Tickle My Kittens

I’ve just recently started taking the Metro to work again, after 2+ years of being one of the pissed-off drivers on I-66 every day. Riding the train has always been one of my dorky pleasures. Maybe it’s because I’m from the Midwest where public transportation is unheard of. Maybe it’s because I like silently judging all the horribly dressed Hill workers each morning. Maybe it’s because I like that the guy who hands out the Examiner says things like “Girl, you looking GOOD in your shades! You have a hot weekend.”  Whatever the reason, though, I’ve been enjoying the train — for the most part. What I’d forgotten about is that, much like in a car, people forget that although they may feel like they’re in their own little world, other people can see them.  I’d like to offer some advice to these passengers, for the benefit of all Metro riders:

Dear Man on the Bus,
The Fairfax Connector is simply not the appropriate place to reapply your Axe body spray. I know the Axe Effect is hard to pass up and if you’re on your way to a romantic rendezvous at 9:30 a.m. I salute you, but let’s consider the proximity to other passengers here. Do you really want to excite the overweight woman who just applied Benadryl cream to her rash-y legs? Although maybe the two of you would be a match made in heaven: You’re both treating the bus like a bathroom.

Dear Girl Sitting Across the Aisle,
I’d appreciate if you could keep that mannequin head hidden properly in the bag you just removed it from. And I’d really appreciate it if you could refrain from brushing said mannequin head’s hair. This action is obviously making you happy, based on the goofy/psycho grin on your face, but your mother should have taught you that disembodied heads — even fake ones — should not be on public display.

Dear Man in the Seat Next to Me,
You are literally inches away from me. This means that I can tell what you’re doing, especially when what you’re doing is totally staring at me. Not stealing glances, not reading over my shoulder — full-on, head-turned-my-direction staring at me, from 4 inches away. May I suggest investing in a periscope? That would be much more covert of you, and would allow you to stare at several different girls more efficiently.

And there you have it. I think those notes should be added to Metro’s roster of clever little etiquette posters, don’t you?

Coldplay was in town last night. I went with two friends to see them, and I suspect that the four of you who’ve read this blog before already know my opinion of Chris Martin’s songwriting abilities (hell, we update so infrequently that you could probably scroll down to see what I wrote two months ago).

Anyway, I went into the concert with very low expectations.  I listened to their first two albums all day yesterday, just willing them to please play something decent from before 2005 (OK, so they played ‘Yellow’ and not ‘High Speed’ but at least I didn’t have to hear too much from X&Y). So, anyway, the three of us agreed to meet at the Green Turtle beforehand to grab some drinks.

We had a few drinks and tried to enjoy ourselves while 6,000 of our closest friends all of a sudden crammed into the bar too. I mean, the Green Turtle is serviceable, but I couldn’t really get why it was completely full of sweaty, loud humans when so many other bars are around the corner (and I doubt it was the Miller Lite “Special” — $3.50/bottle. What a steal!).

It wasn’t until we got into the Verizon Center that I found out why everyone showed up all at once…there was a bomb threat at the Verizon Center!

OK, OK, I know what you’re thinking. How could that be, when we’re all at the Green Turtle? Shouldn’t we have heard sirens? What about policemenpeople? Well, yes, we heard them, and we saw them. But, it wasn’t like they came into the bar to clear us out, so it couldn’t be a problem with the stadium, right?

Wrong. From what I heard afterward, the arena was evacuated, but they didn’t evacuate the bar, which was, you know, still a part of the Verizon Center. Thanks, DC. Leave the drinkers to die in a heap of alcohol soaked flames.

Had the suspicious package exploded outside of Clyde’s (which is where I heard it was), I would have died with a Miller Lite in my hand. In retrospect, I also realize I could have died clutching more embarrassing items. But, thankfully, it was not a real bomb.

