July 26: TORNADIC VORTEX SIGNATURE!!!

WOW! I just spent the last 25 minutes sitting in the dusty, moldy, library-overflow-warehouse basement with our business manager. I spent the 15 minutes before that running around the offices looking for a damn flashlight. I never did find one, which is pretty funny, considering I've been harping on the business manager for some time to write up some damn emergency and/or closing procedures for the place, and she doesn't see why we need to write anything down when "Glen tells everybody who needs to know these things." Clearly, that doesn't include her.

Anyway. Before all THAT, I went out to move my car, because it was parked directly under a bevy of power lines. I stopped to watch the storm moving in, and watched this one cloud moving south . . . southeast. . . north . . . northwest . . . up . . . into the swilring vortex of low lying cloud fingers. Wait! Are those clouds rotating? I think . . . it looks like . . . OH MY STARS! They ARE! That's...totally...wow. That's totally rotating. And fast. And, like, right above my head.

Sadly, but fortunately, it did not get its act together and drop an Oz-style T-bomb on my head. Or on the hazardous chemicals storage facility. I got hit with a swirling Subway napkin and decided it was time to take appropriate shelter, even if it meant I missed the show. But it was really, really, cool. First tornado warning of the year! So exciting. Now, fifteen minutes of thunder and rain later, show's over, and I still have to finish editing this stupid index.

July 25: I love Bitch, in a strictly platonic way.

Just for giggles I googled "love Bitch magazine," figuring it might lead me to some cool weblogs or something. First page of results: cool weblogs. End of first page and all of second page: Porn. The descriptor under one of the links:

"BITCH MAGAZINE's nipples BITCH MAGAZINE fucked BITCH MAGAZINE dildo hard into BITCHMAGAZINE sister's cunt, "You slut, you love BITCH MAGAZINE." "Oh fuck me ... "

I think somebody didn't read her issue carefully enough.

July 14: The rest of the list

okay. Since nobody else took the bait, four more things to feel positively about:

7. Post It Notes. God I love them. I'm disappointed by the limited colors available to me, particularly in the cheaper generic versions,* but I love them nonethless.

* "Ask your doctor if a generic version is available!" Maybe Post-Its are my drug of choice. Sadly, much like reall health care, the kind I want is undoubtedly not covered by my insurance.

8. Summer tomatoes. Every year I decide I'm not going to eat tomatoes out of season, but of course I do, because what's a salad without a little tomato? But then summer rolls around again, and real, earthy, drippy, mooshy garden tomatoes are available, and it's suddenly so clear that hothouse tomoatoes are horrible cardboard imitations. Mmmm. Tomaaaaaatoes.

9. Sparkly nail polish. If you're going to wear nail polish, sparkly is the best. I have heard that manicurists hate it because it never comes off. I love it because...well, it never comes off. Also? Sparkly!

10. Postcards. Postcards are the perfect form of communication; they're usually a pleasant surprise for the receiver, they're cheap, and you don't have to think of anything complex or well-argued to say. And if you write them when you're sort of drunk, you have the option of NOT mailing them in the morning.


That's it. I think I'll go whistle home now and eat a tomato sandwich.

July 12

There's a lot of scary depressing things swirling about the universe these days. I'm going turn off NPR, turn on the Old 97s, and find

Ten things to feel positive about:

1. It's raining! And it cooled off! And, on a meteorological aside, no one in America was killed by a tornado in March, April, May, or June, a feat that has never before occured since the NOAA began keeping records. Hooray for the lack of tornado related deaths!
2. You're going to rent your house!
3. A new issue of Bust arrived in the mail, and I got it before it got rained on.
4. The baseball season is at the halfway point, and the Cubs aren't in last place.
5. My life is comfortable enough that I can waste my time worrying about red tides and the lack of minorities in government and whether I'm contributing to the universe, instead of worrying whether today's the day I starve to death or lose my head to the rebels. Or the police. I wasn't born into a brothel in Calcutta.
6. I figured out how to hyperlink random text in Blogger!

Well, there's a start. Your turn.

A Message to "Donna" at Jerry's IGA

Go to hell.

Best wishes,
Tornadia

Sandy! Baby! I sit and wonder whyyyyy

Oh dear. Sandra Day O'Connor quit? Huh.

And who would have thought the resignation of a Reagan appointee would allow the Court to become MORE conservatice?

July 1

It’s been a rough couple of weeks in the home town. First off, it’s hot. HOT, like stay at work until 8:30 because it’s air conditioned, and it’s still above 90 in my apartment when I go home. This is how hot it is: The water in the toilet is so much cooler than the air around it that the toilet is sweating, causing a constant patter of drips onto the badly-patchwork-carpeted bathroom floor, which is undoubtedly making the wood beneath it rot, increasing the likelihood that at some point my toilet will fall through the floor into the apartment of the gun-collecting crazy guy downstairs. I put piles of newspapers around to soak up the dripping, but they have to be changed every few hours. Early in the week I thought the toilet was actually leaking, and I was digging around trying to find the leak, when I realized that the toilet water was just that much cooler than my apartment. I would be more cooled off dousing in toilet water than sitting in front of my fan. I sat on the side of the tub, watching the toilet sweat, and realized I had hit a new low of patheticness.

Second off, lots of travel—which is good—but then, lots of stuff piling up that’s not getting done. Bad. And there’s a generally pervasive pissiness around my office, and around the town, and it’s seeping into my black little heart.

But I think it’s turning around. Last night I went to buy a new wastebasket and some small trays to collect the commode runoff, and on the way home I was wondering why this town has no real ice cream stands, just custard. Why IS that? Every two-bit one-horse town around Peoria has a walk-up ice cream stand, and we don’t? What’s wrong with this town! But then, when I rounded the last corner to home, an ice cream truck was parked on the corner. Hooray! We’ve never had an ice cream truck come through the neighborhood before. I’ve never ever had ice cream truck ice cream. And here it was! Waiting for me! The truck had drawn quite a crowd, and neighbors I’d never seen in four years of living here heeded the call. The truck—a “Cousin Softee” truck--was run by a nice Russian man and his daughter. It was very Perfect Strangers—straightlaced Mr. Softee and his wacky immigrant cousin, Cousin Softee! The truck tinkled out that music-box style ice cream truck music, starting with such nondescript classics as “It’s a Small World” and “Home on the Range,” followed by a lengthy series of Christmas carols. Lightning bugs lazed by while the neighbors sat on the curbs, ice cream dripping down their arms, singing “Jingle Bells” in the 95-degree heat.

We’re supposed to have a couple of days of cooler weather, before it gets really hot again for the Fourth. It’ll be nice not to be insulted by the happy chilly toilet water for a while. I sense grand things coming! Fearlessness and margaritas! A briefly clean apartment! Not being a British colony! Good times. Happy Fourth of July to you! Go see some fireworks, now.