alert the media. And the police. And the paramedics.

Later, gators. See you in a week, more or less.

Mama needs to find some airfare to travel this flat earth...

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 01:03:00 +0000

Okay, kids - I need suggestions. I just don't think turning tricks at 14th & K is going to cut it. See, there's this thing coming up in the UK in February of next year, and damn, I'd kill to go. I know my name's on the guest list, if only I could find the moolah to go.

So, short of specialty acts of prostitution or building my own meth lab, how does a girl with a job with quirky deadlines that precludes weekends working the register at Kohl's find a few hundred bucks?

Mama needs a seat on a plane to her old home, London town. I haven't left this country in years, which feels really weird, and I need to commune with my music and my city.

All reasonable suggestions entertained.

Attention, World Bank Employees!

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 01:03:00 +0000

Hello, gentle scholars and economists,

I'm sure you do a lot of good during the workday, fighting corruption, improving infrastructure, and eradicating poverty, one nanny tax payment at a time. You guys have big brains. I know this to be true.

But can you tell me, dear men and women of high education and lofty goals, why you insist on walking through Pennsylvania Avenue against the light, often through the middle of traffic, at the end of the day? Are your beautiful minds simply so overwhelmed with Great Thoughts that the colors red and green lose all meaning? Have you somehow been brainwashed to believe that the big red palm on the traffic light pole means "come forward, my children, no one shall strike you?"

Or, more to the point, are you really that dumb?

Why on earth do you risk not only your lives, but those of the drivers who have to dodge you as you break the laws of DC (and common sense)?

Honestly, if you don't care that much for your own health and safety, at least be courteous enough to think about the rest of us. I *really* don't want to be in a decade of therapy because I accidentally mowed down an errant Ph.D. doing the headless chicken stroll in the fast-falling autumn darkness.

(Insert your own "why did the economist cross the road" joke here.)

Admittedly, it's not only World Bank peeps who pull this crap in downtown DC. And everyone who pulls crap like this is an arrogant menace. But since I have to go through the intersection of Pennsylvania & 18th just about every evening, it's y'all, with your World Bank ID badges fluttering in the breeze, that annoy me the most.

Tonight, I almost killed one of you guys.

This dude was yammering on a cell, mindlessly bolting partway into, partway back, partway into Pennsylvania Avenue, dressed in black, after sunset, in the middle of the damn block. And when I had to slam on my brakes and honk at him, as he continued to chat away with great self-importance and very little self-awareness, he did at least stop momentarily to give me a rude gesture very recognizable to this former Moscow dweller. And, in return, I called him something colorfully naughty in Russian*

Now, what I yelled wasn't very nice, but neither was his gesture - or his efforts to needlessly make himself a moving target in the center of the bloody street! (I do appreciate that he noticed my effort to make a culturally- and linguistically-appropriate response to his stupidity.)

Here are some handy hints (that you are ALL old enough to already know):

1. Walk with the light - this is not brain surgery. If you decide to stroll out into traffic when a Hummer is five feet away from you, the Hummer will win. Without even trying. Or wanting to win.
2. Once you've mastered that red/green shift, cross in the damn crosswalk. They went to the trouble to paint lines for you, the least you can do is use them.
2. If you are Crackberry-addicted, take a break from the pipe. Stop texting long enough to look up and make sure you're walking with the light, Carol Anne.
3. Treat drivers and bicyclists with the same respect you want for yourself - follow the rules small children are taught about crossing the street, eh?**

Now, I believe most World Bank folk to be people with common sense and an awareness of their surroundings. Heck, I count World Bank people among my dearest friends. But to the Penn & 18th dorks I say this: you are smart people. Don't be tools. Knock off the dumb and dangerous stuff.

And stop crossing on the red at H & 18th, too. It's uncool, okay?

*I shall refrain from sharing my crude Russian obscenity of choice here, but it was a goodie, trust me...

**Although I think World Bank employees are exempt from holding hands when crossing the street...

Breathe in, breathe out, scream loudly

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 19:49:00 +0000

Oh, my god, the pain.

The excruciatingly horrible pain.

The pain that makes you wonder just what the hell *really* is deeply wrong with dungeon-dwelling masochists. The pain that makes you want to bolt and run for the door.

But, you don't because, you know, this is goooood for you.

Right?

Riiiiight.

Plus, you can't get up. No, really. You can't get up.

Welcome to Foot Massage Hell.

I've had reflexology before. Many times. My preferred foot-rubbing spot? Elaj Aveda Day Spa in King Farm, up in Rockville. There is a wonderful massage therapist there by the name of Christine, and she is amazing. I don't know what deal she made with otherworldly powers to get those healing hands, but the woman has a gift.

Unfortunately, I can't really afford her services very often. Let's just say this: it's not cheap, and the likelihood I'll be snagging myself a sweet sugar daddy anytime soon (or ever) is somewhere between zero and nil.

So, I save my pennies and go once every blue moon for 30 minutes of pedi-rapture.

Until today.

I cheated on my massage therapist.

The local coupon clipper circular came in the mail, and there was a discount screaming my name. Big bucks off reflexology in a spot just a hop, skip, and a jump from Chez Merde! And let's face it, Ms. Empty Pockets cannot pass up a bargain - especially a bargain that promised happy tootsies and a general sense of well-being.

I mean, after all, that's the feeling I always had leaving my regular-when-I-can-afford-it foot fiesta.

Oh my.

I guess the truth is, I've never really had serious, bad-ass, Chinese sports trainer-style reflexology before. My spa massages were, well, spa-like. Mellow. Gentle.

Screw that today.

My reflexologist met me at the door, and before he'd even ushered me to the big comfy recliner, he'd offered to come do any future appointments at my home. "You take a hot shower, you stretch out, we do full body massage and reflexology. Then, you sleep." I just smiled and made one of those noncommittal mumbles we all do when faced with friendly uncertainty and the desire to not be openly rude. ("Oh, Merujo, we just love your company! I'm making a headcheese coffee cake next Saturday. Never had one? Oh, well you'll adore it! You *must* come!" Mumble smile mumble.)

