So, I got my computer back the other day - supposedly fixed - and today the hard drive crashed again. Turns out it's no good anymore and they need to send me a new one to replace it. You know, you would think they'd come across that little problem when they had it at the fucking factory and that they'd fix it then. Now I'm going to have to do it myself and reinstall everything. The guy on the phone told me it would take an hour to get the computer all set up again. Assholes.

On the up side I got a nice thick new mattress so hopefully I'll start sleeping better. It's very fluffy and bouncy. :D

I got my computer back already, operating system restored and good as new. It really does look new. They fixed the operating system but it looks like they also replaced parts of the computer with brand spanking-new stuff. It doesn't make up for the lost chapters that got zapped but...oh well. We take what we can in life.

I'm currently watching Rear Window (great, great movie), having dinner and writing. I like to do 2 or 3 things at once.

I'm also 3/4 of the way through Haruki Murakami's A Wild Sheep Chase. I highly recommend this book to everyone who hasn't read it. It's funny and just such a great story. In fact I recommend really anything written by Murakami.

As some people already know, my computer hard drive was zapped last night, taking with it all my music and video downloads and a few fic chapters that I'd written and was hoping to post shortly. There was a problem with the computer - possibly a virus or some other bug. My laptop has a "Rescue and Recovery" program, which fixes that by doing the following: (1) clearing the hard drive out completely, then (2) restoring all the factory defaults, operating system, etc. Unfortunately the computer crashed in the middle of this process and, you guessed it, the hard drive was zapped and the factory defaults never restored. When I turned on the computer it said "no operating system" and wouldn't boot up.

I'm sending it back to the factory and they'll re-install everything for me and I'll get the laptop back. I just lost all of that writing and other stuff. Oh well.

Turning our attention to a lighter subject, I give you the yacht delivery, which just felt so apropos today.

( Look at what a lovely yacht )

Sometime this year, we taxpayers may again receive an Economic Stimulus payment. This is a very exciting program. I'll explain it using the Q and A format:

Q. What is an Economic Stimulus payment
A. It is money that the Federal Government will send to taxpayers.

Q. Where will the government get this money?
A. From taxpayers.

Q. So the government is giving me back my own money?
A. Only a smidgen.

Q. What is the purpose of this payment?
A. The plan is for you to use the money to purchase a high-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.

Q. But isn't that stimulating the economy of Asia ?
A. Shut up or you don't get your check.

Below is some helpful advice on how to best help the US economy by spending your stimulus check wisely:

1. If you spend the stimulus money at Wal-Mart, your money will go to China.
2. If you spend it on gasoline, your money will go to Saudi Arabia.
3. If you purchase a computer, it will go to India.
4. If you purchase fruit and vegetables, it will go to Mexico , Honduras and Guatemala.
5. If you buy a car, it will go to Japan or Korea.
6. If you purchase useless plastic stuff, it will go to Taiwan.
7. If you pay off your credit cards, or buy stock, it will go to pay management bonuses and be hidden in offshore accounts.

Instead, you can keep the money in America by:

1. Spending it at yard sales or flea markets, or
2. Going to baseball or football games, or
3. Hiring prostitutes, or
4. Buying cheap beer or
5. Getting tattoos

These are the only wholly-American-owned businesses still operating in the US. (Actually, I’m not really sure about baseball and football teams. Besides, none of the people involved need the money anyway with the possible exception of the guys who sell the beer, hot dogs and so forth.)

Conclusion:

The best way to stimulate the economy is to go to a ball game with a prostitute that you met at a yard sale and drink beer all day until you're drunk enough to go get tattooed. RIGHT ON!

Summary: This is a story I started - and left - about two years ago. I've decided to revisit it and repost it here, in hopes that I might be inspired to continue. Constructive feedback is always welcome. Alternate universte story nspired by the movie Seven Samurai. What if Mulan lived in a village between the northern border and the Tung Shao Pass and it was her village that the Imperial Army came to protect? In this fic, instead of Mulan going off to war in place of her father, the Imperial troop led by General Li comes to her village to defend it against incursions from over the northern border. This is a completely alternate storyline, despite some similarities in the beginning.

