Y’know how sometimes you pick up a book because it looks interesting? Out doing some not-quite-last-minute shopping Sunday, I picked up PopCo by Scarlett Thomas. The cover was off-putting at first, but the description on the back seemed interesting:

Alice Butler has been recieving some pretty odd messages – all anonymous, all written in simple code, all errily vague but pointed enough to show that the sender has been watching her closely.

Are the messages from someone at PopCo – the slightly sinister, profit-hungry toy company that has herded Alice and its other top creatives out to a secluded Thought Camp? Are they from Alice’s long-disappeared, treasure-hunting father? Are they from someone who knows that her cryptanalyst grandfather left her the key to finding that treasure? Is quiet Ben, Alice’s new love, hiding something that could help her discover their source? And could it be that these codes will lead Alice to a secret even more carefully guarded then her own?

So I took a chance, bought it, and two hundred and fifty pages later I’m really glad I did. I don’t know if the author worked in the toy industry, but there’s a lot of insight on what goes into making a successful toy line … but if the author didn’t work in the espionage biz at some point, I’d be really surprised. It’s impossible to read this book and not get a crash-course in cryptology.

Toys, secret codes, could it get better? Yep. Pirates. Pirates!

So, PopCo, worth checking out.

January 26th, 1:30pm. Traffic court. Oh, goody.

Also – a big “fuck you” to whoever designed the telephone information system for Maryland’s traffic courts.

Info: “Enter your citation number. The first one or two letters should be entered using the corrosponding keys on the phone.”

*Me, entering citation*

Info: “For ‘D’, enter ’1′. For ‘E’ enter ’3′ …”

Me: “… the fuck? D is the three button!”

I’m not quite sure how I figured out how to work the system, but I did. Oh yes, I did.

The only zoo I can remember ever going to is The National Zoo in Washington, D.C.

Yes, this means I’ve never been to the Baltimore Zoo.

Boo-hoo, right?

I’ve been to The National Zoo once since high school, that second-to-last time was a school field trip for my sophmore year science class, I really don’t remember much about it except a ditzy cheerleader nearly got killed running across a street to a fast-food place. Or I could rephrase that to say, “a geeky younger me was too paralyzed for fear of being struck by a car to run across a street to a fast-food place”, and in retrospect, I don’t think there was a lot of traffic, but what good is my memory of an event over ten years ago? Also – a girl named Stacey who sat at my “table” and who liked to talk about how her mother bought her a bunch of sexy lingerie when she realized her precious little girl t’weren’t no more a virgin begging for money so she could buy someone a souvenir stuffed bat at the gift shop. I remember her wearing a Texas sweatshirt, maybe an indicator of too much time spent looking at her chest?

The last time was just around the time Jose Padilla was arrested — not a lot of fun being in D.C. the day that was in the news and the only thing on most persons’ minds was a terrorist attack. So that would make it, what, summer ’02?

I think it was the middle of the week. I was spending a few days with some friends who were studying at George Washington University and living in Arlington. Being the summer, Emily (not my sister) was at work, Lisa K. was who-knows-where, and so their roomie Danny — who they met when they were at Emerson and convinced to transfer to GW with them — and I went into D.C. to “do the tourist” thing at the Zoo and meet up with a friend of hers from her small-hometown in Upstate New York who attended American U.

For some reason, we drove. I don’t remember why — they didn’t live far from a Metro stop, and there’s a Metro stop right at the Zoo. After walking through the zoo, we drove to Adams-Morgan and I felt silly ordering a water in a coffee bar, but y’know, I don’t drink coffee. Leaving, a woman who’d been leaning against my Jeep apologized as well jumped in but, hey, at least she didn’t decide to take a nap in the backseat.

As a kid, I always remember thinking of The National Zoo as this monsterously huge place with animal enclosures all over the place — big pits in the ground for the big cats, giant ornate houses of brick and steel for the reptiles and the apes. Seems my memory had played tricks on me — truthfully, instead of a big place easy to get lost in, the layout reminded me more of a big letter “B”.

… so why don’t I remember Stacey’s chest? Texas? WTF is that all about?

-Side Note:

There used to be a really big plastic triceratops on display in front of The Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum. They let kids play on it, and I can remember scrambling up its face using its horns as grab-holds. I guess someone moved it when nasty day-dreams of big lawsuits came to mind — they moved it, in fact, right next to the rhinocerous enclosure. Last time I saw it, weeds needed to be trimmed back.

