So this is stupid. Stupid me. And callous me. I know. I suck.
Joan Rivers. I thought she was hilarious. A brilliant comedian of the highest order. In the early days. She made fun of herself in a very personal way and I identified with it. Perhaps (and I’m being too honest here) because she made fun of her own looks and I am…
I look like a dork. And I think she did too.
I didn’t like the direction she went in later years. Too much plastic surgery and the jokes were no longer relevant or funny. But no matter where she went, she was a trailblazer. And she will be missed.
In other news: I’m back. It was a long hiatus, I realize. But I’m back. Rants and TV.
Well at least pretend you did. My ego is clearly fragile.
I’ve been getting a ton of emails from Match.com lately—people that would be the perfect match for me or have liked my profile.
If I were into guys in their 50s. That really liked cats. And lived in Canada.
The curse of the Totally Awesomely Cool Gmail Address strikes again.
I swear over the years I’ve gotten more emails for other people than for me. Most are just sign-ups for random newsletters like hotels or musicians or clothing stores. Some are a little more interesting like vacation snaps or emails from friends and well-wishers.
Some get a little more questionable. Like the guy in Minnesota who entered my email address as his iTunes account (I kept getting his receipts—really horrible taste in music). Or replies from credit card companies to people asking for their PIN (actually ended up corresponding with that Planet Claire and building her a website).
Then there was the span of two weeks where some guy mistyped his email address (I suspect it was Mr. iTunes) into an “adult dating” site, and I started getting emails from people who had just spoken to Mr. iTunes online and were (as requested) sending me pictures of themselves in various states of undress. Or emailing to arrange a tryst. That was creepy.
Oo! Sidebar! One of the picture emailers sent me like five photos of herself literally doing this awkward shot-by-shot strip tease. I got tired of it so I eventually emailed her back, pretending to be the mother of the Claire she had been mistakenly emailing and absolutely berating her for sending lurid photos to an innocent eight year old girl.
But I must admit the coolest was during the London Olympics when I was mistakenly sent a schedule detailing a private event attended by visiting dignitaries and hosted by HRH. When I emailed the sender back I think he sort of freaked out (kind of a big error, but definitely not his—the same person always gave out my email address as her own). So he ended up calling me and asking me (very kindly) to delete the files. Which I totally did. I swear.
Stop looking at me like that.
Back to Match.com. I ended up emailing them and explained the error. I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t get a response, since I was tempted to do a “Lost Your Password?” thingie and logging into their profile. But alas they promptly responded and fixed the error.
Next time, man. Next time.
I came in here to make fun of some spam I got, then I realized how long it’s been since I wrote anything. My poor little planet suffers in silence and the world is deprived of my babbling nonsense. Tragedy, that.
Oh! No, I totally did have something to mock. Sort of. See, I got a three-way linking spam email (“You link to us, we’ll link to you and you’ll be famous!”). I get them probably a few times a week. My planet is little enough that I don’t enough noise to be noticed. So spam is mercifully low. Anyway, the thing that gave me pause is that this spam included an email string with a reply from me. Clearly forged because it was like the dullest response ever.
But what stood out even more was that they were sending this reply today to a supposed email from me dated over two months ago.
If you’re going to take the time to fake an email from me, at least do me the courtesy of replying in a timely manner.
I keep seeing ads for a show on NatGeo about Doomsday Preppers. Which couldn’t help but remind me of my own experience with someone afraid of the coming Apocalypse. Plus it’s easier to add a repost than come up with something new:
How Not to Prepare for the Apocalypse
I am currently sitting in the lobby of a hotel in Iowa City. Hootie and the Blowfish is playing overhead and Two and a Half Men is on the television in front of me. Neither of which I can change.
It’s like my worst nightmares have joined forces to create a perfect storm of awful. I realize I could just change seats, but it’s more fun to whine.
I am having a stupidly bad day. I’m trying to wrap things up before leaving on business and it’s not going well. Mainly because I have two websites that got hacked and I’ve been trying to fix them for a few days. Thought I had it finally covered. Woke up this morning and it’s back.
I take it very personally when this happens. As a result I’ve had this massive headache all day—both literally and figuratively. And I’ve been pouring over files and permissions and code and logs and god knows what else.
With the TV on in the background I heard the faint strains of a Pixies song from Surfer Rosa. And I thought, “Pixies! Pixies always cheer me up.” So I wandered over to my very dusty CD collection (poor things, they must be lonely) and proceeded to look for Doolittle, which should be sandwiched somewhere in the middle of the Ps.
Only it’s gone.
Of course there’s no way to even start to figure out what may have happened to it. Too many moves, too many roommates, too many house parties. Lord knows when it wandered off. And of course it just makes me wonder what other CDs are now gone.
