Work was busy but I was bored. I started thinking, “What if the Treasury decided to update some of the redesigned bills with more recently deceased dead presidents?”

I don’t think any 20th Century President or Notable Historical Figure has been featured on a bill or coin (which the exception of JFK). I’m not a coin collector, so what the hell do I know. Anyway, I started thinking — if four 20th Century U.S. Presidents were going to make their way to new bills, who should they be? Certainly, the first requirement is that they be dead. (“Hey, how many Dead Presidents you got?” “None, but I got $60 in Living Presidents!”). The second requirement is that they be a cultural icon. The most uneducated bimbo should at least have a passing idea of who the Dead President was, even if it’s just, “Oh, didn’t he bang Marilyn Monroe?”

Here are my picks:

1. Franklin D. Roosevelt
2. Teddy Roosevelt
3. Ronald Reagan (if only for his “tear down this wall!” speech, and, let’s face it, as a bone for the right-wingers)
4. John F. Kennedy (hey, like he’d be the only Dead President with a bill and a coin … Lincoln, Washington, looking at you …)

Runners Up:

Truman. Eisenhower. Wilson.

Thunks?

I don’t know, however, how I feel about having to handcuff my furniture to keep it from running off.

Today was my sister’s 24th birthday, and although I’m working tonight, I’d hoped to take her out for a nice lunch. This was complicated by her car being in the shop and needing my Dad to give her a ride up. Anyway, by the time my Dad and little sis’ got back from Bethesda (yep, she’s done with Hawaii), it was about time for me to turn around and head back home before being late for my first day back at work since leaving for West Virginia.

I got her a copy of Hotel New Hampshire and a hand-blown glass lamp from IKEA. Relatively cheap, since the lunch wound up not happening.

I did get to hear a small bit about the new apartment she shares with two lovely roomates, and, apparently, a nest-full of snakes under the front porch.

Only because my parents were in the next room did I refrain from, “Motherfuckin’ snakes on a motherfuckin’ porch!”

I’m digging the second season of Veronica Mars.

What kind of a fucking moron do you have to be to open an Adolf Hitler/Nazi themed restaraunt? Who would even go into that place?

The owner of a restaurant named after Adolf Hitler said Thursday he will change its name because it angered so many people.

YA’ THINK?!?!

Here’s my dilemma.

First, my Comcast bill is going up by $2 because Comcast needs that to carry Washington Nationals games. Why do I have to get stuck with this? I don’t know — I never watch televised baseball!

Two bucks, though, is nothing. It’s not even a full load of laundry. But it’s the little stuff, y’know?

And utilities are on the rise. My BGE bill was close to ninety bucks for mid-July through mid-August. Hot months and all, and I did run my A/C a bunch. Still. 15% hikes per month every month? Sucks. Thankfully, my apartment stays fairly warm in the winter, thanks to the fifty-some lamps in my living room. (Slight exaggeration).

So, here’s where I need help.

I have a cell-phone through Cingular that I pay about $40 a month for. I have a homephone through AT&T that I also pay roughly $40 a month for. I have no idea why my AT&T bill is so high, I never answer the phone (always telemarketers!), and I rarely call long distance. I have the AT&T phone because my cell gets almost zero reception in my basement level apartment. Cropping that AT&T bill out of my budget would be nice, but making and recieving calls in my apartment would become a hassle.

I think I should side with the hassle.

Unless AT&T is willing to give me supremo-basic-service for $10 a month …

George A. Romero’s Diary of the Dead:

Horror maven George A. Romero has signed on to write and direct “George A. Romero’s Diary of the Dead,” following in the tradition of his 1968 cult classic “Night of the Living Dead.”

With a story mixing elements of “The Blair Witch Project” and the long-running “Dead” series, the film will follow a group of college students shooting a horror movie in the woods who stumble upon a real zombie uprising. When the onslaught begins, they seize the moment as any good film students would, capturing the undead in a “cinema verite” style that causes more than the usual production headaches.

I’m still waiting for a Shaun of the Dead sequel.

But Diary of the Shaun would sound stupid. And Shaun of the Dead II: The Wrath of Khan would sound too Austin Powerish.

HT: Murky.org.

I know, I’m shameless.

Germany is selling Israel two nuclear-missile submarines.

