Pets and Pet Peeves

I have decided that, at least of late, the quality of my life has been reflected by the number of kitty cats surrounding me.

About four months ago, my life was devoid of cats (with the exception of the insane monsters that live at Darlene's house, but those hardly reflect happiness). Then, on a bike ride home one day, I was met with the loudest yowl I've heard in ages. YOOOOWL, YOOOOWL. It pierced the air, and I stopped to see if I could find and help the cat, which must have been seriously injured.

Instead, an adorable little fluff ball presented itself to me, coming up to where I had stopped and rubbing itself on my legs. It looked up at me. YOOOOWL.

I don't know the cat's name, but we'll call it Poodle. This is not the cat. This is an image I found
on Google image search and stole. But this is what Poodle looks like.

Poodle then tried to get me to follow him/her into his/her house, turning to YOOOOWL at me every foot or so, but, as cute as he/she is, I didn't. I've seen Poodle numerous times since, but he/she's never made as much noise as the first time. He/she was my first neighborhood cat-friend.

Some weeks later, I met Corey's cat, a beautiful grey/brown/reddish tabby. She bit me. It turns out, she bites everyone until they figure out just how to pet her. Her name is Iris, and it turns out she's quite a friendly little cat.

She looks like this, but even prettier. I also stole this image.

I had gone from 0 cat friends to two in almost no time, but I wasn't done yet. The next cat was also absolutely fabulous, and entirely gorgeous. She's a long-haired black and white cat named Lola who lives near my complex. She's super friendly and likes to roll in the dirt.

I stole THIS one from the BBC.

Last night, as I was leaving my apartment to head to Corey's, a mighty fine, short-haired black cat met me in the parking lot, escorting me to my car. Totally lovable, she sported a sophisicated leopard print color with matching bell, but no name tag (however, leopard print means I assume the cat is a she). I'll call her Panther.Like this, but with two eyes.

This morning, as I was leaving Corey's, I finally met his neighbor's cat, which has a name that I can't remember, so I won't rename it. It is also very sweet, and also likes to roll in the dirt.

Not really like this cat, but sort of. Kind of.

I am quite happy right now, and I think that the number-of-cat-friends index is a good indicator of happiness. In any case, there seems to be a very strong correlation--and to further support this, there were no cats present anywhere on Friday night.

There were also no cats present this morning when some twat on a mountain bike got in front of me at the stoplight. Granted, perhaps he thought that the fact that I was road biking with a cup of coffee would slow me down sufficiently that he would be faster than I would be, but this was entirely foolish.

Now, there are lots of people who ride mountain bikes around seriously who know how to the ride. Many of these people have better bicycles than I do, and are more experienced bicycle riders. Additionally, I have never seen any of them riding with cups of coffee. All of these factors make it entirely possible that the bicycle rider would be much faster than I am.

However, none of these factors applied to this twat, who appeared to still be learning how to use his gears correctly. It drives me nuts when people who suck at bicycle riding don't even know that they suck at bicycle riding, like the girl riding down Cesar Chavez a couple weeks ago, changing lanes without looking backwards over her shoulder. In any case, I was forced to (even more dangerously) remanuever past this twat while holding my coffee and avoiding the pot holes which are endemic at 38th and Speedway.



Then a guy on an expensive mountain bike who seriously knew how to ride it passed both of us.

Bad night.

She blinked, bleary, at the clock and rolled over, cold and alone, in last night’s jewelry. Her eyes were swollen, and she remembered staring through the mirror, tears rolling past contacts sitting on her cheeks.

She rolled out of bed, looking for pajamas, cold, bare legs goosepimpled in the midmorning interior. She didn’t know what she’d done last night, but hoped she never did it again.

The speakers chattered, and she pretended they were predicting his phone call, knowing they weren’t. He wouldn’t be awake for hours. She looked at the phone, wondered if she regretted last night’s voice mail.

A car alarm sounded outside, not hers. Her car was in South Austin, hopefully still, and she regretted telling him he’d have to pay for it if it got towed. Maybe that was where everything started. She couldn’t remember.

Edwige had been upset. Thump, thump, she’d gone, slapping powerful back feet hard against the floor of her cage. “I’m sorry, precious,” she’d told the bunny through her tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her neighbors were having sex above her, and she didn’t try to escape. She laid, pressed in bed, and cried for all the things she was afraid she didn’t have anymore.

