Today

Remember.

Just remember.

SPELCHK

Funny how the best vacation picture didn't happen until I got home.

UPDATE: I went to the Personalized Plate Search on Nevada's DMV site. As Cullen predicted, the correct spelling was taken. Which makes this guy even more of this:



Or this:



Or maybe this:



By the way, those plates are all available. Really and truly.

In the name of all that's holy . . .

. . . like, say, the memory of Jackie Robinson, DON'T LET HIM DO IT!

The cheating cockroach bastard Barry B*nds has a chance to tie and break Hank Aaron's home run record at Dodger Stadium. The demon spawn are bringing their particularly vile stench to Chavez Ravine for a three-game series. And chances are, the cheater will pop a couple over the outfield fence.

DAMN IT.

The guys at Dodger Blues indulge in a little wishful thinking:

While Ned Colletti spends the next day or two trying to figure out how to fuck up the team's future, Dodger fans will be preparing for the arrival of an even more offensive creature: Barry Bonds. I've been going back and forth about the timing of this. On the one hand, the thought of seeing this asshole in orange possibly break baseball's most prized record on our soil is completely nauseating. On the other hand, what better way to ruin his moment than to have 55,000 Dodger fans telling the world what a cockface he is. And what better way than this for one lucky fan to say cockface: throw the ball back. I can't imagine that anyone would actually have the balls to do it, and frankly it would take incredible stupidity as well, but we're talking about the bleachers, so you never know. I do know this, though: I'd wet my goddamn pants and put that fan on a pedestal. Or at least send them a free shirt.

I wish, at the very least, the Dodgers would walk him every single at-bat.

Just give the cheater a big, fat, "not in my house, asshole."

I wish.

Woo-HOOOOO!

This makes me so HAPPY:
Depp plumbs vampire depths

LOS ANGELES, July 27 (UPI) -- Johnny Depp said he hopes to trade pirate's garb for medieval clothing of undead Barnabas Collins in Hollywood's take on the campy serial "Dark Shadows."

Depp's Infinitum-Nihil company is teaming with Warner Bros. and Graham King's GK Films to develop a feature based on the daytime supernatural soap opera, Variety reported Friday.

In interviews Depp said he wanted to portray Collins, the series' vampire patriarch originated by Jonathan Frid.

A rights deal just closed with the estate of Dan Curtis, the producer-director who created the ABC daytime drama that aired 1966-1971. Depp and King will produce with David Kennedy, who ran Dan Curtis Prods. until Curtis died last year of a brain tumor.

"Dark Shadows" achieved cult status as an atmospheric gothic tale of vampires, monsters, witches, werewolves, ghosts -- and humans -- that featured time travel and parallel universes during its run. The storyline has been the basis for two movies filmed in the 1970s.

How much fun will this be? Really. Now, I'm going to be casting the rest of the thing in my head.

Rest now, good boy

Dog that searched for 9/11, Katrina victims dies

With all the terrible things in the world, all the death, it's always something like this that reduces me to tears.

‘A world-class rescue dog’
[Mary] Flood adopted Jake as a 10-month-old puppy. He had been abandoned on a street with a broken leg and a dislocated hip.

“But against all odds he became a world-class rescue dog,” said Flood, a member of Utah Task Force 1, a federal search-and-rescue team that looked for human remains at ground zero.

On the evening of the team’s arrival in New York, Jake walked into a fancy Manhattan restaurant wearing his search-and-rescue vest and was treated to a free steak dinner under a table.

There's more, but this is my favorite part of the story. Some sub-human creep abandoned this poor thing and he was adopted, knit together, loved and gave all he could in return.

Of course, I have a real soft spot for rescues and especially retrievers. But to me, dogs are an example of what's right with the world. And this sweetheart, good ol' Jake, was a truly excellent boy. So when the world loses a Jake, I feel totally okay with getting a little misty and feeling a little loss.

On this day 38 years ago

My mom propped me up in front of the TV so I could watch the moon landing. I was all of three months old, still in the blob stage, so I obviously don't remember a bit of it. But I completely appreciate my mom's impulse. She wanted me to see it, wanted me, in all my drooling apathy, to witness something world-changing.

Thanks, Mom.

I'm so full of love and gratitude that I'll post my favorite thing commemorating the day:

Meme Chain

Lifted from Cullen.

