Ew, Sir. Ew.

Last night, on my evening walk home from work, I reached the corner and stopped for the light. A man was already waiting at the corner and, just as I approached, he let out the most enormous fart. Not at me, per se, but in my general direction. He acknowledged neither my presence nor the fart. I, meanwhile, had to suppress laughter.
He looked so respectable, otherwise. Of course, were I in his position, I might choose to willfully ignore what sounded perilously close to a shart, too.

Here. Have a relevant lolcat to cleanse your mind.

Waking Before Walking

It's another day in Kaitland, and I, the Great Kait, am tired. (Yes, that's my official title. So there. Mnyah.) This shouldn't be surprising, as I'm always tired. I might have hit a new low today, though: I fell asleep while waiting for the light to change. Perhaps I should clarify. I wasn't riding in a vehicle of any sort. Nope, just standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. I closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes again, I had three seconds left to cross. I dashed. Felt mightily foolish, I tell ya what.

Wacky German Design to the Rescue!

Know how I've previously mentioned that I need a sleep helmet? Well, they actually make one! Sign me up, baby. I just need to learn how to read German first. What they won't think of next.

New Year, No Memories

I think it is time that I tell my most amusing (in retrospect) New Year's Eve story. Several years ago Afshin and I went to a New Year's Eve party at the apartment of a friend. I looked cute (a dress that I hadn't expected to fit did), one of my dearest friends was in town and present, and the Champagne flowed freely. Suffice it to say I overindulged. Feeling, as I did, pretty bloody wasted, I retreated to an unoccupied bedroom and inelegantly passed out on the bed. Eventually Afshin decided that it was time to go home and went to collect me. He succeeded in rousing me and told me it was time to go. I tried to push past him.

"I have to go tell Afshin we're leaving," I said.
"I am Afshin," he responded.
"No, I need to tell Afshin," I insisted.
He played along. "Okay, if I'm not Afshin, who am I?" he asked.
I looked at him blearily. "You're the bathtub."

Upon that delirious declaration, he opted to leave me unconscious a while longer. After recounting my predicament to our host, Afshin decided to check on me again, just in case.

"I'll be right back," he said. "I have to go make sure my girlfriend's not trying to have sex with your bathtub."

Beowulf: Epic Failure

Last Saturday night I went to see Beowulf in 3D at the IMAX in San Francisco. I had more than a sneaking suspicion that it would be awful, but I thought that it could possibly be silly fun, especially in 3D. I was wrong. Let's put it this way: I had a nosebleed afterward on BART. I went home and coughed up blood. That was preferable to watching Beowulf. It was the worst movie I've ever seen.
Never before have I seriously considered walking out of a theatre. Certainly never less than five minutes into the movie. What was so wrong with it? Well, here's the shortlist:

WARNING: HERE THERE BE SPOILERS.

1. Hrothgar was a drunken, sometimes naked, lout. Oh, and Grendel's dad. And he kills himself.
2. Two words: uncanny valley. Especially the chicks. Wiglaf gets a pass, though, as he was remarkably lifelike, and the only likable character in the whole bloody movie.
3. Cockblocking. Literally. Apparently, when the poem said that Beowulf fought Grendel bare-handed, it meant bare-assed, too. You can tell when things get serious because Beowulf gets naked. Then you see the most ridiculous assortment of penis-blocking shots ever. Like in Austin Powers. But I don't think Beowulf was supposed to be a comedy. Maybe I misunderstood something.
4. Angelina Jolie as Grendel's mother. Yes, the "sea hag." Also absurd: her tentacle braid, the organic stilettos growing from her heels, and the fact that Beowulf sleeps with her instead of killing her.
5. Know the dragon that ultimately kills our hero? Well, remember how Grendel was Hrothgar's son? Yeah, you see where I'm going with this. The dragon's Beowulf's kid. Now, setting aside how asinine that concept is, here's my question: When Hrothgar and Angelina Jolie mate, they produce Grendel, gooey, misshapen, inside-out man. When Beowulf and Angie mate, they produce some perfectly-muscled golden (as in actually gold) boy who can transform into a dragon. So, um, how exactly does that work? I mean, Beowulf's better-looking than Hrothgar, but ol' Hrothie's not hideous or anything.

