AMF @ IHOP

Sometimes, It's Best to Keep Your Thoughts Locked Up Tight.

Oh, Los Angeles District Attorney Steve Cooley, is there anything you won't say?

Now, I certainly haven't been shy about calling attention to the general doofiness of some of the jurors in the news lately, but I've stopped short of calling their actual "jurying" stupid. It's just poor form. I'll bet you that if Mr. Cooley were to say this sort of thing about the Scott Peterson jury, Richelle Nice would have asked him to look her in the eye when he said that. Then that other juror with the funny name would have delivered a magnificent crane style kick right in his chest. Afterwards, the two of them would have rode off into the California sunset to solve some crimes.

Yesterday, My Cat Did Things My Cat Shouldn't Do.

There officially are no more hard and fast rules in regards to my cat. There are no boundries. It used to be that I didn't want him on the kitchen table. Then, I realized how much he loved the window over the kitchen table and all the squirels and rabits outside, so I relented. And so, the table became his. I eat in the den. Later, I was steadfast in my refusal to let him on the kitchen counter. " The kitchen counter is where I prepare food," I thought. That's not a place for a cat to be. But, in recent months, the cat's been uncontrollably drawn to the kitchen counter, and specifically, to the kitchen sink. I'd yell at him, spray him with water, pick him up and toss him on the kitchen floor, but each time he'd simply look up at me and stare for a while. Then, he'd jump back on the counter. And so, the kitchen counter became his. Yesterday evening, I found him on top of the refrigerator, which is simply too much. I keep the things that the cat must never touch on top of the refrigerator. Additionally, getting to the top of the fridge requires a walk over the top of the stove, which simply is poor form for a cat. I think I will have to return to reading "Outwitting Your Cat." This simply cannot stand.

Another Day, Another Trial, Another Jackass.

Ah, who the hell cares, really?

It's nothing new to say that we live in a culture obsessed with celebrity. There is no line between news and entertainment, and I can't really say that there ever was. Becoming famous is considered a triumph unto itself, and it doesn't seem to matter from whence said fame came.

Whence
Said
Fame
Came

That's my new mantra.

Anywhoo, just another joker cashing in on his fifteen minutes. Seeing these folks crawl out from capital murder trials, though, is a bit unsettling.

UPDATE: In the name of fairness, I went and listened to the guy's songs. I'm now more offended than ever. The verdict's in: He truly and honestly sucks.

I Just Can't Shake Her Filthy Feet.

A few days ago, I stopped at the gas station on the way home from work. As I parked my car, I saw a young blonde woman hopping through the muddy alley beside the station with a twenty in her hands. She was in a hurry to get into the gas station, and was wearing no shoes, only socks. The tops were white, the bottoms black. I assumed she needed cigarettes or crack. Once inside, she went right to the candy display and picked up a pack of Bubble Tape. She paid and ran back out into the night. I can't get this out of my mind.

I'm Spending Too Much Time on This.

I just can't stop:

"We did everything right," Mike Belmessieri said. "We went in and we saw, last
June, an innocent man, and sat there, many of us -- I know I did -- saying,
'What's this poor kid doing here?' Well, we found out what he was doing there,
didn't we?"

Nice called Peterson "a jerk." "I have one comment for Scott: You
look somebody in the face when they're talking to you," she said.

Belmessieri said Peterson entered court Wednesday with "a smile on his face, laughing. It was just another day in paradise for Scott, another day that he had to go
through the motions. He's on his way home, Scott figures. Well, guess what,
Scotty: It's illegal to kill your wife and child in California."

That's right, folks. If she's got one thing to say to Scott, it's that he should stop being so damned rude. I'M A FAKE CELEBRITY, DAMMIT, SO SHOW ME THE RESPECT I DESERVE. LOOK ME IN THE GODDAMNED EYE. And, John Belmessierieieirieieieieiei, "It was just another day in paradise for Scott"? In the name of all that is good and decent in this world, you've sentenced a man to death, and now you're going to start quoting Phil Collins? Additionally, his use of the condescending "Scotty" (which sounds a lot like a wrestling maneuver) makes it a lock that his involvement in the impending book is going to be a real treat. I guarantee that he insists that the editors have him performing kung fu moves, drinking scotch, and bedding women (Richelle, I'm looking in your direction) throughout the course of the trial. He will be reborn as the ultimate pudgy action hero.

Not Too Sure I'm a Nice Guy.

Continuing with yesterday's discussion of the Scott Peterson jury, let's take the following and file it under "Didn't See That Coming:"

Thirteen jurors and alternates were on hand for the sentencing.

"We wanted to see it all the way through to the end," explained juror
Richelle Nice, who was nicknamed "Strawberry Shortcake" during the trial because
of her hot pink hair color.