Today was just gonna be a shake down cruise. We'd see how the first session went. The price could not be beat, that much was certain.

The lights were turned off, and just the ambient light filtered through the windows. Chinese pan flute muzak played from a small boombox - I couldn't tell after a while if it was just one continuous track or actual separate songs. Soon, though, you'll understand why I couldn't give a crap.

He started by massaging my face. I told him I had pain in my shoulder and wrist from a car accident, but I think he didn't understand me. What he got out of what I said was, apparently, please dig your fingers deep into my left shoulder and right wrist until I shriek in agony.

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

He managed to dip his thumb directly into the hollow of my right wrist, just at the point where the bone had snapped and, despite the high loft ceilings, I made one hell of a leap toward the rafters.

Holyshitfuckohfuckohshitohcrapohstopohgod
jesuschristinachickenbasketSTOP!

That hurt. A lot.

Small tears drifted down my face.

"It's good, yeah? How you feeling?"

"I think that's enough on my hands and shoulders, thank you," I told him, gulping for air. "Please, you must be gentle. Car accident injuries." Then I pointed out the rusty nail injury to my left foot, the result of a No Good Deed Goes Unpunished moment when I stepped onto a remarkably long, rusty nail while on a healthy morning walk a few weeks ago. "You have to work around that," I said. "Don't touch that area, please!"

HAHAHAHAHA.

What the hell was I thinking?

What proceeded to happen was thirty minutes of paralyzing pain, percussive hits to feet, legs, and knees (yes, god, knees!), and something that went far beyond deep tissue massage into the realm of instrument-free surgery. My legs had locked up and my glutes were clenched like I'd been trapped in some Rube Goldberg mix of bear trap and ThighMaster. Literally, I couldn't catch my breath enough to complain.

I had started out with my deep breathing work before his hands hit my body, but soon, those deep breaths would turn ragged, and eventually turn into something rhythmic that would make any Lamaze instructor proud. Seriously, I went from "deep cleansing breaths" to "hee hee hooo, hee hee hooooooo" and thoughts ran through my head that this was probably fairly close to what labor felt like, just a few inches to the north.

It's kinda, sorta funny now, but then the words "women go through labor every day all around the planet, I can hack this" went through my skull over and over and over again, all while that goddamn Zamfir-meets-Crouching-Tiger bullshit calming music played like a sick joke in the background. I was nearing some sort of out of body state when I suddenly realized he had stopped the assault on my limbs and had started clipping my toenails.

WTF?

"What are you doing?!?" I wheezed at him.

"Pedicure now?" He smiled from what felt like a thousand miles away.

"Jesus, no," I panted. "No pedicure. We're done, right?"

He stopped and said, "Okay, how you feeling?"

I didn't have words. I mean, literally, I didn't have words. And, for the love of Pete, all of you know that's about as rare as an albino panda.

I just wanted the room to stop spinning, my hand to stop throbbing, and the linguini that used to be my legs and feet to regain solidity.

As I regained my senses, the guy told me in broken English that he had been a trainer with a national sports team in China. And before that, he was a doctor.

A doctor.

Jesus.

And yet, here he was, sitting at the feet of some random fat broad in the DC suburbs, downstairs from a nail salon.

He did this to support his daughter and her dreams in America. That's dedication. And love. And, despite the pain he'd just unloaded on me, inspiring.

But, dear lord, I wish he and I could have understood each other a little better. My right wrist is still screaming at me 12 hours later, my left shoulder would leave town if it could, and my previously rusty-nail injured foot has won Most Likely to Keep Merujo Awake Tonight.

Will I go back for more? Oh, hell no! Right now, I need gentle. Nothing world-class. Just something soothing, please. When my penny pile rises to the level that I can visit my sweet-handed masseuse in Rockville, I'll be there.

Now, here's the deal: had I known I would be getting pretty much an Olympic-class sports massage, I would have been mentally prepared for it. When I traveled in Central Asia on business, I often stopped at the national sports stadiums in the capital cities. Many of the trainers had previously worked for various Soviet Olympic teams, and they were thrown to the wolves when the Soviet Union collapsed. For a ridiculously low fee (but one that was more than a month's salary there), you could get a fantastic sports massage designed for a world class athlete.

But this morning, all Ms. Wimptastica wanted was a gentle, toxin-cleansing foot rub. I was not mentally prepared to be twisted into a bloated pretzel in an overstuffed armchair.

If any of you are looking for a really fierce, skin-twisting massage (or you're just into pain), let me know, and I'll give you the specifics of this morning's location. But you won't find me there, gorked out on a bizarre high of some shaman-ish elemental pain.

I'll be drinking tea and listening to seagulls at the spa, thanks.

Can I get that "Biggie" size?

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 00:40:00 +0000

It never fails. I know better than to linger in a Wendy's parking lot.

You may remember my previous encounters: chili-crazed squirrel attack, hot steamy Latin luvin', the rat perched on the ordering screen...

Yeah, you know I know better.

All I wanted was a Coke Zero. A big, icy cold cup of (probably) kidney-killing diet crack. And I wanted to read over the ads in the Sunday Washington Post. (I read the Post online, but I buy the big Sunday bundle for coupons and to read Date Lab. Oh, and Date Lab? That requires a whole blog post unto itself. As in, what should you think when a co-worker appears in Date Lab and expresses a dislike for people who look like you? As in, how do you interact with someone who has given a "no fat chicks" statement to a newspaper he has to know most of the Metro area is going to see? Like I said, that requires a lot more words than a mere parenthetical aside.)