Disclaimer: Mulan, Shang and any other characters, scenes, dialogue, etc. from Mulan belong to Disney. Anything from or resembling the movie Seven Samurai belongs to the amazing Akira Kurosawa.

So, this is supposedly an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. Real or not it's worth a read and was PC Magazine's 2007 editors' choice for best webmail-award-winning letter...

Posting this montage because these guys are excellent. Funny stuff. :D

ontd_political

( Stephen King's letter to Barack Obama behind the cut )

A scheme to flood the market with counterfeit stocks helped kill Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers — and the feds have yet to bust the culprits
by Matt Taibbi

I don't really read Rolling Stone anymore, certainly not for their music coverage. But some of their political, social, economic coverage is quite good and Matt Taibbi is awesome. You can read here or read the article at the source.

Illustration by Victor Juhasz

On Tuesday, March 11th, 2008, somebody — nobody knows who — made one of the craziest bets Wall Street has ever seen. The mystery figure spent $1.7 million on a series of options, gambling that shares in the venerable investment bank Bear Stearns would lose more than half their value in nine days or less. It was madness — "like buying 1.7 million lottery tickets," according to one financial analyst.

So, as some people may know I've been working as a professional singer for many years now. It's a tough profession to begin with - it's competitive and often the work comes in spurts then dries up for awhile. Certain months have always been better than others, December being one of the more lucrative months because of the holidays. During months where the singing work was more spare I took temp jobs to supplement my income. I got a lot of temp work in law firms, working as a paralegal, which I ended up liking and being good at. Paralegal tasks themselves aren't always interesting but the cases that we're involved in are, and we don't have the pressure of making crucial decisions, which is something that suits me fine.

One of the firms that I'd been temping at regularly, as a long-term contract worker, approached me for a job. It was before the shit had "officially" hit the fan as far as the economy, but we were already feeling it in the music business. Keep in mind that I'm a local working musician, not a "big star" or someone who was even looking to follow that path. I just loved making music and working, and I've had the opportunity to work with many excellent singers and musicians, on interesting artistic projects.

Big stars are doing okay because either (1) they're established names (like Madonna) and/or (2) they've got big corporate muscle behind them, such as Disney. Not so much for people like me who freelance and pick up work where they can. To get an idea of how things were changing for us, take the situation of one group I perform with that plays a lot of Christmas/holiday parties and December events revolving around those holidays. We've always worked through several agents so that we'll get more frequent and more diversified work. Before 9/11 we had gigs pretty much everyday in the month of December, and on some days, particularly weekends, we often had two or three gigs in one day.

After 9/11 the number of gigs during December dropped drastically and a year where we played about ten gigs for the month was a good year. Last December was rock bottom. The group got a total of two gigs for the entire month.

The job offer from this law firm came at the right time, and it was a good situation. There are a ton of law firms where the atmosphere is oppressive and the attorneys are nasty. This firm happens to have a decent corporate culture and there's respect among people, whatever their position. And most of the attorneys I've worked with here have been very, very nice. Even more key as it turned out, I have health insurance.

For years I didn't have insurance. Sometimes I would think about it - what would I do if anything happened, how would I pay my medical bills - and it would terrify me. But I was very lucky. Friends and colleagues recommended doctors who worked on a sliding scale, who worked things out with patients who didn't have insurance. The doctor who prescribed my anti-depressant meds saw me on a monthly basis for $75 a visit (if you have insurance those visits cost at least double that) and sent me home every time with a month's supply of samples (the pharmaceutical company representatives left samples with him all the time). Not once did I have to pay for a prescription while I was under his care. And other doctors that I saw for various things did the same thing - they gave me free samples when I needed medicine, and they always knocked as much as they could off the price of the visit. There are really good people out there; unfortunately big money often squashes them. The doctor who was treating me for depression had to leave New York; he wasn't making a huge amount of money (a large portion of his patient base was people like me) and he could no longer afford New York rent.