Questions
1. Situation ::
2. Theme song ::
3. Kelly ::
4. Club ::
5. Swerve ::
6. Couch ::
7. Bigfoot ::
8. Arbitrary ::
9. Inventor ::
10. Blazer ::

Answers
1. Situation :: Dire
2. Theme song :: Try
3. Kelly :: Staffing Services
4. Club :: Head
5. Swerve :: or I'll hit you
6. Couch :: Balls (heh, that's just where Hugo hides all his tennis balls. Under the couch.)
7. Bigfoot :: Chupacabra
8. Arbitrary :: Punishment
9. Inventor :: Edison
10. Blazer :: Professor

Yeah. Doesn't make sense to me, either.

Poltergeist

So my friend Michael and I were talking about the movie Poltergeist. The upshot was that they say one thing in the movie an awful lot. In the spirit of the great Lebowski edit, Michael put this together:

A special PSA

I found this on Fark and realized that it was really relevant to us all. Especially Emily.

Cay Crow: Groping is never appropriate, even with costumed characters

Web Posted: 07/13/2007 06:01 PM CDT

San Antonio Express-News

Here is a surprising response to the frotteurism (nonconsensual groping) column that ran on March 17. A collection of readers' responses ran on May 26.

Dear Cay,

I would just like to share my own groping story with you. It's not quite like the others, but it is equally disturbing.

I am a costume character at a well-known theme park. Since it is a performance, I have to stay in character. That means when people ask me if I am a boy (and all of our characters are), I have to say yes (we are not allowed to speak).

Very rude people, always adults and older teenagers say, "I bet you aren't!" and proceed to try to grope and feel whether or not I have breasts. I have been told by some that it "comes with the territory" of my job, but when I informed my manager, he said that it was completely inappropriate and next time it happened, I have every right to inform security and have these people escorted off the premises.

Cay, this is not only men who do this! Women do it as well! And it upset me very much. I am sure that they would not like it if I were to go grabbing right back at them!

I have had people escorted out of the park for doing this with no refund. And I am not afraid of doing it again! I understand that there will always be idiots out there but there will be consequences!

— Obviously Anonymous

Dear OA:

I am so sorry that this happened to you but I am thrilled that your manager is having those animals removed from the park.

OK, San Antonio and surrounding areas, you have been warned! I just can't believe that people could be so insensitive and crude. In this country, we are violently opposed to people frotteurizing our children yet we tolerate nonconsensual frotteurism in adults? That just makes no sense. And who do you think is hanging out at the theme park with mom and dad? What does this behavior, even toward a cartoon character, teach children?

I suspect that some of these folks groping cartoon characters are either "plushies" people with strong attachments to stuffed animals or "furries," individuals who are drawn to furry cartoon characters. Not all plushies or furries gain sexual gratification from the practice. Many just enjoy anthropomorphizing (giving human traits to) animals. Within this community, there is a specific term, a "furvert" for the individuals who groped you indicating, presumably, their sexual attraction to a mascot. Plushies actually prefer the feel of stuffed animals to human skin and furries feel the same about mascots. Some of these individuals actually feel as if they are a particular animal trapped in a human body. Others fantasize about being either half human and half animal or about being a hybrid animal like a griffin (half eagle and half lion). Their favorite greeting is to groom or "skritch" each other. But even the furries skritch each other consensually!

Check out the article at www.pressedfur.coolfreepages.com/press/vanityfair.

"Furverts"? Wow. Love it.

Years ago, I was at Disneyland with Shannon C., the lovely proprietor of "I'm Seriously, Dammit!" (which I just now saw is defunct. Crap, Shanny! I'll call soon!). There, I was frotteured by Donald Duck. He/she/it also tried "kissing" me with its fuzzy bill and instead deep-throated my entire head.

So what is it when a normal person is nonconsensually groped by a mascot? I'll tell you.

Just plain fucking creepy.

Meet Hugo

The blur of fur. He's my adopted year-old Golden, from the local rescue.

Healing after Cassie is still slow. I know Hugo won't replace her. Nothing can. But this boy needed love and a home and I have both to give. My son adores him and so do I.

Soon, we'll start obedience training. Though I don't know too much of his history (as is the case with most rescues), we can tell he was probably bullied by another dog. But my goodness, he's sweet-natured. I can't believe his first owner didn't want him. Their loss. Our gain.

Hugo's tall, gangly, awkward and has a short attention span -- like the typical teenager. He hoards tennis balls and is wonderful to take on walks. He sleeps by the side of the bed and wakes in the morning with his tail beating the floor, wanting much petting. He kisses profusely and loves hugs. His eyes get both sad and hopeful, all the same time. He lives to have you talk to him, touch him or just appreciate that he's there. The poor thing is underweight, but good food will fix that.