I'm not even going to quibble about all the general ickiness (all the eyeball-stabbing, eardrum-punching, arm-hacking, body-ripping-in-half, gut-slicing, head-crunching, and bare-handed heart-grabbing gore and such). I guess my main complaint is that it was already an epic poem. Epic, people. It's not called epic because it's dull and needs a bit of sexing up; it's called epic because it's full of adventure and action and larger-than-life deeds. Hence when you decide to make a film about said epic, you don't need to toss in unnecessary subplots and extra carnage and Angelina Jolie's nude gold-dripping body. Yet this is the second horrible film version of Beowulf that I've seen. The other, Beowulf & Grendel, was a 2005 film that gave Grendel a son with the local witch. What's wrong with the original story? Nothing!

Ugh. Am full of disgust and righteous anger. I think I'll go look at lolcats.

Follow That Falafel!

Apparently the FBI is so desperate to find evidence of Iranian terror plots in the U.S. that they've been tracking the sale of certain grocery items like falafel. The logic (yeah, I'm using the term loosely) is that, if you follow the sale of Middle Eastern foods, you might find Middle Easterners, who might be Iranians, who might be terrorists. Is this seriously what passes for government intelligence these days?

Naturally, I sent a link to the article to Afshin, who contributed several salient points.

Afshin: falafel is not an iranian dish
Afshin: iranians don't really eat it
Afshin: or hummus
Afshin: also, there's no such thing as an iranian terrorist
Afshin: they would know this if they had even a single iranian working for them
Me: yeah, the whole thing is pretty retarded
Afshin: iranians don't eat those "typical" middle eastern foods
Me: well, you know--the iranians might have been gay or something
Me: can't get the gays involved
Afshin: you want to find them? follow the pistachios and the pomegranates
Me: true
Me: and then what'll they find?
Me: not terrorists
Me: your mom.
Afshin: a bunch of persians sitting around eating fruit, drinking tea, on a persian rug, watching soccer

The Boy With the Arab Hat

Afshin made plum vodka months ago using very cheap vodka (filtered through a Brita multiple times) and a bunch of plums from a tree in our friend Lucinda's backyard. He finally decided it was time to remove the plums, filter the vodka, and switch it from one bottle to another. He called for my attention; the filtration process was going remarkably well and he was justifiably pleased with himself. I looked up and saw that he'd taken several thicknesses of cheesecloth, covered the mouth of one bottle with it, and secured the cheesecloth filter in place with a rubber band.

"Nice work," I said.

"Yeah, it's all right," he said. He gestured to the cheesecloth capping the bottle. "It's called an Arab hat."

I couldn't imagine who, except maybe Afshin, called it that. Skeptical, I asked, "Do they really call it that?"

He burst out laughing.

"I should know better than to believe anything you say any more," I shrieked indignantly. "You jerk!"

My Night as a Zombie

For those of you who are interested (which means everybody—who wouldn't be interested?), I participated in the most recent zombie flash mob in San Francisco this past Thursday. As I was not among the first of the undead to arrive, I didn't manage to crash the mayoral debate, but I arrived in time to see the cops and security people lowering the gate. Party poopers. At least no zombies got tased.

After massing near Civic Center (and engaging in an impromptu zombie conga line), we progressed via BART to the Mission. Following drinks at Beauty Bar, we boarded the zombie bus, whereupon newly undead mayoral candidate Chicken John Rinaldi chauffeured us around the city. On the bus, we were treated to juice, snacks, and Fun-Dip, along with some rousing zombie karaoke. We made some stops to generally wreak (good-natured) havoc, pick up food and/or drinks, attack Cupid's Span (apparently Chicken John has a deep-seated hatred for this "artwork"), and feast on Stephen Colbert's brain.

You can see my photos of the evening's festivities here, and my charming coworker/makeup artist Jenn also posted photos of me. Here are more photos. And here. And here. And here. And I'm on the phone with my grandmother in this one. For more info about zombie flash mobs in San Francisco, see this site.

