This Entry Should Offend Nearly Everyone
Monday, Jan. 29, 2007 at 8:52 a.m.
On this day in 1979, the "I don't like Mondays" killing occurred -- Brenda Spencer fires repeatedly at the school across from her residence in San Diego, killing 2 and wounding 8 children. The reason she gave inspired the Boomtown Rats song.
I love this song. It�s terribly haunting but unfortunately, because of the lack of knowledge of the incident that inspired the song, most people think that Bob Geldof is asking why don�t I like Mondays? Which in itself is a valid question but it takes away from the power of the subject matter itself. School shootings are not a new phenomenon � take, for example, the Texas Tower Shooter, Charles Whitman. That happened August 1, 1966, for heaven�s sake. And now we make a bunch of jokes about �shooting people from a bell tower� but I�ll bet most of us don�t know the actual reference. I guess what I�m saying is just don�t adopt meaningful phrases willy-nilly without at least learning some of the origins behind those phrases.
And just to be obscure, willy-nilly comes from the Latin vale nale, which, if I remember correctly meant something like �this or that.� Yes, I can be a society wit enough to at least be in the same house as Oscar Wilde, although I�d probably never engage him in conversation because he�d burn me so bad I�d have to punch him. That, and he�s dead.
Note to self: When the Hubster has you face-down on the bed, boffing you very nicely from behind, be careful not to take a very deep breath, because you will aspirate a cat hair and begin to cough violently until you throw up a bit, which effectively destroys both your throat lining and the romantic mood.
That�s your TMI PSA for the day. Thank you, and now we return you to our regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.
The weekend was rather nice, as I got to do my Goodwill-Half-Price-Day� powershopping, buying only 5 skeins of yarn (yay me!) and the Hubster took me to lunch and I got to spend some money and stuff. I also went to church, where the good Fr. Fred (the hyperactive pastor who is an utter goofball) asked me if I could help them out by becoming a Wedding Mass Coordinator. Once or twice a month, I would have to direct a wedding rehearsal and the wedding in the church the next day. And this is a paid position, too, not a volunteer one. That wouldn�t be too bad. It gets me out of Hubster�s hair so he can cut down his other tree in peace.
Yes, I�ve decided to let the Hubster cut down the other tree as opposed to hiring someone to do it. I know he�ll be careful, and he already has the fear of my wrath in him so he won�t break my new windows in front. Those suckers are over 8 feet tall with rounded tops and very very very very very expensive. And they�ll only replace them for free ONCE. I�d like to have them several years before that becomes necessary. I�ll have to take a picture of the progress but our digital camera software has decided to pack up and blow town for some reason. We�ve tried re-installing the software but it�s still acting all wonky.
I also received the Smed-a-licious Holiday Mix Extravaganza Orgy of Interesting Music over the weekend, and I will be writing reviews of the song selections in upcoming diary entries, which I could have started today if I�d actually brought the thing with me to work. Today I did bring some new knitting and the movies Cool Hand Luke and Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby (of which I just need to listen to the commentary � we watched the movie and most of the extras over the weekend).
Don�t you listen to the commentary of movies? I almost always do. It�s related, I think, to my practice of watching every single moment of movie credits. I always want to know if there�s more, as a lot of movies have a little stinger on the end, or, in the case of Narnia: Lion, Witch, Wardrobe there�s a little stinger right after the cast credits. That, by the way, was a fantastic movie. I loved every moment, and I must go pick up the books at the library and read them.
I never read C.S. Lewis. I suppose at the time I should have been reading C.S. Lewis, I was reading Madeline L�Engle and Anne McCaffery and T.S. White and Judy Blume and probably Laura Ingalls Wilder and William Golding and LaVyrle Spencer and oh, Shakespeare. And maybe O. Henry and Homer and Charles Dickens, but hey, there�s only so much a kid can read before the nuns make you stop and listen to them.
Here�s a movie, though, that the nuns would never let you watch: 20 Centimeters. Marieta, a pre-operative transsexual cursed with a 20-centimeter �member� prostitutes herself in order to save up the money to have her operation. To top it off, a gorgeous man falls in love with her specifically because of her extra 20 centimeters, and she has terrible narcolepsy to boot. This import from Spain is so absolutely marvelous. It�s a love story filled with fantastic musical numbers that make Priscilla look like a high-school musical. It�s an utter hoot.
Of course, I suppose for some people, the subject matter of the above movie wouldn�t be funny, but sick � however, I have an example for you of something truly wrong:
Really, it�s not so much the act of casting bits and bobs of your baby so that you may have disembodied hands giving you the baby finger (although that in itself is Texas Chainsaw Massacre kind of creepy), it�s the picture of the demon child on the box. The one with the oversized grinning head, no neck, preternaturally long feet and a super-short waist. It�s like the nightmare animatronic baby Dawn crawling on the ceiling in Trainspotting.
You think I can�t top that? How about:
The poor Corgi is actually grinning! Hey, pooch, your willy has been canned for soup! And what do they do with the rest of the dog? It�s like how I wonder what they do with the rest of the frog after the legs have been ripped off.
But that pales in comparison to this:
Oh.
My.
GOD.