| Greyhounds need homes |
[06 May 2005|09:02pm] |
More in this LJ.
A friend passed this message along:
This is what I have located. From the shelter website:
"The greyhound track in Plainfield, CT voted on April 26th that they would discontinue greyhound racing. Unfortunately - and heartbreakingly - they've also decided that rescuers have only two weeks to get the dogs out, and any dogs remaining at the track on May
14th will be euthanized. This is a monumental task because there are at least 500 dogs currently at the track. These are all young, healthy dogs, 2-4 years of age, who would make great family pets.
We've committed to saving as many dogs as we possibly can in the next two weeks.
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| Crooked |
[07 Jun 2004|07:33pm] |
I've created a new journal for the ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) crookedmuse. Join now, join often! Or just the one time. Whatever.
It's just posts from my webjournal, in a convenient LiveJournal format. It's probably going to be closed to comments. You can also still read the Crooked Muse on my site if you prefer.
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| Prions |
[24 Dec 2003|07:05pm] |
Science writer Carl Zimmer has a blog entry today about Mad Cow disease and the prions that cause it. Well, it's only partly about that, because he then launches into very interesting stuff about how memories are formed, and how memories can be stored for such a long period of time. I'm already seeing how I can go back and beef up a couple of science fiction stories I wrote long ago, dealing with memory.
Go! Read! He even uses the word "nuzzles" when talking about how neurons interact!
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| Secretive |
[30 Sep 2003|05:37pm] |
You might wonder if I'm boring: "All Tippi ever writes about is dogs, or music, or lentils. Is she boring, I wonder?"
As a matter of fact, I live a very exciting life. I'm just very secretive about it. Especially in my new LJ, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) secretippi. Spread the word.
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| the real reason for internet music piracy |
[18 Sep 2003|03:39pm] |
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music |
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The Noose by APC |
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Napster. Kazaa. "File-sharing." Internet piracy. Intellectual property theft. Call it what you will, I know the real reason behind it.
It's not because CDs are too expensive. It's not because people feel entitled to free shit.
It's because it's too hard to liberate the fucking CDs from their wrappers.
The outer cellophane layer isn't too bad. It's that inner sticky layer that gets me every time. "Pull" exhorts the little tab, and I always do. And I always pull the fucking tab off, leaving behind the rest of the sticky layer, clamping the CD shut like an adhesive chastity belt. I, increasingly frustrated, am reduced to a small chimpanzee as I hoot and holler and tear into the CD.
In other news, the new CD from A Perfect Circle kicks ass.
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| Journal notice |
[30 Jun 2003|10:59am] |
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Journal Notice: I've moved my regular journal back to the Crooked Muse. I'm keeping my LJ account, but I've been having so much trouble with LJ off and on for a couple of months now. Half the time, it won't let me post, and the other half, it won't let me reply. So... yeah. Just wanted to let everyone know.
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| Are you thinking what I'm thinking? |
[26 Jun 2003|10:20am] |
I have some kind of weird hold over produce boys. You know, the (usually) young guys who stock oranges and greenbeans at the grocery store? Those guys. No matter what store I go to, the produce boy hones in on me. Maybe they do this to every woman and I've just never noticed, or maybe I have some kind of pheromone that attracts men skilled in the fruit-stacking arts.
If I were the Brain (of Pinky and the Brain), my plot to take over the world would involve first turning everyone into a produce boy. This could probably be accomplished by a series of complex machinations, starting with somehow making people think it's cool to be a produce boy. Hypnosis would probably involved. Then I'd be able to wield my impressive power over my legion of Banana Boys and they would make me their Kumquat Queen.
I don't think it's really that far-fetched.
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| Ugly |
[24 Jun 2003|04:02pm] |
Yesterday and this morning, I was taken by an overwhelming urge to write these... well, I don't know what to call them. Not stories, not character sketches... Something. This is the one I wrote this morning. I'm thinking parts of this are going to end up in something else someday.
Ugly
Copyright © 2003 by Tippi N. Blevins. All Rights Reserved.
Eugene knew he was ugly.