This year I had several medical problems, the most serious being the discovery of a melanoma on my forearm. It was very, very early stage - what they call insitu melanoma, staged as Stage 0 cancer. I had to go for surgery. If I didn't have this job and, more importantly, the health insurance, I would have been in a bad way financially right now. I would have had to pay for the surgery on a credit card, which of course I would have done, and then spent the rest of my life paying it off. In addition, now more than I ever I need to make sure I get checked regularly - I'm required to go for skin cancer screenings every three months now. And because of other health issues I have to see two or three other doctors on a regular basis, to make sure everything is okay and to catch anything that might be brewing early. Timing is everything.

So, I'm in this job now, and it's really okay. I still do singing gigs too. They're not as frequent as they used to be but they come up throughout the year and the firm is very cool about letting me take time off when I need it for rehearsals, performances, etc. They like me a lot and gave me a raise this year, at a time when no one was getting raises. The cases are still very interesting and I was just assigned to work on a project that means a lot to me. I can't go into detail due to confidentiality but the work I'll be doing will assist the A.C.L.U. - of which I'm a proud card-carrying member :) - and it's working for gay and lesbian rights.

Title: Magic Fingers
Author: lightbird
Disclaimer: Mine. Do not reprint without permission.

Girl A's mother always talked about how when she was a baby they played records or the radio on their big hi-fi for her, day and night, immersing her in music from the time she was an infant. Her mother told her about how her own mother, Girl A's Grandma, came to the hospital when she was born and, upon examining the tiny fingers, announced that she would play the piano.

"Even then she could see that your fingers were so long and thin, so nimble," her mother explained.

Before long Girl A grew into an intense, passionate and serious child with great musical talent. She loved music, both playing it and listening to it. She took piano lessons and became somewhat of a prodigy. A renowned and influential teacher named Mrs. Brenner had taken her under her wing at the age of seven and Girl A was eating and sleeping the piano by the time she was eight. She entered statewide competitions and won several of them. Mrs. Brenner had told Girl A's parents that she had unusual skill and musical ability, and had started her on a fast track to becoming a concert pianist.

She loved playing the piano but, being a child, she often felt deprived and genuinely missed being able to do the things that all the other kids did. Many times she was pulled out of school early in the day to go to a rehearsal or a performance, some of them practice performances, and she missed out on other fun, extracurricular activities. Because she wasn’t around she failed to make connections with most of the other kids. Her friends were the other people who took lessons with Mrs. Brenner and who played in the same practice concerts; all of them were much older than her because Mrs. Brenner rarely took on students below a certain age; she'd made an exception in this case because she 'heard something' when Girl A auditioned for her. Girl A was always lonely.

Even worse were the expectations that were thrust upon her at such a young age combined with a dictatorial and oppressive father, who seemed to live through her accomplishments and who punished her severely when she didn’t live up to the bar he set.

When she was in the fourth grade she managed to make friends in school with a couple of girls that liked to ice skate. The nearby rink had free Wednesday open skates, open to all ages. Before she went her parents let her take lessons - they were afraid of her falling and injuring her hands, but once they were sure she knew what she was doing she was allowed to skate with her new friends once a week.

There was a piano store in the mall near where they lived. A lot of people went in there to shop and sometimes her father brought her in there to play one of the pianos that were out in the show room. Sometimes Girl A didn't feel like playing. Sometimes it was tiresome to perform on demand, especially after a full day of traipsing around the mall. But she felt that she had no choice.

One day after a very long day of shopping her father asked her if she wanted to go into the piano store and play. She said no, that she wanted to go home. Her father tried to coax her to play but she still said no. He wanted to show her off and she knew it, but she was tired and not in the mood. All the times she played in the store before he would brag to the other patrons who stood around listening, telling them proudly that she was his daughter. He'd go on to tell them about the competitions she'd won, how she was working with a well-known teacher who had trained many concert pianists and was grooming her to be one. And on and on. Today she was too tired. He begged and exhorted her to play, and when she wouldn't he began to threaten her. She wouldn't be allowed to skate that Wednesday, or the Wednesday after that. But Girl A wouldn't give in. It had been a long day and she was not in the mood to sit in a mall piano store entertaining the customers there. She got her way this time, but at a great price.

Both her parents were angry with her for refusing to play in the piano store. During the ride home in the car her father hounded her about how ungrateful and undedicated she was, and how he wouldn't allow her to skate - in fact maybe he wouldn't even allow her to take piano lessons anymore. After all, if she wasn't going to be dedicated to it, why should they pay for lessons?

