Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

Okay, as I write this, it’s the lunch break during the first of two days of offsite training for Oracle Discoverererer (aka “Disco” where I work, which makes it sound a lot funnererer than it probably is). I sat, stunned, for the first fifteen or twenty minutes of it this morning, as our uber-aggressive instructor (who wrote his C.V. on the white board: ‘mcset, mcdba, mcdst, mcsd, mct, oca, ccna, scna, scsa…’ without adding a self-deprecating “eieio” to demonstrate to us that he wasn’t a totally humourless weenie), in a blowhard’s voice, threw questions at us as though we’d just completed the training–rather than had just sat down to begin it. My toes curled. My brow furrowed. I cast a sidelong glance at the student beside me and mouthed the word “d i c k h e a d”.

My heart sank at the thought of two days of this. The instructor’s a big guy with a nice body (shame about the face), but has a disconcertingly high-pitched voice that, frankly, for me, overrides the initial appeal of the muscular V-shaped torso. He writes in a teeny hand on the white board (I am squinting at it in the first row). All in all, I suspect a small dick.

He started the class, zipping along (as though none of us–rather than all of us–had identified ourselves as Disco Newbies), apparently under the impression that we could see what he was doing on his laptop. He didn’t realize until about an hour into the class that he’d neglected to tell us that if we turned on the monitors that were placed between us on the desks we could see his screen and could follow along. It started to make a lot more sense when we could see what the hell he was doing. Huh. Go figger.

He’s one of those instructors (I hesitate to call them “teachers”) whose idea of interactive teaching consists of him expecting the students to read his mind. So he starts a sentence, then leaves it hanging–waiting for a student to complete his sentence. I am so driven toward blurting out something completely inappropriate to complete his sentence during one of these pauses that I bite my tongue and draw blood. (Not really. Just said for effect.) For the rest of the class I will have a speaking impediment. And a throbbing tongue.

About an hour and a half into the class we break for 15 minutes, and I run to the washroom and rinse the blood out of my mouth. When I come back, I find the boyz talking about speeding tickets they’ve received. I cringe at the memory and say nothing. The student on my right says he was just caught speeding 25 kph over the limit but talked the cop down to 15 kph over. I grumble to myself. The instructor says, “Oh, that’s nothing–I was caught going 30 kph over the limit and got a $150 fine!” Others pipe up (the only ones who remain silent are me and the other woman in the class) and it gets to be like some weird competition and I’m hoping they don’t start whipping out their penises to see who has the largest. Please God, no. For the record, my speeding ticket was ‘way bigger than any of those stupid boyz’ tickets. And I don’t even have a penis.

And, on that note, at one point the instructor’s laptop stopped responding. He asked, “Am I the only one hung?” I didn’t hear anybody (except myself, of course) snigger.

Am feeling very square-peggish today.

‘Til two weeks ago, the only cars I’d ever owned were bought used…

1. A ‘72 Toyota Corolla–a truly yecchy mustard yellow colour–that I called my Flintstonemobile because by the time I finished with it, the floorboards on the driver’s side had big enough holes in ‘em that I could picture myself sticking my feet through and braking that way–like Fred did. It was handed down to me by my parents when I was in Grade 13. I slid on some ice one winter while driving through Canatara Park and hit a telephone pole–leaving the front left bumper of the car with a permanent snarl. (Seemed too appropriate to bother fixing it.)

2. A ‘92 Honda Accord–mint green colour, which did well to hide the dust so prevalent in the high desert of the Salt Lake Valley–bought in 2001 after 8 suicidally long months of relying on spotty public transit (which, at that pre-Olympics time didn’t even run on Sundays). It died on me about two weeks before I left Utah–some problem with the ignition system that had it stalling at intersections and momentarily dropping from 3000 RPMs down to next-thing-to-zero RPMs and then back up again while I was cruising at 75 mph on the I-15. Scream- and invective-inducing behaviour, to be sure.

