2001-03-21 - 01:01 p.m.
Three ways to tell if it's spring in San Diego: The sagebrush is in bloom, the eye-candy has stripped down to almost nothing and the rolling blackouts have started again. The first two rock my world. The third ... There are so many people connected with the current power crisis who deserve a good beating, I don't even know where to start.
Meanwhile, our President is apparently working under the assumption that if we suck in enough CO2 and drink enough arsenic, we'll all end up as brain-damaged as he is and vote for him again. Hey, kids! You know those lead paint chips flaking off the old house next door? Eat them! It's fun!
I guess there�s something to be said after all for keeping my head down, doing my job and being a good little technopeasant. Fuck me for having a brain anyway (and yes, that is an invitation).
***
I was going to post a longer entry yesterday, but then I read JerseyGrrl and decided that I'm never going to rant about my job ever again. Holy shit. If I had kids, I'd have spent all day hugging them and they would have run away from home because their father is such a smothering little freak.
As annoyed as I am by all the "Protect Our Children" rhetoric (first, because it really only means "Protect Our White Middle-Class Children"; second, because they're Your Children, not mine; and third, because it's always followed by some horrifying new proposal to shred the Bill of Rights), I can understand why parents trying to raise kids in these times are fearful. As a non-parent I know rationally that being overprotective of children does them a disservice in the long run and that, the media notwithstanding, 21st-century North America is the safest place to be a child in all of human history--but when the nesting instinct kicks in rationality goes straight into the diaper pail.
Thank God I�m planning to clone myself instead. I think I'll hire Blivet to handle the software upgrades. Just so long as he doesn't make my clones into soccer fanatics or something.
***
Had a good, battery-recharging weekend. Rocket played three shows in SoCal and they were fucking punk as all fuck--exactly the medicine required for last week�s aggravation overload.
In the parking lot at one of those shows I took the following picture:
Goddamn it. Those Special Forces stickers aren't supposed to go up till much, much later on in The Plan. Here I go, getting these signs put up all over North America and making people believe they�re just for parking (which they are, of course--pay no attention to what I said before because if I told you what the signs really mean I'd be forced to kill you) and someone goes and screws everything up. Someone's getting an expenses-paid trip to the Attitude Adjustment Room.
***
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