So, there I was, diggin' the sweet, sweet breeze in the Wendy's lot, sippin' on my Zero, flipping through the Target circular, lovin' autumn, when a spoileriffic Honda zips in a couple of spaces down from me. The lot was completely empty, by the way, when I pulled in. The Fast-and-Furious, pimped out, street racer-ish Honda just had to Tokyo drift itself into the only row with anyone in it.

Of course.

As the car doors opened, I noticed the driver was Ed Hardy-garbed from head to toe - a young Latino guy sporting the Jon "early middle-age crisis" Gosselin look - and the chica who slid from passenger seat was in jeans painted on so tightly, I was astounded she could move (or had circulation in) her legs. A couple of minutes passed as I glossed through the opinion section of the paper (was the Nobel Prize selection committee smoking crack? did they bring enough to share?) and I realized the Honda duo hadn't managed to leave the lot. They were caught in up a passionate clinch that had apparently bypassed G, PG, and most of R on the way to letters way up in the alphabet.

Whatever.

The breeze had picked up. Maybe they'd just found a good way to raise internal body temperatures.

There was much giggling, and then it seemed they were leaving. And the Hardy Boy was letting the little lady get behind the wheel.

Putting down the Style Section after a few minutes, I realized the couple hadn't left. Both the driver and passenger doors were open, and the dude lolled back in the passenger seat, one leg stretched out to the ground.

But the chiquita? She was driving, all right. And apparently, she knew how to drive manual.

Really well.

She was, uh, working the stick.

Polishing the gear shift knob.

Upsizing his combo.

Getting him a triple beef patty.

With everything on it.

And I really, really, REALLY didn't need to see the beef in question.

But I did.

And it will be the stuff of nightmares for many nights to come.

Guys, seriously - hand jobs, blow jobs, and just about any other job of an intimate nature in a fast food parking lot at 4 in the afternoon? {{{shudder}}} JUST. SAY. NOOOOOOOOO!

All I can say is this - I think I'll be avoiding any beef products at Wendy's for a while.

Somebody, hand me the TUMS...

Farragut North. Wednesday, 6:30 p.m.

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 00:03:00 +0000

Ah, Metro.

Ahhh, Farragut North.

I will admit, it's convenient to work and there is adequate seating for gimps like me. But the surface elevator is a constant swirl of urine and B.O. (no, seriously), and most of the commuters would rather have bamboo shivs run through their eye sockets that interact with the rest of the humans littering the platform.

I wait through lines of sardine-tinned six-car trains, hoping to win a seat in the eight-car lottery. I usually end up planting myself on a Shady Grove-bound train under a panel dripping some H1N1/West Nile-ish substance. Gee, no wonder no one else claimed this spot! The reluctance of many to sit in the last car on the train can grant some peace at the end of the day. If you're willing to spin the Big Wheel of Metro Safety, that is.

While I wait for a ride that isn't packed like a Tokyo commuter special, I sit and observe the patterns. Not the human ones. They have no order at the end of a long day. When there is Human Habitrail chaos around you, and the air is thick and sweaty enough to be a tangible miasma, there is a measure of calm in the geometry of the concrete. Cool and orderly.

And even a little photogenic.

Ahh.

Selling domain names - any advice?

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 11:05:00 +0000

I'm looking to sell my two domains (askcrc.com and crstudios.com) from my old days as a consultant and a failed crafty-type businessperson.

Any readers with any advice or recommendations for venues or techniques for selling a domain?

Muchas gracias,

Merujo

Neon Mojo

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 03:48:00 +0000

My neon mojo seems to be on vacation right now. I got a lot of blurry and crappy shots tonight. Maybe I'm just rusty. Or maybe I just should cut myself a little slack. I haven't shot any neon in months, I'm rusty, a little tired, and my eyes hurt from trying to get used to my new eyeglasses today. Also, I shot all of these from inside my Enterprise $9.99/day weekend cheapy rental car. Everywhere I went there were freaky people, and I really didn't want to engage with them.

Oh, excuses, excuses.

Well, it was short trip tonight, but I'm still taking baby steps coming back...

This was a jewelry store in a really crappy strip mall in Gaithersburg,
next to a place called "Starvin' Marvin Pizza." This sign reads "Importers."
Even without my shaky hand, you can barely read it.

Love the neon, but the entryway debris doesn't really encourage me
to buy my next bouquet from them...

Ah, what would a Maryland Saturday night be without a keg and some keno?

This dentist's sign totally cracks me up.
The tooth has lips, but no teeth of its own.
Ponder that one, kids.

I know this sign says "A and S Salon."
But every single time I drive past this place, I misread the ampersand.
It will always be the ASS SALON to me.

These are just the hanging lamps at a Jerry's Subs & Pizza.
I kinda dig how they came out, a little blurred.
Nice, warm colors and soft shapes.

Okay, enough for tonight. I promise, I will try harder next time. I saw a sign for a hookah bar and a cactus wearing a sombrero, advertising fajitas, so I *haveta* go back out and try again.

G'night, kids!

I Suck at Poetry: the Autumn is A-Comin' Edition

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 03:55:00 +0000

Yes, I know I suck at poetry. But ever since I was a kid, I've had these moments where words well up in my brain, but make no sense in narrative prose. And so, even though I do suck at it, I write verse. Free verse. If you can tolerate reading this, you'll see it's... uh... very free verse. No form, no rhyme, a little reason.

(And in the darkness, some aging dude with a bandanna wrapped around his forehead flicks open his Zippo, holds it to the sky and cries, "Play free verse!")