With the purchase of two more German-made Dolphin submarines capable of carrying nuclear warheads, military experts say Israel is sending a clear message to Iran that it can strike back if attacked by nuclear weapons.

The purchases come at a time when Iran is refusing to bow to growing Western demands to halt its nuclear program, and after Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has called for Israel to be “wiped off the map.”

I don’t really have a problem with this. Israel isn’t very much liked in the Middle East, and while the country has never come right out and said “we’ve got nukes”, it has long been suspected that they’ve actually got a sizeable nuclear stockpile, and what country buys missile submarines if it can’t put nuclear missiles into it? (And they’ve already got three of the fuckers).

If the nutjob in charge of Iran is smart, he’ll be going back to the negotiation table before he causes his country and the citizens under his charge to get mushroom-clouded.

(Because, let’s face it, genocide is wrong, and I think its great that a nation that once tried to genocide the Jews is now helping protect the Jews from being genocided by Iran, but the only dude who can save Iran now is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad).

Coming on DVD in just a few weeks is a new release of the original Star Wars Trilogy — or maybe I should say, a new “old” release … for the first time on DVD, the original theatrical versions of the first three films are being released on DVD. No Jabba in Star Wars. No Greedo shooting first. No enhanced dance sequence in Return of the Jedi. No shots of the enraged Wampa beast on Hoth or windows in Cloud City in Empire.

I was all set to buy them. Now I’m hesitating. Why? Well, for one thing, next year is the 30th Anniversary of the premier of Star Wars. And we all know that George Lucas is a marketing genius … i.e., cash-cow.

The Digital Bits reports …

Also today… a follow-up on something we’ve been telling you to expect for quite while now. 2007, as you may well be aware, is the 30th anniversary of the original Star Wars’ debut in theaters. You’d have to be stupid not to know that Lucasfilm is going to have big DVD release plans with which to celebrate the anniversary, and we’ve been telling you that was the case for many months now. Indeed, during our last visit to the Ranch for the DVD release of Episode III, producer Rick McCallum confirmed that a box set of all six films was going to happen eventually, and animation director Rob Coleman even let it slip that the puppet Yoda from Episode I had already been replaced with a new CG Yoda to match Episodes II & III for the “future” release. T-Bone over at Star Wars Universe recently speculated about this box set, and we’ve been quietly checking in with our industry sources on it as well. Well, we’ve confirmed it: There IS a big, ultimate, 6-film Star Wars anniversary DVD box set planned for 2007. There will be more changes to the films, and there will be LOTS of new, never-before-seen special features – all the good stuff that was held back by Lucasfilm from the original Trilogy DVD release a few years ago. Think deleted scenes and more. We don’t know if good, genuinely-REMASTERED versions of the original theatrical editions of the films will be included or not (though how you could call the set “ultimate” without them, we don’t know). We don’t expect high-definition versions yet, as those formats are just too new. We don’t have ANY other details for you yet, so please don’t ask. But as you consider whether or not to purchase the “limited edition” DVDs due on 9/12… we thought you should know that more IS absolutely on the way next year. ‘Nuff said for now.

Stuff to think on before spending $50 on yet another copy of the Star Wars Trilogy. Counting VHS and laserdisc, I’ve already fucking got five copies of the thing.

(Oh. Also. I will, on occasion, slip and refer to Star Wars as A New Hope, but here’s the thing — to me? That first film will always be Star Wars. A New Hope is the fucking subtitle on that flick, always has been, always fucking will be. Star Wars. That’s the name of the film. STAR WARS. People who consistently refer to it as A New Hope bug the piss out of me, and I only refer to it as that when I’m with a bunch of anal geeks who keep asking me, “But, they’re all Star Wars! What one do you mean?”)

I’m so glad I don’t work in retail anymore.

I just got back from the Towson Barnes & Noble. You know the saying, “Have Gift Card, Will Spend?” Well, now you do. Anyway, waiting to checkout — at the lower-floor registers, because I was parked literally right out the door — behind this old short grandmother with a European accent type, who was upset because a book her daughter special ordered apparently couldn’t be located. Anyway, short old grandmother with a European accent type — that’s long, so I’ll just refer to her from here-on in as “Grandma Witch” (because even I won’t call a bitch a bitch if she’s a short old grandmother with a European accent type) — was very upset and causing great trouble for the clearly-new-but-trying-and-cute girl behind the register.