There was no one part of him that, by itself, was unattractive, really. It was just the way it was all put together. Nothing matched anything else. He was tall, and clearly a grown man, but skinny like a kid who'd just hit puberty at 60 miles an hour. His elbows and knees were too big for his lanky arms and legs and his callused hands moved constantly, as if he just didn't know what to do with them. His full lower lip didn't match his upper lip, which was thin and pulled a little to one side from one too many badly healed splits. Even individual hairs on his head couldn't seem to get along, growing out at odd angles, butting up against each other in whorls and cowlicks. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of just shaving it all off and starting with a clean slate, but chances were pretty good the sides of his skull didn't match, either. When people looked at him, just strangers on the street or whatever, he could see it in their eyes: A kind of apologetic pity, like they were sorry for him, and then sorry for being sorry. He didn't mind it so much anymore. He gave himself the same look in the mirror every morning.
The only thing he had going for him, really, was an infallible sense of rhythm. He could dance. Something in those awkward limbs melted at the sound of music, any music. He could dance to the tinny crackle of elevator music the same as a Piazolla tango. It didn't matter to him any.
It didn't matter any to the ladies at the dance school, either, especially the ones who were old enough to have met their husbands at dances. That era had passed, pretty much, and it just wasn't the same as picking up someone who knew how to mash his groin against your own in a crowded nightclub. They didn't look at Eugene with apologies or pity, but with a kind of nostalgia. Like he was a treasure they'd lost a long time ago and they thought they'd never see again. He felt special when he danced with them. He felt a little bad stealing from them.
Just five or ten dollars here and there, sometimes a twenty if he really needed it. Some of them left the money poking up out of their purses when they went to the powder room, as if they knew he'd be taking it. Like they wanted to make it easier on him. He never took it all, of course. He didn't want to leave them stranded with no cab fare or anything.
He never took anything of sentimental value, either. There were ladies who'd left their rings on the piano when the weather made their fingers swell. Sometimes he took them if he knew they were newer. He wouldn't take jewelry their husbands had given them, even if they were long dead. Especially if they were long dead.
Eugene looked at himself in the mirror every morning. He wasn't that kind of ugly.
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| Claws. |
[22 Jun 2003|09:22am] |
Lately I've been noticing more and more women sporting long toenails.
I'm not talking about just letting their toenails go a little too long between trims, oh no. These are long, manicured, toenails curving over the edges of their sandals like the claws of a perching gargoyle.
Just... That's all I have to say.
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| Show and Tell |
[21 Jun 2003|08:12pm] |
Am I the only one who thinks Clint Eastwood and Hugh Jackman look alike?
They're practically twins separated at birth! By about thirty something years! And several continents! But still! Look!
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| Love song or crazy stalker manifesto? |
[21 Jun 2003|09:59am] |
I've often said I don't like love songs, but that's note entirely true. I have quite the soft spot for "Unchained Melody", for instance. And I have a fondness for unabashedly screwed up songs about obsession, like... oh... the vast majority of Depeche Mode's work.
But driving around today, I heard what sounded like a stalker's demo tape disguised as a love song. I found myself unable to change the station, so rapt with horror I was. I hoped the DJ would announce the artist, so I could share this with everyone, but he didn't. However, I was able to find the lyrics with Google, using only the words "Made for me maim life lyrics".
This guy warbles, "If I'm not made for you then why does my heart tell me that I am?" and I think to myself, "Because your heart along with the rest of you is in denial?" It's thirty seconds into the song and the guy already sounds like the human equivalent of an onslought of Free AOL trial membership CDs. It will never end.
He goes on to wonder, "If you're not for me then why does this distance maim my life? / If you're not for me then why do I dream of you as my wife?"
OK, first off, any man who uses the word "maim" while serenading me is going to finish out his night with a mug shot and fingerprints. I wouldn't even wait for him to finish before I called the cops. Second, you dreaming I'm your wife isn't exactly a convincing argument. It's a dream, buddy. I dream that I can fly, but that doesn't mean I can flap my arms and migrate, now, does it?
