Friday, September 19, 2003


I don't work. Not really. I show up to a job. But what I do there just doesn't seem like work. I don't mean that in the sense of I-love-my-job-so-much-that-it-doesn't-seem-like-work-but-a-privelege blah, blah, blah.

I'm the manager of a client services dept. That's right, I'm in middle management. The unknown cogs of thousands of corporations. The glue that holds companies together. The daily drones that are satisfied with a regular paycheck and the respect of their coworkers.

It's not a bad job or a bad company. I enjoy the people I work with and I have a good boss who is a little crazy. But there are days

Friday, September 05, 2003


I've been driving Steve's '64 Falcon the last couple of days since he needs to commute to Claremont using the Jetta. I like driving the beast since I can cruise and look cool doing it. Heads turn to stare. Usually because I'm blocking traffic in my attempt to parallel park the tank. Steve thinks it's hilarious I think of the falcon as a tank since in its day it was a wee little thing, a compact car. I like at least three, preferrably four, feet in front and back when I park so I don't spend seven minutes, of back and forth stop and go with a whole lotta wheel cranking, exiting the spot.

I totally forget about traffic, speed, and all the other annoyances of traffic in the wee thing since I can't go above 60mph on the freeway. If I drive through Griffith park, I'm only going about 35mph, pefect cruising speed. Gives me the chance to take in my surroundings, like the dessicated geezer on a ten speed who looked like he needed an IV connected to him so that every ounce of energy expended in pedaling was immediately restored with life sustaining fluids. If he fell off his bicycle he could easily be mistaken for roadkill since his flesh looked as if maggots had already made inroads and were simply waiting to finish the job. He was really that gross looking. I audibly gasped when I saw him and as shiver ran through me. Ok, so the shiver was an exaggeration, but the gasp of horror was not.

But alas, we're selling the Falcon since it's impractical for city driving, freeway driving, and almost all forms of driving that are not on deserted country lanes. Besides, we're paranoid that another lunatic will hit the poor thing and mangle its rear end sending us into debt simply to make it pretty again. We cannot handle the heartache. She's been a sweet thing to Steve for the last TEN years. He's been with that car longer than with me. But we've only been together for three (maybe four if you count the confusing "what are we?" months) so that doesn't mean much.

The lady has class and style and that's why its hard to sell her. We're downgrading to a peasant in comparison.


Thursday, August 28, 2003


Came home from a grueling day at work: six and half hours spent prowling the web for articles, weblogs, nused cars, cheap airline tickets etc., one hour spent working (i.e. opening and closing files on my desktop), half an hour spent wandering around the building chatting to other employees trying to sniff out new gossip about recent layoffs and resignations.

Ate a nutritious dinner of three spoonfuls of homemade chocolate frosting, chased down with a handful of saltine crackers. I figure I always have tomorrow to eat the fruits and vegetables.

Started reading the book Saving Capitalism from the Capitalists which promises to be interesting, promptly fell asleep after the first two pages with the windows open to the lulling sounds of rush hour traffic outside our living room window.

Awoke for a moment positive someone was breaking into the apartment, but soon realized it was just the wind knocking over some papers. Changed napping scene to the relative quiet of the bedroom and napped for two hours.

Woke up as the sun was saying its final goodby at eight o' clock. My mouth had the feel and taste of a prepubescent boy's BO. Yes, that bad. Must be the combination of sugar and salt transmogrifies into alarming fuzzy mouth BO.

Husband came home from a hard night of surfing, fixed us a smooth cocktail of pineapple juice and berry flavored Sky vodka. Ah....this is living.

Good Night.

Wednesday, August 27, 2003


I was in the bathroom doing my business and staring at the floor when I noticed a dead cricket on the linoleum. Nothing noteworthy there, but.... This cricket was upside down and dead. I nudged him to make sure, and yep, definitely dead not simply in a stupor. No one stepped on him smooshing him into oblivion. He wasn't munched on by another insect eater. So, how did this little fellow die? The body was completely intact simply upside down and dead in a human's bathroom. Was he leaping for joy when a stroke struck and knocked him flat on his back? Did he crawl up the toilet, sip the bowl water and then keel over from the cleaner, doing a backflip off the rim? I have questions but no answers.

