This is short and funny to no one but me, but it's apparently Hotlink Tuesday.

I found a new hotlinker this morning from some random board. To a Wright image again. I was going to leave it alone, until I noticed a snotty little message on the board to the effect of "You can't come in unless we invite you. You can try, but we'll ignore you because you suck."

Snotty elitist crap like that will not go unpunished at planetclaire.org.

I was nice though. I only used my standard hotlinking image, instead of my malicious one.

Although having "I F*CK GOATS" show up was tempting, I'm just not in a grumpy enough mood and they didn't steal anything besides images.

That I know of. Hmm.

A few other sites that hotlink to my standard image showed up in the logs as well. Then someone found my rant page by searching for "hotlink" in Google. Thus, Hotlink Tuesday.

I'm posting because I'm currently waiting for corrections to a book I'm doing. The editor is getting me corrections by scanning in the corrections, PDFing the page, and emailing it to me. ONE PAGE AT A TIME.

Apparently he's never heard of a goddamn fax machine. Lousy punter.

I'm late to the game on this one, but I thought I should acknowledge the passing of the incomparable Julia Child. I liked her.

I have a Julia story. Not very interesting, I realize. But then again, neither am I.

My mom has a best friend who grew up in California. Her family invented a certain brand of soap (the name of which I can't remember) and were prominent in the community. In fact, there's a train that runs in Disneyland and her family has a train car named after them.

Anyway, her mother had an apartment in Santa Barbara, and Julia Child lived across the hall. When Julia was not in town, the mother would use her kitchen to store excess food.

My mom once stayed at her friend's mother's apartment and actually got to look through Julia Child's apartment. Julia wasn't there, but I always thought that was rather cool.

I'm watching I Love the 80's: 1987.

Don't laugh. Anyway, they're discussing the REM song It's the End of the World. I think that's the only song to reference Lester Bangs.

Years ago, a local radio station was bought out and they had a weekend to wrap things up. A DJ cued up that song and played it continuously for the entire weekend. It was weirdly addicting. I remember checking it just to see if it was still on and then just leaving it on and bopping away. I don't know if it's an original idea, but I thought it was kind of clever.

I have nothing to write about today, but I do have a disturbing turn of events to announce.

I went to Lund's today to get groceries and when I left the apartment, I noticed that there was shattered glass by my car. Wearing sandals, I figured I should find a different place to park when I got back. As having glass embedded in my feet would, you know, suck.

So when I returned home, I secured a new spot, parked, got out of the car, looked up, and found myself staring at Death Cab for Claire. It's moved onto my side of the block.

It's menacing me, dammit.

It's Storytime Friday and I can't think of one, but I did find a story a wrote awhile ago and refined it. It's about Nightmare Roommate.

It's a tale of butter. Yes, butter. It is also a tale of how an ex-roommate apparently thought I was a complete moron. It's kinda lengthy, so I posted it HERE. It's in rewrite mode, so no mocking me. Enjoy.

Or don't.

It's that time again. That magical, mystical time. Known to Minnesotans far and wide as The Great Minnesota Get Together.

In other words, State Fair time.

I like our state fair. It's a pretty large one, by state fair standards. But it's surreal. Where else can one:

• eat things both fried and on a stick
• look at art mosaics made of corn kernels
• see the head of Princess Kay of the Milky Way carved out of butter
• go into a giant two-story building that has hundreds of random crap for sale ranging from shoes, collector coins, antiques, cleaning products, and jewelry
• look at all different kinds of farm animals (including my mom's favorite: the bunnies)
• learn what the hell 4H is.
• see giant tractors (on Machinery Hill, natch)
• and a bunch of other weird stuff for anyone still with me

They have music too, which is usually bands like Styx, Rosanne Cash, and Winger.

But this year the Bottle Rockets are playing. The Bottle Rockets rule. Especially Brian Henneman, who used to be a guitar tech for Uncle Tupelo back in the day and recorded a few songs with Jay and Jeff. Brian sometimes still opens up for Jay. Which he did last time I saw them.

He's got a song called Wave That Flag that is the most eloquent reasoning for why the confederate flag is inappropriate in this day and age. And I paraphrase:

Wave that flag, boys, wave it high
Remember how they fought, remember how they died
Wave that flag, boys, [lost to the ether]
If another person owned your ass, how'd you feel?

An unrelated note: Israel won its first gold medal last night. I'll admit it, I teared up. Too cool.

I have some disappointing news on the Secret War of the Claires. I thought I'd won the war, but I only won a battle. Ms. dot com is on top again. Dammit!

What is up with Jesse Ventura's new beard? Queer Eye for the Straight Ex-Governor, anyone?

There's still more complaints about Light Rail. He's a mormon.

I got nothing.

I wasn't going to post yesterday's rant, but someone ELSE signed my guestbook with a correction. To the same Wright page as the first person. In as many days. Inconceivable!

RANDOM THOUGHTS:

• The Death Cab for Claire truck is missing. That thing has it in for me. And if it turns up any closer to my apartment, I'm arming myself.

