South Dakota banned abortion*.

My first thought — are there even any women in South Dakota?

Actually, that was my second thought. My first thought was, “Is Fargo in South Dakota?” And, no, Fargo is in North Dakota. William H. Macy is such a great actor.

My third thought is that with the growing distaste the American public has demonstrated for the religious rights’ manhandling of the GOP’s political agenda, not to mention the distaste that same public shows when the government decides to tell people how best to run their lives (smoking, guns, who can marry who, hey, government — don’t you have more important things to worry about? Like rebuilding Iraq and figuring out why Exxon is posting billion dollar profits while us ordinary folk are getting raped at the pump?), this could be political suicide for the folks who voted this law in (and probably won’t help the nationwide party in the elections in eight months).

*Assuming the Guv signs the bill.

I jotted down notes as I watched the episode because I’m too lazy to write a review. You’ll notice I completely skipped writing anything about last week’s “The Captain’s Hand”, and you probably shouldn’t expect anything on that anytime soon. So, aside for some gripping on some timeline issues, here we go:

Machine landscapers?

Six’s survivor guilt? “Inspiring.” Haunted by Baltar’s Ghost?

Cottle’s bedside manner needs some work – “like hell it will.”

“Here of the Cylon” … first celebrity? Didn’t think their ‘culture’ valued that.

Seduction left as much mark on her (Six) as it did on him (Baltar). Neither of their “ghosts” seem to be a true representative of the way their other truly feels, but rather, how they percieve them to feel.

Sharon is Model Number 8.

Miniseries Six is called “Caprica.”

“One might call it inhuman … oh, right, you are.” Best. Line. Ever.

Anders! Didn’t expect to see him again.

Wasn’t expecting birth until third season …

Sharon Mk 1′s Apartment. Redress of Starbuck’s from Valley of Darkness? Maybe Galactica’s pilots time-shared.

“Don’t go religious with this one.” Ooooh, smashing glass.

Sharon uses Navy slang on Caprica. “Head.” Heh.

Baltar/Six simultalk: awesome!

Vanity plate in bombed out garage: SEXYMOM. Why is that car’s headlights on? Light? Do Cylons need light to see?

“What kind of people are you?”

Cylon fifth column?

Surprise adoption — did anyone else see this coming a mile away? As soon as Cottle got that list from the female Billy.

No Lee. No Starbuck. Barely any Bill Adama. I’m okay with that — good to see Sharon Valerii get some much needed screentime.

“Our people need a new beginning.”

Okay, I do have a problem with the timeline. In Epiphanies, we learn that it’s been six months since Roslin was diagnosed with cancer. Roslin was diagnosed in the miniseries. So, we know that at the thirteenth episode of the second season, six months had passed since the Cylon attack.

At the start of this episode, we learn that nine months has passed since the Cylon attack. Hence, this episode takes place three months after Epiphanies. However, when Sharon Mk. 1 is resurrected into a new body, the “resurrection” sequence is titled “Ten Weeks Ago” … ten weeks is two and a half months, which means Sharon Mk. 1 would’ve been killed after Epiphanies. In fact, she was killed nine episodes prior, in Resistance.

Maybe I’m overthinking this.

Nine months makes sense from Sharon Mk. II’s pregnancy story, though — she and Helo got it on pretty early in the 1st season. Timing’s a little iffy, but it’ll live.

Many years ago I lived at The Colony in Towson. It wasn’t so bad back then, and it really is a beautiful apartment complex, if properly maintained … everything I’ve heard about it after moving out is that it hasn’t been (and I’m glad to be gone). One night, neither my roomate or I apparently locked the front door. I woke up at some point late at night to see the vague outline of a shapely girl in the door of my bedroom, inquiring if I was some random guy. I said no, passed back out, then woke back up when part of my brain clicked in that some random chick was in the apartment. I got up, she was I assume long gone, but the silly-brainless-girl had left the front door wide open — Guy and Tippy were both starring out the threshold at the vast unexplored rat-filled world of The Colony. I closed the door, locked it, and my roomate and I both got a laugh out of the situation the next day (he too was awakened by her, and neither of us had the presence of mind to claim that we were indeed the random guy she was looking for).

**

I remember this the other day when I was folding laundry. How does folding laundry remind you of a promiscuous Towson student entering your apartment without permission, you ask? I’ll tell.

So the other day I was folding laundry in the almost-afternoon. I’d just brought in my laundry from the laundry room in the building. I left the door unlocked. The TV was on, the blinds were open, and all of a sudden my apartment door opened and the lady who I presume was cleaning one of my neighbors’ apartments (there was one of those yellow Saturns with a “Maid Service” logo in the parking lot) walked in, looked up, realized she’d walked into the wrong apartment, and hastily apologized and backed out.

There’s really no point to relating this, it was just kind of funny, after the fact. Truth, my first response when I noticed the doorhandle turning was, “…who the fuck is that?” and I was ready to gear up to shout at some maintenancy guy who couldn’t be bothered to knock first. As it was, I stood up and was trying to tell this poor woman “No, it’s okay, really, it’s okay…” as she turned bright red and backed out apologizing all the way.

