April 10, 2002
11:07pm Wednesday

JOIN IN THE CHANT

Drat the bastard Macintosh! Wait. I love the Macintosh. I have a G3/300 from 1998 and it runs like a charm, except when Netscape 4.0 is deployed. And then it crashes like an AMC Gremlin LTD. with a coke-snorting hooker behind the wheel. I had written many exciting paragraphs in this space, but now they are gone. Nothing new to fighters of the good fight, but very annoying to me.

I have had much wine tonight, previous to sitting down in this chair, and much whiskey now. I carry a St. Christopher "Protect Us" charm in my pocket and I am not Catholic. What?

Today I purchased new shoes, admittedly a major event in my life. These are they: (I hope I can remember how to figure out photo-pasting - HTML is brand-new to me, a deplorable admission in 2002.)

These were made by a man who sells 2.4 billion dollars' worth of shoes per year, but who (this is me covering my ass) recently allegedly defrauded his shareholdes for tons more and is going to jail for four years. The charge? Greed, motherfucker. The shoe style is called "Shooter." I laugh.

Today before I went to the shoe store I went into the Apple Store and said, "Do you have any new top of the line iMacs in stock?" and the eleventh-grade clerk said to me "Yes, of course. Lots." I think he lied, because I hear on the street that this is not the case. I said "thank you" and walked away, because of course I cannot afford one even if they are imaginarily in the stockroom. They are beautiful, though, oh so beautiful, and I drool when their little superdrive trays pop out, just begging me to make movies.

Back to the shoes. I think in a way they're quite mannishly bowling-ball, but it's unavoidable given my mammoth foot-size. I said when I put them on, "I belong on a farm." It's true; I would do quite well pushing an Ox or whatever farmers do. Often I consider raising chickens.

Malls are awful. They're all piped-in air and flourescent lights and Armenian teenagers with too much money. I want to yell bloody murder at the top of my lungs when I'm in them, or hire a stylist to do the shopping for me, or win a shopping spree so I at least won't have to waste time looking at pricetags. How see-through is the dress department at Nordstrom with its $225-dollar society women shirts? More money than brains. Some people have this problem in spades.

Tonight I took part in a "girls night" where we drank the aforementioned wine and ate pasta and then ate lemon cake. We watched part of Felicity, which I will admit here that I love, and I lament its demise, and I desperately hope it shoes up on DVD, and I don't care what you say. I watch only a few television shows faithfully: NYPD Blue, The Real World, The Osbournes, Felicity, and Alias. I love the man/woman-puppet on Greg The Bunny but that's all I can love, except for Eugene Levy, but he's not enough. Tonight during Girls Night we talked about a cousin (not mine) who is marrying a man who she loves more than he loves her, and we wondered how skewed the love-ratio can be before it's not okay anymore. It's an individual consideration, I say. Whatever works. Bridal showers are happening. Tables and chairs and tablecloths are being rented. Love is in the air.

But oh wait. The earth is falling apart, "Shooter" is pinching my toes.