Riding when it's cold

So, I've been bad. I've been writing entries and saving them as drafts and publishing nothing.

It's gotten cold here, and I think everyone knows that when I say cold, I mean that it's a freezing 46 degrees outside. However, because the internet knows all things, the reason it seems so cold is that it feels like 43. This is likely why my decision to ride my bicycle to campus in thin sweatshirt was a poor decision.


There is a girl who must live in my neighborhood who often rides to class about the same time that I do on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. One day, while I was waiting at the stop light, she blatantly rode her bicycle up the lane behind me, then past me, and stopped directly in front of me. Even those of us on our refined, primitive biycles have manners, and I have intensely disliked this girl ever since. This girl, we'll just call her Rude Girl, has legs the size of my forearm. Not the length of my forearm--they're probably as long as the entire bottom half of my torso--but incredibly tiny. Now, I have nothing against excessively skinny people, but this girl has no muscle on her legs. She does, however, have a very pretty bicycle. It's blue with yellow grip tape, and it's actually funtional at being a multi-speed bicycle (unlike either of my multi-speed bicycles). It's also nicer than my bicyles, and this means that it's faster than my bicycles. The fact that I dislike her, she's rude, and she has a better bicycle is very painful for my pride. However, in spite of the fact that I can never catch up to her superior bicycle as I trail her down the large hill that Speedway is, I'm a better bicycle rider than she is. There is only a small section of the road that goes uphill, and this is where I always catch her and pass her. It's the second greatest moment of every morning, the first greatest being my first cup of coffee.

But on the topic of cold weather bicycling. I need some gloves! I seem to have lost mine in the nine or so months since I last used them, and since we're now down in the fourties, my hands are clamoring for them (by which which I mean numb). I used to have a very great little pair of converitble mittens. These are basically fingerless gloves which have mitten-top attached to them. While riding your bike, you flip the mitten-top down over your fingers, and they all hang out together, sharing warmth and war stories. When you get to the bike rack, you flip the tops off, and voila! You use your unemcombered fingertips to manuever your bicycle lock and key. They're a great invention, but they're lost.

Yet perhaps the greatest cold weather bicycling invention is the Snot Rocket. My father originally taught me this art, which I put to very good use during my youthful soccer career (after the time I blew my nose on my shirt and left a huge snotwad on my sleve, disgusting my teammates, I needed a new solution). I had tried carrying Kleenex in my soccer socks, but it never worked well, and when I finally mastered the Snot Rocket after a messy learning period, my quality of life greatly improved.



I have used the Snot Rocket before while paused on my bicycle, usually at stoplights, but today was the first time I'd used it while in motion. There's only one stoplight on my ride home, and with the weather the way it was, my nose was dripping the way that my bathtub does. Having passed the stoplight but with my nose re-full of snot, I needed a solution. I must say, seeing the snot fly behind me as I ride away is quite a thrill, and I can't believe I haven't done it before.

Now I'm going to go get a flu shot.

Cassavetes is already there.

Monday, not long after publishing my triumph in the War of the Director's Wall (WOTDW), I sallied into Vulcan looking to rent the immenently fabulous Gremlins. Although not remembered as such, Gremlins is one of the best Christmas films ever made, along with It's A Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and Die Hard. As I browsed the shelves to see if I wanted to temporarily adopt a second film as well, I could hear the employees at the counter putting on a new film.

"Oh, man, good choice," one noted.
"Yeah, we'll have a mini-rest-in-peace,-Wes-Anderson marathon," someone answered back.
"Whoever that Teeney person is..."
"Yeah, once we find out..."

For a second I thought I was in trouble, but Sammy peeked his head into the "Action" section, where I was momentarily cowering. "They're not too happy with your email," he admonished me... then gave me a high five. A few minutes later, having decided I was only going to rent Gremlins, I made it up to the counter. Sammy took care of me, and told me that Gremlins was on him. I've apparently cemented some friendships... but likely sacrificed some others. Oh well, RIP, Wes Anderson.

