Category Archives: Love

Nine things on Election Day.

In which I voted, so I get to share a few opinions. With liberal amounts of gratuitious cursing!

1. I think the GOP has lost its bloody mind. THE SKY IS NOT FALLING, you stupid chickens. Shut up, for the love of God, you’re giving me a fucking headache.

2. I think the Tea Party is made up entirely of idiots. The bulk of them apparently are racists, for fuck’s sake, and I really want them to shut up about bailouts already. Let it go. It’s done. Move on. Jesus. I am, however, glad that the GOP is internally divided in this way because they’ll waste a bunch of cycles trying to redefine themselves. Continue reading Nine things on Election Day.

It's still awful.

In which I discuss the topic of Bindu’s death.

I still can’t go into great detail about the day itself; I’d probably freak out if I tried. Suffice it to say that my brother was a rock, my mom was amazing, my aunt and uncle were great, and my G’ma cried with me.

I feel incredible gratitude for my family and the love and support they gave me on the day I had my dog killed.

~+~+~
Continue reading It's still awful.

Friday

In which I’m writing not because I have any news but to keep from crying, because that’s how I roll.

I slept until ten, mostly to avoid being conscious, I think. As soon as I woke I started thinking until I was pretty miserable again. Called the vet. “I was calling to check up on how Bindu’s doing, and to see if Dr Alexis had gotten her lab results yet?”

I spent a couple of brief minutes on hold, then the tech came back on. “The doctor says she’s still waiting on the lab work, but you’re welcome to come pick Bindu up?” The end statement was delivered as a question, and I knew the tech didn’t understand why the dog was still there.

I felt a stab of guilt and shame that I’d left her there to avoid having to witness her distress. “I just– It isn’t– But there hasn’t been any– Um, okay.” I said. “I’ll be there in a bit. Thank you. Very much.”

I got up. Poked around in the kitchen, but still couldn’t eat or drink anything. Took a shower. Dressed. Saw G’ma off to her afternoon of lunch and cards. Got in the truck. Drove across town. Walked into the lobby of the vet clinic.

The tech gave me my total and asked if I had questions. I did have questions, yes, thank you. I managed not to cry while delivering them. The tech gave me a sympathetic look and dashed off to get the vet. I took a seat.

Dr Alexis is utterly wonderful. She’s young and present and has that healthy outdoorsy look you want in a vet. She sat with me for awhile, was incredibly sympathetic and communicative, and told me she’d call my cell as soon as she had the tests back. We talked about heart disease and Cushing’s and symptom management and pain and all that; she said that if the results say a particular thing she’s already got a treatment modality chosen. If they say something else, well, we’ll talk about that when she calls. I told her all about the night before last and how difficult it is to have Bindu suffering. Yeah, I cried. I told her I have a gig tonight and that I don’t feel okay leaving a distressed animal home with my 88-year-old grandmother; she said I could kennel Bindu there overnight if that would ease things.

Oh, God. Okay, an option. But what kind of pet owner kennels her dog just to avoid dealing with symptoms?

I brought Bindu home. She’s clearly not comfortable. Constant panting, some coughing. She won’t settle; she seems agitated. I don’t know if it’s the Cushing’s or her heart, but whatever it is, it looks very much like distress to me. I keep expecting her to have another terrifying fainting episode, or a seizure – or to just up and die on me. No one lying comfortably on the couch should be panting like she just ran around the block like that.

~+~+~
My laptop battery died, so I’ve escaped to the basement to plug it in. I left my panting, distressed dog upstairs. In one sense, she’s fine; she’s home, and there’s food and water and plenty of places to lie down… it’s just that I’m abandoning her because I’m a coward. Continue reading Friday

I'm having a really bad day, you guys.

In which I need to vent or cry or complain or get a hug or something.

Bindu kept me up much of last night with terrible episodes involving screaming (the vet calls it “vocalizing”) and panting and whimpering and coughing; she’d calm down and almost sleep in between, but every couple of hours it would start all over again. Her squeal would have me leaping from bed to comfort her and pet her until she seemed to stabilize; in the process I’d end up working myself into a full-blown anxiety attack with the shakes and the clammy palms and the achey skin and the inability to get back to sleep and the whole nine yards.

