I’m dying of teh cuteness. I stumbled across a jumping spider pool on Flickr. OMG, the adults are cute enough, but the babies? *faint*
P.S. Yaaay! I’m also getting a present all the way from Sweden. I’m going nuts wondering what it is, but it won’t do any good to ask because I won’t get even a hint.
It’s official. I am, as of this moment, completely computer illiterate. I barely know how to turn one on, and certainly I don’t know why you can’t see your PMs, nor can I tell you how to design a web site. I don’t know how to make little emoticons appear in your Flickr replies, I don’t know how to do the “little picture” in them, either. I can’t explain to you how to register for Gmail, or install MSN Messenger, and I can’t explain to you how you can get around the fact that Halo 2 was designed for Vista when you run XP. If you want to run H2 on XP, then go read the gaming forums and find the hack yourself; I have things to do. I don’t know how to install the copy of Photoshop Elements that you just bought. I don’t know where you can get software for free unless it happens to be something OSS that I use myself. If that doesn’t suit you, you’ll just have to go look for something you like better. I don’t know why you aren’t receiving your email (try your sysadmin), or why the video on some random page isn’t working for you (ask the webmaster). I don’t know why any of your shit doesn’t work, or how you can make it work, and furthermore, I don’t care. I know how to turn on my Ubuntu Linux computer, and how to type, and that’s all I know. Don’t ask. Google, or fuck off. I’m tired.
This neighbourhood used to be pretty good. Not high-end, but not “ghetto”, either. The neighbours were mostly older, and other than occasionally seeing them out doing yard work, you’d never even know they were there. That’s all changed now, though; of the “originals” who were here when we came almost seven years ago, only the old couple across the street who very rarely go outside at all, and “creepy guy who won’t let anyone forget he’s a home owner, not a renter” remain. Ted was an awesome neighbour, but he got married (no mean feat for a 500 lb. man who is now dead though he was only a little older than me) and now we have Yard Sale Guy. Well, Yard Sale Guy and Co., since there’s always at least a couple of his low-rent white trash relatives hanging around over there, just waiting for him to finally have the heart attack that kills him (he’s had two or three already). There used to be an older couple in the house across my back yard, but then their grandson moved in with them because his mother could no longer tolerate him, and he broke into at least one house (Ted’s–he had nice Apple computer equipment stolen), and the whole thing just went to hell, so they picked up stakes and left in the middle of the night without paying the two months’ back rent they owed. They were replaced by Stephanie Whatserface, that fat-arsed, big mouth skank ho who claimed to have a husband serving in Iraq who would pay the rent for her and her baby, but the only “serving” her man (not a husband) was doing involved a prison sentence, plus his crack-dealer pals hung around there all of the time. They punched holes in the screens (new windows) so they could open them and get in the house when she wasn’t home. Practically trashed the house in the month that she was there; I know that because I went over to help G&D clean it up (they’re old, so I volunteered). We finally got rid of her–she was to be evicted in spite of her threat to claim racial discrimination because the guys hanging around were black, but was arrested on a retail theft warrant the morning she was due to be put out–and she was replaced by Brianne. Brianne is a single mother in her late 20s with two young kids, but although the boyfriend doesn’t live with them, he is in fact the father of both kids (imagine!), and he does pay support/help out with them. Brianne works, her mother looks after the kids when she can’t, and her dad helps with yard work. Nice folks–her dad is especially cool–and she’s a wonderful neighbour because when her kids go outside to play, she goes out to watch them. I don’t like kids, but as far as these ones go, I like them fine because they’re never around without supervision, unlike the passel of little bastards from various houses who run loose all over this street. P. says it’s like navigating a minefield just to get to our house without hitting one of them with the car because they don’t pay any attention, and most are on bikes. Anyway, Brianne’s kids won’t be here much longer and neither will she, because they’re moving at the end of the month. Can’t say I blame her for not wanting to stay, but I shudder to think what’s going to move in there afterwards. I hope G&D do a better background check than they did with the skank ho. In all fairness to them, her references did lie, and one of them was her former landlady, whom G’s father knew well!
Betty next door was cool; she’s the only one who introduced herself when we were moving in, and it was awesome to see her and Wayne go out dancing on weekends because she was pushing 80 and he was past it. Wayne died over a year ago, and Betty had a heart attack, though, so she went to live in a retirement home in Colorado. Her snarky bitch daughter from St. Louis (the one P. hates for cutting down the trees and displacing his squirrels) sold the house to what I had been told was a young couple with a couple of kids, but is in fact a single mother with a few kids and a boyfriend who’s a truck driver. I just love it when they have their friends over all the damned time to swill beer and barbeque in the back yard, and it’s especially nice when the boyfriend is there as well because he parks his gigantic fucking truck on the street. Yay. The yellow house we had looked at a year or so ago finally sold, and to a family that has at least four small kids, plus whatever other strays wander over at any given time from somewhere in town. The people who bought the grey house have teenagers, and now that it’s cool enough to have windows open, I get to listen to them hanging around in their front yard. I’d think at least some of them are supposed to be in school, but nope! Their friends have lots of cars, too, which really looks nice since they don’t have anywhere to park except on the street. Some of the cars even have functional mufflers!