In my head, it started out as a cheerful burst of autumn tribute. Then, it kinda went all Stephen King-y. Go figure. Like I said, I suck at poetry.

summer steam
and swelter
dried and crushed
under heel

that first crisp night
of autumn

it’s here.

that ray bradbury time
when youth turns sour
and age grows painful

the midways close
the fairs leave town
their carnival wake scented, cloying
with fried sugar dough
and animal musk

they leave deep furrows
in the brow of the soil and
crime scene trails of
sno-cone debris

paper cups stained blue
with summer’s blood
that turn and drag in the wind

the wind

the wind that’s
a little cooler
than the day
before

as summer gasps
and school returns
and childhood dies a little bit
each time the leaves run riot
in orange
gold and red

the air smells of leaf fires
baked goods and pumpkins
and elmer’s glue
stuck between
short, fat fingers and
construction paper

small-town cheerleaders shine in
a bonnie bell bonfire glow
while the football players leer
from a homecoming float

corn-fed pulchritude

firm and young and ripe
for the picking
for the harvest

before the snap
and the chill

and winter
comes

One of those dry heave moments

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 06:14:00 +0000

Okay, so the insomnia monster is eating my brain again tonight. It's nowhere near as bad as the summer of 2005 (also known as the "Summer of the Axe" or the "Summer of Someday I'll Look Back on All This and Laugh. Maybe.") That said, the not sleeping at night thing blows.

And here I am, surfing the 'Net. I should be working on the final pieces of a big personal project, but I don't want to get my brain even more revved up than it already is at 2:15 in the blessed a.m. So, I opt for something brainless - the Bubble Spinner game over at eBaum's World. Addictive, mindless, perfect.

Except, tonight (well, this morning, actually) there's an ad on the side of the page.

An ad featuring a body part.

An ad that morphs into another image of said body part.

And I'm not wearing my glasses, and in that first split second, I mistake the body part shown for... well... another body part.

You'll have to cut me some slack - remember my depth perception is shot, and that plus no eyeglasses = horror.

I was so grossed out by what I thought I saw, it actually made me dry heave. I hope that the advertisers - Old Spice - didn't intend for anyone to make the same error.

Because, frankly, a hoo-hah this unkempt would be astounding gross. An unkempt hoo-hah that "rains popcorn"? Even more disgusting:

Enlarge image at your own peril...

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. It's an armpit, Merujo, you blind moron! Now that I have my eyeglasses on, I'm painfully well aware that it's an armpit. And yes, had it been the body part I thought it was, it would be terribly misshapen. (And braidable.) And yes, isn't it wonderful that Old Spice is making a product that will save a hairy pit from lots of creepy residue?

Still gross. Still looks like it's raining popcorn.

And honestly, none of your body parts should be doing that.

Happy nightmares, everyone! And if you think of this next time you're at a movie theatre concession stand, you can thank me for saving you a chunk of money and a belly full of carbs.

Creeping back into the sunlight

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 03:07:00 +0000

Hello, friends.

It's been a while, no?

Things just weren't all that great for yours truly. June and July swirled together into one miserable, feverish blur - one I'd rather forget.

After a considerable sabbatical, my sense of humor is slowly returning. I'm still a little hesitant to write much here. To be honest, my plate away from the blog is pretty full right now. More on that later. But, tonight, I wanted to make some baby steps back into the groove.

So, consider this Baby Step #1.

For the first time in months, I took some photos today. I was out with the Sasquatch and the Atomic Editor, and while they did a little bit of geekly male bonding in a comics shop, I sat outside and tried to remember how to use my little camera.

These aren't very good photos. I'm not a very good photographer.

That said, I'd like to think there's perhaps something a little metaphorical here, or at the very least symbolic, of my slow return at the height of summer.

Or that could just be a load of pretentious BS.

Eh, BS or not, the plants were pretty:

It's a start, right?

I don't know if anyone is still stopping by anymore, but just in case, thanks. Good to be back.

Just checking in

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 03:31:00 +0000

Hi folks.

I can't type much right now, so this will be very short. I was in a car accident a week ago Tuesday. Don't really want to talk about it. Makes me very upset, for a variety of reasons. Not sure that I'll write any more than this about the event.

My right wrist is broken, but I had five grant proposal deadlines (all were due today) and I haven't really been able to rest the hand at all. Can't lie. I'm very depressed right now. I'll be back here when I'm feeling less crappy and have a little more hope in my heart.

Thanks to all my lovely friends who have written or called. I am grateful. Please consider this a universal hug to you all. Please know that I'll contact you when I'm feeling a little better.

Merujo

Once more, with (incredibly painful) feeling!

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 02:41:00 +0000

My bad eye decided to act up over the weekend. I've had to use drops that muck up my vision, and I've been sitting in my office this week with shades and headphones, looking like Stevie Wonder's less-talented, white cousin.

Problem with the eye is that my depth perception is even more nonexistent right now, and yesterday morning, navigating that dangerous three-inch drop from the sidewalk to the street by my car, I took a major header, full speed, into the cement. Landed on my knees, full force. Caught myself with my hands before my head could hit the pavement. I would like to blame this incident on the ferocious nature of the "Attack Pavement" in my 'hood, but, alas, it can only be blamed on me, my mucked up eye, and my general clumsiness.

I'm really glad none of the neighbors saw me face down in the road. That's just not the image you want burned into everyone's mind.

To paraphrase the narrator from "A Christmas Story", I lay there like a slug. A slug in smart work attire, clutching a bottle of raspberry seltzer water. (That bottle would be put to good use as a temporary ice pack.) A slug wishing that she hadn't just fallen off a THREE-INCH curb.

Seriously, shoot me now.

My entire body started to throb. My damn tailbone hurt! How the heck does your tailbone hurt when you've faceplanted yourself? Referred pain is, especially in this case, a serious pain in the butt!

Now, at this point, a sane person would have just crawled back to the apartment rather than go in to the office.

But when's the last time someone described me as sane?

Right.

When I got downtown, it took me five minutes to get out of my car at the parking garage. I think the valets wanted to kill me as I held up their rush hour parking work, but I just couldn't move. (Sorry, guys!) After gimping to the office, one of my colleagues noticed I was incredibly pale. When I rather ungracefully pulled up a trouser leg and showed her my ginormous, shiny knee, she almost heaved in the hallway. I hope she'd had breakfast already!