Craigslist has lately been home to all sorts of bicycle goodness, this most importantly:
Yes. That is a wonderfully purple road bicycle. Unfortunately, I don't know anyone who rides 54cm frames. I hope that someone will give this bicycle the home that it deserves it.

In other news, continuing my quest of Billy Wilder, I finally moved on to his Audrey Hepburn flicks. I had been dragging my heels on these, not because I really have anything against Hepburn, but because I beleive her achieved legendary cult status is... well, I think she's a bit overrated (the same way I also consider Andy Warhol overrated; strangely, the same people who obsess over Hepburn seem to similarly obsess over Warhol). While Hepburn seemed to hold little special during the majority of the film (she was supposed to be a little French girl, and while her father had a French accent, she most certainly did not, and I found this rathert irksome), yet I have to say that in the closing scene, she is perfectly brilliant.

I actually wrote this post, I think on Wednesday, and couldn't remember the rest of the things I wanted to talk about, so saved it and then was off the computer for a while. Here it is! Late and still lacking the things I forgot about. Ha.

Signs of foreboding and the justice that they bring.

I didn't have high hopes for today. This morning I was abuptly awoken this morning by having my pillow rudely and thoughtlessly snatched from beneath my peaceful, slumbering head, and I can't think of a wose boding to begin the day. Fortunately, although it is only 3:20, it seems to have been a fluke.

I finally dismantled my pirate boatcycle this morning. Having many vertically placed sheets of cardboard makes a bicycle fabulous at catching crosswinds, and it's a notoriously breezy time of year here in the Windy City Live Music Capital of the World. Let me just clarify that when I say "breezy" I literally mean "pleasantly windy.1 While this isn't a difficult problem to deal with, even when riding essentially a giant sailboat, it did mean that I hadn't been able to, to quote Flobots, "Ride my bike with no handlebars." This is tragic. I really enjoy riding without handlebars. It's really the only thing I can do on my bicycle besides riding it normally (although Charles has been coaching me in my kickflips). Perhaps the height of my bicycle career at this point is therefore the morning I rode down Corey's street, waving at his neighbors as they cheered me on.2 As I mounted my bicycle this morning, I was filled with excitement about cruising handless down the breezy street.

But today was no typical November Monday in Austin.
Instead, a slight cold front (a term I use very loosely) had surfaced. Wind gusting! 13 mph to 22 mph! Ridiculous. Absurd. Also, I sensed a hint of moisture in the air. Fontunately, having removed my bicycle bulwarks, I was easily able to cruise down the street while calling the KVUE 24 weather hotline (512 451-2424) on my cell phone to find out if there was a chance of rain without being buffetted by the wind ("thrown overboard," if you will). Because the above screen capture lacks the urgency of the rain-eminent information that the hotline had, here is tonight's forecast.
Whoa! That's a rain-laden forecast, and a frightening prospect for a little girl alone on a bicycle. Miraculously, the rain staved off for a few hours (which is why I had to post tonight's forecast to demonstrate the threat I facing earlier), and I returned home after class, nice and dry, and unmolested by pesky winds (yes, the "air flow" level above "breezy" is undoubtedly "windy" followed by "gusty" and finally "tornado").





As I mentioned a few posts ago, I wrote an email to Vulcan Video, complimenting their new Mogwai and lamenting the fact that Wes Anderson was on the Director's Wall when more deserving directors--like Ingmar Bergman--were not. Today I received my response!

You are correct! A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him down. As for Bergman, since he has made so few movies in English and our Swedish section would be lacking without him, he isn't on the wall.

Any American directors you would want to add?

Cheers!

Joe Shivers

Vulcan Video

Although Mr. Shivers did not mention my compliment to the mogwai,3 you can hardly argue with an email that begins with the words, "You are correct!" If only more of my correspondence were written in such a manner. Also, I enjoy the ambiguity of the the second sentence: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him down." This sentence can be read two different ways, one sensible and one awesome. The first is: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him (Mr. Bergman) down." The much more fun interpretation is: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him (the employee) down." However, I strongly suspect that this was a female employee (come on, everyone who loves Wes Anderson that much has a vagina). Mr. Shivers did leave me with a challenge, however: Who would I recommend being put on the wall? I don't know! Bergman, apparently being the only major film contributor from his country, is stuck being his country. Any suggestions from you guys?4

But one more thing about this email. They "haven't had time" to remove him!? WTF. The people who work at video stores (and I love them all dearly; I think they know this) have nothing BUT time. Sigh.

