It figures. I make a point of getting up early, so I'll stop missing the bus, so I'll actually be on time for work (early, even!) without having to run from the T stop... and my bus doesn't show up. I know I didn't miss it, because I was out at the stop at 7:20, five minutes before it was supposed to arrive. When the next bus came along at 7:35, it was absolutely packed. Standing room only. usually my bus is nice and empty in the morning. So I could have taken my time drinking my coffee and watching the news, and I could have petted the cat instead of shooing her away, and it wouldn't have made a bit of difference.
I'm actually busy this morning -- the semester begins tomorrow, so we have piles of stuff to do to get ready. So here's some stuff to read, from the fine folks at Salon.com...
Child porn or family photos? Print labs are calling the cops on people for photos of naked kids in the bathtub, and such. Hmmm, I think there are photos like that in just about every family's albums...
And there's a furor going on over an article Dan Savage wrote about volunteering for Gary Bauer's campaign. Personally, I thought the article was funny. But then, I didn't take it anywhere near as seriously as these folks did. What do you think? Send me email!
Lee, Patrick, and I discovered an apparent portal to Hell last night. I'm tempted to call that "Sightings" show and have them come investigate, because the horrors we saw last night are just too unreal.
It all started pleasantly enough. We had all been planning to go see The Cider House Rules for about three weeks, and finally were able to get together last night. I met Lee and Patrick in the mall across from where they work, and we went hunting for birthday cards for some of Patrick's friends. The plan was, we would get the cards, go get some dinner, and then head to the Good Times Emporium in Somerville, where Patrick's friends were having a combined birthday party. None of us had ever been to the Good Times Emporium -- I had been past it a few times, and had heard rumors that it was a bit seedy, but I was completely unprepared for the reality of it.
We went to dinner at Pizzeria Uno, where, instead of calling your name or giving you a pager that buzzes when your table is ready, they give you this cool little coaster that lights up. And regardless of what Patrick says, I did NOT set off the coaster -- yes, I was poking at it, and it lit up and startled me, but I didn't set it off. I swear. Well, maybe I did, but hey, we got seated really fast.
When we got to the strip mall where the Good Times is located, the parking lot was jammed. There were small herds of suburban gangsta kids milling around, and a line of people waiting to go in. From the outside, it looks like a smallish arcade -- a grown-up Chuck E. Cheese, as Patrick described it. We debated even going in for a minute -- the line worried us, and we didn't know if there was a cover charge. But we decided to at least try to find Patrick's friends -- at least we had already eaten dinner, so we wouldn't have to stay long. We braved the crowds and went inside. Just inside the door were three huge, brawny bouncers... that was made me a little nervous. Why, I wondered, would they need three bouncers with biceps bigger than my head? "You drinkin' tonight?" one of them barked at me -- I assume he took my yelp of fright as a no. We ventured inside to find Patrick's friends.
The Good Times Emporium is mind-bogglingly big. It's easily the size of a football field. It's big, and dark, and grimy. And the smell... cigarette smoke you could cut with a knife, beer, sweat, cheap cologne, and vomit, all blended into one thick, vile stench. I initially couldn't see anything, because my contact lenses got a whiff of the air and tried to crawl back into my skull to save themselves. The first thing I saw when my vision cleared was a group of middle-aged men with mullet haircuts, in acid-washed, pegged jeans and wife-beater undershirts. I made the mistake of making eye contact with one of them. He leered and winked, and I decided the safest course of action would be to latch onto Laurie's sleeve and keep my eyes on the floor. Herds of women with hair the size of Volkswagons, and makeup apparently applied with a paint roller. Crowds of people chugging Bud Ice and trying to get lucky. We shuffled through the building, looking for Patrick's friends and trying not to touch anything. We didn't find them, which was a good thing -- we might have had to stay. After one quick pass through the place, we headed for the door and fresh air. We spent the whole ride to the movie theater shuddering and whimpering, scarred from the experience.
I honestly can't figure out the appeal of a place like that. Who would find that place fun? It's dark and smelly. It's like a warehouse in the garbage dump. It's AWFUL. And yet there were so many people there, and they all really seemed to want to be there. We were very happy to settle into our seats in the nice new theater, with our sodas and Sno-Caps... although every now and then, Patrick would mumble "I don't know, this is nice, but it's no Good Times Emporium!"
The Cider House Rules was brilliant. There wasn't a thing about it I didn't like, and I'm generally very critical of movie versions of my favorite books. I usually refuse to see movie adaptations, but since John Irving wrote the screenplay, I figured it would have to be good, and it was perfect. The characters even looked the way I had envisioned them when I read the book. If you haven't seen it, go. Go now. Stop reading, and go this instant.
It's a lot more peaceful around here today. The firemen were still hosing down the house across the street this morning. No one was hurt -- all 20 people who lived there got out safely, which is amazing, given the speed and intensity of the fire. People were carrying loads of clothing and such out of the first floor today, and the fire marshall has been investigating.