Oh, and the lesson of the night? Never put a tube of fake blood in your pocket. If you do, be prepared to soak your jeans in scalding hot water and pray.

Umbrella Chronicles

Oh god. I've clearly been at this job too long: I just made a bad video game pun. Anyway, I have a complaint. When it comes to rain, the citizens of the Bay Area are morons. You'd think that San Franciscans would comprehend the concept of rain, what with their constant fog and all. No. Apparently, once the water vapor that forms fog starts dripping on people instead of rolling across the top of buildings, San Franciscans go into panic mode. I counted no less than three of those massive golf umbrellas in a two-block stretch this morning. I'm sorry, but people who carry sidewalk-hogging golf umbrellas (and generally use them like battering rams) deserve to be sodomized with said umbrellas. Jerks. Unless they're on an actual golf course, naturally. Rain also seems to engender confusion in drivers and pedestrians—I watched the same idiot nearly get hit by a car twice in about one minute. It's just water and it happens every winter, people. Deal.

Semi-Intentional Witticism of the Day

Genie: when I was talking to Afshin the other day, he said that you guys were considering a move-
Me: we are?
Genie: out of the studio-
Me: i mean, yeah, we're considering it
Genie: that sounds like a really good idea.
Me: much in the way we're considering world peace
Me: we'd like to do it
Genie: ha!
Me: or see it happen, rather
Me: but it's unlikely to happen soon

Sleep? Snack? Or Both?

I have a tendency to eat at night. As in I'll wake up from a sound sleep, get up to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, and decide that I really need a cookie or some cereal or an apple or something. I think it runs in the family—my mom used to do the same thing. Of course, she also took Ambien for a time and would do and eat all sorts of bizarre things in the middle of the night, but that's another story.

When I was really little (maybe two?), I apparently woke up one night and told my mom I was hungry. She asked what I wanted to eat, and I told her ham and mashed potatoes. So she heated up some for me, thinking it was weird but that I must have just been really hungry for some reason. (My grandfather's an excellent and rather prolific cook, so of course we had leftover ham and mashed potatoes.) The next night I did it again. My mom was a good sport and went along with it. When I did it the third night in a row, my mom had had enough. She decided that I was not going to be a ham-and-mashed-potatoes-at-midnight junkie for the rest of my life. So that was that.

During the intervening two-odd decades, I've periodically gone on sleep-eating jags, but only one has been particularly noteworthy. A couple of years ago, I kept raiding the kitchen. I'd take cereal to bed with me. When I woke up in the morning I'd have an apple core on a napkin on the bedside table. Once I woke up with a spoonful of peanut butter stuck to the sheet. For a particularly abnormal week or so I'd eat brown sugar straight from the box, spilling very sweet, hard sand in the bed.

I am no longer allowed to eat in bed. Afshin passed the decree before I moved in with him. I think what prompted his decision was the time he woke up in my bed with a Lucky Charm stuck to his back.

Thus concludes (hopefully) the tale of my sleep-eating.

Nocturnal Injuries

Last night I woke up (as I often do) because I needed to use the bathroom. This is not unusual, as I drink lots of water and apparently have the world's smallest bladder. Upon waking, I lifted my head off the pillow—and bonked into Afshin's elbow. (It was totally encroaching on my side of the bed.) I rose, carefully picked my way across the bed, narrowly avoiding Afshin's feet and legs...and slammed my knee into the coffee table, waking Afshin in the process. Amazingly, I have but a single tiny bruise on my right knee. And Afshin has no recollection of the incident. But that's not unusual, as, after he's asleep, he's dead to the world until morning. So I apparently need not only a sleep helmet, but sleep kneepads as well.

Giuliani's At It Again—For Real This Time

So, you know how I allowed myself to be completely taken in by that Onion article about Giuliani? Remember how Afshin laughed heartily at my naïveté?

Well, it turns out I'm not so gullible after all. For while Giuliani has not launched an official campaign for president of 9/11, he's still exploiting it for all it's worth. And then some. For instance, how about that fundraising party where participants were urged to donate $9.11 each? Classy.