Finally, management type showed up and asked Grandma Witch for the phone number the book special order had been placed under. Grandma Witch stated there were ten possible numbers her daughter had listed, then began listing them. None of them showed any special orders.

Then management type asked for Grandma Witch’s daughter’s name, with Grandma Witch gave out, then gave an abbreviation of that same name under which she was certain daughter had ordered the book. Again, no dice.

Grandma Witch, who came into the store completely unprepared to pick up special order book, stormed out cursing and muttering in her European accent about stupid bookstore employees.

Of course, since it’s well known that one must have multiple advanced degrees to work in a bookstore (that guy behind the counter at the espresso bar has a PhD in rocket science), clearly, the issue at hand is with UnPrepared Grandma Witch not knowing any of the pertinent information about the book reservation to begin with. (Waiting behind her in line, I got to listen to her cuss out someone for taking too long to find a “fucking car space.”)

I don’t know what that pertinent information might be. When I decide I need a book, I usually look it up on Amazon. If I decide I need it “right away” I drive to Border’s or Barnes & Noble. If they don’t have it, I don’t special order it — I go back home and fire up my computer and go back to Amazon. I’m surprised how many people still special-order books, it seems like a complete and total waste of time and energy (not to mention money).

Since it’s somewhat related, if you’re ever looking for a book and can’t find it on Amazon or eBay (eBay’s great, I just got the first six books of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series for $20 including shipping), try Alibris, which specializes in out-of-print stuff.

Oh! And at B&N, I was surprised – albeit pleasantly – to find that David Simon’s Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets, the book upon which the show was based, the account of the year he spent with the Baltimore Police Department’s Homicide unit, has been republished (with photos!). I was almost tempted to replace my copy, which is falling apart. But I didn’t. Because books that are falling apart with a ripped cover and weary pages are a testament to how much that book has been enjoyed.

(You know when I call her “grandmother witch”, I mean “grandmother bitch” … right?)

My vacuum cleaner gave up the ghost Saturday night. Coughed. Choked. Smashing-clinking-binking noises within, and not of the “Shit, I just vacuumed up a quarter” clunking.

I can’t complain — shouldn’t complain. I bought it, hell, probably five years ago for $30 at Walmart. Bissell Upright. Great thing, except the only replacement bags I could find were at Walmart. I’ve still got like eight bags left for it, too. I knew I should’ve only bought those things one package at a time.

Alas.

Anyway, I had to swing by Target Sunday before work — and my vacation — for a package of bottled water (contrary to popular belief, man cannot survive alone on alcohol, although I had a lot of that, too). Long story short, I swung past the housefrau aisle and grabbed —

(no. not a Dyson. who the fuck spends five-hundred bucks on a vacuum cleaner? I’ll tell you. The kind of people who could spend the cash on a maid and a happy ending).

– a Eureka Mini Boss.

No bags!

I haven’t tried it out yet. Is it wrong that I’m quivering in anticipation?

I think the answer, there, is “Yes.”

It’s not that I was homesick or anything — okay, so Tuesday I suffered through a headache, a mild case of nausea, and homesickness — but when I couldn’t fall back asleep after waking up at three this bright and early morning, I didn’t see the point in waiting for daylight to show and figured I’d beat the traffic, so after “shipping out” a little before four, I made it home a little before six, having done nearly eighty all the way down Rt. 70.

The sole company I had for the time I was in The Woods were the rutting squirrels above (I now have a personal experience of how it must’ve felt to live in, say, Drezden during WWII), and the foresting deer below. The cabins on both sides of me were empty and remained so. Every few hours, with a roar like a mass flotilla of angry bees, a red pickup truck with the resort logo on it would drive past on the road (which, from the angle of the house to the driveway to the road, I could barely see from the porch). In the morning, across the street and down, an aquagreen Honda Accord would rattle backwards down a gravel drive and peel off, only to return late in the evening.

From the time I got provisions at Food Lion to stopping at Shell on my way out (did I mention the really cheap gas?), I spoke not a word. Well, that isn’t true, I think, “STUPID SQUIRREL BASTARDS!” escaped my mouth once or twice after they pelted me with green things that didn’t look like walnurts and were too solid to be squirrel shit. Wish I’d brought my shotgun for that — I betcha that a blast into the trees and they’d've left me the fuck alone.