I had to get myself psyched to make the hobble down to our Med Unit in the basement of the building. Our office was in the midst of the annual Explorers Symposium, so there really wasn't anyone I could bug to go downstairs on my behalf. I was very appreciative that the Med Unit nurse had a bunch of crushable single-use ice packs for me to apply throughout the day.

I was bummed to miss the Symposium - there were a lot of cool presentations. At least I got a good amount of work done in my cone of silence, with the door closed and ice packs shifting all over the place. But, by about 4 p.m., my entire left leg had turned into an unhappy, throbbing, mottled tree trunk, and I had to take off my watch to accommodate my left hand, which was rapidly turning into a Macy's parade balloon. Yes, it was very pretty.

By the time I got home, I was a ball of misery. Took me twenty minutes to get brave enough to step out of the car onto my left foot. My knee was going in and out, and I had this horror of falling down again in the exact same spot.

Long story short (I know, too late for that) after a trip to the doc and the ER this morning: I sprained both ankles, my left knee, my left wrist and my left shoulder, and tore a ligament in the left knee.

I spent the day today at home. Not working from home. Just at home. Sleeping, icing various body parts, grumbling. I'm up now, since I need more water and the computer chair is currently conveniently located between the sofa and the kitchen.

Warning to coworkers: my sense of humor may be greatly impaired tomorrow. I will try to keep my tooth-grinding crankiness to myself.

Do they make full-body ice packs? Not sure one large enough for my person would even fit in my freezer!

Oy vey.

Huzzah for the Sasquatch!

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 00:37:00 +0000

This has been quite the eventful couple of weeks for my dear friend, the Sasquatch. After three years of balancing a full-time job and a graduate education, the shy arboreal creature received his MFA in Graphic Design from the Savannah College of Art & Design. I'm very proud of him. I think it's a remarkable achievement to graduate with academic honors while pulling down a 40+ hour week in a hectic, demanding workplace.

While I could not be down in Georgia to see him be honored in person, I was able to watch the events unfold on the SCAD website. That was very cool. I was even able to snap a screen capture of the moment of the diploma handshake. However, since the Sasquatch is a modest sort, I will not share the image here. Instead, enjoy this artist's rendering of his graduation:

With a sense of purpose and determination, the Sasquatch lumbers across the stage at the civic center in Savannah, gnarled (but talented) hand outstretched to accept his well-deserved SCAD MFA diploma...

Fine work, Sasquatch, my friend. Fine work, indeed. You rawk!

This weekend brought his birthday, and, as part of the celebration, we headed to Wolftrap last night to catch DeVotchKa and David Byrne. Truth be told, we were really there to hear DeVotchKa play. David Byrne, despite being the headliner, was an afterthought.

We discovered DeVotchKa one night on the car radio, and we were so captivated, we just sat in my jalopy for half an hour, listening and listening. The music is a blend of gypsy and Mexican, Eastern European and Latin, sung in whatever language is most appropriate. The musicians are all multiple threats, each playing at least two instruments, from mandolins and guitars to trumpets and sousaphone to standing bass and theremin. Yep, theremin. I highly recomment their CD "How It Ends" as a way to begin.

Here's a track from that recording, called "The Enemy Guns", performed live on KCRW's "Morning Becomes Eclectic" show:

Dig it? I bet you did.

We brought a blanket and a tarp for the saturated hillside of the Wolftrap lawn, and cold fried chicken and Amish salads for our bellies. The Sasquatch raced ahead of me to stake out a spot on the grass. He did exceptionally well. On a night where the lawn would become clogged with happy punters, we had a fabulous view of the stage. We also had, by chance, plopped down one blanket away from the ever-kind and cool Frank Warren of PostSecret fame. It was a real pleasure to see Frank, as always. He's a real sweetheart, utterly mellow, and we were pleased to give him scoop on DeVotchKa, whose music he didn't know.

A rare, non-blurry photograph of the Sasquatch.
He can be slowed down and recorded only when tempted
with chilled, dark-meat KFC and the promise of remarkable music.

We ate, we rocked out to the band we were excited to see (DeVotchKa got a standing O from the audience - how often do you see that for an opening act?!?), and we really enjoyed David Byrne, too. The Sasquatch would do more justice to describing the wonderfully simple, but effective design of the show (performers all in white, with revolving panels of color behind), so I'll just say it was quite good. Heck, it even had choreography!

All in all, it was a good night. There were points when I just lay down on the grass (well, on my wonderfully cheesy Moline Maroons blanket) and looked up at the heavens, watching the stars slowly come into view over the Filene Center. For a little while, the world was as small as that hillside. No back pain, no worries. Just good music and a good friend.

I wish, as grown-ups, we could have more evenings like that. Music. Friends. Cold fried chicken. It's a little piece of bliss.

Thank you, Sasquatch, for letting me be part of your birthday. And congratulations to you for your admirable academic achievement. The world is your oyster, my friend. Time for you to belly up to the graphic design raw bar!

(It made sense in my head.)

Sometimes PostSecret hits too close to home

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 00:27:00 +0000

I'm very late today in getting my weekly PostSecret fix. I've been taking it easy most of the weekend because the spine has been hurting so very badly. There's been a lot of extra power lounging the past two days, despite me having a good amount of stuff to get through. Finally did laundry today (and I'm sure my coworkers will be happy to know that) and got the dishes done. I still have a bag of cherries in the fridge, dying to be turned into another clafoutis, and we'll see if I have the oomph to get one done this evening.

But, as usual, I digress...

I went to visit PostSecret, and among the postcards Frank put up today was this one:

I actually said "awww, no" out loud and then, I nearly cried. With a little editing, that could have been me writing the card.