She woke me up again at a quarter after seven; she was panting a little and looking haggard, but she was upright and clearly ready to start her day, so could I please get my human ass up and remove the blockade at the top of the stairs so she could get on with it? I petted her and asked her to wait 15 minutes for the animal hospital to open (no one had answered when I’d called at three and again at four in the morning, but their office hours begin at 7:30). I made an appointment, got dressed, gathered my things, and carefully carried my dog downstairs and then outside.

She seemed spry enough, and promptly peed… and then she walked about fifteen paces and started with the squeal/cough/pant thing again. She seemed to be in pain and looked abjectly miserable. IT FUCKING SUCKED. I put her in the truck and, still hoping it was a back problem that pain meds could resolve, drove her to the vet and checked her in, explaining that she’d once had a back episode and that her behavior reminded me of my ex-husband’s when he ruptured a disc. They asked me to approve radiographs and sedation; I approved blood work too because of her age (she’s ~14).

When I got home around nine, I promptly curled up in bed with a pillow over my head and crashed for two hours.

The vet called me with an update around one o’clock. Blood work, in areas I can’t explain that have something to do with poor organ function, indicates problems. The radiograph shows an enlarged heart and an enlarged liver. The vet wanted to do an ECG to find out more about the heart problems; for lack of anything better to do I said okay. Due to various factors (distended belly, coughing, drinking lots of water), the vet also suspects an endocrine condition called Cushing’s disease as well. Secondary blood work and ECG will need to be evaluated, she said, offsite.

The vet reported that Bindu doesn’t seem to have arthritis or a sore back, and that her discs looked good in the radiograph. Therefore, it seems that last night’s episodes – and the first one I noticed the day before, and the one G’ma noticed the day before that – were not actually due to pain from a slipped disc or back-related spasming, which is what I’d suspected, but from heart failure. (Most of the time, I was told, such episodes cause fainting, but in some dogs who fail to actually faint they manifest as “vocalizing, stiffness, panting and coughing.”)

Essentially, I’m waiting on another $90 test, one I don’t really need, to tell me that my dog is in the process of dying.

~+~+~
Last week I received an email from my advisor notifying me of a lecture today. I was pretty excited about it, after the disappointment of learning that my curriculum was all online. An actual in-person lecture, on campus, with people!

The Bindu thing dampened my enthusiasm a great deal, but I was grateful for something to do to help me occupy my mind. No one needs to know that I nearly burst into tears twice on the drive over there.

When I got to the lab, the whiteboard said the instructor was out sick and that there were no classes today.

~+~+~
Last month, when I went to Planned Parenthood to get a bladder infection treated, they shortlisted me for a free mammogram program. So I went and got my boobs smashed and shortly afterward I received a lovely letter telling me that I don’t have breast cancer.

Today, I got a bill for $86.

~+~+~
There was some kind of SNAFU in my client’s A/P department and my September 23rd invoice never got processed. I was assured last week that it would be paid Monday.

Today’s Thursday, I’ve just dropped a couple hundred bucks I don’t have on the vet, I owe St Mary’s ninety bucks, my settlement program is unpaid, and I have a $300 tuition payment due on the 20th. I haven’t paid my rent, either.

Guess who’s check wasn’t in the mail today?

~+~+~
I should be studying or working, but I’ll probably just sit here, freaking out and trying not to, until the vet calls back.

~+~+~
They called back. The voicemail says the ECG is done but they won’t have the results until tomorrow, and that I can come pick Bindu up.

Except that I can’t handle another night like last night, and I have no reason to believe that tonight will be different as there has, as yet, been no treatment for the symptoms I took her in for. The vet wanted the ECG and offsite blood work results before prescribing anything.

God, am I the worst dog mom in the world if I leave her there so I can sleep without listening to her wails? I can’t stand her suffering, but leaving her in a cage in a concrete room overnight seems like a sin. But if I bring her home, I’ll carry her up and down the stairs to save her the strain and have a panic attack every time she falls down and coughs, and as much as I won’t want to admit it all I’ll want to do is get away from her.