I started looking for a new car last September, when the Honda dealer in Salt Lake told me that the Accord needed a bunch of repairs that just seemed like too much to spend on a car of that vintage (and no, as a matter of fact, none of those recommended fixes had anything to do with the ignition problem that ended up crippling it). I got some of it done so that I could keep using it to shop for a new one, but then never did make a decision on a car in the fall and then there was the distraction of Christmas and, oy vey, it just kept getting pushed back further and further on my plate. I’ve already mentioned a little problem I have with prioritizing (which is mebbe just a nicer word for “procrastination”, *ahem*) in my private–not work!–life, and since the car was still working, well, I just kept using it. ‘Til two weeks before I was scheduled to be haulin’ ass outta Utah, that is.

Once back here, as you know, I used my parents’ cars until it became clear that I really was cramping their style. So it was back to the car lots… but at least this time I had a very good idea of what I was looking for, having narrowed my search pretty well in the fall. I knew for sure that I wanted something a little sexier sportier than a staid ol’ Corolla or Accord. I wanted something fun to drive.

Something, say, like this…

My 2006 Hyundai Tiburon SE 5-speed.

It’s a blast to drive–it handles tight, the shift is short and fast, and the interior is leather. Black leather.

I find myself going to the back door at home or to a window at work and blowing kisses out at it. But just look at it. Can you blame me?

When I was looking over my list of music that soured milk in Southwestern Ontario last week, I came upon my three-day binge set by Warren Zevon: [eponymous], Excitable Boy, Mr. Bad Example, Mutineer, My Ride’s Here, Learning to Flinch and his last album, The Wind.

Listening to that last cd on the way to work, I blubbed at the thought that there would never be any more new songs from Warren Zevon.

I became a Zevon fan back in ‘78 when Excitable Boy was released. He was my Perfect Man: articulate and sardonic, self-deprecating, darkly funny, and clever as hell. Plus, he wore glasses–I have always liked a man in glasses–and played the piano. And that voice… ye gods, that voice. So deeply masculine, the low notes he effortlessly hit could make my heart vibrate. One of the things that’s hard about listening to “The Wind” is to hear how reedy that voice got at times, toward the end. Lung cancer will do that, I reckon.

Although he smoked for 30 years, the form of cancer he had was mesothelioma–caused by exposure to asbestos. Apparently, his son’s theory is that Warren may have been exposed to it as a child, playing in the attic of his dad’s carpet store.

What caused it, though, doesn’t really matter at this point. He died on September 7, 2003. I heard about it while I was driving to work the next morning. The hosts of Radio From Hell talked about him and then, as I pulled into the parking lot at work, they had the balls to actually play one of his songs–even though (oh my!) it wouldn’t appeal to the station’s target demographic and that would piss off their bosses. I sat and cried in my car as I listened to “Lawyers, Guns and Money” (which, really, was not a song Warren would’ve ever thought anybody would cry over, I’m sure).

VH1 aired a documentary about the making of “The Wind” shortly after he died. I watched it and it was very good, but have not been able to bring myself to watch it again since.

I saw him play the old Diamond club in Toronto in the late 80s. I think I went by myself to that show, although I couldn’t say for sure… (My memory of that period is murky… ol’ Warren and I had a few bad habits in common, don’tcha know… ahem) He was touring Sentimental Hygiene–a strong, poppy album that I useta play at work at Records On Wheels all the time. I stood at the edge of the stage, transfixed and thrilled throughout the show. He had that kinda power.

Nobody writes lyrics like Warren did. I mean, who else would use words like “pauperized” or “whereupon” in rock and roll–let alone both in the same song. How could I not love a guy who could do that? You could find moments of lyrical genius on any of his albums–he had the English language wrapped around his little finger…

The mailman brought me the Rolling Stone
Trouble waiting to happen
It said I was living at home alone
Trouble waiting to happen
I read things I didn’t know I’d done
It sounded like alot of fun
I guess I’ve been bad or something
Trouble waiting to happen

They just don’t write ‘em like that anymore. I’ve got my vinyl and I’ve got my tapes and I’ve got my cds. But I’ll still miss the man.

Bye-bye, Ottawaaaaah. This is even sweeter than that.

