Do Not Open the Door for a Crying Baby!!!

For my women readers out there, you've no doubt received countless emails from a concerned friend or relative packed with tips on how to avoid rape, sabotage by infected needle lurking under the gas pumps, van-driving serial killers (don't they all though?), and assorted suspicious persons of dubious intent. So thank God for email, right? I mean--holy crap! Before the convenience of email, we were all getting serially killed. There's a reason Ted Bundy got away with so many murders: it was before the interweb tipped us off to his shady ways. No one with email ever gets murdered or raped nowadays. You're a good-looking limping man? Ha! I'd just as soon kick you as get into your car, sir! I know your fiendish ways!

Meanwhile, back on Earth...

This quarter's bitch has a terrific article about fear-mongering emails and how they are all pretty much directed at women. While I agreed with that assessment, I had forgotten how totally correct they were until I received another such a one today which included, without irony, the hilarious suggestion you see in the subject line. The story behind it is that "serial killers" (driving vans I suppose), think women are all apparent idiots, who will not find it suspect AT ALL that a tape-recorded baby's cry is playing immediately outside their doors on dark and stormy nights and will instead, upon opening their doors to the screaming babe, be --HA! FOILED IN NAIVE HUMANITARIANISM!--and be attacked and serially killed. And in the words of cartoon Al Gore "I'm like totally cereal."

While it's true that sexual violence against women/serial killing of women is hugely more common than sexual violence against men/serial killing of men, the majority of violence against women is surprisingly not committed by van-driving serial killers, nor tape recorder-wielding ones. It's usually committed by ex-boyfriend Schmitty or stalker-from-economics class Stanley or frat boy Freddy, the neighboror Uncky Herb. In fact, statistically speaking, a woman is safer walking the mean streets than in her own living room. And the victims of violent crime by surprise attack? Usually men. Yet, clearly facts are not of importance when fear is at hand! In support of this statement, I present the final grave words from the email "Fwd: Fwd:Fwd: Crucial Info": I'd like you to forward this to all the women you know. It may save a life. A candle is not dimmed by lighting another candle. I was going to send this to the ladies only, but guys, if you love your mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, etc., you may want to pass it onto them, as well. [sic x 11ty billion]

Do you love it? Fellas, IF you love the ladies you know, you MIGHT want to pass this on, but you know, you're clearly in no danger, so hey--how about we go smoke some cigars and celebrate being dudes at the strip club while the ladies shiver in a corner? Hope your grandma doesn't get anally assaulted by a perv! And what is this candle dimming business? Why is there always some line that was likely written by a teen during their Nine Inch Nails phase, somewhere between dolphin journal and drug paraphernalia room decor? Oh me. Oh my. Just read the bitch article. It will say all the things I'm too busy dwelling on grammar to articulate.

In conclusion "This e-mail should probably be taken seriously because the Crying Baby theory was mentioned on America's Most Wanted this past Saturday when they profiled the serial killer in Louisiana."

Watch out, Baton Rouge!

A Moving Tribute

This isn't the stunning mango revelation you were promised. Really, the mango thing needs to be tested just slightly more before I make an official announcement anyway. So keep your pants on.

I just want to talk to you a bit about why people like to memorialize their loved ones on the back of their car windows. Why do they do this? Are they trying to literally create a moving tribute? I may be incorrect in the following assumption, but if true, it is what may be most disconcerting about this trend: I believe it has its roots in NASCAR with the death of Dale Earnhardt and the ubiquitous number 3 on the back of mud-festooned trucks. Quoi? I'm not celebrating that he died or anything, but is it really such a surprise that someone who regularly drove a gasoline bomb at 250 mph died in a fiery wreck? Likewise, is it not ironic (or just fitting?) that his number adorn every tin pile that motors down the interstate? Is such a one to dictate what is socially acceptable in our culture? Are you seeing this, Emily Post?

What ever happened to gravestones? You know? They're conveniently located in the privacy of other dead folks where you can mourn at your leisure. They're not moving around haunting people with their creepiness. Nothing says joykill like reading about the death of Jimmy Joe whose life was cut short at age six by a tragic four-wheeling accident in which he was not wearing a helmet and also driving unsupervised. You know? It's effed up and no amount of tacky decals can take away your suffering (or indiscretion, frankly) as a parent.

Then there are the ones that really baffle me on the backs of semis. They say things like "In Memory of Snuffy: a good egg and a hard rocker" and he died at age 56 (if you do the math quickly, which I always do). Was Snuffy just a little bit too hard of a rocker to be snuffed out so soon? Was he a good egg who drove a semi a little too much like one who has rocked too hard? I don't know. It's very confusing. When I read the backs of trucks, I prefer to see humorous things scrawled into the filth, like "Wash me, sugar britches," as Matt and I saw the other day. On the way back from Louisiana today, my mom and I saw Tooter 4 Hooter (Hooter 4 Tooter?) or something like that. It took me awhile to figure out what that meant and when I did, I didn't admit it to my mom. But one thing's for sure, I really don't want to know about your dead friend. It's like opening every conversation with the most unfortunate thing that's ever happened to you. There's no way to come back from it, especially when you have a tribute decal and a "hooter 4 tooter"-like inscription. Which is it, dude?

