So I've returned to Eugene, Oregon, the land of the disparate university professor and the former metro area home of deceased uberhippie Ken Kesey - of "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest", "Sometimes a Great Notion", and the Electric Kool-Aid Acid test fame. Oddly enough, while Kesey is best remembered for taking more drugs than could potentially kill a horse in one sitting, his main contribution to the world (at least in the Northwest), is that Nancy's yogurt happens to be the best stuff in the world. And his wife, in essence, supported the family for years on the process of taking milk and essentially letting it go bad.
Not a bad gig, if you could get it.
This weekend I was painfully reminded of why I love the city I've chosen to live in. Seattle may be filled with many things. It may have gun shootings in the downtown area, rolling clouds of idiots running amuck in the streets, a cracked-out newspaper columnist whose bid for city council stemmed less from her own skill in local politics and more over a lack of energy from the voting public...but it's still my lovely city by the ocean, with plenty of people and happy drinks for all in the city. And I loves it.
Today I found out that a group of "conservative citizens" from Eugene, the mysterious "Gang of Nine" who published cartoons in the local rag attacking the city council happen to all be disproportionately wealthy individuals who made mundo bucks in the city and have been cheerfully shedding jobs from their companies in lieu of pay cuts across the board. What cheerful little planners they are. If I still lived here, I might actually have to give a rat's ass about important political decisions like where to put the new hospitals, or when I should go back to school (because trying to live on Eugene wages is like trying to grow rice in the desert - an unlikely prospect). So I'm glad I live where I do. It's a good place to live, and I love the job I have.
On other fronts, I've also realized that the American Consumer spends approximately $400 per year on Christmas presents, and totalling up the amount I've spent on family and friends thus far, that's about accurate. Give or take $100. Thank god for holiday bonuses.
Now, I must wrap presents when people aren't looking! Haha!
Friday, December 19, 2003
Garfield the Movie
I am arming a posse now. We will bring the guns, the knives, the diarrhetic babies, the mad cows and the sane cows. WE WILL BURN 20th Century Fox to THE GROUND!
Then, perhaps, we shall be rid of the pestilence that is Garfield.
Seriously. The guy who drew this should have been put out to pasture years ago. No movies. No deals. No bloody animatronic cats. No dancing felines. No cartoons. I will NOT own an orange stripe tabby for these reasons. EVER.
My own cat? Fat. Lazy. Blue-eyed Siamese. Eats asparagus, broccoli, tortilla chips, tuna water (not fish) and wolfs through $50/lb cheese in a single bite (a mistake both of us regretted - both in the pocketbook and the litterbox.
BUT HE'S A CAT. Every cat owner thinks their cat is special, that they have personalities and marvelous connections with their animals. Take my ex-roomie, who owned a cat named Punky.
This guy swore she was the sweetest, most affectionate cat ever. I always wanted to ask him whether that was before or after he fed her the methamphetamines, put her on the mirrored floor of the funhouse and played a loop of the "Been Caught Stealing" song by Jane's Addiction at top decibel. This cat was mean-spirited, vicious, and the few times she did cuddle, she bit me and slashed open my hand.
Thus Punky learned one valuable lesson - and one that Niq (the Siamese) learned long before. Opening a flesh wound in the hand that feeds you food or lets you in the front door? Bad idea. Letting the owner of said hand catch you after you've opened the hand? Worse idea.
When Adam came home he asked what I'd done to Punky. And in truth, all I'd done was wrap her in a towel once I caught her, lock her in his room, and not let her out - due to the fact that I didn't want another flesh wound.
It's the same with dogs and kids. Miracles are universal, folks. Your kid's fingerpaintings are NOT Picasso or Pollack. Your dog uses its tongue for toilet paper.
Get Fuzzy, at least, has a cat who has some form of character. Garfield is not a character. He's not got anything but recognition in comic strips.
Please dear god let this crap die a painful, inglorious death. Couldn't we make a damn Rainbow Brite movie or something about Transformers or maybe even...I don't know, a remake of The Penis Monologues? Garfield is just another cat. Another lame cat. A fat cat. None of these things are funny.
A cat that pees on a live electric wire right after it's been neutered, though...
That's funny as hell.
I am arming a posse now. We will bring the guns, the knives, the diarrhetic babies, the mad cows and the sane cows. WE WILL BURN 20th Century Fox to THE GROUND!
Then, perhaps, we shall be rid of the pestilence that is Garfield.
Seriously. The guy who drew this should have been put out to pasture years ago. No movies. No deals. No bloody animatronic cats. No dancing felines. No cartoons. I will NOT own an orange stripe tabby for these reasons. EVER.
My own cat? Fat. Lazy. Blue-eyed Siamese. Eats asparagus, broccoli, tortilla chips, tuna water (not fish) and wolfs through $50/lb cheese in a single bite (a mistake both of us regretted - both in the pocketbook and the litterbox.
BUT HE'S A CAT. Every cat owner thinks their cat is special, that they have personalities and marvelous connections with their animals. Take my ex-roomie, who owned a cat named Punky.
This guy swore she was the sweetest, most affectionate cat ever. I always wanted to ask him whether that was before or after he fed her the methamphetamines, put her on the mirrored floor of the funhouse and played a loop of the "Been Caught Stealing" song by Jane's Addiction at top decibel. This cat was mean-spirited, vicious, and the few times she did cuddle, she bit me and slashed open my hand.
Thus Punky learned one valuable lesson - and one that Niq (the Siamese) learned long before. Opening a flesh wound in the hand that feeds you food or lets you in the front door? Bad idea. Letting the owner of said hand catch you after you've opened the hand? Worse idea.
When Adam came home he asked what I'd done to Punky. And in truth, all I'd done was wrap her in a towel once I caught her, lock her in his room, and not let her out - due to the fact that I didn't want another flesh wound.
It's the same with dogs and kids. Miracles are universal, folks. Your kid's fingerpaintings are NOT Picasso or Pollack. Your dog uses its tongue for toilet paper.
Get Fuzzy, at least, has a cat who has some form of character. Garfield is not a character. He's not got anything but recognition in comic strips.
Please dear god let this crap die a painful, inglorious death. Couldn't we make a damn Rainbow Brite movie or something about Transformers or maybe even...I don't know, a remake of The Penis Monologues? Garfield is just another cat. Another lame cat. A fat cat. None of these things are funny.
A cat that pees on a live electric wire right after it's been neutered, though...
That's funny as hell.
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