Can one thing go right today? Just one. All I ask.
So the next Presidential election looms and we’re in the thick of the primaries. I’ve sort of accepted that there’s a good chance my team’s not going to win this one. And I’m okay with that. It’s how these things work.
But I must admit the GOP primaries have me worried. Although not for the reason(s) you might think. See, I would prefer that this country not elect a president who kinda seems like a douche. And Gingrich kinda seems like a douche.
I may not have liked GW as president, but I would have at least grabbed a beer with him. I may not like Romney’s politics (although I have no problem with his private equity past–some of my favorite people work for and/or run private equity firms), but I wouldn’t classify him as a douche. Gingrich? Can’t so much say the same.
I think it’s the same way I’d feel if I lived in Italy. I wouldn’t have liked Berlusconi as PM on the same principle.
It wouldn’t be a new year without a new Pantone Color of the Year. This year it’s Tangerine Tango. Or 7625C for those of you keeping score with a handy dandy Pantone book.
I have two, just for the record. Ostensibly because I need them to pick colors when dealing with printed pieces but mainly because I thought it would make me feel like a real designer.
I had kind of a crappy week. Just par for the course really. But that’s neither here nor there. And eventually I should write down some thoughts about the passing of Steve Jobs. ‘Cause I have a lot of them. And about the fact that Occupy MN started today. ‘Cause I have a lot of thoughts on that too.
But no. Today is Friday and I’m not going to think about all that. But I will share a random story.
One of my clients is in NY this week doing media-type things. I’m not the media side of his business (I just make things pretty) so I don’t exactly know why he’s there. But he’s there. And I know this because he emailed me that he had just finished a radio interview and the hosts made a point to mention how much they liked the clean simplicity of his website. They said that their staff were “gushing over it”. Or something to that effect.
How awesome is that? Made my week.
I am currently off-world. Or off-planet. One of the two. Maybe both. Maybe neither. What’s it to you?
I’m also tired and a little punchy. Clearly.
Anyway I am visiting my folks (one-half of my folks) in a far off and distant land known as “Wisconsin”. It’s a mysterious place, full of cows and cranberries and governors who hate unions. Which means it’s a less friendly place than it once was. Even the cows have gotten surly. And the cranberries are (wait for it) sour.
But my folks are still awesome.
Random story: So unlike many Doctor Who fans I never really watched the original series. I tried. When I was little it would be on during the weekends and so I would watch it at my dad’s house. Except they always ended with a cliffhanger–and a scary one at that–so I would have to wait until the next weekend to watch it.
Slight problem: the next weekend I was at my mom’s and as a general rule she wasn’t big on me watching TV (that turned out well). Which meant I always got the scary cliffhanger and no happy ending. So I remembered not really liking the show or watching it much because of that.
But as I was talking to my folks tonight the subject of Doctor Who came up and they both remembered me watching it every weekend I was there. And as I sort of related my reasons for not getting into it (scary cliffhanger) my step-mom reminded me that I must have liked it well enough since we had the Doctor Who board game.
Totally forgot about the Doctor Who board game.
Perhaps because it was sort of dull. My dad remembers it as kind of like Monopoly–a game that takes so long to play out that halfway through you get bored and go play tiddly-winks. But I can’t help wishing they still had it because I would so be stealing the little game pieces right now.
I have seen some truly questionable theories put forth by television programs over the years. But none so questionable as When Pop Culture Saved America: A 9/11 Story. Which is—apparently—the story of how celebrities eased America’s pain after 9/11.
I won’t lie. I didn’t watch it. I did sit and stare at my television for a minute to decide whether or not it was a joke. Because seriously? Celebrities? I swear to Christ, if anyone—other than celebrities—actually believes that load of crap then I have lost faith in everything I hold sacred.
Where the fuck is it written that, because someone is famous, they suddenly become anything other than, you know, famous? I don’t think fame gives people any sort of magic, nation-healing superpowers.
The audacity is just amazing. The ego involved… To try and take some sort of credit for that is just beyond. Absolutely beyond.
God, everybody tries so hard to claim a piece of 9/11 as their own. It’s gross. It’s tacky. And sometimes it’s downright scary. And it’s just been amplified this year with the ten-year anniversary. I hate it. I’ve been avoiding any coverage or programs involving 9/11 for the past few weeks.
I think I have a cold. Which is so not fair.
I’m still trying to work out exactly why it’s not fair though. I believe it has something to do with it being a holiday weekend.
Or it being September. Although it is sort of chilly these days. We went from 90s last week to 60s this weekend. Which I like. Fall is my absolute favorite time of year. The weather gets a little cooler, the holiday season starts creeping up and my birthday peeks out from the corner.