Another moment of justice today was when I finally signed up for my UFCU accounts. Goddamn, it's easy to sign up to give people your money. I'm going to wait a few days for all the charges on my BoA account to finalize, and then I'm going to cut them folks off without a dime. I am quite excited to be starting this new chapter of my life.

I hope everyone has had a spectacular Monday.




1Oxford American Dictionary

2That morning began in exactly the opposite manner of this morning, full of "win."

3 I highly recommend looking at the mogwai (which may or may not be Gizmo). The artistic representation has captured all of the charm and adorability that the little creatures lose when you feed them fried chicken after midnight. You don't even have to go inside--or even get out of your car to see it; it is directly visible through the front doors of the store which can be easily seen from parking lot. I invite you to do your own drive-by-viewing.

4 Really! Feel free to make me look good.

Belated Halloween photos

Feeling ill.

When I was roused from my slumber this morning by the rather adorable jingle of my cell phone alarm clock, I was faced with the harsh realization that I felt like shit. Not only was my throat filled mucus and an itching, scratchy sensation, but my uterus had decided to redecorate and was shooting bolts of electricity through my body as it prepared to put up new wallpaper.

"Aha!" I know you are saying. "This is a perfect day for Teeney to sit around blogging all day!" But this is a very foolish thought. Although I woke at 9:00 A.M. after a sickening ten hour long sleep, I was forced to remain in my bed, moaning inconsolably for the next three hours. At this point, I realized I was going to have to make a sacrifice if I was ever going to get any blogging done, and I managed to roll out of bed, throw on some pants and slide on shoes, and stumble bra-less to Walgreen's. Here I purchased Midol for my lady pains and Sprite for my forlorn throat, then ogled the chocolate candies (which I resisted) as I waited in the check out line. I promptly came home, washed some Midol down with my Sprite, and ate Corey's Snickers bar out of the freezer.

Finally about 1:00, I was feeling nearly functional, and began to assess the as-yet unstarted five-page paper that is due tomorrow. This consisted of browsing the syllabus, flipping through my sources, poking around the online library catalog, and planning how I would write about hating the paper in my end of semester course instructor survey.

I made it out of the house once again around 2, catching the bus--for about the second time this year instead of cycling; don't worry, you can give me a high five and a slap on the ass for that when I'm feeling better--to campus and checking out the remaining needed books for such paper. Returning home from my adventure, I quickly collapsed into bed once again.

Man, this blogging has re-exhausted me. I think I'll get back in bed once more.

If you need a laugh today

perhaps you haven't seen this video.

errata v.2

Whoa! What a weekend!

Today is the first day of non-daylight savings time, and I feel great! It's not even 11:00, and I am wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and dressed. Okay, you're right, I fell asleep in my clothes last night, but that has nothing to do with anything. I'm currently sitting at home waiting for the library and the pet store to open. I know: it looks like I have a thrilling day ahead of me, browsing book-filled shelves, the smell of stale pages (it's such a good smell) and unwashed hobo around me (not so good), and petting bunnies and buying pellets.

I have been emailing anyone who will read them in the last few days. I emailed bikesnobnyc, I emailed atxbs, and I emailed Vulcan Video. This is all a response, I beleive, to the utter ineptness and stupidity of Bank of America that simply sends out form emails no matter what you write them. But I will get them back later this week when I go close all my accounts. MUAHAHAHA. I hope that $10.00 was worth it, you bastards.

My email to bikesnob was informing her of her true identity. Yes, bikesnob is female; I know this because I dreamed it. Bikesnob replied, and uses equally good grammar in private as well as public communication. It's not a farce, as some have proposed (I'm sure you've heard the whispers of "She has a fabulous ghostwriter.") This would explain a lot to me: It takes a long time to craft such excellent, well-organized and well-written essays. These are invariably posted during the middle of the day, which makes me wonder about her occupational status (maybe she's mentioned it in the blog and I've just forgotten). However, the mid-day postings imply that she isn't a messenger, which leaves three options: 1.) Bikesnob, in addition to her ironic orange Julius bicycle, has a moutain bike which he uses to pedicab. This is why she never updates in the evening or on weekends; 2.) Bikesnob works in a coffee shop, giving her ample time and practice in the everyday activity of sitting in dimly lit space, typing on a computer; 3.) Bikesnob is a nighttime messenger, which makes her even more badass. She probably doesn't use lights on her bike, but guides herself through echolocation.