He craves closeness. Whoever's on the move, he's there as a shadow. Doing laundry, cooking, cleaning, he's there. Wherever Conor goes, he has an escort. And if we're off in two different directions, Hugo's torn. Who to follow?

In short, Hugo is part of the family. And we're so happy to have him.

Trip Interlude: Squirrels are suicidal

What is it about these little creeps?

I was speeding (yes, speeding -- and I have the ticket to prove it) out of the Owens Valley into Death Valley. There wasn't a single car there other than me. And then waaaaaay up ahead, I saw the little speck dart to the middle of the road. So I took my foot off the gas. I gripped the wheel. I was closing in fast, and I didn't know how this was going to work out.

If I hit it, I'd turn it into a smear. If I swerved, I'd run the risk of going off the road.

So I began cursing at it.

"Get OFF the ROAD you lousy little son of a BITCH. Get OFF. DON'T make me KILL you, YOU STUPID STUPID MOTHERCOCKSUCKING BASTARD."

Like that would work.

And then it skittered back to the very center of my lane.

Very carefully, I aligned the car. Fine. If the damn thing had a death wish, I was going to help out as little as possible (you thought I was going to try to smush it, didn't you?). Instead, I set up to straddle the little beast. At 60 miles an hour. He stayed perfectly still and beadily watched me bear down on him. I held my breath, white-knuckled the steering wheel and whoosh! I was over and past him.

And when I looked into my rearview mirror, I saw his fuzzy gray body airborne and rolling like a frickin' stock car that got bumped and lost it in the turn. The tail whipped like one of those jaunty corkscrew windsocks.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After all, I didn't know if I'd saved him, killed him, or -- now that I think about it this is worst of all -- maimed him and left him to die in the road.

Best intentions gone astray, I believe. But it was him or me. And I had the car.

Poor little shit.

Two-and-a-half cases (Part 1 of the trip)

Wine. That's how much I brought home on Sunday, not how much I drank.

I think I may have only been personally responsible for half a case, between tastings and dinners and such. Not to mention the post-golf beers and the vodka tonics.

Zowie.

Before I get into some of the specifics, I have to endlessly praise three vineyards: Terre Rouge/Easton, Twisted Oak, and Hatcher. Oh, there was much loveliness in their cool, damp, dim tasting rooms. If you can find any of their beauties on your local wine list, by all means drink up. You won't go wrong.

If you're interested in more detailed recommendations, drop me a line. I'll be happy to point you toward the real goodies.

Miles and I took off on Thursday morning and drove up US-95 through the dicey Nevada ex-boomtowns of Beatty, Goldfield and Tonopah. Each has its mining past, and each is now populated with hangers-on with very little to hang on to. Don't get me wrong. I've seen many small towns, past their prime, where I would love to live. In these Nevada towns, though, the air is hot, dusty, and there's little interest in preserving their rich histories. On each main drag, the century-old hotels were side-by-side with rundown cottages and dirt lots filled with rusted-out junk.

It was so sad, and so Nevada. Out of all the places I've been, Nevada (because of all its open space, maybe? is everything here disposable because you can just pick up and go somewhere nicer and newer?) is the least interested in preservation. Las Vegas implodes its old buildings. The rural towns just let time do its work.

Out of Tonopah, we began climbing. Mountain ranges seemed to come, one after another. One was full of yucca trees. Another was studded with gorgeous, indestructible Bristlecone pines. Not long after, we were heading up to Tioga Pass and over into Yosemite.

Here's how much of a National Forest geek I am: even those brown signs with place names and arrows make me happy. "Tuolumne Meadows," "Tenaya Lake," "Tamarack Flat," all in that soothing, rich cocoa color. It couldn't have been more than 80 degrees outside, and Miles and I gratefully rolled down our windows. Forest air is one of my favorite things of all. Cool, dense, fresh . . . so lovely. I pulled out the camera and wildly snapped photos. We'll have to see if any came out. I do think I was able to catch the backside of Half Dome.

Once out of the park, it was another haul to hook up with Highway 49, the road that cuts through the middle of Gold Country.

49? Get it? 49ers? Ha.

Gold Country landscape is really strange. Very hilly -- hills are rolling all over the place -- and every hill is covered in a combination of these things: tall, golden grasses; bright green vineyards; scrubby trees; horses; and cows. Honestly, with those crazy gold grasses, the whole region looks like tinder. And yet, this is some of the richest ground anywhere. It's dark, fragrant and fertile.