Oh, God. I always told you I would be a total wreck when this, the end of Bindu’s life, came along, and I totally am.

~+~+~
Update: I cried. Then I meditated. Then I called the clinic and said that I am “unable” to pick Bindu up until tomorrow. (I made it sound like I didn’t have access to a vehicle right now, which is completely untrue.) So, not only am I a bad dog mom who leaves her beloved to spend the night in a cage in a concrete room across town, but I’m a liar as well.

I am not pleased with myself, but this is not the first time since developing a panic disorder that I’ve been displeased with my responses to things. Usually when I’m freaking out I just suit up and go do whatever it is anyway (I don’t even know how many times I’ve done gigs in the throws of a full-blown panic attack), but I know that another night with a screaming, coughing, panting dog in my arms will… — it will, um… — hell, I don’t even know what it’ll do. I don’t have words for it. I just don’t want to do it. Even though it’s my duty, because I took responsibility for that dog’s life and health and comfort over a decade ago.

There may be treatment options, once there’s a diagnosis, I just don’t know anything about cost or efficacy, and she is 14 so none of this is entirely unexpected.

As G’ma has just returned from her afternoon volunteering at the museum, I’ve shared all the vet information with her. I told her I’d left Bindu at the clinic overnight even though they said I could come get her. Then I teared up. G’ma said, “We care too much about the little buggers. We might not show it, but we really do.” And then she went and made a cocktail and brought it to me here at my desk. For my part, I struggled not to start crying until she’d gone back upstairs.

Playing the 4th annual Mt Rainier Rhythm & Blues Festival

In which there’s a blues festival.

Saturday morning my alarms went off at 5:35 and 5:45 respectively. I showered, dressed, grabbed my gig bag and walked out the door at 6:15. IN THE MORNING. After sleeping maybe two hours.

Curt and Cookie picked me up, we grabbed breakfast at McDonald’s and drove to Richland, where we transferred to Tim’s truck and continued driving.

At the festival, we played the cafe at 12:35 and the main stage at 3:40. The crowd was appreciative and the sets were fun. Mineral, WA is lovely and the weather was perfect.

Then we drove home.

I spent ten hours in the car yesterday!

The Flickr set, such as it is, is here.

Why the Tea Party is creepy. And also not entirely wrong.

In which I finally googled the Tea Party because I wasn’t entirely sure what its deal was.

I’ve heard some great arguments from intelligent, white, upper-middle class males about how pretty much everything is skewed against them: they’re literally the only segment of society not protected, somehow, from something. Everybody hates them because they’re white, male, and not poor. I can see how that might be a drag, to be forever the bad guy just because you’re succeeding and you’re not somehow handicapped.

That said, this makes me somehow nervous:

The 18 percent of Americans who identify themselves as Tea Party supporters tend to be Republican, white, male, married and older than 45, according to a New York Times/CBS News poll released in April 2010. They are wealthier and better-educated than the general public.

Why does this description frighten me? Am I just socialized against rich white men, or do I really happen to think that they’re kinda bad people? Especially when they seem pissed off?

Tea Party supporters’ fierce animosity toward Washington, and the president in particular, is rooted in deep pessimism about the direction of the country and the conviction that the policies of the Obama administration are disproportionately directed at helping the poor rather than the middle class or the rich.

Why should the government be helping the rich? Have we not come to believe that there is something inherently unbalanced about the distribution of wealth on this planet?

The overwhelming majority of [Tea Party] supporters say Mr. Obama does not share the values most Americans live by and that he does not understand the problems of people like themselves. More than half say the policies of the administration favor the poor, and 25 percent think that the administration favors blacks over whites; compared with 11 percent of the general public.

They are more likely than the general public, and Republicans, to say that too much has been made of the problems facing black people.

I don’t know who these “most Americans” are. Mr. Obama seems to me to share my values, and the values of many of the people I know. Maybe if I were an old, rich, white male I’d feel differently? (Maybe if I had something to lose, I’d be upset if I felt that it was threatened. The nice thing about not having much is that you’re not worried about losing it.)