Nice announced outside court that she and the other jurors planned to write
a book about the murder.

Of course they do. The link to the full article can be found here.

Not my Peers.

I don't have anything to say about the Scott Peterson verdict. I haven't followed the case very closely, and I don't have much use for courtroom armchair quarterbacking. However, after catching some footage of a couple of jurors getting some face time this morning, I have to say: What the hell? They looked like the happiest folks in the world, like they'd caught Peterson in the act of killing his wife and unborn son. The guy acted like the kind of buffoon you'd meet at a bar who spent the entire day talking about how people continually stole patents from him, and the woman- well- come on. Her name is "Richelle Nice." Should I ever find myself on trial and learn that one of my jurors had such a name, I'd have my lawyer file about 8 million objections. "IT'S A PSEUDONYM. SHE MUST BE HIDING SOMETHING." That said, I think she's kind of hot in a punk-rock-dyed-hair-fake-name kind of way.

One of the main things I got from their press conference was that they didn't care much for Scott Peterson's smirk. They saw the smirk day one, and from that point on, it was curtains. Game over. So, if there's a lesson to be learned from any of this, it's that if ever you're subjected to a trial by jury:

1) Don't smirk.
2) Be aware that your definition of "peers" and that of the justice system is probably not the same.

Before I consider commission of any crime, I will take a moment to remind myself that there's a good chance my jury will not consist of handsome young fellows who enjoy drinking beer, playing videogames, and have the Damned's "Neat Neat Neat" continually playing in their heads.

Kicked to the Carpet.

I keep my eyes wide open on the way to work. This morning's find was a van for "Steamin' P's Carpet Cleaning." Man alive, that might be the worst name ever.

Rock and Roll Paddy.

We headed in to town on Saturday a little behind the St. Patrick's Day activities. About the only remaining signs were the pair of bedeckled (soon to be found in the O.E.D.- watch) pickup trucks/floats that almost hit me as they peeled into our town's "Irish Pub." The quotes are intentional- the place reminds me a bit of a sad Epcot where the patrons don't quite get the joke. AMF was banking, and I'd been getting the Saturn's oil change.

We ended up hitting some bars shortly after noon. There was no green beer to be had, but we ended up having a nice enough time, nonetheless. In a moment of serendipity, we ran into the mayor, who was dressed in novelty leprechaun attire. We talked for a bit about AMF's difficulty finding a job in Naperville, and he was a good ear and offered up some good contact information for her to pursue. He told AMF she could drop his name, saying to tell people, "you were talking to the mayor, and he said you were a good girl." So, whether it pans out, or not, it was still kind of cool and exemplifies the reasons I love this town so much.

The beer got the best of me, and I ended up in a shopping mode. I picked up a Moleskine notebook (hardbound, with the cool elastic strap closure) while I waited for my Cahier's to arrive (they did, today. They're nice, but not nearly as cool) and a Cosmo for AMF at Barnes and Noble, and then picked up some cat stuff for Truman at Two Bostons, a new pet store that popped up over night. I'm all about supporting the local economy. And, I suppose, spending money frivolously while a bit in my cups. I left a request for the proprietess of Two Bostons: "Please contact me-- immediately-- if you can secure a leather cat collar, with studs, with breakaway cat collar safety features." She took the request good-naturedly, but I wonder if her internal dialogue was more on the level of the external dialogue of the guy at Barnes and Noble who had to deal with my insistance that I had a card-- somewhere-- that entitled me to save 20% on my purchase.

We got home, screwed around for a bit, and then headed to my folks' for dinner. Had a great time there, and stayed until late in the evening. I hit the wine and then went to walk the dogs with my dad. Cigars and good conversation about work. I got on a kick about needing AMF to learn how to make my mom's crumb kuken, so mom and AMF baked while dad and I ambled around the neighborhood with a pair of shivering tiny dogs.

While at my folks', I watched the new Star Wars trailer about five times. I suggest you do the same. At your own homes.

Impressionable Youth.

I suppose I'm very susceptable to suggestion. After reading this morning's Lileks, I realized that I, too, need some of these Moleskine notebooks. So, I ordered a few of the (relatively) cheapie Cahier pocket ones. They were out of the lined ones, so I opted for graph paper. It feels right, though. Writing notes on graph paper somehow feels like something a scientist would do. A mad one. Speaking of, as a quick sidebar, I finished watching "Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow" last night, and I give it my unreserved recommendation. I enjoyed it immensly. It hit the spot while I was kind of feeling down last night.

So, AMF arrives home via airplane later this afternoon, and I look forward to seeing her. I have trendy new notebooks on the way, and I will be able to jot down things and look artsy while I do so. Everything's coming up roses. I'm in a much better mood than yesterday. Mayhaps the veil hasn't quite lifted, mothers and fathers, but it's lifting, and that's something.