As nauseating as that is, check out this Village Voice article for some insight into good ol' Rudy's role in the 9/11 incident and its aftermath. Ugh. No, it's not a conspiracy-theory piece; it's not even what you'd call an exposé, exactly, as it discusses things many people—particularly New Yorkers—already know. It's more of a refutation of Giuliani's incessant grandstanding.

A Story About My Dad

Once in a while I think I shall tell stories about people other than myself. I'm not the only idiot in the world, after all. And some of my friends and relatives have had some pretty amusing incidents—I should share those, right? Right. So this time it's a story about my dad.

Last winter, Afshin and I flew back east to visit our parents for the holidays. (Our respective parents, of course—this is California, not Kentucky. If you got that, pat yourself on the back: You're a dork.) Anyway, Afshin and his family came over to visit my family and me. Before they arrived, there was a spot of confusion. See, his mom's name is Mahboubeh. It's a difficult name for English-speakers to pronounce. Hell, I have trouble pronouncing it. It's close to MAH-boo-beh. Except that you pronounce the h at the end of the Mah. So it's kinda tricky. Of course, when Afshin and his clan arrived, my parents were just enchanted by his mom and managed to work around the name issue. To be honest, my dad has thought she's the most adorable thing ever since she force-fed him fruit and tea. (She has a big thing about fruit and tea, particularly the fruit. When my dad and I stopped at their apartment once to drop off some CDs for Afshin's brother, his mom broke out the fruit and tea and, after we'd accepted the tea but declined the fruit, offered to peel it for us. Apparently, as she later explained to Afshin, some people don't want to eat the skin and will only eat fruit once it's peeled.) Anyway, we had a very nice visit with Afshin and co. At the end of which, my parents said goodbye and shut the door.

"What did you just say?" I asked Dad.
"I said, 'Goodbye, Mahbaybay."
"Did you say Mahbaybay?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "That's her name, isn't it?"
"No," I laughed. "It's Mahboubeh."
My mom laughed hysterically. "You just called her your baby!"
"Oh shit."
"It's okay, Dad. I'm sure she appreciated the effort."

My dad isn't always so good with introductions. And names and such. Like when he met a neighbor couple. My mom really liked them, but my dad wasn't so impressed.
"I liked him," Dad said. "But she was sorta weird."
"What do you mean 'weird'?" my mom asked. "I thought they were both nice."
"Well, she was actually kinda rude."
"Really?" my mom asked. "How?"
"Well, it was the weirdest thing," my dad said. "She walked up to me and said, 'Hi man.' She called me man. That's sort of strange, don't you think?"
My mom stared at him, confused. "Michael. She said, 'Hi. I'm Anne.' Her name is Anne."
"Oh shit."

After that, my dad got along perfectly well with Anne.

Camel Crossing

A few months ago Afshin and I accompanied some friends to the de Young Fine Arts Museum in San Francisco. I wanted to see the Vivienne Westwood exhibit (which was excellent, by the by), and we figured the boys could run around on their own while the ladies checked out the insane fashion. Afterward, we'd all have tea in the Hagiwara Japanese Tea Garden. I hadn't realized it until I was there, but I'd been to the tea garden before, as part of a tour I took while vacationing in San Francisco in 2001. I remembered this one bridge immediately—it's kinda hard to forget a bridge with such tiny, vertical little steps. Not steps, really. More like ridges. It's like climbing an inverted U–shaped ladder, as you can see from the picture below. But Afshin had never crossed the bridge before, so we got in line.

While we're standing in line, we pass a plaque bearing some sort of description of the bridge. Afshin glances at it and then tells me, "You know, this bridge was built specifically for camels."

I looked at him, agape. "What?"

"Yeah, they're particularly suited to this type of bridge."

"But how...?"

He burst out laughing. "You seriously believed that this was built for camels?"

"Well, I saw you look at the plaque, and then you said it all authoritatively...but I was going to ask you how that was possible that camels could get a foothold on this. And why they'd have camels in Japan to begin with."

Camels are the new jackalopes.