Thank you, Buffalo. This post-season, my cup of schadenfreude runneth over.

‘The sea spits out what it can’t keep down.’

As if Nazis weren’t bad enough in and of themselves.

As if zombies weren’t bad enough in and of themselves.

Shock Waves is about what happens when a group of vacationing scuba divers runs into The Death Corps(es?)–an SS squad of zombie “super soldiers” created by those paranormal-obsessed Nazis that Indiana Jones and Hellboy keep running into.

John Carradine and Peter Cushing–both of whom give brief but ripe performances–look more seriously cadaverous than the actual zombies do, especially when you consider that The Death Corps has been slumbering underwater since the end of WWII.

And I gotta wonder if the Zombie Master, himself–All hail, George A. Romero!–might’ve been referring to this film when his zombies in Land of the Dead cross one of the rivers surrounding downtown Pittsburgh by walking along the river bottom. That sequence when they surface on the other side is very reminiscent of the startling sequences in this film when the Nazi zombies climb out of tide pools where they lie hidden in the offshore reef and walk ashore. They’re delightfully creepy shots!

If plot holes trouble you, I suggest you give this one a pass. If you demand gore in your zombie movies, this one ain’t for you, either. But if you’re in the mood for a movie with underwater Nazi zombies, well, perhaps you are in need of the same medications that I should be taking.

‘Daaaaad, get me outta this!’
- the estimable Warren Zevon

A coupla weeks ago, I had my first Happy Friday at my new job. A coupla days ago, I had my first Unhappy Friday at my new job.

Finally got caught speeding. I was too pissed off to blog about it before now (although a few friends got vitriol-fueled emails from me that day… hope I didn’t scorch any eyebrows with those angry missiles missives…).

Y’know, I’d've been able to accept it without question if I’d been caught doing what I normally do (which I have no trouble admitting is against the law)–cruising along at 120 kph in a 90 kph zone. But he stopped me after I’d had to accelerate to pass a couple vehicles. I mean, you gotta go faster to pass. Don’tcha? Ya gotta take the speed in context. Don’tcha??

I’d come up behind this transport truck that was pottering along at around 90 (okay, yeah, it was the speed limit, so big rosy kudos to that weenie). I pulled out to peek at the oncoming traffic and when I decided there was enough time and space for me to get around this guy, I pulled out into the opposing lane. Whereupon I spotted a small car in front of the truck–so close that I would have to pass both of them in one fell swoop. I had room to do it, so that’s what I did–I got my ass in gear and got around them. Apparently at 124 kph, which the cop (who happened to be in a camouflaged car further up the road in front of the little car) caught on his radar gun. He pulled off to the shoulder and waved me past and then pulled back in behind me and turned his lights on.

“Wha’fuck?!” sez me.

So I pull over.

The cop looks like Violet Beauregarde (mebbe more pink than blue, but certainly the same shape) as he squeezes out of his cruiser and waddles up beside my car.

Asks for my license and tells me his radar said I was going 124 kph. “Yeah, because I’d just passed two vehicles” (he’d have no way of knowing, of course, that I’d been going 120 kph for much of the rest of the drive, too *cough*).

Apparently, he’d expected me to stamp on the brake as soon as I got back into my lane instead of just taking my foot off the gas pedal and letting the car slow down on its own to the speed limit (theoretically). I mean, it’s not as though there wasn’t enough room for it to do that between the car I’d just passed and his up ahead of me.

Once in awhile in my life I do actually show good judgment. Believe it or not. So I didn’t argue with him. (Later, at work, some suggested that I should’ve argued with the speed he caught because I might’ve been able to talk him down a few kph. I didn’t realize that was an option, having never gotten a speeding ticket before.) I’ll just pay it. All two hundred and fifty-fucking-nine dollars of it.

But I will continue to wail that it is unfair that he took my speed outta context. Context counts, dammit! If he’d caught me just speeding along for no reason, then I wouldn’t be here whinging about it.

And, yeah, coincidentally or not, the song playing on the car stereo while this was going on was, indeed, Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money”. But Dad can’t get me outta this ‘cause Dad ain’t gonna know about this.