He then voices his confusion with, "I don't know why you're so far away", and I have to think it's because the object of his obsession is a pretty fast runner. By the time he goes on to say, "I wish that you could be the one I die with", this girl should be checking her drink for strange and unusual odors.
Am I just unromantic? Would these lyrics actually work on other women?
View the complete lyrics, if you dare.
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| American Idle |
[20 Jun 2003|06:05am] |
I have an idea for a new reality show!
American Idle
Instead of finding America's favorite new singer, its goal is to find... a writer.
Starry-eyed hopefuls compete for a chance to earn 3 cents a word. They take turns sitting around on their butts, expressions wavering between blank and sternly blank. They agonize. They may dance around their chairs a bit. Snarky judges comment on the results. Dozens of viewers call in to register their votes!
And just to add some visual interest, there can be some hungry bears added to the mix. Honey-soaked slices of bread are fixed to the writer's head and body as he furiously tries to come up with a few sentences. The longer the writer sits on his butt trying to write, the more the fence surrounding him goes down, until finally, the famished bear can reach him.
Come on! I think it's a winner!
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| Greetings, small penis! |
[19 Jun 2003|10:11pm] |
That was the header of some spam email today. I was getting all offended until I remembered... I don't have one.
But then the mind began wandering, as it so often does, and I started to think that "Greetings, small penis!" would be the perfect thing for an alien to say. I think there should be aliens from a culture that centers completely around sex so that'd be their whole frame of reference. The alien could meet with politicians and say something like, "Greetings, chafed ass! I trust that bending over in the peace talks went well?" Then, instead of having bumpy foreheads, they could have bumpy... other stuff.
Yeah... that sounds completely sane to me.
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| Heh. |
[19 Jun 2003|08:11am] |
The signs out in front of the churches around here are usually of the Fire and Brimstone school of thought. They say things like "Repent or Perish!" or "Jesus died for your sins!" Yesterday I saw a funny one, though:
Cheer up. Moses used to be a basket case.
It didn't persuade me to go to church or anything, but I was damned amused by it.
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| Spam... is made of peeeeople! |
[18 Jun 2003|07:28pm] |
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music |
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"Anniversary of an Uninteresting Event" - Deftones |
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I download my mail today and see a spam header with: "Where are your old high school friends today?"
The reply that instantly pops into my head?
"In the basement."
I don't even have a basement. Not that I would dump people in a basement even if I had one, of course. But sometimes, my thoughts startle even me.
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| Fishies! |
[16 Jun 2003|09:33pm] |
Saw Finding Nemo today. I love fishies. Everyone probably knows that by now. Very cute movie and I enjoyed it a lot.
However, I think children who kick the backs of chairs in movie theaters should be put in boot camp.
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| A call to arms! Young, hot, studly arms. |
[15 Jun 2003|12:00am] |
Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, magazines and talk shows are abuzz with Demi Moore's romance with Ashton Kutcher. One headline proclaimed their "May-December" fling.
Listen, she's 40, not 80, for crying out loud. That makes her a late July, early August, tops. Screw this December shit. She's not Maude and he's not Harold.
I think to myself, "Oh, jeez, people, get the hell over it already!"
But that's not going to happen.
You know why?
Because not enough forty year old women are dating 25 year old men, that's why. It's a rare enough occurrence that it sets imaginations ablaze. I would like to exhort all you 40 year old women out there to march, march onto every college campus and into every hot grad student's office! Ambush young studs outside every cheap bar, athletic shoe store entrance, and Dumb and Dumberer premiere!
Only when older-woman-younger-man relationships become de rigeur will my newsstand visits be free of these shocked headlines. Do it for me. Do it for my sanity. When I'm 40, I'll do it for you, too.
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| Happy Cut revisited |
[12 Jun 2003|04:55pm] |
I have bad news about Happy Cut.
It's just a hairstyling place.
Unless, of course, that's just a cover.
A neon "Open" sign fizzed and sputtered in the tinted window, but there was no one inside, and no cars in the parking lot. Maybe the interesting stuff happens in some kind of secret chamber underneath the building.
Or maybe they were just having a slow day.
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