Ah, blogger's back up. It's been most frustrating the last few days. But the spellcheck doesn't seem to be working. Drat.
Wet Hot Meatballs was everything I could have hoped and dreamed it would be: Wacky camp hijinx, authority being questioned, kooky camp directors, Evil Anonymous Rich Kids Camp, controlled substances, lovesick geeks gettin' some, and a quality soundtrack. Actually, the soundtrack to Meatballs was cheesy in the extreme, but it's somewhat terrifying to realize that I still know pretty much all the lyrics to the opening song ("Are you ready for the summer....") and the campfire song ("We are the CITs, so pity us...."). What else could my brain be doing with that space? The world may never know.
I got all excited when I got home today because there was a check-type letter from the federal government. I ripped it open, only to find much, much less money than I had been promised. I was on the verge of calling the accountant in hysterics when I looked at the address. Oh. Oops. It's for my former tenant. She already got one, so I figured this one had to be mine. Sorry, Ann.
And dammit, I want my gum'mint money!
To add to my "this neighborhood is wacky" file, there's a large Animal Control van parked out near the crackhouse on our block. (Sorry, alleged crackhouse.) I haven't seen anyone there for probably a couple of weeks, so I had been thinking everything had cleared up. However, the guy who owns the place has about five little long-haired Chihuahuas. Being the apocalyptic sort of person that I am, I immediatly started thinking that something had gone horribly wrong with the owner, and he was lying dead on the floor with the Chihuahuas munching on him. I really hope that's not the case, because (1) I wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even the owner of the crackhouse; (2) I really don't think that would be good for the dogs; (3) I was just starting to convnce people that our neighborhood was really getting better; and (4) I don't need anymore fuel for my own little paranoid fantasy that I'll be dead in my house for several weeks, cats gnawing on my body, before anyone notices.
Why, yes, I was an imaginative child. What do you mean, that might not have been a good thing?
Great. Now Mongo is sitting at my feet, and I'm getting very antsy. Guh.
Promise me that when/if I turn into the scary old cat lady, you'll all get together and call at least once a week to make sure I'm still alive? Thanks.
Wow. That's cheery.
Um, sweet dreams.
Wet Hot Meatballs was everything I could have hoped and dreamed it would be: Wacky camp hijinx, authority being questioned, kooky camp directors, Evil Anonymous Rich Kids Camp, controlled substances, lovesick geeks gettin' some, and a quality soundtrack. Actually, the soundtrack to Meatballs was cheesy in the extreme, but it's somewhat terrifying to realize that I still know pretty much all the lyrics to the opening song ("Are you ready for the summer....") and the campfire song ("We are the CITs, so pity us...."). What else could my brain be doing with that space? The world may never know.
I got all excited when I got home today because there was a check-type letter from the federal government. I ripped it open, only to find much, much less money than I had been promised. I was on the verge of calling the accountant in hysterics when I looked at the address. Oh. Oops. It's for my former tenant. She already got one, so I figured this one had to be mine. Sorry, Ann.
And dammit, I want my gum'mint money!
To add to my "this neighborhood is wacky" file, there's a large Animal Control van parked out near the crackhouse on our block. (Sorry, alleged crackhouse.) I haven't seen anyone there for probably a couple of weeks, so I had been thinking everything had cleared up. However, the guy who owns the place has about five little long-haired Chihuahuas. Being the apocalyptic sort of person that I am, I immediatly started thinking that something had gone horribly wrong with the owner, and he was lying dead on the floor with the Chihuahuas munching on him. I really hope that's not the case, because (1) I wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even the owner of the crackhouse; (2) I really don't think that would be good for the dogs; (3) I was just starting to convnce people that our neighborhood was really getting better; and (4) I don't need anymore fuel for my own little paranoid fantasy that I'll be dead in my house for several weeks, cats gnawing on my body, before anyone notices.
Why, yes, I was an imaginative child. What do you mean, that might not have been a good thing?
Great. Now Mongo is sitting at my feet, and I'm getting very antsy. Guh.
Promise me that when/if I turn into the scary old cat lady, you'll all get together and call at least once a week to make sure I'm still alive? Thanks.
Wow. That's cheery.
Um, sweet dreams.
posted by SAJ at
9:05 PM
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