Honestly, it’s almost like a goddamned housing project. It used to be a quiet, middle class neighbourhood, but it’s sure not that now. I took this picture this morning; the dog belongs to friends of the people in the grey house. Yup, this sure looks like prime pit bull breeding stock, and I’ll just bet these people are registered with the APBT association, too! Yes, they are obviously reputable breeders. Wrong! They’re fucking white trash backyard breeders; fuckers are all over the place in this town. Oh, and the house next door to the grey one is now for sale. I can well imagine what–not who–is going to move in there. I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here; I think we’ll move to Mt. V. when our lease expires next March. It’ll be a pain in the arse, especially with seven years of P’s “treasures” (read: junk) and my fish tanks, but we can at least be thankful we didn’t actually buy a house in this rathole.
The café was called C’est Si Bon and was located at 1717 Barrington, but I think it closed sometime after 2004. That does not surprise me; part of the reason we liked it was because it wasn’t crowded.
This chick is beginning to creep me out a little. She went through my photos a few weeks ago and faved (it’s a word) a bunch. Since she had left no comments, I sent a little note to say, “Thanks for your interest!” and I thought that would be it, but nope. She did it again about a week ago, and again last night. WTF is she doing? If she likes the pictures, she can just save copies–they’re all CC licensed anyway–so why does she keep coming back, adding a bunch more each time to her favourites? Why not just save the goddamned things, or bookmark my stream. Hell, I’m already one of her contacts (though I did not reciprocate). Weird.
Awwww! He’s such a sweet man. Absolutely a flirt, but not in the usual manner; he’s very polite and really almost “formal”. It’s more like something out of the 19th century than the 21st. It’s very flattering, and quite appealing, and doesn’t make me roll my eyes and think, “Yeah, right. What part of ‘happily married’ did you not understand, dumbass?”
Many of the butterflies are gone, but some still remain. It’s been so fucking dry here for so long, though, that very few of the late-season flowers bloomed, and it’s pretty slim pickings out there for anything that likes nectar or pollen. I want not only to photograph butterflies, but also to help the poor little buggers, so I made a batch of “butterfly bait”. The recipe said 2c of sugar, 2 cans of stale beer and 8-10 overripe bananas (or other overripe fruit, sans thick peels), all mixed together with enough water to make a gallon. Try as we might, we couldn’t find any overripe fruit at local stores (we asked), and it doesn’t usually last long enough here to get overripe (fruit fan here), plus I forgot to leave a couple of Molsons out to go flat, so my end result was a half-batch of my own version of butterfly bait, which (after smelling the goddamn stuff–holy fuck it stinks) I renamed to….”Butterfly Booze”.
Ingredients:
– some dechlorinated “fish water” from the jug (didn’t measure, but didn’t think butterflies would appreciate chloramine any more than I do, so I used fish water)
– 1c. white sugar (that I sort of measured)
– Gerber First Foods fruit; 4 banana, 2 peach, 2 applesauce, 2 prunes (yeah, prunes–they’ll be regular as well as hyperactive from the sugar and drunk off the beer)
– 1 bottle of Molson Canadian, poured into a plastic container and had the shit shaken out of it until it fizzed very little.
I put the lot into a gallon jug, and since I don’t have time to let it work at room temperature, and nights are too cool now to leave it outside (besides, I can imagine what that would attract), I put it on the kitchen table, under Cliffie’s careful supervision, and wrapped it with a wet/dry heating pad set on low, and a towel (cover off so it doesn’t explode). I can imagine what the kitchen will smell like in the morning, but fuck it; I’ll have a hangover anyway and I won’t care. P. couldn’t smell a pile of dogshit two feet away from him, so he won’t care, either.
My plan (muahaha) is to set some out in shallow dishes before we leave tomorrow, and also to take some with me to put in what’s supposed to be the wildflower bed (on the back nine) as we drive in, then leave some in another wildflower bed near Hole 3. By the time I get to Hole 13, I hope butterflies will be there, then I’ll check #3 on our way out, then come home and check here. I don’t think the park guys do mowing and stuff on weekends, so my containers (some little plastic pot plant trays) should be undisturbed. Still, I may leave a note that says, “This is not garbage or poison; it’s here to get the butterflies drunk so they’ll show off for my camera and I’ll remove the trays on Sunday.” Dave knows me and knows I shoot the local fauna and flora, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem. I know butterflies taste with their feet, but daaaayum they have some bad taste if they actually like that shit, and obviously no sense of smell at all!
I recently read that Courtney Love is planning on designing and selling a “signature scent”. Ah, yes–can’t wait for that one…
“Introducing Stank Ho, the hot new scent from Courtney Love. A captivating blend of cheap bourbon, stale cigarette smoke and unwashed crotch, with delicate undertones of armpit funk and vomit. Coming for the holiday season to Family Dollar and Dollar General stores near you!”
