Not Amused

Greyhounds need homes

2005-05-07T02:03:37Z

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.

Crooked

2004-06-08T00:34:14Z

I've created a new journal for the 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.

Prions

2003-12-25T01:12:48Z

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!

Secretive

2003-09-30T22:38:33Z

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, secretippi. Spread the word.

the real reason for internet music piracy

2003-09-18T20:38:59Z

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.

Journal notice

2003-06-30T16:06:10Z

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.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

2003-06-26T15:26:19Z

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.

Ugly

2003-06-24T21:01:39Z

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.

Just click the link

2003-06-23T23:45:49Z

Got chapped lips?

Claws.

2003-06-22T14:39:56Z

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.

Show and Tell

2003-06-22T01:14:33Z

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!

Love song or crazy stalker manifesto?

2003-06-21T15:28:57Z

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.

American Idle

2003-06-20T11:11:43Z

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!

Greetings, small penis!

2003-06-20T03:26:45Z

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.

Heh.

2003-06-19T13:12:40Z

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.

Spam... is made of peeeeople!

2003-06-19T00:30:51Z

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.

Fishies!

2003-06-17T02:35:46Z

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.

A call to arms! Young, hot, studly arms.

2003-06-15T05:08:38Z

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.

aka_tippi @ 2003-06-13T21:29:00

2003-06-14T02:32:12Z

Sometimes, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Happy Cut revisited

2003-06-12T21:57:43Z

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.

Swimming

2003-06-11T13:40:25Z

While swimming yesterday, I realized how physically wussy humans are. I mean, I'm a decent swimmer, but even an Olympic gold medal-winning swimmer is like a block of tofu in the water compared to a barracuda. Sure, we build boats that can sail the whole ocean, but if we fall overboard, we're more or less boned. This is why I do not swim in the ocean. Or even in lakes. I love the water, but I know I'm rightfully dinner to anything with a taste for human kebabs, and I'm OK with that.

In other news, I love found_objects. Some truly weird stuff turns up in the world.

Happy Cut

2003-06-10T17:34:51Z

I drove by a place called Happy Cut today.

The sign out front was bright yellow, with black lettering, and had one of those yellow smiley faces. You know the one.

I am intensely curious about Happy Cut. The building was dark with blackened windows. There was no hint as to what kind of business went on inside. Is it a hairstyling place? Lawnmowing service? Assassination agency? Whatever it is, all we know is that cutting is involved.

And it's happy.

Too sexy for my pants

2003-06-09T22:16:58Z

I haven't owned a miniskirt since high school, but I felt compelled to buy one today. And I have to say it's pretty damn cute. At first I was thinking, "Whoops better not bend over in this thing," but then I figured, to hell with it. If people are looking that close at my ass, they get what they get.

Tippi is God

2003-06-07T16:18:52Z

No, I'm not a megalomaniac.

Well, not that much of one.

Googlism.com said I'm God. It also said I'm 12 years old. You stick your name or whatever into the blank, click, and it uses info from Google to come up with summaries about you. Which may or may not actually be about you. Some of mine are obviously about Tippi Hedren. Most of them seem to be about cats and dogs, though my favorite describes me as "a lovely light tipped bear."

Tippi is founder and president of the roar foundation and resides at shambala in a cottage surrounded by big cat compounds
Tippi is a 17 year old virgin
Tippi is a dynamic and exciting performer who earlier this year saw her single release of blue nile's "tinseltown in the rain"
Tippi is 12 years old
Tippi is going to beijing for this book
Tippi is melanie griffith's mother
Tippi is trusted by 8 members
Tippi is on tour throughout september & october
Tippi is currently working on more stories
Tippi is amazing
Tippi is the smartest
Tippi is also known as dr
Tippi is here to stay
Tippi is a black and tan mixture
Tippi is healthy and going strong
Tippi is on the run
Tippi is a writer
Tippi is god
Tippi is the star of the classic alfred hitchcock film the birds
Tippi is a little starlet
Tippi is talking about the "where's my missing manuscript" query
Tippi is so sure of herself
Tippi is a lovely light tipped bear
Tippi is a tiny blonde girl who lives in africa
Tippi is the center for activities such as making popcorn
Tippi is in acton
Tippi is here
Tippi is turned into another dumb female for going upstairs and into the room with
Tippi is primarily a horror writer who hasn't abandoned horror's roots in fantasy and gothic
Tippi is a welsh hound and chicho is a chihuahua
Tippi is not your given name is it? how did you get such a cute name?
Tippi is sooo adorable
Tippi is the playground
Tippi is a lot of fun

Gym dandy

2003-06-07T04:49:05Z

I joined a gym recently.

I resisted for a long time because, frankly, I hate gym commercials. They're like peer pressure in high school, and that shit don't fly with me. These ads don't make me want to exercise. They don't make me want to join up. They make me want to find the people in the commercials and kick them repeatedly. Which I guess is sort of exercise, but I don't think Nike makes a shoe for that.

First there's the curly-headed woman with the Jiffy Pop boobs. She says, "I'm just telling you this ONE more time." Oh if only that were true. I've since seen that goddamn commercial some 784 more times and each time I see it, I just become less and less likely to ever join that lying little twit's gym.

Then there's the commercial that starts off like a PSA for gonorrhea. "I couldn't even sit on the toilet" and "there was a burning sensation" the spokespeople say. They're talking about the post-workout ache, the hard-earned muscle pain, but it sounds like they all have a raging case of the clap. I don't know about you, but I don't really want to associate crotch-searing VD with my workouts in any way. Especially not if I have to sit on the same damn benches these people use.

But I did manage to find a nice local gym with no advertising budget to speak of. I've done so much abdominal work that I can barely sit down. And you know... there's this strange burning sensation...