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November 2002

Gobble, gobble and whatnot.

I'm, like, thankful for many things this year.

I didn't get hit by a bus. Have you ever noticed how people are always worrying about that? Well, I'm thankful that didn't happen and I'm sorry if it did to you.

A lot of other things didn't happen to me this year that I'm thankful for too. They're much too numerous to list here, not without me running the risk of developing carpel tunnel (which also didn't happen to me so I'm thankful for that as well).

I hope lots of things didn't happen to you this year that you're thankful for, too.


I did a guest ramble over at Beyond Uber last month. I'm going to repeat it here, because I think the term introduced therein is truely useful.

I'd like to thank Raven for giving me the opportunity to ramble here at Beyond Uber (however much she may come to regret it). As anyone who's read my writing will tell you, rambling is right up my alley. But I didn't come over here to talk about me, I came to coin a new term. Technically speaking, I can't coin it because it was already minted in my partner Ume's clever, and sometimes devious, mental apparatus. But she's not writing this ramble, now is she?

Several months ago, Ume and I were contemplating a change in habitat; a move. We never got beyond the contemplating phase (Ume threatened to go to the positive visualization phase once or twice - but nothing came of it). We did manage to get as far as looking over our belongings, hence the inspiration for the new term - which is: crap mass.

The academically bent among you will appreciate the lengths to which Ume has gone to define her new term:
    Crap mass is a measurement of the psychic weight of an object or group of objects. It is characterized by a weighted down or oppressed feeling upon an encounter with said object(s).

    Much like pornography, it is difficult to define, but easily recognized.

    The crap mass of an object instantly doubles when one is contemplating a change in domicile.

    One's partner's accumulation of crap mass is inevitably greater than one's own (this phenomenon is curiously mirrored in the parent/child relationship).

Example sentences that demonstrate the correct usage of the term include:

    "Your closet has an unacceptible level of crap mass."

    "That copy of the Expanded Oxford English Dictionary in large print has a significant crap mass."

    "That hub cap collection in the garage has some wicked crap mass."

Currently, Ume's working on a formula for crap mass. You might think that a term with such a highly subjective aspect couldn't have a formula (after all, a person might rate their Bo Peep Hummel figurine with a low level of crap mass while their significant other insisted that it broke all regional and possibly national, if not global and eternal, records for crap mass). Luckily, Ume isn't hindered by such trifles and plows on her merry way, mumbling about universal constants, aesthetic and functional factors and why it is that she can't find a reasonably priced deli sandwich in the state of Massachusetts.

It's my hope that one or two of you may find a use for Ume's new term (it'd make a fine name for a punk garage band...) and that you heartily enjoy the rest of the season. It's been a pleasure visiting and rambling with you all. ~Brulee

Two bits of conversation I've come by recently:

Walking in my neighborhood, I passed two women chatting, one was saying to the other, "My building got bought and broke up into condos. It's, like, if you don't buy, forget it, you don't live."

And there was the woman in a public bathroom wrestling with a bad hair day. She gave me a bit of sorely needed perspective on a day that'd gone to shit. She looked at me and said: "My hair looks like it's tryin' to fly away! I'm trying to keep it together one more day - I have a touch up appointment tomorrow. Lord knows, we ladies, we just got somethin' to go through."

True enough.

I came across another conversation, a blog by a writer (and fellow curmudgeon by the sounds of it): click here

Neither Ume nor I wear skirts, but we have to buy one for our bed.

Why, you're undoubtedly wondering, would two non-skirt wearing lesbians be bothering to buy one for their bed? It's simple, really, our bed is a Queen.

Interested in hearing about the upcoming war from more than one media source? Then you might want to know about this little media shell game the conglomerates are drooling over.

The FCC regulates media diversity in this country. The rules governing who can own how much in each market are about to be way curtailed. This means that the giants that own lots of media outlets and produce a narrow viewpoint aimed at making money, not informing citizenry, are about to be able to own even more outlets and their narrow viewpoint will be reinforced further. Ask yourself why you haven't heard this reported on much... Click here for more info and a letter if you want to send one.

