According to a posting on boinboing, [link], the moblogging site — TextAmerica will be going pay only. The capitalist commerce monger that I am can’t be too offended by this move. Websites that host communities of bloggers and mobologgers need to pay for bandwidth somehow, and my lazy ass ain’t helping. I don’t click on ads in moblogs and I could hardly justify the current pay structure 6.99/month or 69.99/year. So, what’s a boy with three cameraphones in his purse supposed to do?
It’s official, with the warm weather and the pseudo-legal roadside firework stands it is urban woodpecker season. To all bird enthusiasts, one can find this urban woodpecker wherever gun violence is rampant. To put it in context and for those who want to experience the woodpeckers in my area, I live a few blocks from the Detroit border (map: Alter Road being the dividing line) in the low rent district of an east side suburb where old money and tightwads live and play.
Late last night, I heard the the sounds of fireworks both of the legal and non-legal variety and I thought… there’s got to be an urban woodpecker out there. On a quiet night, sitting out on the front porch, one can hear the woodpeckers parry one another. Some woodpeckers have a rapid, say semi-automatic, sound while others don’t have a rhythm at all. The exchange usually doesn’t last very long, the sounds and lights of police cars chase them away. The rather murderous woodpecker strikes when there are loud distractions and often when the summer heat gets to people and aggressions run high. With the declining population of city dwellers, it’s becoming more difficult to experience an urban woodpecker.
A police substation has been built close by and to control the urban woodpecker population, a patrol now canvases the streets. Though I don’t care to see one up close, I am wistful to hear them ringing in summer, just the same way they ring in the new year.
I had to pick up something for dinner, and I do love to stop off at the Chinese BBQ for a savory delectable to treat myself. Since I had the crispy duck last time, I chose a lovely slab of roast pork, lechon to those of the filipino persuasion. Tender roasted juicy belly pork whose skin has been left on and seared with oil to a crispy char. Think of a really juicy pork chop with a crispy pork-rind edge.
I saw a rather large two pound segment of pork and thought… that should be plenty. I asked the gal behind the counter and asked her to weigh the piece and asked how much it was. Obviously too much for two people, I knew I’d have to ask for it to be cut down. Unfortunately for me, but fortunate for the proprietress, there was construction going on in the vicinity. When I asked that I’d like a little more than half, a grinding cacophony of metal and wood drowned out my voice and all she heard was “more”. Before I could correct her, she slapped the piece of pork she just weighed on the counter and proceeded butcher a second piece of pork. Now my order was twice the size of what I had originally asked for. I don’t know if I was being sympathetic to the small-business owner, but I decided to let it slide. What’s a fat kid to do with two kilos of roast pork? I’d say have a party.
I make it a point not to talk about work, so the short of it is, I worked a really long day (Saturday) and had my very first nervous breakdown. There was weeping, rage, dizziness, that diarrhea churning feeling, the whole bit. Somehow staving off fatigue through the miracle of coffee and cigarettes, I succumbed to sandman when I hit the chesterfield. Thirteen hours of sleep later, except for a surreal snack consisting of a sliver of a cuban sandwich in hour seven, I awoke falsely refreshed.
Fortified by more cigarettes and coffee… I had the brilliant idea of heading down to IKEA. My distorted logic being… “it’s Father’s Day, nobody is going to be there… and I need some retail therapy. ” DEAD WRONG. Throngs of people milling about unfamiliar with shopping in the euro-popish, blonde-wood, brightly colored, stainless-steel clad, salon of oddly named meubles-moderne that is IKEA. Flashing back to my nervous break down from the day before, I nearly had a total agoraphobic super-freakout while wielding the blade from the mulit-tool that I keep in my purse. WHY DOES HERR R. RUN AMOK?, probably because he just wanted to zip in, get a PRODUKT milk frother, and get out.
Praise to the power of capitalism and my creditors… I’m here once again at work…. so how was your weekend?
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