Please--just move on.

News Radio and Other Observations on Modern Technology Fads

Hello my blog,

Remember me? I have so much hilariousness to relate to you, but I've been unable to do so this week because I've been technologically compromised. I have a new job, did you know? It is an amazing job, but even if it weren't, I'd be at liberty to say so here because I have my doubts that my boss has *ever* been on the internet. We don't have a web page (or even workplace email) because my boss believes having one is trendy and will not amount to a hill of beans. Maybe she's right. It is 1995 after all. Wait, what? Oh yeah, it's 2007 and even most middle schoolers have their own blog. Silly me! But hilariously, my computer is the one in the place that gets free wireless, high speed, city-sponsored internet because...well, I don't really know why yet. But I've only worked three full days, so I'll have to get back to you.

So since I've been out of the loop with email and all--I've actually gotten a tremendous amount of stuff done. Okay, seriously, my boss is on to something... and I have listened to a lot of NPR. So until I can get all the other thoughts from the week(s) past processed, I bring to you: Thoughts on Red River Radio During My Commute.

1. I have an overwhelming urge to punch the general manager in the throat.
I love my NPR station. In fact, I am a listener-member. And I actually have liked the general manager up to this point. He has a jazzy name, which I won't put on here in case he is self-googling, but my appreciation of him now ends because of his recent PSA that plays all the time. I highly recommend going to their page and seeing if you can hear it, just to know how much it makes me cringe every time he says "We're coming to the end of our fiscal year and to be frank, we could use a little help." It's not what he actually says, it's the way he says it that makes me want to punch him in the throat. Listen to it and writhe at your own risk.

2. Fatah, Hamas (sp?x 2)--you guys need to SHUT (the eff) UP.
Seriously, hearing about y'all going back and forth about what's democratic and whether Fatah can be a secular political organization or if it needs to be re-fundamentalized and re-named(Fatah al Yassir anyone?) after a coup is a little bit like being in the midst of a roller derby league break up, in which both parties have access to explosives. Plus, our petty crap doesn't take up my entire allotment of quality time with my All Things Considered posse. It's a speedy commute Mahmoud, so can you kindly can it? Keeping all your names straight and just exactly who you're allied with for the next ten minutes is really giving me a headache. Stop blowing people up, you whiney bitches! This is obscene.

3. George W. Bush vetoed an embryonic stem cell research bill today.
Oh, how incongruous. Color me shocked!

4.I know a heck of a lot about de-salination.
Well, for a lay person that is. I am really grooving on the Climate Change segments that are focused on the Pacific-dwellers right now. Those citizens of Western Australia are clever as all heck. Why not drink the ocean?

Stay tuned for my stunning mango revelation (Jo and Jen know already) and a summer recipe to knock your socks off. Right now, I gotta go hang out with husby. And oh yeah, it's good to be back.

Blog Blorg

You'll notice this and two other "new" posts just now appearing even though some are a few days old. Sorry. I was tinkering with my template and accidentally changed something important and couldn't publish for a couple days until I figured it out. All is well now!

Introducing Piney Woods Roller Derby

I lament my absence from this blog of late, but a lot of new and exciting things have been on the horizon for me personally, not the least of which is the formation of Piney Woods Roller Derby, a new flat-track league in East Texas that has taken up a lot of my free time--and free neurons.

But what of Nacogdoches Rollergirls? Well, the full answer is complicated, but the abbreviated and totally true version is that some of the members of PWRD, all former NRG-ers, decided to go our own way when it came to matters of leadership and business, but we have a lot of love for our former league and hope to bout them one day after we have fully formed our new identity.



Look out Lufkin and Nacogdoches, a new team of heck on wheels is headed your way!

Be our friend! Piney Woods Roller Derby on Myspace.

"I've Got a Blueberry for a Daughter"

Well fiends, summer has turned to high in Nacogdoches and though we, like the rest of the state, suffer under the sweltering Texas summer sun, we do have a secret delight this time of year. And that delight is our blueberries because we're the only spot in Texas where they grow. And holy cow are they delicious!