**

Speaking of maintenance guys … I had to have a guy come out a few months ago, my kitchen sink kept overflowing. He said it had something to do with the dishwasher, claimed to fix the problem, and left. Unsurprisingly, the sink overflowed again so I fixed it myself … I went to the grocery store, bought a bottle of super-duper drano, poured it down the drain, and the fucking thing hasn’t overflowed since.

Drano – the best plumber known to man. And, I’m sure, to plumbers. Oh, new slogan: “Drano! Now with no butt crack!”

**

(I lived at The Colony from summer ’99 until summer ’01).

(PREFACE: I wrote this post last December and then apparently saved it as a ‘DRAFT’. Anyway, I’d meant to post it so here it is.)

There’s this guy I’ve delivered to a bunch of time at the Franchise, and I’m pretty sure he’s stealing our food. More accurate to say: I’m pretty sure he’s stealing his company’s money to buy our food with.

Most of the time he orders, he pays with a corporate check belonging to some construction firm waaaay out in Western Maryland (well, like, Westminster). In the “memo” field is the handwritten note, “food for work crew.”

Except, it isn’t “food for work crew.” It’s “food for wife & kid.”

Now, for all I know, the guy owns the company. On the other hand, for all I know, he doesn’t own the company. The last time I had experience with someone paying for delivery food with corporate checks he wasn’t authorized to use, he wasn’t even bothering to tip the drivers (fuxxor!).

This guy, stealing or not, at least is making sure we’ve got a tip, which leads me to a conclusion I know for a fact: his kid is dumb as shit.

I take a delivery out to him Wednesday night. It’s $20 and change. Kid hands me a check and some singles. “That’s the check for the food, and four bucks for you.” I take it, get in my car, back onto the road, get back to the store, look down at what he handed me — the check was made out to cover both the order total and the four tip. Plus he gave me a four dollar cash tip.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened — dad wrote out the check, told the kid* there was a four dollar tip, the kid misunderstood and thought his dad wanted him to pick up the tip, so took four bucks out of his wallet and I wind up with a double tip.

Hey, I’m no fool, but someone needs to work on their communication skills.

*When I say “kid”, I should clarify he’s old enough to have a driver’s license.

So after work (very very very very very slow) I went to the Gucci Giant to make an ATM deposit and to buy a Mach-3 razor for all of those Mach-3 cartridges I bought the other night. So I get the razor (which comes with three cartridges off the bat, so now I’ve got eleven), a bag of cat food, and go to check out in the automated line.

Scan the items, select payment, swipe my debit card, and then wait in wonder as the display reads “processing card.” I’ve checked out through the auto-teller machines very often, and I’ve never seen this happen before. It just says “processing” and doesn’t seem to make any progress. I panic — is my checking account overdrawn? Maybe I badly underestimated the amount of my outstanding checks and they’re all posted already.

I must’ve been standing there, intently, for some time, because one of the front managers came over and pointed out that I need to select my “method” of payment. I felt like an ass — how many times have I used these damn machines? Enough to know to select “method of payment.”

**

Getting home, I opened the razor and went to put it in the medicine cabinet until I can’t use my schick anymore. I slid open the left-hand side of shelves and noticed, on the upper shelf — to my complete and total annoyance — my old razor, alone and until now long forgotten (Giant mailed me the Schick Quattro as a promotion).

My old Mach-3 razor.

Son. of. a. fucking. bitch.

From now on, I’m buying disposable razors.

Oh, don’t look at me like that …

Space shuttle Atlantis slated for retirement, to be stripped of parts which are to be reused to maintain Discovery and Endeavour.

Last Tuesday (a week ago yesterday, that is) I was off work at the Indy. Coincidentally, I needed to pick up some dry-cleaning from the place right next door to the Indy. I pulled into the lot — directly in front of the Indy — got my drycleaning, and left for the grocery store. I knew my timing was bad — if I’d been scheduled, this would’ve been the time I’d be getting into work (actually, I would’ve been late).

Today, I got into work a little early. I was surprised that I was the first person in after Gary — generally, he schedules someone in at ten to help with the prep and knock out any early orders. “Yeah, I was freakin’ a bit too,” Gary said. “Then I looked at the schedule and kicked myself.” Seems Gary had scheduled me, Silent Bob, and the new guy, all in at eleven.

Silent Bob came in about fifteen minutes late. I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t come in at all — there were several delayed orders up, all paid with credit cards, and all had nice tips on them. It was the kind of day two drivers could handle easily, and one driver could handle with-a-bit-of-stress. I was okay with the stress because, y’know, dead-ass month, and I could have used the cash.

In any case, as me, Gary, and the new guy (he’s not really new, but I have yet to think of a nickname for him) made orders and worked on the prep-list, Gary’s mind suddenly snapped back to the previous Tuesday. “Oh! Last week, sometime, you pulled in right out front — everyone was already late, we were busy, I was hopping mad and I was going to rain fire on you! Then I looked back up and your car was gone, and I was like, ‘where the fuck’d he go?’ I was so ready to grab a baseball bat, go to your apartment, and beat you down.” Then Gary explained he’d looked at the schedule later, realized I wasn’t scheduled, and went after someone else with the baseball bat instead.