There really isn't much more to say, today. Patrick and Lee and I are going to see The Cider House Rules tonight. I love John Irving, and since he wrote the screenplay, I've been itching to see it. At the moment, the cat is sleeping in her favorite chair, and Barry is playing Playstation (Pocket Fighter), and I'm having some tea. I did my taxes this morning (because that's the glamorous life I lead) and my refund should be big enough for me to buy us a new bed. Hurrah! We're sleeping on a rickety futon now.
I'm going to read the paper, and see what they say about the fire. It still smells very strongly of smoke in here, and our street is still closed. But the fire trucks have all gone home, and it's much quieter here.
Extra entry for today -- the house across the street from ours burned to the ground this evening. The firemen are still there -- our shades are drawn, but the floodlights and flashers are still lighting up our apartment. I can't sleep, I'm still shaking.
Barry got called into work to fix a problem for a client. He got in a cab at around nine o'clock. I saw him off, and then decided a glass of wine would be nice -- I'd do my taxes, have some wine, read my book, and generally just relax. So I got all wrapped up and headed out to the liquor store a block away. As I reached our corner, I saw a woman come out of the big three-story apartment house across the street. I noticed she was just in sweatpants and a t-shirt, no shoes. I thought it was odd -- it's near zero tonight, with a wind chill. But she looked at me, then turned away and knocked on her neighbor's front door. I went on my way, figuring she was just popping in to visit her neighbor. I got my wine, and walked home -- no more than five minutes had passed. As I neared my street, a fire truck passed me, and turned, and stopped right across from my house. I thought it was a false alarm; I hadn't seen any fire, or smelled smoke, and there are false alarms a lot in our area. But as I turned the corner, I saw a haze around the street lights. I noticed a faint smell, like someone had been burning leaves. Then I heard screaming. The woman I had seen was on her porch, surrounded by firemen, and she was screaming that her children were inside, and she hadn't been able to get to them. I saw my neighbor running up the street toward me, asking what was wrong. We looked at the back of the house, and saw smoke bleeding through the wall. The next thing I saw was flames shooting out of the windows. In less than ten minutes, the entire back half of the house was engulfed. Firemen were pulling people away from the house, people were screaming and crying, fire engines were pulling in... I ran indoors and grabbed blankets, sweatshirts, anything warm to give the people who had run outdoors hardly dressed, but by the time I got back outside they had been taken indoors by neighbors. The family next door to us carried an elderly woman in her wheelchair up their steps and inside. By that point the house next to the one burning had started to smolder, and the woman who lived there was standing in the street crying. I think the firemen saved it. There may just be some roof damage, and probably quite a lot of water damage.
It was very windy, and a few gusts carried embers across the street toward us. Barry and I live on the first floor -- it's a three story house, and each floor is an apartment. The woman who lives on the first floor came downstairs and we huddled together on the porch, watching. I called Barry at work and told him what was happening, and he came home as quickly as he could. I can't believe how fast the house burned. Within half an hour it was a five-alarm fire, with firemen from Everett, Chelsea, Malden, Somerville and MassPort all there.
Everyone got out of the house safely. Barry asked the paramedics, and they told him everyone was fine. There are rumors that a space heater started the fire in the kids bedroom. I'm so glad they got everyone out. The people lost everything, but they're all safe.
The fire would die down, and it would seem to be nearly over, and then in just an instant the flames would be roaring again, coming out all the windows in huge jets. At one point, the flames leaped up and all of the fire trucks all up and down the streeet simultaneously blew their horns, over and over. It was deafening, and the flames were blinding. My neighbor ran inside and called her father, who is a retired fireman. he told her the horns were the signal that the building was too unsafe, and the firemen were to all come out.
The trucks will be there all night. My cat is terrified -- when I came inside to get warm she tried to crawl up the leg of my jeans. Barry is trying to get some rest. I can't sleep yet. I have horrible dreams of the house burning down -- I've had them for years. I hated feeling so helpless watching those poor people lose their home. There was nothing I could do to help except stay out of the way. My hair and clothes reek of smoke, and my lungs are stinging. But no one was hurt, and the fire seems to be out now. I can see the house from the window where I'm sitting, and the roof is sill smoldering. But it's under control. I'm just a little shaken, and I feel so bad for the people who lived there.
The temperature at Logan Airport this morning was 9 degrees, with a wind chill of about -20. That was the first thing I heard when my alarm went off this morning. Really inspired me to leap out of my nice warm blanket-cocoon and take on the day!
Can you sense the sarcasm there? What it actually inspired me to do was grumble a whole lot, get into my warm fleecy robe and the slippers my mom gave me for Christmas (shaped like big bear paws -- the cat is afraid of them) and take my coffee and crawl under the blanket on the couch. At least I didn't miss the bus this morning.
When I got to work there were two bogus email petitions (no, I don't believe Bill Gates is going to give me money if I send this chain letter to everyone I know, and I don't belive that forwarding a chain letter to nine or ten or eighty-two people will make my wishes come true...) and one email begging for help finding a missing child -- an urban legend email forwarded to me, on my library email, by a librarian. Argh. It was forwarded to a large library-staff emailing list, and I did get a small degree of satisfaction out of seeing all the annoyed responses. I know some of the urban legend stuff is easy to fall for, but this one just reeked of phoniness. And I'd hoped a librarian would think to check it out before forwarding it to everyone he knew.