When did racism become fashionable among rich married white dudes?

And what, exactly, are “the problems” of rich, white, educated men? Why should the government care about them more than the problems of, say, people who are without resources?

Tea Partiers embrace arguments that government should not provide what individuals can provide for themselves. So, police and public safety are acceptable functions of government, but government should not take from one person’s income to provide for another’s health or well-being.

And when Mr. Paul and his Tea Party supporters espouse “constitutionally limited government,” they argue that much of the New Deal, as well as social programs like Medicare that were enacted later, were a gross violation of the founding document. Those ideas may be hard to sell in a general election, even to Republicans. – “Tea Party Movement,” New York Times

The government should not be the vehicle by which poorly-distributed wealth is redistributed. Well, I can kind of understand that:

G’ma is of the opinion that a lot of what we term societal problems are directly due to things like welfare; in the old days, she says, no nice girl got knocked up, because there was no one to take care of her if she did. Such things just weren’t done, because you had to face your family. Now days, you can get knocked up, go on welfare, live in a subsidized apartment… you can move halfway across the country, if you want, and let strangers take care of you. Hence the broken family, she says, and from there a general societal deterioration resulting in a culture obsessed with spending money it doesn’t have on cheap crap it doesn’t need, an inability to save and/or live within its means, and vast armies of homeless with no one to care for them but the government. All of these symptoms are, she believes, directly traceable to welfare programs.

She’s also told me about some of the charities she’s been involved in for fifty or sixty years and how they don’t really do much any more. One used to collect and distribute food to the poor; now they can’t due to various safety laws (food has to be professionally prepared or packaged or it can’t be donated to the poor). With welfare, charity stopped being an individual’s duty and became the government’s job.

Making government smaller, cutting the programs that make it more father than a function, well, it does seem like a good idea. But when I take the World’s Smallest Political Quiz, I’m still a liberal, so maybe I haven’t yet made my peace with that. After all, I’ve always lived in a welfare state and I don’t know any different. (On the other hand, I score 54 – “You are a medium-core libertarian, probably self-consciously so. Your friends probably encourage you to quit talking about your views so much.” – on the Libertarian Purity test.)

I can’t help but wonder if it’s even possible to go back. Furthermore, I’d really rather cut military spending than social programs first. (How does it make any sense at all that the U.S.’s military spending is this fucking high?)

Anyway, in conclusion: I agree that the government is too big. I disagree that it should be more concerned with the problems of rich white men, but only because I’m not a rich white man. And I still can’t believe that people like Sarah Palin and that Qur’an-burning fruitcake get any press at all.

“Today, when a concerted effort is made to obliterate this point, it cannot be repeated too often that the Constitution is a limitation on the government, not on private individuals—that it does not prescribe the conduct of private individuals, only the conduct of the government—that it is not a charter for government power, but a charter of the citizens’ protection against the government.” – Ayn Rand in “The Nature of Government,” from The Virtue of Selfishness

I'm only half as mature as I'd like to be.

In which I talk about really old stuff.

The fact that I’m still wasting processor cycles on this pisses me off. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. I couldn’t care less.

But.

When I left my husband, I moved into town and my good friend AmmZon let me live with her. She even let me crash rent-free for a few months. She was dating Joesus at the time, and she and I commiserated together about red headed men more than once.

Flash back a couple of years:

The very first time I met her, she was dating BoSe and he’d brought her out to the farm. When I saw my husband and AmmZon meet for the very first time, I knew that those two were the best match of any combination of any of us. The Ex flirted baldly with AmmZon every chance he got for the next few years. It really pissed her off because she thought he was an asshole.

Flash forward five years:

After I left Iowa, AmmZon and Joesus broke up (which was no surprise to anybody but Joesus) and a couple months after that, maybe as much as half a year, AmmZon and The Ex got together. The consensus was that it was a rebound relationship, but hey – they’re still together. I think they’ll stay together.