Well, good.

Yeah, I know, I totally missed my weekly update on my weight loss. Quickly, now …

Saturday I weighed in at two-twenty-seven, before heading out of my apartment to pay my respects at a memorial service. After the memorial service, I had a cheeseburger and a beer at Dizzy Issie’s. It would have been a bacon cheeseburger*, but they were out of bacon (!!!!!).

Today, my buddy Tim and I got together — he’s in from California for a short while. We tried to get down to the Aquarium but couldn’t find (reasonable) parking so after a few tries negotiating downtown traffic, detoured into Fell’s Point and had lunch at Slainte’s (if Tim had watched Homicide: Life on the Streets he would’ve been impressed by the building directly across from Slainte’s, but he didn’t, so he wasn’t). I had a beer and a bacon cheeseburger, and then tonight we ventured into the city again, hoping to meet up with Wombat and Fool, but both cancelled, long story short, the night ended with two beers for me at Dizzy Issie’s.

Actually, scratch that: long story short, I totally fucked my diet today. I wish I’d weighed myself this morning, but in my rush doing last minute cleaning and laundry folding, I didn’t. So, I shall put off my next official weigh in until next Tuesday, where hopefully I will again be where I was (or better yet, lower than I was) on Saturday.

(*…and my first cheeseburger of any type since starting this diet. Go, me!)

(Scratch that last — I had a cheeseburger at the happy hour last month).

Getting eight replacement cartridges for my Gillette Mach-3 shaver on sale — $4.00 savings.

Getting home and realizing I have a Schick … priceless.

Well, anyone want a Schick? Next time I go to the grocery store I’m buying a Mach-3 to go with all the replacement cartridges that’ll last me through August.

… than a big insurance refund check on Thursday?

A not-so-big Federal Tax refund automatically deposited into my account on Friday.

Thank goodness February is almost over. I hate this forsaken month … business is slow and tips are low.

A week left to suffer? Excellent.

Many years ago I bought Birth of the Federation — a “Star Trek” knockoff of civilization allowing you to play as one of five races (Federation, Klingon, Ferengi, Cardassians, Romulans) in exploring and conquoring the galaxy.

I haven’t played it in awhile, probably shortly after I bought this computer. I began having trouble running it on my old HP — the game would keep crashing only a few turns in. Playing early this morning, I found the same thing — twenty turns in, CRASH! I uninstalled the software and reinstalled it — no dice, crashed again.

I don’t understand it. I could understand the game crashing on my old HP — underpowered piece of crud that it was, I figured it just no longer had the juice to keep the game going. I don’t get why it crashes on this Dell I’ve had for not two years, especially since the game is seven or eight years old — this game should be running like a dream!

So much for my dreams of a Klingon Invasion Fleet sweeping across the galaxy …

On my last delivery last night, I noticed my passenger side headlight was burned out. All I really thought about it at the time was, “Damn, now I gotta scrape the shit out of my hand tomorrow replacing it.” Then I thought, “Huh, I’m overdue for an oil-change anyway, they can just get it done there.”

Then, an hour later, as I was literally turning onto Padonia Road, and a car pulled out from the rental complex’s usually-empty-at-this-time-of-night parking lot, I thought, “Ah, fuck, the fuzz.”

(It’s not that I hate the police — they’re just doing a job, and for example, when I got my speeding ticket, I was the one with the heavy foot on the accelerator, right? It’s just that — damn my luck! I really wish I came home today through Bosley and Sunnylake as opposed to Cranbrook.)

And when the lights went on, and it was indeed confirmed that one of Baltimore County’s finest was pulling me over, I thought, “Ah, fuck — can my probation be fucked for a repair order?” (Well, can it? Anyone know?)

I sure do like getting a repair order over a speeding ticket any day, and that’s what I got. It’s the second repair order I’ve gotten — I guess I was eighteen when I got my first, same deal in my ’89 Acura Legend, and the very next day I made sure to get the headlight repaired. What I didn’t make sure to do was fill out the form and mail it back to the police, and my Dad was a little more than hopping mad when the State Police sent him a letter demanding that the plates be surrendered. Ahhhhh, memories.

Anyway, I’ll be gettin’ that taken care of shortly, then wait until I see my city-police neighbor pulling in and get him to sign off on my working headlights. Damn I wish I’d come home through Sunnylake. Even if he’d seen me, I coulda gotten into my parking lot and my building before he could’ve come down.

Sean Kenney.

I don’t quite understand how cartoons are riot-worthy, and this is, uh, “kosher”, but whatever …

Not content with pelting European embassies with Molotov cocktails to protest against cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad, Iranians have decided to rename the “Danish pastries” relished by this nation of cake lovers.

From now on, the sweet, flaky pastries which dominate the shelves in Iran’s cake shops will be known as “Roses of the Prophet Muhammad,” the official IRNA news agency reported as pressure on Denmark over the cartoons took on a new dimension.

How is naming a fucking pastry after your prophet any less disrespectful than those cartoons about him? Next, McDonalds will roll out a “Baby Jesus” mini-mac.

Can anyone say … “freedom fries”?