When I first started working at the indy, I had two coworkers who also happened to be brothers. They both played (and still do, as far as I know) in the same local band which I won’t mention — they appeared on Out to Lunch with Miles & Thrill and have been advertised on 98-Rock. Charlie is the older of the two (his bro is, uh, “L.”), but these two could almost be twins — heavy drinkers with a history of drug abuse and a variety of sordid tales of sexual misconduct (“Dude! I had the chick — and her mother!”).

Gary fired L. a long time ago for, oh, something relating to drinking, but it is in fact L. who inadvertently caused one of the funniest situations the store has ever had.

In contrast to the brothers, their father went to school, was successful, and is a doctor at Hopkins. He’s got a nice place in the ‘burbs and isn’t exactly hurting for money. One day, Doc Rock happened to answer the phone when Gary called down looking for L. who was overdue for his Saturday morning shift.

L. was overdue because he’d been up all night drinking, one of those binges that leaves a person drunk into the next month. Perhaps afraid that Gary was going to fire L. — and of course, he eventually did — Doc Rock informed Gary of L.’s extremely inebriated state … and then volunteered to cover L.’s shift.

So Doc Rock came into work with his girlfriend and spent much of Saturday afternoon driving around town in his expensive vehicle, delivering pizzas, including one to a colleague of his who apparently inquired if Doc Rock had lost his medical privileges?

Doc Rock never worked at the shop again, but every now and then the story gets told and everyone has a chuckle. I could tell you the story of The Amazing Neal and his amazing truck with its amazing built-in bong, but, really, I’m all typed out.

I don’t get people who tailgate.

And I’m not even talking about rush-hour tailgaters. Lord knows you leave more than a car length between you and the guy in front of you on 695 at five in the evening, people are going to take it.

No, I mean waaaaay up in northern Baltimore County, the rural area, the home of a country club every five miles and a golf course every two, where there are four traffic lights in an area the size of Baltimore City and nearly everyone has a rusted out pickup somewhere on their property, where “rush hour” is from 5 to 5:30, I’m talking about some punk in an Integra driving about half a foot off my rear bumper.

To an extent, I can understand the rich assholes in SUVs who tailagate there. I mean, let’s face it, they’ve got enough cash they can just pay me off without having to go through their insurance company, and no matter how hard they’ve hit me, the damage to their vehicle is most likely going to be limited to a dented license plate and maybe a scratch on their bumper. I might be in traction, but, hey, that’s what insurance is for, right?

Really, it’s the kids in the ricers I don’t get. If they’re not four inches off your ass, it’s like their car isn’t worth what they paid for it. “Look, I can follow you, and how close, too! Isn’t that cool?”

Dumbass: this is what is going to happen. A deer is going to run out of the woods. I’m going to slam on my brakes. Because you’re following too closely, you’re going to hit me. You’re going to hit me hard. You’re going to break my car, and yours. And, oh goody, your insurance company is going to be writing me a big fat check and hopefully the police will write you a ticket for being a dumbass.

(If I was a cop, I’d write a lot of tickets to people. “Officer, what’s this ticket for?” “It’s for being a dumbass. That’ll be twenty points, and, yes, I’ll be in court to tell the judge exactly just how much of a dumbass you are.”)

Nothing like having a bunch of people over to make sure you’ve got a fridge full of food. Thus eliminates my need to grocery shop before the New Year, although I think I might get sick of sloppy joe by next weekend.

**

My kitchen “accessories” are very limited. Cookie sheet. Pot. I’m surprised I even have an oven mitt — it would be “like me” to use a towel. What are the essentials of kitchen-ware? (Yes, I have a bagel slicer).

**

Haggis. Hummus. Like I’m the only one who gets them confused.

**

An IKEA butter knife snapped in two while slicing cheddar cheese. Y’know, it’s not like I thought IKEA utensils would last forever or anything, but I just got the fuckin’ knife last week. Stupid fuckin’ IKEA butter knife. (Oh well, the furniture holds up better at least).

**

New mothers can apparently fulfill a double-roll as “living scale.” I learned this as the new mother in question picked up Tippy. Sadly, even though its been about six months since both cats were weighed, the vet paperwork is lost in my junk drawer and I’m too scared to open it to find it and ascertain her accuracy. (She also makes a mean muffin).

**

Paper plates. Must pick up paper plates. Must do this to avoid people having to wash just-used dishes to eat sloppy joe. Whooops. Why didn’t I just steal paper plates from work on Friday … ? Foolish!

**

I gave directions from the city onto Warren Road, even though its north of Padonia Road. Listen, Warren is an extra three or four miles, but don’t forget – this isn’t the city – it’s the county. A few extra miles? Psh. It was also a total of like five traffic lights and fairly light traffic — you try getting anywhere on Padonia Road anytime it isn’t three in the morning — between construction, traffic lights, and angry suburbanites trying to get to Tarje’ so they can run shopping carts into each other … yeah, well, they shoot horses, don’t they?