Longtime readers of my blog know that I had a very... challenging... relationship with my father. Put simply, he didn't like me much. When I left for college, I was sad to leave my mother behind, but relieved to no longer be living with my father, someone who disliked my presence quite a bit. Even though it probably wasn't possible, I still wanted this man to - if not love me - at least like me. It left me with a lingering, almost perverse, desire to please people - a desire I'm still fighting to leave behind today. Approval, affection... things I craved as a child and still wish for today.

My first semester in college I heard about an Irish import store near downtown St. Paul, Minnesota. My father was mildly obsessed with his Irish and Scottish heritage and listened to Celtic music all the time. He even had a multi-LP set of bagpipe music. Who buys a SET of bagpipe LPs? My father did.

Now, my arrival at college coincided with the popularity of the music of Clannad hitting American shores. As soon as you heard the ethereal sound of Maire Brennan (Enya's sister), you knew eventually you'd be hearing the group on "A Prairie Home Companion" and seeing them in concert on years and years of PBS fundraising drives. And my father really dug the first cassette of theirs he'd found in a local music shop. At this point, my hometown of Moline, Illinois wasn't exactly a music mecca (it didn't have the Mark of the Quad Cities - now known as the "i wireless Center", apparently - back then) and you had to special order more obscure music that wasn't on Casey Kasem's radar or being played on our local NPR station. I can't think of a single used music store in the area back then, come to think of it.

Yeah, in the 70s and 80s, I lived under a rock.

So, when I got to the Twin Cities in 1984, I felt like I'd reached musical Nirvana. I nearly lived at the Cheapo's record store down the street from Macalester. I went from, if not zero, ten to sixty in a very short time. It helped that I had friends whose musical boundaries were already much wider than mine. Seriously, I came to college with a cassette of Alan Parsons Project's "Turn of a Friendly Card" (store-bought) and another of Thomas Dolby's "Golden Age of Wireless" with some Michael Praetorius on the flip side (taped for me from LP by my friend HoyaMeb).

Michael Praetorius. (Not Thomas Dolby.)

So, when I heard there was this little Irish gift shop down Grand Avenue a few bus stops from the college, I decided I should take a trek there and see if they had any other Clannad music to send back home. Yet another step on my flat-footed journey to fatherly approval.

I was thrilled to death to find they had two Clannad cassettes my father didn't own. They looked pretty crappy in a "our band produced these in the basement of the family home in County Donegal and our cousin made the cover inserts on a color copier" way - these recordings clearly pre-dated Clannad's success, riding the crest of the Irish music wave in the 'States. I bought them both and took them back to my dorm room. I remember agonizing over the letter I wrote with the two cassettes. I hoped Dad would enjoy them. Maybe Dad would call me and let me know what he thought. Maybe I could go see the Chieftans with Dad if they were playing in town the next time I came home.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I rubberbanded my letter around the two cassettes and sent off the little parcel.

I never heard from him.

Mom said the package had arrived.

But that was it.

A few years later, after Dad died, I was going through a junk box in the basement. In the middle of some flood damaged papers I found the parcel I'd sent to my father. The letter was still rubberbanded to the cassettes. It had never been taken out of its envelope. I broke off the yellowed, brittle band and saw that the cassettes were still wrapped in their factory cellophane. He'd never listened to them. Never opened the letter. Just tossed it aside.

I threw it all out.

I wonder if he would have tossed it aside had I handed to him in person. Would he have given it back to me, unopened, like the girl in today's PostSecret?

I don't know.

But I know that familiar feeling of loss. That familiar belief that I'm not worthy. When I think of my father, I often hear a song in my head. It's Morrissey, singing "I know I'm unloveable. You don't have to tell me." It's hard to not feel that way - as a little girl, as a teenager, as an adult woman - when the first man in your life, your father, finds you so unpleasant.

It would be good to feel loveable in this life. I'm still looking for someone who sees me that way. Someone who will tell me that.

I don't have much in my life. But take it, it's yours.

I hope that girl found someone who took that mix tape and listened to it.

We all need someone like that.

Yum.

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Tue, 26 May 2009 01:00:00 +0000

Clafoutis Time!!

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Mon, 25 May 2009 22:51:00 +0000

Yeah, I've been absent for several days. Trust me, I know. Friends have reminded me. The nice people at BlogHer Ads reminded me. But I was mentally and physically out of touch.

In advance of three days of leave, with company en route, high season kicked in for my job. I could easily stay at work for 12 or 14 hours a day and still not clear the decks. My sense of humor pretty much checked out as I was trying to pound through projects at work and engage in marathon apartment cleaning before my brother and brother-in-law arrived from Germany. I knew, of course, that these guys would make every effort to fix anything that needed fixing in the place (despite me just being a renter). And I'm always incredibly grateful not only for their presence here and their love, but that they understand how limiting back injuries can be. All the dumb stuff I've been too tired to do in ages (clean the balcony windows, rearrange shelves, cook) they dispatched in mere days. And these guys are both in their 60s! Talk about making me feel like a total wuss!

Figure 1. Slug, aka Merujo

I miss 'em already (and homecooked meals... and lots of Australian wine...) now that they've headed north to spend time with nieces and nephews in New Jersey. But even welcome and wonderful visits are exhausting, and I've been too wiped to type more than random phrases on Twitter. That said, I'm trying to catch up on naps and get my head wrapped back around the thought of work again tomorrow.

So far, the score is: Naps, 1 - Mental prep for work, 0.

Go figure.

I got the pleasure of enjoying a couple of hours of grilling time yesterday with the Sasquatch up at Seneca Creek State Park, where lovely steaks were cooked and consumed, along with grilled plantains and cherries. Raising eyebrows at grilled cherries? Seriously, they're yummy! Take some sweet cherries, pit them, then either skewer them or wrap them in foil, and leave them over the coals for a few minutes. You end up with soft cherries so sweet they taste like the center of a homemade pie.

