It’s that time of year. The students are back. My life has plummeted down the tubes.
I said to Aimee the other day that sometimes I felt taken for granted. I don’t know why. I’m pretty burned out. But that’s not it entirely. I don’t know anymore.
Maybe it’s why I can’t sleep.
Gotta go to work in the morning.
Today is the day my son turns one. He walks, he giggles, he plays, he fights, cries and throws tantrums.
He loves the bath. He hates getting his hair washed.
He loves bananas, sweet potatoes and especially avacado. Not so fond of applesauce yet.
He loves music, dancing and singing. He’s got a weird thing for Beach Boys type surf rock. He’s good with Tom Petty and Barenaked Ladies. He also appreciates Daddy’s singing.
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Jesus God…Why doesn’t someone want to talk about it!…Is it because we’re having so much fun at home we’ve forgotten the world? Is it because we’re so rich and the rest of the world’s so poor and we don’t care if they are? I’ve heard rumors; the world is starving, but we’re well-fed. Is it true, the world works hard and we play? Is that why we’re hated so much? I’ve heard the rumors about hate, too, once in a long while, over the years. Do you know why? I don’t, that’s sure!
Guy Montag
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
For all of my friends locally who love cats but don’t have any of their own (there are some):
Would any of you be willing to take Remi? She’s breaking our hearts.
With the arrival of Mikey, the move and everything else going on in our lives, she’s miserable. She’s lonely and needs affection that we just can’t possibly give her anymore; Tangie, Dot and Maggie are perfectly fine and outright ecstatic to have a house to run around in and have a baby chase after them. Well, maybe not ecstatic about Mikey toddling after them going “cah! cah! cahcahcahcahcahcaaaaaahhh!” but they’re certainly alright with it. They’ve learned to run.
We’re pretty serious about this, but only based on the concept that we would be re-homing her to someone who was going to care for her, and that she would be an only cat. She craves attention, and loves sleeping on beds (and on your pillow, just over your head). She’s a nearly 100% silent cat: the only time I’ve ever heard her make real noises was when we put her in a carrier for going to the vet or moving.
It pains us horribly to even ask, but we could only allow her to go if she was going to be alone.
That said…anybody know somebody? Any takers? She’s a great lap cat. She’d be a great pet for an older person. *sigh*
So in case the few people who read my site don’t know, New Jersey’s in a massive budgetary crunch. Governor Jon Corzine, who is technically my boss, has decided he needs to close nine state parks to save a whopping $4.5 million dollars out of his $38 billion state budget.
It’s a whopping 0.011% of the state budget.
In comparison, in recent years, Corzine and cronies have pushed through borrowing $270 million dollars for stem cell research, amongst the myriad things like legislators double-dipping on their jobs, double-dipping their pensions and generally screwing we rank-and-file state employees by not funding our pensions.
Why is he doing this? We, as a population, said NO to his proposed toll hikes, which were rightfully exposed as a regressive tax on the middle class of this state. In a punitive measure, he has now declared he’s cutting state parks, cutting aid to public hospitals $108 million (0.28% of the state budget), cutting aid to state universities $76 million (0.2%), and eliminating the state Department of Agriculture to save $4 million (0.1%).
In several fell swoops of his ego, Corzine proposes cutting the poor and middle class out of this state entirely, and we who live here will eventually have no other choice but to move out and leave the rich and the party bosses alone in the mess they’ve created.
Corzine. Out. Now.
Originally published 2/10/2008
By MIKE VACCARO
February 10, 2008 — THE ball was in the air for what felt like a lifetime, and David Tyree was perfectly willing to wait it out that long if that’s what it took. All around him, the Super Bowl had come to a complete standstill. All around him, every eye, thousands of them, were fastened on a football.
“I couldn’t hear a thing,” Tyree said. “I felt like I was all by myself.”
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I have a friend named Rachel.
She’s selling a signed and unedited proof of Neil Gaiman’s second short story collection “Smoke and Mirrors: Short Fictions and Illusions”, published in 1998 - complete with a letter from the publisher found wedged between the pages.
She needs money for her myriad medical problems and prescriptions. Help her out, if you’re interested.
I knew it’d frigging fit. Lying liarsons of Lying, Lyoming.