Frigid.

It's cold and ugly outside, Teressa Heinz-Kerry turned inside out. That's right, girlfriend; I went there. Snow swirls on the sidewalks and asphalt, grey skies. All-in-all, just the thing to kick one on to the depressive side of the spectrum. It's hard to feel inspired in light of all of this, especially when things weren't feeling terribly inspiring in the first place.

But, what are you going to do?

I'll tell you what: You just deal with it. You finish up your day at work, bundle up snuggly in jacket with hands pressed hard downward into pocket, and head to the car. Clear it off, and drive cautiously home, well aware that the normal 50 minute drive might well take considerably longer. And, so it goes. Once home, I guess I'll try to be productive despite a complete lack of desire to be so. Laundry, dishes, clutter- all sitting there since we left for the weekend. Nothing's been done with them, so they sit awash in an expanse of cardboard boxes. But, if I don't do laundry, I'll be stuck with having to wear an oven mitt and placemat to work tomorrow, so I'll do it.

It's one of those times where it feels like I'll never be able to get the apartment back in shape, and also where I feel like there's no real point to do so, anyways.

I hope it's just the weather talking. With luck, the sun will be around eventually.

Hairy Money Box.

On the way to work, I pass a crappy stripmall in Warrenville, right by the train tracks. This morning, I made a mental note to remember the names of the three most ridiculously-named businesses located inside. They are: "The Money Bunny," a lending firm, "Beer in a Box," a liquor store, and "The Hairy Biz," a hair salon. In some ways, this is beautiful. In all the ways that are important, it is not

Boxed In

The story about how AMF and I made it back from DC continues to unfold, unravel, etc. Once everything is settled, I'll provide an update.

In the meantime, my apartment is now filled with boxes. I rushed home on Friday to make it to the airport and found 20 large boxes on the front porch, all addressed to my cat. They were filled with other boxes. That's probably a metaphor for something, but I can't say exactly what. I had to cart all of these inside, and now my place looks like a warehouse. More boxes arrived Tuesday. Six of them. This had better be the end. I live modestly. I do not have a forty box apartment.

Expecting a Delay on Landing.

Tonight's the trip to DC, and I'm anticipating some awkwardness on the security end. AMF and I have one-way tickets, and in our bags are minimal clothes, two fuel filters, an XM radio, and a set of jumper cables. I think I'm going to check my bag through to avoid a bad situation in the security line. I'd prefer all bad situations to happen behind the scenes. So, call this signing off. I'm leaving for home in about an hour and a half, and then off to the airport, and then off to adventure. Full report upon arrival home. "God speed, Adam." Thanks.

There is Power in a Union

And, a lot of bullshit, too.

Thanks to the Burlington Northern dispatchers' sudden decision to strike at 4:15 this afternoon, all trains between Chicago and Aurora have been stopped while Metra seeks an injunction to force its employees back to work. AMF is now stuck in the city after missing a different line's train to Schaumburg, where I could pick her up on the way home from work. Fortunately, it seems like it could be a temporary delay, pushing trains back by about an hour. Unfortunately, she has an interview tonight at 7:30, and is dealing with complete chaos at Union Station.

So- I'm going to keep by the phone here at my desk to find out what her next steps are, if I can head home, or need to be around Schaumburg to get her.

Looking Ahead to Coming Back

Tomorrow's a 7:30 AM meeting, which will make for an early bed time and an early rise. But- once I'm through with the grumbling and bitching and punching that come from waking up at five, I do quite well. I'd like to think, were I to somehow become wealthy enough to not have to go to work every day, that I could keep to that kind of schedule. You get lots done in the early hours. Cup of coffee, maybe a bit of music, and you can be all set and ready to go.

But- it's discipline, something that can be hard to cultivate. Unless, I guess, you know, you just do. Lots of things I could be doing first thing in the morning: the gym, meditation, catching up on my reading... but, I love to sleep. And, so it goes.

But, tomorrow- tomorrow- It'll be up with the roosters.

I Ain't no Pep Boy.

All "pep," "vim," and/or "vigor" is noticeably absent this morning. Had a decent night's sleep, as far as I can recall, but still woke up feeling beat. It might be psychological, as lots of folks around me have been complaining about being sick, but, man- I just don't feel right. There's a cloudy feeling hanging around me, like I'm tucked into a crevice while the rest of the world walks around me. A bit light headed.

But- I'll live. I just hope that this doesn't manifest itself into anything patently "bad" during this weekend's move.

But- the good news is that the replacement camera arrived yesterday. No one came by to have me sign for it; it was just left on top of a filing cabinet until spotted by a co-worker. Thanks, Company for Whom I Work. You make me sign for business cards, but a digital camera can just be dropped off on a filing cabinet.