Vocab Lessons

So I work on the copydesk at a video game magazine publishing company (about which you will not hear me complain, as I would rather not get dooced, thank you very much). In this capacity I contribute to and help keep updated the game group style guide. When I first started here, I expected that I'd be learning some new vocabulary, as my previous knowledge of the intricacies of video gaming was pretty bloody limited. Let's put it this way: I didn't know what a cut-scene was. Or a port. But, naturally, I learned. Now I know all about cel shading and chocobos and rag-doll physics and rochambeau gameplay and how the Soul Calibur game titles used to be two separate words but are now (intentionally and illogically) squished together into one, e.g., Soulcalibur Legends.

What I didn't expect was that we'd have an official spelling for douchebag. (One word, closed up, not hyphenated.) Or that I'd participate in a heated debate about the proper plural of ho. (We ultimately decided on hos, a verdict with which I heartily concur.) Hell, I'm even responsible for some of the stranger entries in our style guide. Muahaha, for instance. To summarize, you can add as many "ha"s as you want, as long as the word starts with a "mua" and ends with a "ha."

And what are some of the recent standouts (which have not been added to the guide as yet)? Moose knuckles, moneyhat, and catassery (the last of which is synonymous with poopsocking).

I'm not sure if my newly expanded vocabulary is a good thing or not.

Rosemary’s Baby = Scientology?

While washing dishes the other day, I absentmindedly began contemplating the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes/Baby Suri crazy train and was struck with a sudden (compelling) thought: What if Rosemary's Baby was just an allegory for Scientology? I mean, think about it. In the book, characters (notably Guy, an actor) worship the devil in exchange for personal success. In real life, Scientologists (many of whom seem to be wealthy and prominent actors) believe in Xenu and follow the teachings of second-rate sci-fi author L. Ron Hubbard. And many of these Hubtards seems suspiciously successful to me. Hm. It's just a theory, but it is worth considering.

Although Suri Cruise is an awfully beautiful baby to be the Chosen One of Scientology.

A Harry Potter Tidbit

I'm currently listening to the audiobook of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and have found myself frustrated by one thing in particular, as I explained in a brief AIM exchange with Afshin:

me: yeah, so this is pissing me off
me: harry and hermione are unable to find out what a horcrux is
me: i have one word: google.
me: dumbass wizards.
Afshin: haha

There may be an impending Harry Potter–related rant coming. Depends on how soon I can get the venom out of my system. To put it mildly, I saw the fifth movie last night and didn't like it one little bit.

A Public Service Announcement

If you are a peeping tom in the Berkeley area, this message may be for you. First, let's get something clear: Just because a bathroom happens to be at ground level doesn't mean that users of that bathroom are fair game for unsolicited photography sessions. So, if you're the weasel who was attempting to take/taking pictures of me in the shower last Sunday night, I'd better not see my wet, naked ass on the internet. I have friends in 1337 places—they'll go all haXor on you.

Don't Drink and Skate

I suppose it's been a while since I've proffered any truly embarrassing stories about my frequent bungling—I guess one's due.

So this one happened a while back when I lived in New York. I have always been a sucker for ice skating—watching it, that is. I can skip, oh, the entire rest of the Winter Olympics, but I make a point of watching the ice skating. (I can do without the Summer Olympics entirely.) Anyway, I had been flipping channels and stumbled across some ice skating competition. As I was alone in the apartment, I was free to watch the skating free from ridicule. I made myself a drink and settled in.

Well, it was a strong drink. Maybe even two strong drinks. I started wondering exactly how these skaters executed jumps, anyway. I mean, what's the difference between a triple lutz and a triple salchow? I know there is a difference, but I can't see it. Now I know that, theoretically, you have to build up speed to jump properly, but you see skaters performing small jumps from a standing position all the time. You know, on the practice mats before they're scheduled to take the ice.

You know what the difference is between a professional ice skater and me? For starters, the ice skater's an athlete, not a sports-phobe. And, generally at least, said ice skater isn't inebriated at the time of competition. Moreover, I doubt many skaters attempt jumps in the middle of their kitchens. And I'll bet money that they don't complete their jumps by landing smack in the recycling pile.