None of that bothers me. I quit wanting my husband a couple of years before I left him, and I hope the two of them are madly in love and having awesome monkey sex. I like him and would like to see him in a good relationship. I like AmmZon too, and she’s probably the only chick I’ve ever met who has balls big enough to deal with a man with a skull as thick as The Ex’s. They have tons in common (OMG I could write you a list twelve feet long), they’re the right ages for each other, and they should probably get married and breed as soon as possible with my blessings.

What bothers me, stupidly enough, is the farm house.

Fifty-eight minutes ago, AmmZon posted a picture on Facebook of her dinner. I clicked on it and ended up looking at her albums, and, of course, there are pictures of the farm in there because, hello, she’s dating my ex-husband.

Apparently she fixed the rotting, falling down old arbor and trained the grapes back up off the ground. I never did that myself because I didn’t give a shit about the grapes. They didn’t produce, I didn’t know what I’d do with them if they did produce, and what I know about viticulture would fit in a thimble.

There’s a picture of something she’d bought on the counter from my old kitchen. My old kitchen. The only kitchen I’ve ever owned. My shitty, ugly, fucked up old kitchen.

There are pictures of the new kitchen and living room. The last time I was at the farm, I’d driven out to get my stuff shortly before moving to Washington. Much of what I wanted was ruined from having been in those rooms while they sat, half demolished and untouched, for a couple of years. He’d just piled all my crap into the future kitchen and left it there, exposed to the elements. My leather jackets were rotted with mold. A couple of computer components were ruined from exposure. Everything was incredibly filthy. You’ve never seen stuff this fucking dirty, and it was inside the house that I’d lived in for years.

That’s the house I moved out of. A house he cared nothing about. A house he’d ripped apart and then ignored. A house whose intolerably uncomfortable, filthy condition he blamed on me, because, as far as I can tell, I didn’t fuck him enough.

No, honestly. That’s not a joke. I don’t know what happened, but we moved out there and began this awesome remodel with enthusiasm and energy, and then the next thing I knew he’d been lying on the couch doing nothing for two years and he resented me damn near as much as I did him. The house was ripped apart and he wasn’t doing anything at all to fix it, and somehow it was all my fault. I was the lazy one.

I gave up my job to wait on him. I had half a dozen miscarriages with him. I washed his socks and cooked his dinner and took his dog to the vet. I paid his bills and ran his errands and he got laid at least twice a week (I know because his accusations were so upsetting that I kept a calendar), and yet he was so unhappy that he couldn’t work on the house.

The house I moved into was funky but livable. The house I moved out of looked as if it should be condemned.

Well, now it seems The Ex has gained the equilibrium he needs to be able to work on the house. The room I rescued my things from is now plumbed and has electricity and is drywalled and has windows and sills and appliances in it. It looks really nice.

The Ex, for all his flaws when I’m around, is a master fucking carpenter. His custom work is gorgeous and if he lived anywhere other than Iowa (and had the discipline and patience to get the licenses he’d need) he’d be up to his eyeballs in high-end custom work.

I knew this had to happen. One way or another, The Ex had to make the place livable because he could never sell it the way it was, and not even a man could live there like that for long. And yet, for some reason photographic evidence of the house’s transformation makes me angry and sad and resentful.

Continue reading I'm only half as mature as I'd like to be.

Did I mention that I'm a QA contractor now?

In which there are two good things.

Good thing the first is that yesterday I signed an NDA and a contractor’s agreement and filled out a W9, and Monday I start breaking software for money. Yay! I know no details at all about the project’s expected longevity, but who knows – I might get lucky!

Good thing the second is that today is the Bronze Blues & Brews festival in Joseph, OR. The festival ends at ten, and Coyote Kings (featuring: me!) will be the only band playing in town tonight. We’ve already invited tons of the musicians who are booked at the festival, and it should turn out to be the Best Jam Ever.

An open letter to "SEO Experts," Internet-wide.

In which I tell a world full of “SEO Experts” that they’re all fucktards and that the loss of net neutrality, when it happens, will be their stupid fault.

Last week, my bro mentioned a jobs website for freelancers, said I might want to check it out.

So I did. And I signed up, and I bid on a job moving a WordPress site and the guy and I exchanged five or six messages. His last message said he’d be getting me my down payment and the server logins so I could begin the work…

That was Sunday. Haven’t heard from him since. Oh well.