So, fast forward to the concert. Santogold was a great opener (well, second act. I missed the first opening act, since I was too busy drinking booze and not getting evacuated), but she didn’t get the respect she deserved from the audience. Get with the program, DC. She’ll be a big deal soon. Get on the bandwagon now.

Coldplay played for about 80 minutes, and they opened with a couple of tracks from their newest album, which was fine. It appears that they desperately want to be U2 after U2 kicks the bucket, and that’s OK. There are times where you just need to see a good laser light show, and Coldplay didn’t disappoint in that regard.

What was  disappointing was the fact that they played for 80 minutes, including the encore. When U2 was there in 2005, I think they played for 2.5 hours, so if they want to be known as a real stadium band, they’d better pick up the slack here and learn some stamina (that’s what she said).

Still, they ended the show with “Death and All His Friends,” which is a pretty phenomenal track (and the highlight of their newest album). As you know, Coldplay caters to an older, sensitive crowd, and waaaaay up at section 403, we were surrounded by the over 35 crowd, minus a few teenagers behind us who equated Coldplay’s appeal to Harry Potter, which may be more astute than they realized. The over 35 crowd and Under 17 crowd both love Coldplay and Harry Potter, but for vastly different reasons.  I was caught somewhere in the middle, probably like most rational people who don’t obsess over either HP or Coldplay, and the things I liked about Coldplay and stadium shows were there (laser light shows, beer, and spectacle), while the things I didn’t like (Chris Martin being “awww-gosh” and self-depricating–dude, get a new schtic, the X&Y album, and Coldplay’s stupid 19th Century battlefield outfits) were there in spades as well.

At the end of it, I was impressed with the production but still annoyed with how “light” the whole experience was. It was polished but sort of soulless, the same way a brand new kitchen looks, with shiny appliances and counter tops, but just waiting for someone to get in there and make a mess and come out with something really memorable.

So, in essence, Chris Martin isn’t a 5th grader (as I mentioned in an earlier post). I take that back. The dude is a robot who exhibits some of humanity’s most annoying traits — excessive self deprecation, too many guffaws, and too few reasons to consider them to be a legitimate rock tour de force.

I just realized that I talked myself away from my original thought, “Coldplay doesn’t suck that much,” to “Chris Martin is a robot.” So, ignore the headline. Coldplay kind of sucks after all.

I can’t take credit for this, but it’s priceless. Thanks to Lawyers, Guns and Money and Wonkette.

New Interwebs quote of the year:

“I am aware of all Internet Traditions.”

I am going to spend the work day designing a t-shirt and submit it to Threadless.

OK, the new Coldplay album came out on Tuesday. The thing we all know about Coldplay is that everyone in the band seems to be pretty affable. Nice guys. And they’re not afraid to say they rip off other bands. Honestly, who doesn’t rip someone else off at some point, right? But they can put everyone to sleep. I-Bankers on three-day coke binges use X&Y to relax before heading into work the next day. You know, though, sometimes you need that. Coldplay is the new Enya in this regard.

What really bothers me about Coldplay is how insultingly simple the lyrics are. Here is a bit from “42,” off the new album:

Those who are dead are not dead
They’re just living my head
And since I fell for that spell
I am living there as well
Oh…

Time is so short and I’m sure
There must be something more

Those who are dead are not dead
They’re just living my head oh…
And since I fell for that spell
I am living there as well oh…

At least he didn’t end with “I am living in a well” or “I was given a big, gold bell” or “Is it raining outside? I can’t tell.” It’s ironic that Coldplay is a band that caters to the older, “sensitive adult” crowd, but the lyrics were probably written in crayon on the back of a Trapper Keeper.

Here is a poem I wrote when I was in 5th grade — I’m sure you can see my talent:

I walked through the garden
And I saw a bench
On it was an old cheeseburger
It gave off quite a stench.