I noticed this when I saw the gardens in each little town. Everything was flowering -- the shrubs, the trees, vines clinging everywhere –- all these colors just popping out. For a desert girl, this is exotica.

So it's no wonder I love this area. Each old mining town has tried to preserve its historic district. Now, the tiny buildings house shops and antique stores and restaurants. They thrive. And in every spare corner, dripping from every fence, hanging from the rooftops, something is alive and growing and gorgeous.

Later that evening, I stood outside the back door of the Iron Horse Saloon in Sonora. The hills rose above town and I could see a brick-red church steeple. Those golden grasses were even more, well, golden. The trees were dark, whispery greens. There was, of all things, a "Shannon's Barber Shop" across the street right next door to a wine bar, and I had a nice, easy buzz on.

And that's how we started our vacation.

I'm leaving

Again, you ask? But Shannon, dearest, you just got back.

Oh, but this time I'm going on a little trip. Tomorrow morning, Miles and I will be taking my little Honda Fit up to Sonora, CA. This is Gold Country, where all the 49ers came to make their fortune. Today, there's less mining and more wining.

(groan)

Every year, we head up to this lovely part of the world, covered in small towns and small Zinfandel wineries, for a golf tournament called the Wine Bottle Open. The tournament is, thank heavens, a Best Ball format. Which means that I don't have to play my real score. Which is often un-countable because, at the more difficult times during the round, I'll pick up my ball and throw it where it's supposed to go. It's really more efficient that way, even if it is illegal.

The main point of the weekend is to go on wine tastings in an area much more laid-back than Napa, drink in some 150-year-old saloons, and hang out with a lot of good people.

So off I go. Back Sunday. Regaining consciousness Monday.

Have a great weekend.

Can't. Stop. Laughing.

Like, Oh My GAWD!

I'm famous.

Not FAMOUS famous. Not even mildly famous. But I have an IMDB credit for my work on my friend Michael's short film.

It's screening at CineVegas this week, so on Wednesday afternoon, I'll be sitting in a movie theater cringing at the sound of my own voice, reproduced in big, blazing surround. Wheeeeeee!

You can check out more on the movie here:

The Bet main page

The Bet MySpace page

Anything happen while I was gone?

Two weeks ago, my laptop took a big, steaming dump. Stupid thing.

Much as I would have LOVED to just buy a new one, such things aren't possible. But, Apple was nice about it (shockingly enough). For a flat fee of $300, I got a new logic board and a new AirPort card -- repairs that, if I'd tried to have some "authorized reseller" do them, would have cost me almost $1,000.

Sometimes, when something sucks to a much smaller degree than you anticipated, you can feel really lucky.

And now I'm here, on my couch, happily typing away.

Normalcy is seeping back. Boy, am I happy to see it.

Hemangiosarcoma

That's the monster that took my Cassie from me this morning.

Her spleen had ruptured, and she'd been bleeding internally all night. She couldn't have withstood surgery. She was a 10-year-old Golden Retriever, and the breed's #1 killer is cancer.

She was my companion, my baby, and one of the largest joys in my life. At 10:30 this morning, she died with her head in my lap, much like she'd spent most of her time with me.

I've dealt with the death of people I loved. People who raised me. And yet, this pain is unsupportable. My pupski. My pain in the ass. My constant that, I always knew, wouldn't be so constant.

They go before you. I know that. But now, as I put away her food dishes, beds, bones and toys and struggle to sweep up all that blonde hair, I have a gaping wound inside me.

Here is a picture from just last year, after she'd laid in the backyard sprinklers and then came in to dry off. I laughed so hard. I loved her so much.



Goodbye, my girl.

The Art Director's Pain . . .

. . . set to music.

The Copywriter's equivalent? Exclamation points. Whenever something I wrote comes back from the client riddled with exclamation points (or, as we call them around my office, dog cocks), I want to scream.

For example, I'll do something like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000.

It'll come back like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000!!

Was the $300,000 not exciting enough before? And why two dog cocks? Does that literally double your excitement at the prospect of $300,000? Maybe getting you $600,000 worth?

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't need to scream at people to get your point across. And if you need to yell that loudly, then your product isn't that great to begin with.



So there!!

Um . . .

Listerine rinse recalled for contamination

Isn't this stuff supposed to KILL GERMS?

And so it begins

When Steve Sax threw out the first pitch and didn't throw it into the stands, you could tell it was going to be a long day.

So the Dodgers' opening weekend sweep of San Francisco was probably the last best moments of the whole season. At least I know what to expect.

sob