Ultramundane.com -- It's Just Not Natural.

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United States, California, San Francisco, The Mission, English, Spanish, Casey, Male, 31-35.

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Saturday, February 1, 2003

Colombia; Madeleine.

As soon as I heard Scott Simon's mention the shuttle Columbia this morning, suddenly I was back in 9th grade. There was an announcement on the intercom of the Challenger accident during my English final. We had Chemistry next, so of course our science teacher had the TV on, so while we took our test we watched the trails of smoke from the debris of the shuttle and did our best not to think about it.

Between the Edward Tufte lecture on how a better presentation might have stopped the launch, and stories on the anniversary of the Challenger disaster, the shuttle had certainly been on my mind.

Though I'd rather we didn't have to have this reminder today.

11:28 AM PST (link)

Please Check Your Freud At The Door.

Did I tell you that I had a dream recently where I found that I was eating a big piece of pastrami? I woke up feeling horrible—just as guilty (for a moment, anyway) as if I'd done it in real life. Just like the dream where I was smoking after I had given up cigarettes, or the one where I cheated on my boyfriend (with a LiveJournaler, no less!) Or that dream where I...no, that was just too disturbing to describe.

The line for amateur psychoanalysis starts here.

03:22 AM PST (link)

Thursday, January 30, 2003

Small Items, Fresh To-Day.

I've got a bigger post coming, but not until I've finished the Lingering Project Of Infinite Revisions and Approvals.

I understand that it was only the prototype, but I still find it funny that the current Game Neverending ends tomorrow. (It's kind of a fun game, really, although it's pretty dependant on chat—and I'm not.)
Were I your political leader, we'd all be living in a Scandanavian Liberal Paradise—at least, that's what they call it. I would be concerned that my country's political freedoms are considered "below average," but then again politics have never been my strong suit.
The other day I tried to make something we call Squash Panchesco; except, when I did it, my Squash Casey came out too fatty and too bland. I'm trying very hard not to think about it as an analogy.
A woman in our office posted a big sign next to her desk: "Eat Me!" in big bold letters. It did a doubletake before I noticed the tin of candy bars underneath the sign. I'm just glad I saw them before I put up my "Fuck You!" sign.
I'm thinking of buying a monitor tonight. But I'm wondering if maybe they're just not big enough.

03:10 PM PST (link)

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Let Me Think About This For A Second.

So let me get this straight, WT...if I link to Blogwhore 2, a contestant named MG has promised to send a nude picture of himself to those who do so in his name?

...No, I don't think I could do that.

05:26 PM PST (link)

I Need A Drink; Where's The Bar?

I found myself at a children's musical at an elementary school on Saturday. I know I put my parents through plenty of these sorts of things—band concerts, choir performances, speech contests, plays, the dreaded variety show. They hauled keyboards in small cars, sat in too many folding chairs and ate more bad spaghetti dinners and pancake breakfasts for fundraisers than is probably allowed by the Geneva Convention. So it's probably a small disappointment to them that, since I turned out gay and childless, I'm not going to reap all that I sowed, revenge-wise.

It may be of some consolation for them to note, then, that I left feeling distinctly old. And I was told that the meatballs were pretty good, but of course, I didn't have any.

The Boyfriend stood up and off to the side with his video camera as the music began, saying, "Well, I have to go play Dad now." I think he only sat down for about 5 minutes of the performance, and it took a while afterwards to get that one eye to stop squinting. There I was, looking though the program trying to figure out which numbers "our" kid (our friends' son, the Best 10-Year-Old in the World) was going to be in, and checking off the listings in the program as they finished, like Sarah Vowell's father at her recital. I skipped the silent auction, but bought a couple of keys to try their "Treasure Chest" fundraiser and, of course, didn't win.

But there was wine there. I don't remember wine at the events when I was a kid (though why would I?) And "our" kid was great; not only did he had a lot of lines, but he can sing pretty well, too.

The best part? We figure in six or eight years, when we're at their place and meeting his first serious girlfriend, that's when we get our revenge, just like my parents got theirs:

We'll show them the tape.

03:14 PM PST (link)