**

DVD Trivial Pursuit is like a million times better than non-DVD Trivial Pursuit. “OOooooh the wedge, press it, press it!”

**

Watching someone who has never had to deal with a 5-disc DVD changer try to get a disc out of aforementioned 5-disc DVD changer is funnier than any funny movie ever made. “How do you … work … where the fuck is this fucking disc? I pressed ‘open’! Disc? Are you in there? Hellllooooooooo?”

**

Tippy’s an attention whore, and she did quite well throughout the night, consenting to be picked up, petted, and loved by a variety of strangers. Her affection — especially towards a certain Zombie lover — is often misconstrued as “ooooh pet me!” and in actuality means, “Please, take me with you.” Towards the end of the night she got tired of being scooped up and played with and actually started hissing, but I think this had more to do with “Oh dear gosh all of you? Get out of my house! My house!” Either that, or she was tired of being compelled to head-butt people. I’m going to have to have a talk with that cat — she wants to claim this place as hers? Fine. She can start to chip in on the rent. (Or, alternatively, she can poop in the toilet and save me some $$ on cat litter).

Guy meanwhile — no doubt anxious to avoid being picked up all night — hung out under the couch although he did appear quite affectionate to anyone whose hands drifted under said couch. A few people managed to pick him up, but he’s lanky and can prove difficult to hold. After everyone left he emerged from hiding and started bolting across the living room, attacking stray bottle caps I hadn’t found and thrown out. He’s an ex-frat cat, he enjoys chasing bottle caps. He lives for it. (Well, that and laser pointers).

The last time my apartment was this clean, I wasn’t living in it yet.

Whether you know him as The West Wing‘s Chief of Staff, or the guy who got dangled off a really tall building by Sean Connery in The Rock, John Spencer kicked the bucket this morning.

Three parking spots away is one of those shopping-cart-return-depot things, but the dumb bitch takes it SEVEN spots away — as in, four spots out of her way — to leave it on the island at the end of the parking row, where it will no doubt roll free and cause damage to someone’s car.

Merry Christmas?

“Why aren’t you delivering? It’s only raining.”

“Yeah, but the rain is turning to ice.”

“You guys are a bunch of pussies.” *click*

Probably, and you know what, I bet you one of the two people in Maryland who died last night because they lost control of their vehicles wouldn’t be described by you as a “pussy” but, oh, right, they’re dead and I’m not so last laugh = me.

Jackass.

I wonder if people who order pizza realize that they’re facing a major lawsuit if I slip down their ice-coated front steps in an attempt to deliver them food? Meanwhile they’ve got a garage door they could’ve opened.

Amazon’s tracking interface SUCKS ass. For example, when I enter the tracking code on the UPS website, do you know what I find out? My package was signed for by my lovely neighbors in Apartment B. Why doesn’t Amazon’s tracking page have this information? I don’t know what happened to the info-notice-slip-thing, but they’ve been kind enough to recieve my packages before so I can expect a knock sometime this afternoon and a gruff, “Package, yours, here.”

Huzzah!

(Well … I hope).

Amish Sex Scandal.

Well, fuck me.

Dec 14, 2005 08:00:00 PM SPARKS MD US Delivered

Great news, right?

There’s no package at my door. There isn’t one of those “UPS Info Notices” with, “Package left at Apartment So-and-So.”

Was UPS even here? Does one of my neighbors have my package? Are they planning on giving it to me or did they see it and think, “Ooooh, he’ll never know.”

Fuck. Me.

I hate it when UPS leaves packages for me. Unless it’s an emergency — i.e., they’re delivering on Christmas Eve like last year — I really prefer to get the info-notice slip, have the package held, and go right up the road to pick it up myself (assuming I’m not home to get it, I should clarify).

And this of course assumes the driver didn’t just scan the package and its still in the back of his truck. Yeah, great.

And now, of course, how the fuck am I going to complain to Amazon? “Oh, uh, we show it was delivered,” followed by: “It wasn’t? Prove it.” I don’t even know how to file a claim through UPS.

Y’know, for all people talk about how convenient online ordering is, it really isn’t. It’s a totally different kind of headache.

Well, no, but I think its safe to say my “blogging batteries” are in need of a recharge before I get back up into “blog whore land”. My posting has been sporadic all month, and I think it’s probably a good bet I won’t be back into blog-whore-land until the new year.