Thursday, August 07, 2003

What's for dinner?

Parisian Whimsy

I finally got around to reading the Saturday edition of the Los Angeles Times. The front page story in the Calendar section was dominated by a photo in which the inhabitants of Paris were sunning themselves on a makeshift beach along the Seine. Apparently, Paris Mayor Bertrand Delanoe, a socialist, wanted to help the underserved who had either no time or no money to vacation at a real beach. Therefore, he recreated a beach on the banks of the Seine by closing off streets, trucking in 3000 tons of sand and palm trees and setting up volleyball courts and water venues for cooling off. What craziness! What whimsy! Kudos to Delanoe for his creativity.

Then I read the money quote.

The project was described as "a free populist event that cost the city 1.5 million euros". I may not be too bright, but I do know that something which costs the city millions of euros isn't exactly free. Afterall, where does a city usually get its money to spend on a "populist" event? Did I mention that the mayor is a socialist? That's right, he probably taxed the living snot out of the local citizens so he could then pronounce his little handout as free. If Delanoe was worried about poor people not being able to pay for a real vacation, why not decrease their taxes so they could keep more of their money and perhaps, spend it on a holiday to a real beach with a real ocean to get away from the all too real city?

Why do I have such a hostile reaction to the mayor's shindig? I don't mind when cities put on free events such as movies in the park, dancing at dusk, music at noon, what have you. Sometimes these events are paid for by the public through their taxes, and sometimes organizations or businesses fund the offerings. So why do I mind the beach bit? My hackels were raised by the Mayor's presumption that he was helping the underserved when the reality may be that he (and all his predecessors) has helped cause the condition by over taxation. My irritation is that the mayor isn't honest about who is really funding the "populist" event. If the populace was given the opportunity to choose which they would rather finance with their own funds, a getaway to a real beach or a lie down on a sandy Seine bank, where would all the people be?

I would appreciate the mayor's efforts more if the beach proposal was voted on by the people who were going to pay for it, or if it was touted as a publicity stunt to lure people into the city during the deadest part of summer, thus allowing the local businesses to increase their profits during a normally unproductive month. Instead, the joke is on the poor people who actually paid for the event and still believe they're getting something for nothing.

Monday, August 04, 2003

Dumb Kid

I know, I know, we shouldn't laugh at the pain of others, but heck, it's funny!

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

The Essence of Salmon

I eat salmon. I wouldn't go so far as to say I love salmon, but a soy sauce or balsamic marinated salmon sure is tasty. I have always thought of salmon being fished from the wild rivers of the Pacific Northwest. As a child, living in Port Orchard, WA, salmon was a specialty food in our house, exotic to my finicky taste buds. But I always understood salmon to be the pale pink fish unique in color and taste.

Now, almost twenty years later, I find that most of the salmon I've been consuming since my childhood days in Washington have been Atlantic farmed salmon with color added. Color added!? How can salmon possibly be salmon if it isn't pink? If it isn't pink, it's simply another white fish with a taste similar to salmon. The essence of salmon is its color. It is ontologically necessary for a salmon to be salmon colored. They even have a crayon named after them! The question is, why is farm raised salmon NOT naturally pink? Is there something in the process of swimming up and down streams that causes the flesh to turn and remain pink?

Perhaps it's stress. Perhaps farm raised salmon know intuitively that they should be swimming up and down the river and when they can't do it, it causes them stress and they fail to produce their signature color. If humans can lose their hair because of stress, then salmon can lose their color due to stress. And to top it off, the newest report on farm raised salmon says this type of salmon can have high cancer causing levels of PCB's. Maybe I should eat more halibut.

UPDATE: The answer to how farm raised salmon get their signature color.
Today is the debut of Heliotrope.