Meanwhile, I get about seven messages a day from the freelancer site, telling me of work I might be interested in.

~+~+~
Okay, so, you know how sometimes you stumble across a website that offers you something for free, and maybe you’re under-caffeinated or you’ve just been lobotomized or you’ve never been on the Internet before or you’re just plain stupid, and you click on the free thing – like a button that says you can watch a movie that you know, if you think about it, isn’t even out on DVD yet – and on the next page it says you have to “click on one of these offers” before you can see your TOTALLY FREE MOVIE and so you choose something like, “Have you ever shopped at Home Depot?” and a new window opens, and you’re supposed to sign up for a Home Depot account, and after you do the movie page comes back up and says “Offer Completed! Click here for your FREE MOVIE!” and when you do, about five windows full of ads launch and you end up watching a video about the power company and there’s no way to see the movie online because it was never there in the first place because it’s still in the fucking theatres and you knew that and now you’ve signed up for something you don’t even want and somebody’s going to get paid for tricking you into doing that?

Well, I always wondered where the fuck those websites came from. There are millions of them, maybe billions, and they come from somewhere. Someone had to buy the domain and set up the hosting and install the CMS and design the theme and write the copy and build and place the ads to drive the traffic. These things, ugly and stupid and irritating as they are, don’t grow like weeds: they’re made. And they must be worth it or people wouldn’t do it.

~+~+~
In the past few days I’ve found out where they come from. Some asshole in the US or the UK, some self-styled “SEO expert,” pays people in India and Thailand to build them. Somebody like this douche, who says his areas of expertise are in “advertising, branding, Facebook, Internet marketing, PHP, SEO, Twitter, and website design,” and whose latest job posting says this:

I have set up a wordpress theme very similar to this one watchmovieonlinefree.com. I just need someone to copy paste the last 35 posts text and pictures from watchmovieonlinefree or other sources, and add 5 new ones from my choice.

This job can be done in one day, if you focus on it. I would prefer to change the content of each post, or at least add on it from other sources.

Please bid and be ready to start working on the project, give your time frame, that you will need to respect. Payment will be released once the job is done.

Yeah, he says right there that he intends to copy a site verbatim, and then “change” or “add to it a little.” Isn’t that, like, plagiarism? (Not that it matters, since the original site was built by a fucktard just like the guy who intends to steal it.) And he won’t pay until the job’s complete, even though the site’s standard is a percentage up front, a percentage at halfway, and the remainder on completion? Yeah, real honorable, buddy.

The target site itself is a lie; the movies aren’t available. They don’t exist. People fill out the offers and get bored after being bombarded with ads and crap, and they wander off to do something else because they have no recourse. They can’t complain about the fact that they were mislead, because there’s no one to complain to, and THIS IS THE SHIT THAT’S GOING TO LOSE US OUR NET NEUTRALITY. This crap – this confusing, unregulated crap – is going to cause people to think, “Oh, yeah, it would be great if there were some way to stop those guys. We need regulation.”

I literally can’t stand the advertising/marketing/SEO people. They’re making money where there is none, simply because they’re immoral fucktards and they’re capable of badgering people just to make a little ching. They’re paying overseas workers crap wages to do technical work that is immoral if not illegal, and they do it simply to make money.

Now, I like money, don’t get me wrong. But there’s a limit to what I’ll do to get it.

These people are designing misleading ads to drive traffic to sites that outright lie, and they do it in such a massive way that it’s somehow worth it to them to get a cent or two for each completion. They outsource the grunt work to India and keep the click-thru checks from big advertisers for themselves… NO ONE is getting anything decent out of it. It’s real money for imaginary services rendered. The advertisers are serving ads to badly targeted and/or confused demographics. The survey info is untargeted. The signups are full of errors and lies (I always make up information when presented with a demand for personal information). It’s all crap. It’s all greed.

I opened a ticket with the freelance site to find out what their standards are; I know I’ve seen several job listings disappear so there’s some kind of surveillance. I mean, you can’t just ask people to build you illegal automatic voting programs in public.