Since this past weekend, the Texas Blueberry Festival, which Chrissy and I attended briefly before hopping back on our bikes pedaling furiously to fend off full-on heat stroke, tons and tons of delicious blueberries have been all up in my face. And since you already know everything is bigger in Texas, I hardly need to mention that these blueberries are HUGE. You know when you go to the supermarket and you buy that little half pint for like $11ty billion for a bunch of hard little pills of blueberries? This is not like that. First of all, it's $2 for a full pint ($1.25/lb if you pick yourself at a farm) and each berry is maybe the diameter of a penny! Okay, maybe a dime. But still!

Matt and I have been eating blueberry pancakes with blueberry syrup. Jam is on the horizon, too, not to mention muffins. A person can really get used to some of these Little House on the Prairie ways, especially as they involve fresh butter. So if you're craving sweet fresh deliciousness and a dip in ye olde swimmin' hole, forget the city and do not pass go before heading to the Piney Woods.

Ghost in the Ear Tunnel

I'm having a problem that's probably not that big of a deal, but I am haunted by a possibility from my past. As I mentioned before, I went swimming yesterday with Matt and Chrissy and Nathan at a secluded swimmin' hole type place. And it was the best! We had so much fun! What was possibly not the best was that the shore area was lousy with tadpoles and tiny fish that reminded me of a fateful day in Panama City Beach in summer 1987.

On that day, my sister and I were in the gulf waters when a huge wave came in with a school of tiny fish swimming very fast towards shore. Maybe they had a suicide pact--who knows? But as a million tiny needles impacted my little baby body, I was not concerned with the fish. I was instead, traumatized. And what made it so many times worse was that when we got back to our motel room (some totally run-down joint called The Sea Witch, which I kept calling The Sand Witch accidentally), my sister and I both found the corpses of several of the tiny fishes in our Coca-cola bathing suits. It was horrifying and never again have I been able to see a little tiny fish, smaller than a half a band-aid, as not a problem.

So despite my advanced age entering the shallows yesterday, I was still afraid of the bizards of my past. Eventually I got over it (sort of) tromping in with abandon, but now I have something in my ear (water?) that just won't come out come hell or hefty q-tip and it is my new great fear that there is a tiny dead fish in there, even though my ear canal is much smaller than even those very small fish---probably. You may now all enjoy a full body shiver.

Something Petty and Snappy and Incongruous

It's late and I had a long and wonderful day that began with blueberry pancakes and ended with Sushi Ya('ll) and featured hot dogs, swimming and playing cards with great friends at a remote and scenic Piney Woods swimmin' hole in between. So there's not a lot of time to blog, but here's a little something so you know I still care (because I truly do).

Yesterday, when we were picking out hot dog buns, I saw cheap ones and wheat ones and sourdough ones. But what really threw me for a loop were the allegedly healthy ones that had all kinds of nutrients and (again, allegedly) no saturated fats and stuff. Why? Well here are my thoughts: 1) it's a hot dog bun. Why is this so complicated? But even if it must be complicated: 2) please remember that you're eating leftover pig (or beef, possibly) parts stuffed in intestine casing and while I clearly have nothing wrong with this, you're not under the impression that it is, in any way, a healthy snack, right?

And when I eat at Wild About Harry's famous hot dog stand, I order "the Dallas-minus onions." That's dijon mustard, sweet relish, and cheddar cheese to you, lay person.

Chicken Farm Little

For the benefit of any lurking Patriot Act enforcers, let me express that I am opposed to terrorism. I don't care for it and I wish to keep it far away from as many lives as possible. Boo on terrorism! That said, I am a little suspicious by all the reports I've read recently about Homeland Security and the State Department cleverly thwarting alleged catastrophic terrorist attacks. It seems whenever I read about these alleged possible catastrophes, the buried truth in the story lies in that some dudes who once attended a radical Muslim group meeting got drunk and talked about fire. Okay, maybe the incidences are slightly less benign than that, but Matt and I are agreed that terrorist thwarting is the new witch hunt.

Take this article from Yahoo for example. Note that part of the URL is "terrorism plot 39." 39? 39?! Huh?! It seems kind of an odd way to keep track of them, much in the way that it's odd to meet a dog named Allen or so. Which one was the one where I had to start taking off my shoes to go through airport security? Or how about carrying my contact lens solution in a quart-sized clear zip-loc bag? "Oh that darned old plot 27!"

Anyhow, I clicked on the story from my yahoo because, as an avid 24 watcher (terrorism tv!), I was compelled to learn of real-life Jack Bauer-type-person's latest escapade. But even for someone like me who has shrugged her way through the wickedly far-fetched Season 6 (terrorists on tv! what will they think up next?!), I had to scratch my head a bit at this one.

This quote from the article kind of says it all.

Authorities finally pounced after [terrorist] Defreitas said on May 27 that he was happy to see that the plan, code named "chicken farm," was moving forward, according to the criminal complaint.

Ah yes, he "said" that "chicken farm" was moving "forward." Very suspicious talk. I'll have Curtis send a tag-team right away.