::asian freckles::

The busy calm before the happy storm

So, things 'round here. I guess they've been good-- they've probably been great, and I just haven't consciously absorbed that fact yet-- I guess they've been busy. Stressful with work, but when I don't think too much about what I'm doing or how I'm doing or why I'm doing it, I'm rather happy with work. That is to say, I'm happy so long as I'm not trying to justify that happiness, because when I start thinking too much about things, I start to wonder if I shouldn't be happy, if my happiness is actually just a cover I've woven to distract myself from secret self-disappointments or regrets. If I've convinced myself that I'm happy. It's terrible, all these questions and doubts and needs to validate what simply, automatically is.

I've been reading Malcolm Gladwell's books lately-- I don't know if "reading" is the right word, maybe something more akin to "devouring", albeit in intervals; the way a few people have expressed their sentiments about me by way of my writing, which I have never understood, is the way I feel about Malcom Gladwell, which I think a couple universes of people could understand. I read "Outliers" over a weekend  during the plane flights in and out of SFO, then did the same with "Blink", and I absorbed the two books so deeply that now I just think in terms of his chapters and anecdotes and I have trouble explaining my thoughts to people who have no idea who he is, because it would be so much easier if I could say, "Remember that part about the rope experiment and the three solutions?" and then the other person would nod, and I'd make an expressive and thoughtful face and one of those indicative gestures with my arms, and my point would be so clear.

Or, basically I just want hyperlinks in real life.

Also, I'm writing again (for work, though that maddening little creature in my head has started to nag me about picking up creative writing again), and one of the most fun parts about that is seeing what subtle ridiculousness I can sneak into articles. Seeing as how I'm the only person who reviews the articles before they get published, it's not exactly hard to put things in there, but I do have editorial taste and I don't want to get fired so I can't exactly throw whole paragraphs about dinosaurs in without concern. I did a guest post for a fairly respectable tech site and they took out my math reference (for good reason; it was cacophanous to the narrative flow but I wrote it anyway because I just wanted the stupid reference that badly) but didn't fix my coder quotes, and that was my crowning glory.

TheNoah is reading this right now and wondering why I haven't offered you links, especially given my statement up there professing such an attachment to hyperlinks that I wish they could exist in the real, offline world. The first answer to this is, I don't really know. The second answer is, I guess it's because I'm still not used to this idea of throwing myself into the public arena. For as long as this particular site has been in existence, it's pulled up as a search result for my full name (though hardly by my own accord; I just never remembered to find out how to disassociate the two)-- however, my last name is nowhere within any of these entries, my first name only occasionally (I didn't even include it on this current "About" page). In short, while my identity is hardly a secret, I don't go out of my way to make it readily known.

Which is, I know, ridiculous. Especially when I'm dating TheNoah, who lives on the far other end of the online-identity spectrum. Granted, everything I've written and published here, I've done so knowing that it would be submitted for the world at large to access and read, should they so choose. I just never really expected there to ever be a reason for my name to be queried by complete strangers, whereas now I have a domain of my name registered and redirecting to here. It's-- well-- um, it's different.

Anyway. Things 'round here, they're also currently quiet, which I'm trying to appreciate while it lasts. TheNoah flies into town in a matter of hours (well: nine or so), and then according to the list of names on recent correspondence, I'm hosting 10 people this weekend (starting today, Friday) for a dance event-- and then Saturday, two friends from L.A. are driving up and bringing their dog (Schroeder-dog! I love that dog! Though the resident felines of this household will undoubtedly not), and on the one hand I'm starting to panic because while I have more than enough space, I don't have nearly enough furniture to sleep 12 guests, but on the other hand, 10 of those 12 are dancers, and dancers will sleep damned near about anywhere. Dancers will sleep in the bathroom if need be; depending on how drunk they are, the bathroom may even be the slumbering quarters of choice. So I know, I shouldn't be stressing. As I told my mom (who was the first to start raising eyebrows over where everyone was going to sleep) the other day: I'm not a hotel. If people require hotel accomodations, they can go stay at a hotel. If anything, I offer free wi-fi. Can't sleep because someone's elbow is in your ear? Blog about it in real-time! Not that sleep is expected to be much of an issue this weekend: blues dancers don't seem to have much comprehension of the notion of it. They're a motley bunch, they are.

Nearly one a.m. Time to start cleaning. Have a good 4th!