• Dear Minneapolis DOT,
Stop changing the goddamn lane stripes at 26th and Lyndale. I realize the intersection sucks, but you're confusing the hell out of me. I keep getting into near-misses with similarily-confused motorists.

• In a completely weird note: I finally looked up info about JonBenet Ramsey tonight. I didn't know much about the case and figured (as a history/pop-culture dork) I should actually learn more about it. After reading some articles, I remain confused. Although I don't believe the Ramseys murdered their daughter, the case seems odd. Why would someone murder a young girl and then write a ransom note? Killers have never (in my understanding) killed their victim and then written a lengthy note demanding ransom money.

If you killed a little girl and were—apparently—able to get away with it, why write the note and then risk going upstairs to leave it?

Okay, maybe it was written before her death, and the killer thought he would take her instead of kill her. I'll accept that. But it seems odd all the same. If this is the case, why leave the note? Why not throw it away after you killed her?

My theory is completely stupid, but I think the Ramseys have a clue as to who killed their daughter. And are unwilling to reveal them.

I don't know. I'm a moron.

• Rereading yesterday's rant, I realize I am one grumpy bitch. Sorry, everyone. I should be more respectful of visitors to my site. I suck.

I'm grumpy. Due to a lot of reasons, mind you. But I'm grumpy. And it doesn't help that someone went to my guestbook and pointed out mistakes in my Frank Lloyd Wright site. Not "You have a wonderful site, but...", not "Thanks for spending your hard-earned time and money for this free and informative site, but..."

Nope. Just, "You suck, here's why..."

Isn't that bad etiquette? Aren't you supposed to send a discreet email? Doesn't it say—ON THE PAGE—to EMAIL me if you see any errors? I missed the spot where it states you should inform the whole fucking world that I suck.

I'm tempted to just pull the Wright site out of spite (I know that rhymed. Sorry.). I have NEVER received a positive word about that section. Only people asking me about homes that I have no idea about but dutifully go online and research and then send along what I find. Because apparently they're incapable of doing that themselves. And only people correcting my site's errors.

I get a ton (well, a small ton) of people telling me they love my quotes, or my Tim Easton lyrics, or my recipes, or even my rant, believe it our not. But the Wright section? Nada.

Yep, pretty grumpy. Yep, I'm a bitch.

So, to end this, I will state for the record that, if you want to point out that I suck, email me. If you sign my guestbook telling me I suck it will be deleted.

Unless it's funny.

I'm gonna hunt up some Greek stuff in honor of the Athens Olympics in the recipes section and quotes section. And my home page needs a Google-like new logo. I should start doing that. I always like Google's take on holidays and special events. Yes, I'm ripping off their idea. Don't flame me.

Back to Greek content... you can check out the Greek Annunciation Church in Wisconsin designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

I liked the reception to the USA players. Big cheers. Nice to know there's a distinction between disliking our foreign policy and disliking our citizens. Wish everyone felt that way. And that goes for any citizen in any country including the US. No one should hate an entire people for the actions of their government.

Is it just me, or is the opening ceremony just a little... melodramatic? They seem to be every year. And the intensity the performers—

Woah, the fire thing is AWESOME. Okay, they win. I won't mock Greece. Shooting fire into water to ignite the Olympic logo? Inventive.

Other thoughts:

• I dare you to prove that interpretive dance isn't damn creepy.

• I so wouldn't want to be "Cube Man". Pressure.

• If my pregnant belly started to glow, I'd be calling a doctor.

• BJORK?! Wha? And that dress... wacky. I don't think I'd want to be under Bjork's dress. Just sayin'.

• The woman in charge of the Athens games? She rules. Great speech.

• This has nothing to do with Athens, but I have a vivid image of a few Olympics ago, where an American sprinter, half-way through the race, fell and sprained his ankle. His father ran onto the field, helped him up, and held him as his son limped the rest of the way to the finish line. I tear up every time I see it.

John Waters is on The Graham Norton Effect. I love John Waters. He was cool enough to do guest appearances on Homicide and The Simpsons (which is my favorite episode). Point of fact, he played two different characters on Homicide: a bartender that one of the detectives talks to, and a perp who vehemently defends Baltimore. Which is his hometown.

In a strange coincidence, the Homicide John Waters-as-perp episode is on right now. They never rerun Homicide. Except for L&O crossovers. Which this is.

It's summertime in Minneapolis and every god damn biker thinks they're Lance Armstrong. I feel some guidelines are needed.

Attention bikers:

1. You are allowed to ride in the street if you stay as close to the curb and/or parked cars as humanly possible.

2. You must obey all posted stop signs and stop lights. You can not wait until traffic is clear and then run a red. If I can't do it, you can't do it.

3. If you choose to ride in the middle of the road, you must be doing the minimum posted speed limit. As a general rule, you must be going over 25 miles per hour. Although 30 is preferable.