Add in some soaring piano and that shit goes platinum.

i quit my job yesterday. going in, i was afraid it was going to go as poorly with my future former boss as it did with my current former boss back in 2006, but he was pretty cool with it. he told me he wished me well and the he hoped we’d keep in touch. he even tried to give me a big hug (how about a handshake instead, big boy?). he mentioned how highly he thought of me as his subordinate and was sorry to see me go.

i felt really good about leaving things on a positive note when i left his office yesterday. it was when i came in this morning that i saw this. apparently, my office farting was not as covert as i had thought?

(thanks to passiveaggressivenotes.com)

How would you like it if someone replaced your toothpaste with a similarly shaped tube of Preparation H? Sure, it might tighten up those saggy gums a little, but at the end of the day you’re going to be pissed off because you didn’t get what you were expecting. That’s essentially what happened to me this weekend when I discovered that DC cash machines have started dishing out $50 bills.

We all depend on continuity and my ATM routine is simple. Insert card, enter PIN, navigate through menu, and insert cash into the back of the wallet. Because I keep my bills sorted with the smallest denominations first, this seemingly chaotic transaction actually maintains perfect order. My technique has evolved mostly because I like to avoid fumbling with a stack of 20s as I organize my wallet in public, but an ancillary benefit is that it’s very easy to grab bills from the front (valet tip) or back (taxi) without much thought.

It was this back-of-wallet cash grab that got me into trouble, and you can probably guess what happened. It was getting very late in the evening. A group of friends convinced me to join them on the other side of town for one more drink. On the way I discovered that my funds were running low, so I had the driver stop at a bank to refill the coffers. There were two suspicious guys in line behind me, and while I was catching glances of them out of the corner of my eye and imagining counter moves to the assault that never came, the ATM was silently counting out 50s. The trap had been set.

I should have realized what was happening the first time. The taxi pulled up outside of the bar and I decided to be a little generous and round up to $20 on a $15 fare. “No change, thanks” I said as I handed him what was actually a 230% tip. He shouted his appreciation as I walked into the bar feeling very good with myself. After my ride home, the second time wasn’t as obvious. It wasn’t until the next day that I caught myself doing it a third time in full daylight.

Yes, I wasted $60, but the biggest casualty in this whole fiasco is that I’m going to have to totally rethink my wallet algorithm. And if you think that I’m ever going to be able to casually tip a bellboy without breaking eye contact, you have another thing coming. My only consolation is that over-tipping a taxi driver is actually one of the better outcomes in a situation that involves fumbling around in the dark back seat of a car after a few drinks.

Hello, friends. We here at TMK decided to follow Bad at Life to the bar for the past few months, thus ignoring our call to post meaningless diatribes for other bored semi-professionals. I’ve finally sobered up, left BAL’s couch, and showered, so now might as well be the time to lose my blogging virginity again (still waiting for that to happen in real life).

On a flight back to DC earlier this week, I read a review in GQ for Everyday Drinking. Obviously this is a book that would appeal to me (as well as a few other drunks at TMK), since I start every morning with a glass of warm gin and some beer-battered donuts. Anyway, Everyday Drinking is a compilation of three smaller works by Sir Kingsley Amis, and in it, he argues for drinking (and got paid to do so, the lucky bastard). The book is full of hilarious and insightful nuggets of advice, ranging from hosting a party to battling hangovers (BAL can certainly learn a thing or two about that). Some highlights:

* While hosting a party and preparing a gin and tonic for a guest, put the tonic and the ice and a thick slice of lemon in first and pour on them a thimbleful of gin–over the back of a spoon–so it will linger near the surface and give a strong-tasting first sip, which is the one that counts.

* Drinking a beer with a piece of lime in it is “an exit application from the human race.” This also applies to Zimas and Jolly Ranchers as well. Nice knowing you, Token Female.

* Anyone like Harvey Wallbangers? I know, this isn’t 1975, but: Another Italian liqueur, Galliano, has gained a good deal of ground over the last few years, not as a drink on its own but as a constituent of the famous, or infamous, cocktail, the Harvey Wallbanger, named after some reeling idiot in California.