While you're being political... there's also this beautiful little outrage: click here

I mean, I'm all for putting terrorists out of commission - like permanently, but not at the expense of the Bill of Rights - thank you very much.

You're probably thinking that I'm going to rant and rave about the election results. Nope. My therapist told me that denial can be a reasonable coping mechanism in untenable circumstances. That's what I'll be practicing for the next two years. You see, I do listen to my therapist.

I have a secret admirer. Her name is Klez. Though sometimes, when she's feeling cagey, she signs her notes Klex.e, or Klez.f. But I still know it's her.

She shows up randomly in my Inbox. She's funny that way. I'm not quite sure what to make of her.

"Who could she be?" I wondered to myself. A closeted princess from a far off potentate? A traveler in an Internet Cafe? A board college student? A 12 year-old boy? I really can't say.

But there she is, in my Inbox... every other day or so - her enthusiasm is veritably infectious. Where she gets all of this time to write me sweet nothings, I don't know. I, for one, have a life that keeps me well occupied.

If you too have been hearing from Klez - if, indeed, she's taken up residence in places less desirable than your Inbox (some admirers have a better appreciation of personal boundaries than others, no?), you can check this helpful virus link out: click here

And yesterday, I got a marvelously formal cry for help from a Nigerian gentleman who would like me to assist him in an illegal financial enterprise. Now, unlike Klez, this man gives his name. He gives a whole lot more than that. He'd like me to send him money. Little does this gentleman appreciate the irony of his request. In my time, I've known several people with what you might call money issues - you might call them con artists too... The chances I'd send this guy money to help out in an illegal financial scheme are about the same chances I'd give a man who wanted to light his shoe on an airplane a match.

This well spoken and keenly sensitive gentleman requests that we keep our relations hush-hush (even if I choose not to help him and the people he's representing), as this matter is of an embarrasing nature to the family who's attempting to steal some odd millions of dollars from the Nigerian government (they're not altogether efficient, because this scam's been running since the 1980's...).

If you too have been hearing from this Nigerian gentleman or one like him, here's some background information on this scam (Nigeria's third or fourth highest grossing industry!). What does that tell you about people?

Click here for a good Wired article.

The Nigerian government has something to say about it too...: click here

Remember one thing on November 5th - no matter how hard they try to convince you otherwise, you are a citizen, not just a consumer. VOTE!!!

That's all I'm sayin'.

You know how you're going along and everything seems fine?

While shuffling through some papers the other day, I came across one that gave me a shock. According to the paper, and more importantly the date thereupon, my artistic license was about to expire. I made a hasty trip over to the Department of Artistic License (D.A.L.) to have it renewed.

It's always an interesting experience to visit one of the tentacle branches of a government run bureaucracy. And the folks in line at the D.A.L. are an especially fascinating lot. There was a second hand car sales person, an Arthur Anderson accountant who'd worked on the Enron account (he was in arguing that they'd revoked his license unfairly), a couple of advertising executives and several teenagers - there was even a guy with a fishing pole and tackle box.

I was standing behind a silver-haired lady in the line. She pulled out about 60 photos from her wallet and started on about the marvelous exploits of her grandchildren. The guy behind the counter gave her a stern look when she got up to him and started on about the grandkids - "Ms. Bibblefinch, your license is three weeks expired. You could get fined for that kind of behavior." People at the D.A.L take a dim view of people operating without a license - even if it's just expired a little.

During the recent organizing of the executive branch's Department of Homeland Security (the largest reorganization of our government in history), the Bush administration attempted to incorporate the Department of Artistic License into the newer department. Even rank and file Republicans objected to this move. No one thought that artistic license should be regulated by the executive branch.

I got my license renewed without a hitch. I wasn't particularly happy with the photo, but are we ever?

Mug shot

See what I mean? Looks like a mug shot.

2002 Déjà vu- Oct. - Sept. - August - July - June - May - April - March - Feb. - Jan.

2001 Déjà vu - Dec. - Nov. - Oct. - Sept. - August - July - June - Misadventures- April

Compassion Fatigue Entries - 2001

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