"She has ice in her head," her mother commented scornfully.

One day, when Girl A was turning eleven, her teacher Mrs. Brenner became ill and could no longer work. She had to retire and was moving to Florida, but she recommended another piano teacher named Mrs. Holland. Mrs. Holland was nice enough but she was having personal problems. She was in the middle of a divorce, there were issues with her own children and she didn't understand Girl A at all. There were always disruptions in the lessons because Mrs. Holland was also a volunteer for the Red Cross and had an alarm/call box in her house that was always going off in the middle of everything. At this point Girl A was almost a teenager and quickly losing interest in working so single-mindedly at the piano anyway.

During that first year of lessons with Mrs. Holland Girl A entered one more competition but didn't do well; she didn't even make the finals that year. Although she continued to take lessons and play, she never entered a competition again; and after a few years she stopped playing the piano.

My friend forwarded this to me today. I personally love 2, 7, 9, 10, 11 and 19; and 3 is pretty funny too. How about you? What's your favorite(s)?

( refrigerator theft - a workplace dilemma! )

Simple meme, started Monday: the rule is to post something that you're enjoying at the moment every day for a week.

Simple meme, started Monday: the rule is to post something that you're enjoying at the moment every day for a week.

Today I got to thinking about old things and how attached we can be to them, especially as children. We’ll hold onto a stuffed animal or a toy, no matter how dirty and worn out it becomes, how threadbare and broken, because we love it and we can’t let it go; it’s more than just a toy or a thing but a friend. Even when we’re older we might have a favorite pair of jeans that we continue to wear though there are holes in the knees and the denim is wearing thin, or a favorite shirt or jacket. We just can’t let go.

When I was a very little girl I had a purple jumper that I loved. I had stuffed animals and toys that I adored and was tenaciously attached to too, but the jumper was something completely different. It was more lavender than purple, but we called it the purple jumper. It was my favorite article of clothing and purple was my favorite color. I always felt pretty wearing it. And I insisted on wearing the jumper even when I’d started to outgrow it. These were the pre-kindergarten years so I was at that age where I was small but growing rapidly. By the time I entered first grade the jumper came down just to my waist and I was wearing it as a vest instead of a jumper, with pants or a skirt and over long or short-sleeved white shirts. My mother worked as a buyer for one of the department stores for several years before I was born. She was very fashion savvy and a whiz at taking one article of clothing and adapting different looks with it; she came up with the vest solution. Knowing that I was still so attached to it she tried the look out, saw that it would work and I got a couple more years use out of the purple jumper.

But the day came inevitably when I could no longer wear it as a vest either. And still I hated to let it go. So my mother saved it for me. She folded it and wrapped it nicely in tissue paper, and laid it in a box. The box remained on a high shelf in my closet for years, a remembrance she called it, a remnant of those early years of my life. Eventually it was either given away to a new mother with a little girl or perhaps it was sold at the garage sale, when my mother was ready to move to a smaller place. I was in college already when it happened so letting it go was finally easy.

:D

Simple meme, started Monday: the rule is to post something that you're enjoying at the moment every day for a week.

Simple meme, started Monday: the rule is to post something that you're enjoying at the moment every day for a week.

One of the first things that happened when I started to remember and talk about past traumas and things is that my sense of smell came back. I never noticed that I'd lost it, or that it wasn't as keen as it had been. But that's what happens when you try to cut off or deny one part of yourself, even if it is out of necessity. By default, everything else gets sacrificed. You can't choose.

Even when I did start remembering things, at first it was only the bad stuff. Of course that wasn't the whole picture though. The good stuff was harder to remember, not just because it was buried underneath the bad but because those things were just as painful, if not moreso. Our father was still our father and we were his children. In his own manner he demonstrated his love in small ways. He had pet names for us. He called my brother Pal and he called me Ladybug, Bug for short. When he addressed us by those names it was with great affection.

The weird thing is that it's easier to live with the memories of his violence than it is to acknowledge the love and affection that might have been there. Being in touch with whatever love he had for me is unbearably painful.

Simple meme, started Monday: the rule is to post something that you're enjoying at the moment every day for a week.