* To battle a hangover, draw a hot bath, sit in the bathtub, and then immediately stand up to take a hot shower (repeat as necessary). However, “do not do this unless you are quite sure your heart and the rest of you will stand it. I would find it most disagreeable to be accused of precipitating your death, especially in court.” Better keep the heart healthy and stay away from those all-you-can-eat bacon buckets at Wonderland, as well.

The book is hilarious and insightful (and includes an introduction by fellow drunk Christopher Hitchens). I may be biased, but the book is especially good because Amis references gin the most out of any spirit. I always knew I could spot a good drunk.

It was 1989 when I got my first computer - an Apple II GS.  I used to program in BASIC.  I remember Delphi, Prodigy, and the Internet before the Web.  I remember BBSs and measuring your dial-up connection in Bauds.  I remember when hard drives were an “add-on.”  I remember boot disks and 5 and a quarter floppies.  That computer was such a huge part of my life that eventually I would major in Computer Science and take a job as a patent attorney specializing in computer-related technology.  Now I spend my days pondering the inner-workings of high speed routers.

So when I see this CNN article about the 25th anniversary of the Commodore 64, my inner dork wet himself a little.  Though I never had one, I remember the Commodore 64, the Apple II, II+, IIc and IIe.  The Tandy at Radio Shack.  But then I got to this line:

“The computer featured 64 kilobits of memory (a lot for 1982)…”

The Commodore 64 had 64 kilobytes of memory.  If you’re going to do an entire article on the Commodore 64, you might want to get that one fact straight.  Saying that it had 64 kilobits of memory is like saying the Titanic sank because it hit some driftwood.    Ok, back to the nerdery for me.

 UPDATE:  They’ve fixed the story, but my point still stands.  I should have taken a screen shot.

I really miss the days when spam e-mails were things like “Viagra 70% off Discount” or “Cheap replica watches 4 SALE!” I even miss those Nigerian money scams. Those days are gone.

I first noticed something was awry when I logged into my work computer a few weeks ago and saw e-mails coming to me from me. I e-mail myself files between my work and home computers all the time, so I thought that, in addition to the e-mails from Dr. Cialis from Freehomepharmacy.com, maybe there was some sort of freaky coincidence there. It still looked like spam, so no big deal.

Because I work in the media industry I also receive a lot of e-mails for books and DVDs on sale. One of the most recent ones was for a “Buy 3 get 7 free DVD EXTR4V4G4NZ4″ from 347dvds.net. Still clearly not within the realm of reasonable e-mails but a little more targeted than the typical drug e-mails.

It was just this morning that I realized how smart spam has become. Like HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey, my spam now has self-actualized. No longer do I get scattershot messages. My spam is out to get me, and somehow, it knows what I’m thinking about before I even log in! I have been talking with friends about making a trip to Vegas in March, and we just decided yesterday to book the hotel. So, I log into my e-mail this morning, and what do I see? “Vegas Big Hand Blackjack Tournament” e-mails. Three of them.

I can only imagine what will come next…Dr. Cialis will be waiting for me outside my office with a replica watch on his wrist and a stack of DVDs in his hands. Then he will challenge me to blackjack, and if I lose, the world will explode. Wait, when do I double down? I’m sure I’ll get an e-mail about that tomorrow…

BREAKING NEWS

Barry “Bail” Bonds has been indicted on five counts of perjury and obstruction of justice stemming from his 2003 grand jury testimony about illegal steroid use.

“Bail” Bonds Nickname © 2007, Tickle My Kittens

Now that I’ve copyrighted this new nickname and its derivations, I can use it in jokes without worry of them being picked up by Sports Center. For example:

It’s a sad day when Barry Bonds is on the juice, and “The Juice” is being held without bond.

No? Ok, I’ll keep brainstorming.