As for atxbs, I merely emailed this article on female cyclists dying more often at the hands (or tires?) of motorists in Britain. This statistic is attributable to the fact that women cyclists are more likely to stop at redlights. Obeying the law is dangerous!

And to Vulcan Video, I emailed complaining about Wes Anderson being moved onto the Director's Wall. I mean, seriously, WTF? Ingmar Bergman isn't even on it, and Herzog only got that promotion in the last year or so. Wes Anderson?! When I commented on it to the guys working, one of them exclaimed: "Seriously! What's next?! Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino?" When the war starts, we'll be in the same army.

I watched The Jackal for the first time last night. Don't read this if you don't want a spoiler, because I'm about to go all out on your ass. But first I'm going to take a sip of coffee.

So, this severe Russian woman and this black guy (because he's the only black guy in the movie, it's most expedient to identify him in this way. I apologize; his race isn't really important, but it's a lot shorter than typing "the who works for FBI" every time) who works for the end up killing this Russian mobster (he was an asshole). Of course, the Russian mob gets angry, and hires Bruce Willis ("The Jackal") to kill the head of the FBI (who is not black). Anyways, Bruce Willis is this total badass who is an international killer and pretty much unstoppable--and only about 6 people in the WORLD knows what he looks like. One of these people happens to be Richard Gere.

Gere is an Irish guy who did something wrong and got caught and sentenced to 25 years. It turns out, Bruce set a trap for him, and Gere fell into it--with his lady friend, who at the time was carrying his child. She got shot and lost the baby, but survived, then while Gere was in prison married someone else and had two children with him. She is also one of 6 people who knows what Bruce looks like.

So, Gere doesn't like Bruce Willis, and the black guy gets him out of prison to help catch Bruce, which is the smartest thing he could have done because Gere is a total badass, just like Bruce. So, while they're trying to find Bruce, Gere and the severe Russian woman (her name is Valentina) begin to fall in love. It's sweet. Aw.

In the meantime, Bruce flies to Canada and hires Jack Black to build a mount for this giant gun that he has. I'm going to go out on a limb and say this is one of Jack Black's least good roles (my favorites being his role in Jesus' Son and now also Tropic Thunder). Anyways, Bruce guns him down in a dramatically bloody scene, then blows up his car (hey, he was just testing the gun). He then buys a boat, hides the gun in it, and sails to America, where Gere spots him on the wharves of Chicago and Bruce tries to shoot him. So, Bruce gets in his minivan and drives away (apparently badasses drive minivans in 1997), and Gere is convinced there is a mole in the FBI because Bruce wasn't surprised to see him.

Gere is right, of course. They get rid of the mole, and then realize that Bruce knows Gere's old girlfriend's new address, so they evacuate the family, but right as Brce gets there to kill people. ANyways, he shoots Valentina in the stomach, tells her to press her hand just right and informs her she was shot in the liver because her blood is almost black, and if she keeps her hand there, she has 20 minutes to live. If the pain gets too much, she can let go and die in 5. Then he tells her, "if you see Richard Gere before you die, tell him he can't protect his women." Of course, she survives until Gere gets there, and tells him, and Gere is angry. Then he realizes that Bruce isn't trying to kill the FBI director; he's trying to kill the first lady!

And he almost does it. He has his gun mounted in the back of his minivan, and he's got this toootally 1990's computer that he uses to aim the gun, which he connects to with these totally giant 1990's brick cell phones. And his computer has got this giant red button to press to fire. His finger is going towards the button in slo-mo as the black guy is running through the crowd to tackle and save the first lady... and barely does! Bruce shoots up the hospital, then runs away, Gere follows him, running through the subway (Kontroll is a much better subway film), and finally Geres first woman shoots and kills Bruce.

Oh, the 1990's.

I'm sorry about the end of my synopsis. I realized suddenly I was really bored with what I was doing, but couldn't not-write the last paragraph.

Oh well.