4. If you cannot do the posted speed limit, you must ride on the sidewalk.

5. If you do not adhere to these rules I have every right to mow you down like the punter you are. Punter.

So to me, politics are impossible. Republican, Democrat, who knows where the truth ends and the deceitful, hateful, lying crap kicks in. I don't trust anybody that chooses to run for office. However, the most brilliant solution to voting for politicians ever: I have it.

It's come to me.

It's cheap, it's easy, and it's going to work. Ahem:

I've been thinking, with the coming election, of what to do. I'm not sure I like either of the candidates. So I decided my choice for president (or any candidate for that matter) is going to come down to one single, simple question.

Would I have a beer with them?

That's it. No stance on abortion, gun control, the environment, nothing. Just beer-having.

It'll work, trust me.

It's late, but here's The Jury tally for the past two weeks. And it's the last The Jury tally. Shame:

Andre Braugher (it's been so nice seeing him again)
Eddie Malavarca (looking like a 70s porn star)
The curly-haired detective from Homicide whose name I've forgotten
Zeljko Ivanik
Bruno Kirby
Some guy from The Wire on the jury
And finally, the wonderful Barry Levinson as Judge.

I was online today and found photos from the early 1900s of different monuments in my life. How cool is that? And whilst I know most people don't really care where I went to high school, they include humorous stories and historical photos of Minneapolis. You might like them.

If not, don't go. I promise not to be hurt.

Here we go:

My Life in Pictures

I have an Old 97s story that I remembered today, brought on by people coming here for the Madden ad. Ahem:

When Satellite Rides was first coming out, the boys did a prerelease show for suits at the Turf Club. Somehow, I got tickets and was going with a friend. We got to the club and, as we were waiting, I pulled out the tickets and realized that, while I had two tickets, one of them was for Buckner (I think) who was playing the following week. Crap.

So I had to—very quickly—drive back to my apartment in downtown Minneapolis to get the right ticket and make the show. In the process of going to my car I slipped on ice and tore my hand open. Crap.

Anyway, I flew home, grabbed the correct ticket, checked maybe 8 times to make sure it was indeed the right ticket, and flew back to the Turf Club. Fortunately, my friend was still waiting outside, as the doors hadn't opened yet. Yay.

Unfortunately, she was standing with this guy who had a crush on me. A crush that was not mutual. He had heard I had tickets and had come down to try and get in. Crap. In his defense, he was a huge Old 97s fan. Anyway, someone sold him a ticket while we were in line. Crap.

The doors finally opened and we found a decent table. There were Christmas lights everywhere and dozens of square posters of the album (I stole a three-panel table promo) and the new album was playing.

The show started. I should mention that I have never been to a disappointing Old 97s show. These guys (especially Rhett) have an energy that just blows your mind. And that night was no different. They played a mix of old and new. I remember repeatedly telling my friends that they would love "Designs on You" and they just blew me off. Until they heard the song. Ha! I admit it, I gloated.

Finally, the show closed with Niteclub.

No. Better. Ending. Ever. The house lights came up and people started chatting and mingling. One of my friends accidentally backhanded Murray Hammond. Then the light to the Clown Lounge went on and my friend decided to go downstairs, leaving me with a chance to let crush-boy down privately. Crap. It went quick, it was painless, and that was that.

My friend rejoined me and said that the band was downstairs signing autographs. I went down with cardboard poster in hand and weaseled my way to the back and up to Rhett. As we were waiting, my friend motioned to someone else on the couch and said:

"I talked to Harold."
My response: "Um, that's Murray Hammond."
"No! He told that his name was Harold."

Anyway, Rhett signed my poster ("Hi Claire!"), handed it to Murray who signed it and added a very Gilligan Island-esque "and the rest."



We finally got out of there and went to the bathroom. The door across from it was open and my friend (a Turf Club regular) decided we were going to see if any other band members were in there. Since she knew the guy at the door, he let us through.

Ken Betthea was back there drinking a beer. We barged in and sat down. I was completely awkward but my friend (a very beautiful and charismatic woman) just started chatting Ken up. She was born in Texas as was he, and so they talked mainly about that. I had nothing, so I just listened. We stayed there until the place closed. Good times.

I saw Old 97s again when they returned to do a First Ave. show a month or two later, and they completely rocked again. Strangely enough, after the show, we were in the upstairs bar and Ken walked by. I stopped him and said hello. He didn't remember me but he did remember my friend and stopped to chat. The conversation was concluded by Ken crawling around on his hands and knees imitating his son searching for Easter eggs.

Have you seen the floor of First Ave? That's dedication to a bit.

I miss the Turf Club. I haven't been there in years. I used to go all the time. Mainly because back when it wasn't as popular I could get in underage and watch 40-somethings line dance to bad country music. Add in the fact that it was walking distance from my alma mater and there you go.

In later years, once it caught on, my charismatic aforementioned friend was there almost every night. Another regular was Sean Na Na from Har Mar Superstar. One night, highly drunk, she made out with him.

From then on, he was Sean Na NO.