Hmmm... it seems I'm in a mood to rant this morning. Salon.com has another interesting article on the chaos surrounding Elian Gonzalez. I'm trying hard to stay off my soapbox this morning, but this whole thing makes me a bit sick. A little kid who saw his mother and stepfather drown, who nearly died himself, who went through something no six-year-old should ever have to endure, has been turned into a little political marionette, and it's sickening. I started changing the channel when the news would show Elian being shown "what would be his school, if he were allowed to stay in the U.S." -- the school was filled with balloons and cameras and all sorts of festivities, all for him. He's been introduced to celebrities who fawn over him. He's been taken to Disneyland. He's been manipulated for weeks now, and for what? He has family in Cuba too, a father who by all accounts is a good parent who loves his son. What right does anyone have to decide that this little boy can't be reunited with his father? And it the media frenzy here really better for him than going home would be?
Okay, I'm done now. I'm sure some of you will disagree, and that's cool. Email me and tell me what you think.
My morning went something like this:
3:32 a.m. Awakened by cat racing around the house. Put pillow over head and go back to sleep.
3:40 a.m. Awakened by cat reaching up over the side of the bed and punching me in the nose. Whack cat with pillow. Cat decides this is a neat new game and comes back for more.
3:43 a.m. Give up on sleeping, get up and feed the evil cat.
3:47 a.m. "Yes, Smoke, you're a good cat. Yes, I still love you. Please go away."
4:00 a.m. Alarm goes off. Barry has to go to work very very early today.
4:04 a.m. "Honey, are you awake?" "Mmmmph."
4:09 a.m. "Barry, wake up." "Snort."
4:12 a.m. "Barry, you're going to be late. Wake up!" Barry gets up, after giving me a nice sleepy hug. Aww.
4:30 a.m. Cat demands to know why I'm still in bed.
4:32 a.m. Cat decides bed is a pretty nice place to be.
5:50 a.m. Alarm... loud, loud, loud alarm...
6:00 a.m. Finally convince myself that I'm really not sick at all, and therefore I have no excuse to stay home today.
6:00-6:15 a.m. Eat breakfast, then zone out with coffee.
6:30 a.m. "Oh crap, I'm late..." Leap into shower, scrub scrub...
6:40 a.m. Turn off shower, wondering why I have a nagging sense that I've forgotten something. Realize I forgot to wash my hair. Get back in shower.
6:45 a.m. "Aw, nice cat. No, I don't want to play with your fur mousie. Thanks for asking."
6:47 a.m. "Well, okay, we'll play, but just for a minute..."
7:10 a.m. "YIKES! No more playing!"
7:15 a.m. Frantic dressing and toothbrushing.
7:20 a.m. Hear bus go by. Swear quietly.
7:25 a.m. Realize it's very difficult to lace Doc Martens with a cat in your face. It's even harder with a cat dangling from the laces.
7:30 a.m. Decide tying boots really isn't all that important anyway. Rush outside just in time to see next bus roll on by. Swear loudly.
I got to work 15 minutes late, which is unusual for me. I hate being late -- I especially hate it when I arrive to find my boss lurking just inside the door, waiting to grill me on why I'm late. And it's not like I really had a good reason for being late, I just couldn't get moving this morning. I stayed up too late last night (I have insomnia, and I've found that the only thing that keeps me from lying in bed staring at the ceiling all night is staying up late, until I'm really sleepy. But that means I'm a zombie in the morning.) and the cat was being all cute while I was trying to get ready for work. But "My cat was being cute" isn't really a good excuse to give your boss, now is it?
It was nice to check my email this morning and find messages from people who read yesterday's rather lame entry -- Patrick linked to me (yay!) this morning, and some people followed the link. I do love getting email, and I'm curious as to how many people are actually going to look at this site. So please do email me, and let me know what you think, and whether I should keep this little experiment going. Okay?
Well. This is a new thing for me. I've pondered creating an online journal for quite a while, and figured some experimentation was in order. Now, the thing I was afraid of happening IS happening -- I'm sitting here watching the cursor go blink...blink...blink... and I can't think of anything sparkling or witty or the slightest bit interesting to say. So. I'll tell you a bit about me, then.
I'm 27. I grew up all over the Midwest -- my Dad got bored a lot, apparently, so we moved a lot. Being the new kid in school sucks, and it sucks even more when you're the new kid every %$#@&* year. We finally settled in Vermont, so that's where I went to high school. I went to school in Boston
I work at MIT
I got married a couple of months ago. I'm much happier about that than I seem, here.
A small start is better than no start at all. I read a whole lot of online journals. Patrick is a friend of mine, and a damn fine writer. The journals I read are so good that I wanted to make one of my own, but that's also a very intimidating reason -- I can't hope to be as funny as Pamie or as whip-smart as Beth but hey, it's worth a try.