I was very pleased that the rain gods held off for yesterday's festivities. We snagged the same cook site we had last year in one of the park's many wooded day use points. We're not sure why, but just like last year, none of the later arrivals wanted to be on the same side of the parking lot as us. My theory is that I frighten the small children. Cool by us - we get a sweet, quiet spot where we can listen to oldies radio and be as snarky as we wanna be. At moments like that, life is good.

Last night, though, my back started up with the stabbing pains again. I had two Redbox movies to return - one very good (Benjamin Button), and one truly, sincerely awful (Bride Wars) - and when I got to the grocery store to pop them back in the machine, one of the clerks asked if I wanted a wheelchair. I was hobbling like Yoda with a double hip replacement. Not great.

Today, my plan was to get up early, do some writing, get laundry done, and make a clafoutis with some of the cherries not consumed at the park yesterday. Instead, I've taken two showers to relieve some of the pain and lounged on the sofa for hours at a time.

I feel old.

I have to say, I'm not looking forward to being at my desk all day tomorrow, but I'm hoping things will ease up a bit. I'm pretty sure there's enough piled on my desk and in my e-mail inbox that I'll have plenty to focus on. Nothing like stress to take your mind off of pain, right?

I have clean clothes for work and I *am* writing now, so I guess I can count that as a victory for the day, no? And I think I'll still make a clafoutis! I can pit cherries from the comfort of the sofa, especially now that I possess a fabulous Oxo Good Grips cherry pitter. Oh, wait - don't know what clafoutis is?

I learned about these suckers from an episode of "Good Eats" on the Food Network. Gawd bless Alton Brown and his quirky TV cookery!

Clafoutis is an old French dessert - it's just fresh fruit (usually cherries) baked in a kinda-sorta custardy batter. Traditionally, the cherries aren't pitted when you bake this, but being the kind of woman whose luck runs to chipped teeth, I pit mine, thank you. Once you've washed and pitted the cherries, it's seriously a five-minute process to make this dish. I'm not kidding. I suck at baking, but clafoutis is pretty much fool-proof. And damn tasty, too!

You're supposed to eat it hot, and it's good with creme, half and half, ice cream, or just plain old nekkid. I found a recipe for a less dessert-ish, more breakfast-ish version on The Joy of Baking website, and I'm torn about which version to make. Ponder, ponder, ponder...

Eh, you know what? It's 7 at night. I'll go with the Alton Brown version. Just wish some of you could be here to share it with me!

Another time, eh?

Fun with Signage: Bethesda Safeway Edition

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Tue, 12 May 2009 01:47:00 +0000

Bar soap... oral care... shaving needs... whaaaa?

Check out what (or who) is available in Aisle One at the Safeway on the corner of Bradley and Arlington Roads:

You know... come to think of it, I did pretty much miss out on the grandparent experience. Do you think they could find me with a jovial, old gent who's comfortable and self-assured in Depends and likes to shower people with affection (and twenties and fifties)?

So many questions... What is the return policy? Is the expiration date stamped on the bottom? Is it even appropriate to check? Do they ever run "BOGO" sales? I think it would be nice to have a set.

Somehow, I doubt the Safeway manager would find my line of query amusing...

Wow!

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Mon, 04 May 2009 17:25:00 +0000

Hey, I'm getting a planeload of kneejerk hate from Consumerist commenters today. In response to a post today, I said that folks who are sick shouldn't get on commercial aircraft and risk spreading their cough and cold germs to others. Apparently, this makes me a totally selfish jerk in the eyes of many judgmental and fired up Consumerist readers.

So be it. I shall wear my Selfish Jerk crown proudly today.

And welcome, heap of Consumerist readers dropping by to visit. May I recommend you start with the post about my mother, a link featured on the left side of your screen. It will be more enlightening than rants from strangers about how much I suck for not wanting to share recirculated air with people hacking and coughing.

Yours,

Merujo
Selfish Travel Weasel

Anyone else notice...

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 23:19:00 +0000

...how much Mary-Kate Olsen is starting to resemble Ozzy Osbourne?

Just sayin'...

A Statistical Note for Saturday's Anonymous Commenter

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 12:06:00 +0000

On Saturday, I received the following anonymous comment on my blog, in response to my post "An Open Letter to the Planet Earth" (re: a research study blaming fat people for global warming):

" Anonymous said... Why do you have so much anger toward thin people and rich people? This is a thread that runs through a lot of your entries."

Hmm...

I answered the anonymous comment in the thread on that entry. Then, because I really do believe in owning your opinions and being confident in them, I turned off anonymous comments. I'm happy to engage people who are willing to show their "face" online.

It got me wondering, though. Just how much "anger" have I demonstrated toward thin people and rich people out here?!? I did a search on all my posts - all 1,243 posts since March 2005 on this blog - for the following words (and their variants):

"thin"
"skinny"
"rich"
"wealth"
"fat"

I had to take out references to the words that described objects or non-human concepts, of course. But here's my survey on the matter:

"thin" - references to thin people appear in FIVE entries on this blog
"skinny" - references (many of them positive or appreciative) to skinny people appear in TEN entries on this blog (including my adoration of skinny English guys in new wave bands in the '80s, Conan O'Brien, "skinny Luther Vandross", and friends of mine)
"rich" - FIFTEEN entries reference rich people (and, yes, most of them less than charitable)
"wealth" - SEVEN entries make references to "wealth" or "wealthy" people - I took out references to things like "cultural wealth", etc.
"fat" - SEVENTEEN entries referring to fat people, and, if I'm not mistaken, almost every one is about ME and my personal experience as a fat chick

So, what does this mean, Mr. Science?