Yeah. I don’t know why Christmas decorations were up, either.

I finished A Prayer For Owen Meaney Sunday night — I got to the cabin just before it got pitch black outside. I thought I would cry at the end.

I read The Hotel New Hampshire on Tuesday, and revised my previously held opinion that John Irving could write nothing better than A Prayer For Owen Meaney. I threw the book across the room several times, angry, tears in my eyes, hating Irving for playing with my emotions in such a way. Loved the book by the time I finished with it, but, Christ! What a rough-and-tumble experience. I still mourn.

On Monday, I read Case Histories by Kate Atkinson. I was surprised, because she almost seemed to channel Irving — well written, with the same style of foreshadowing (although, of course, not as well executed). Perhaps, as a mystery, a tad “over the head!” (as in, “with a pan, hitting”) with certain clues — even without Atkinson explaining every little tidbit, you knew how certain danglers dangled. Excellent book, and I was sorry to bring it to an end.

On Wednesday, I tackled the only ho-hum book of my stay: Michelle Wan’s Deadly Slipper, a murder mystery set in the Dordogne region of France and featuring orchids and pigeon houses (apparently, France was built on pigeon shit). I felt that the clue which finally identified the culprit to the amateur sleuth Mara (hunting for the murderer of her twin sister) was bogus because it underminded earlier information given the reader. I won’t go into it in detail, in case you might choose to read this book, but I felt it was a letdown after investing multiple hours reading it.

Thursday was Anne Proloux’s The Shipping News. Have you ever read this book? Her style of writing — choppy, is the best I can think to describe it — take a while to get used to. I almost put it down a few times, but I stuck with it, and as the pages went on, and as I got used to her style and invested in the story, I became used to her style and enjoyed it.

Not Related to Reading:

I watched The Roast of William Shatner Sunday night as well. “The Shat Hits The Fan” was the tag, but it sucked — all the invited comedians insulted each other (particularly George Takei) and didn’t say much mean about Billy-Boy, which, frankly, I thought was kind of the point. I turned it off about forty-five minutes into it feeling like I’d been ripped off.

I feel like, after my last post, I owe West Virginia a spirited defense. I’m happy to report that, having returned from the wilds of that Appalachian region (I don’t know if that’s even remotely true), my bunghole remains secured and tight. I saw no one from the time Sunday evening when I stopped at Food Lion for provisions (lunch meats and mayo and sour cream & onion chips), to when I left (very early this morning) and stopped at the Shell for gas: $2.74 p/gallon, folks. (This, much a relief because I decided not to pack the shotgun, and the only defense I had was a flimsy broom).

Did you know how West Virginia came to be a state? Did you ever wonder why when John Brown pulled his little stunt, Harper’s Ferry was in Virginia? But now, on a map, it’s in West Virginia?

In 1861, Virginia was asked by the United States to raise regiments to assist in quelling the rebellion in the South. Virginia refused, and left the Union, joining the Confederacy in what they in the South call “The Second War of Independence” and what we in the North (as in, “States Which Remained Loyal To The Stars & Stripes“) call, “Let’s Go Whip Some Southern Ass!” After leaving the Union, a bunch of Virginians were none too happy — they promptly gave the Virginian legislature the middle finger, decided that if a state could leave a country, a bunch of counties could leave a state, and what is today known as West Virginia split from the rest of the state, applied for statehood (which they got a couple years later), and fought spiritedly for the Union.

The real shame here is that West Virginia had to change its name. I really think the West Virginians should’ve told the politicos in Washington, “Uh-uh. We’re applying for statehood as Virginia. When you bring that rebellion part of Virginia back into the fold, it can be renamed ‘Southern Virginia’ or ‘East Virginia’ or ‘Bumfuck Virginia’ or ‘Virginia the Lesser’ or what the eff ever, but we’re not sticking no silly descriptor in front of our state’s name!”

Actually, I think it would be neat if all the states which made up the Confederacy had to stick a “South” in front of their name. South North Carolina. South South Carolina. South Tennessee. South Alabama.

Too much?