~+~+~
Is it some kind of mental imbalance, then? What makes the vast majority of people do real work for real pay, but misses a few immoral freakazoids who can somehow manage to sleep at night after doing what is, obviously, total crap all day long?

It’s like self-mutilation: there’s a line, but nobody can say exactly where it is. If an intelligent, competent person gets their ears pierced, nobody blinks, even though piercing one’s body hurts and carries a risk of infection or worse. Tattoos, ritual scarification, forked tongues, implants: we accept these things.

But if someone decided to, say, castrate himself, we’d all think that was going too far… but is it? Really? It’s no more extreme than the body mods you see on your typical tattoo parlor employee, in terms of pain and risk.

I think there’s a type of salespeople who are crazy like that. They act pretty much like normal people, but they’re psychologically stunted in some way that enables them to do wrong things for money and think it’s not only okay, but that it’s good. Exciting. Challenging. They’re incapable of knowing that some things just Shouldn’t Be Done.

You’re going to say, “But it doesn’t really hurt anybody.”

And I’m going to say, No, of course it’s not life-threatening to corral someone into filling out a form or taking a survey so that you can earn your couple of cents per completion… but it’s still wrong. That you can do something doesn’t mean you should do it.

It’s lying, plain and simple, and lying is wrong. And making money out of nothing is also wrong. There’s an entire industry now based entirely on lies and greed. Advertiser’s greed, who think they can get real data for a couple of cents per database record. “SEO Experts'” greed, who think it’s okay to build all this crap to entrap people. End users’ greed, who want to see a pirated movie online for free.

And no, “SEO Expert” person, you don’t get to snicker and think to yourself that only the stupid end up in your trap. They’re not stupid; YOU’RE just a DICK.

And because you’re a dick, you’re going to lose the Internet for everyone. You’re going to pester and confuse the unwashed masses, and they’re not going to want a free and open Internet, and then you’re going to have to go back to scamming people in person. You fucker.

~+~+~
I applied for a couple of virtual assistant positions that looked like they might actually be real. Maybe somebody will hire me and give me something to do for the next few weeks.

~+~+~
A friend of mine told me a few days ago that he’s starting a new job soon, and will be team-building immediately after that, and asked me if I would be interested in working on a QA team? I said something along the lines of omgwtfbbq!!1 WOULD I EVAR and he said “I know you were looking forward to school” and I was all planz change omg srsly d00d.

And now I’m trying not to think about it. It was an idea, not an offer, and who knows if he’ll even get to make his own hiring decisions, or if I’m qualified (or if I’m clever enough to make myself sound like I am), but the point, I guess, is that as totally fun as school sounds I’ve just discovered I’d be way more stoked to get an interesting job.

If no interesting job presents itself before September 20th, however, I will be going back to school with a bunch of 20-somethings to study freakin’ LAN architecture. Which should make for hilarious blog posts, at the very least!

Playing the Ritzville Blues Fest

In which I had a really great gig this weekend.

Saturday, I joined the Coyote Kings at the Pastime in Ritzville for the 17th annual Blues, Brews & BBQs festival.

Ritzville Blues Festival

It was a fantastic time. Great people, great weather, great music (and a fully-stocked green room, so I didn’t have to starve or beg someone to buy me food), and I met tons of great musicians.

I’d write a big fat descriptive post about it, but I’m lazy and I have a movie to watch. (In a nutshell: I rode up with Curt & Shelly, gigged, had some drinks, ran around, got mildly sunburnt, drank gallons of water, met players, and rode back with Frank.) If you want moar you can click the picture for the photo set!

Tomorrow’s to-do list: 1. Get paid for the gig; buy groceries and pay the Internet bill. 2. Work on NLW’s little data entry project. 3. Call the unemployment office and be all, WTF, OVER? WHY DID YOU SEND ME AN EB APP WHEN I’VE ALREADY BEEN APPROVED FOR EB? WHY WON’T YOU GIVE ME ANY MONEY? DO YOU LIKE THAT I’M LIVING ON LENTILS AND RAMEN?!