Well, while math is not my strong point (I flunked out of honors math in high school and haven't taken any since) I believe I can provide you some fairly accurate numbers here:

In just over four years of blogging on the Church of the Big Sky, in the course of 1,243 published entries, the following is true:

Thin people specifically get discussed in .4% of the blog
Skinny people specifically get discussed in .8% of the blog
Rich people get attention in a whopping 1.2% of the blog (oooooh!)
Matters of wealth (and the negative aspects thereof) rate .6% of the blog (and that's rounding up!)
And fat? Largely (har har) references to myself? 1.4%

So, dear anonymous reader, I can only assume that you are a very casual visitor to this page. I tell a lot of stories here, although I fall off the writing wagon now and then and lose a lot of readers. But I defy you to tell me how my "anger" toward thin and/or rich people "runs through a lot of (my) entries."

Read more often, friend. Shame that some of my very best entries are ones that nearly no one reads. Try my "Interview With a Silverback", for instance. I really liked that one. Sadly, only about three people read it, including me.

And don't judge a blog by 1.2% of its entries, 'k?

Another housekeeping note

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 14:09:00 +0000

No more anonymous comments. Everyone is welcome to the table to exchange ideas, but you have to step up to the plate and identify yourself. It's very difficult to have a meaningful discussion with anyone who chooses to be anonymous.

Y'all know who I am. :) I don't think it's too much for me to ask to be on an even playing field.

Thanks!

An Open Letter to the Planet Earth

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 14:01:00 +0000

Dear Planet Earth:

I just learned this past week that I owe you an apology. You see, a London-based researcher (probably eager for a little Earth Day publicity to keep his grant extended) released a report saying that fat people are pretty much responsible for global warming. (Matt Drudge, the bottomfeeder of web news aggregation, titled his sensationalistic headline "Scientists' Alert: Fatties Cause Global Warming." Stay classy, Drudge!)

I pondered this concept as I traveled to work the other day, being passed in traffic by petite Washington women driving solo in Hummers and Escalades and Land Rovers (complete with roo bars - because you never know when you might get assailed by cattle or kangaroos en route to your Georgetown hair appointment!) I get that I am using up more fuel by driving a car in general. Any of us behind the wheel is guilty. I live in the suburbs, far enough from a Metro station that I cannot walk with my damaged spine (damaged by - wait for it - a thin Washingtonian woman driving alone in an enormous SUV) and Montgomery County doesn't run buses in my neighborhood on weekends. And considering that someone threw a Big Gulp at me in my car for being fat, I'm not about to start biking on Rockville Pike and find out how much hate there is for someone without the protection of some steel, thanks. I want to or need to go to the store? I drive. But I don't drive aimlessly, and I draw up shopping lists, just like my mom used to do, to maximize my efforts, minimize my travel time, and my impact on the environment.

I live in an area where excess reigns supreme, despite the green rhetoric. White Hummer limousines are not uncommon sights. (Not sure what's worse about that statement, btw: white limousine or Hummer limousine?) Saw one parked outside the Apple store in downtown Bethesda just two nights ago at oh-so-tony Bethesda Row. You cannot walk a block in downtown DC without seeing a dozen people with disposable coffee cups in their hands (usually, it's coffee cup in one hand, Crackberry in the other) - and 99% of those babies are not ending up in a recycling bin at home or at work. There are people here with homes that require the GNP of a medium-sized African country to cool in the summer and heat in the winter. You can find receptions all over this region, night after night, with seas of bottled water and tons of wasted food. That London scientist? His suggestion is that one of the reasons fat people cause the seas to rise and the ice caps to melt is because of all the increased food production. Apparently, he's never been to a reception full of well-heeled K Street lobbyists, piles of water bottles, and a four-foot-high fountain of shrimp. Let's face it - this is a place where a lot of people live high on the decadently disposable hog on a regular basis.

But I don't. Nor do my friends. But none of us are poster children for Washington wealth.

Would it be different if we had the big bucks?

Nah.

Even if I had the moolah to be a gas-guzzling wastrel, it just wouldn't appeal to me. I'd like to think I'm making efforts to help maintain your health, Mother Earth. But apparently, since I'm fat, I'm doing more damage than the self-indulgent boneheads I see filling up their 7-feet-to-the-gallon urban assault vehicles with premium gas. Go figure. Who would have guessed? It's just another reason Why Fat People Suck, it would appear. Do we all get trophies for our continuing suckage?

Guess I'll go hide my face in abject shame now. I'm killing you, dear Planet Earth. Is there a big scarlet F for fat that I should have tattooed on my forehead, or perhaps velcroed to my chest? Dear god, no one should be seen with me! (Well, at least the strange, lycra-clad bike courier who propositioned me on my way into the office on Wednesday wasn't offended by me or my global warming-inducing size. He wanted to - and I quote: "Dive into all that hot loveliness." Of course, I could not take him up on his offer for many, many reasons. Lord knows, I would not have wanted that "hot loveliness" to further increase your temperature and climatic damage, dear planet. Of course, it was also only 43 degrees outside, he wanted to "do it" under the giant magnolia directly outside the entrance to my office, and, unsurprisingly, I didn't want to know what was under the dirty lycra leggings.)

Listen, Earth: I'm walking. I'm trying to eat right. I'm limiting my driving. I freaking recycle every damn thing I can. Apparently, that isn't enough, though.

If I became a skinny Washington babe and drove a massive car all alone, would that be better? Would my global warming activities be less offensive to the general public?

I know. I'll just try to breathe less. How 'bout that?

Personally, I think shutting down Drudge's website would bring about a massive reduction in hot air and pollution. But that's just me.

Hugs and kisses, dear planet. Dig your crust, love ya to the core.

Fiercely yours,

Merujo

A question for DC area bloggers

merujo@REMOVETHIS.gmail.com (Merujo) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 15:41:00 +0000

If I were able to arrange an open mic-type event at a coffee shop somewhere, would you come and read an entry for a Blogger's Night? This would be a first step to me really starting a project I want to do, gathering bloggers together around a campfire to read entries by flashlight and hook up the traditional roots of storytelling with its digital future.

And roast marshmallows.