I made it all the way to KQ VIII, which sucked and crashed a lot so I never finished it

1. I know that water is the best thing for me, that on these hot summer days, I need to be drinking water, lots of water, oh hooray with the watery goodness of refreshment and life. I know. But let me assure you, friend, that admonishments as to best rehydration practices are not what I really want to hear at the checkout stand while you're ringing me up. Just let me pay for my damn diet root beer and go, no flirtatious disapproval necessary. It's flavorful and cold and I only drink soda maybe 10 times a year and if I wanted juice I would just eat a piece of fruit just leave me the hell alone.

2. 8 bits in a byte, unless it's a bit of dark chocolate, in which case it's more like 2 bites to a bit.

3. Part II now has a companion, a part-2 to Part II. So a Part II-A?

Her name is Mr. Honeyfoot, Gentleman-Magician and Friend of English Magic, Esquire. Or, Mr. Honeyfoot, GMFEM, Esq. for short. She doesn't have an ID tag yet but when I get it, it'll probably just read "The Fuzz".

Part II hated me for about two days after I brought the kitten home and hated the kitten for a week until I left town for the weekend, and then I came back and witnessed Part II letting the baby walk up to her and nuzzle her under the chin. Half the time, Part II likes the kitten, and the other half of the time she growls and swats and stalks away, which worried me for a little while until I realized it was perfectly justifiable. Imagine if every single time you walked by me, I spread-eagle jumped onto your head and bit you on the ear and dug my feet into your kidneys. The first couple of times, sure, you'd laugh and play along and think, oh that Lora, that crazy lovable scamp of a girl. But it would get old, fast, and by the fourth or fifth time you'd probably body-slam me to the ground and tell me in no uncertain terms to fuck off.

Also, I used to make fun of Part II for her "certified pedigree" and her CFA papers and the fact that she cost $800 (including the car rental to get to Auburn, an overnight stay in Atlanta and Part II's airfare back to Vegas), but now I'm starting to think you *can* buy class in a cat. All I know is, Part II never messed with my plants or tried to nose her way into plates of human food or had bouts of gas that necessitated I leave the room. This kitten, on the other hand-- well. It's a process. But, like Part II, she's quick to purr and love and lick, so overall it's a pretty happy household.

4. DOSBOX for Mac = a good portion of my childhood back at my fingertips without the nuisance of dealing with a PC. I don't think I ever realized the full extent of how many computer games I grew up playing-- King's Quest series, Quest for Glory series, Conquests of Camelot (my first introduction to falafel), EcoQuest 1-2, Dr. Brain (Castle, Island), all the LucasArts games, LSL series (not sure how that happened or what my dad was thinking, but, not complaining), Gold Rush, HHH, Lemmings, The Incredible Machine. Countless more. All the Learning Company/Broderbund titles. Still more. Combined with the bazillions of books I grew up reading, how I still managed to have an active life outdoors is beyond me.

Things people keep earnestly saying to me with 100% confidence that have yet to be true

"Here, try this drink, you can't even taste the alcohol in it!"

"You'll like this wine, it's practically designed for people who don't like wine."

"Oh my gosh, it's perfect up here in San Francisco. No, don't even worry about bringing a jacket-- the weather's so gorgeous, you definitely won't need one!"

CAW CAW, ROOAR!

We saw "Up" Monday night. Have you seen it? You should see it, in 3D if you can. You should even go early to catch the trailers! Because there's a trailer for the new "Ice Age" movie! And, yeah, I know, I rolled my eyes as soon as I saw they were making another "Ice Age" movie, except-- are you ready? Are you ready for this? THERE ARE DINOSAURS. There are dinosaurs in "Ice Age 3", and they are in 3D, and I almost shook TheNoah's leg off in excitement as I watched the trailer. Dinosaurs!

But, "Up". It was lovely and adorable and funny and so well-done. There was this part where Carl (the old man) is trying to walk with Russell (the 8-year-old (Asian!) wilderness scout), and Russell is so over walking and is literally being dragged forward, and it was more or less how TheNoah and I were at one point during the Point Reyes camping trip (except I wasn't as vocal about not wanting to walk anymore). After unsuccessfully trying to complain his way to a break, though, Russell suddenly flings himself face-down onto the ground, which I regrettably did not think of doing but have made a mental note to attempt in the future-- and, anyway, the point is, adorable. "Up" is adorable.

You'd have thought it was some sort of heart-breaking drama, though, if you'd watched me watching it. I cried through a startling amount of it. It was just so sentimental-- like in the beginning, right, Carl stumbles upon this boisterous girl when they're both little kids, and then you see them getting married and going through their whole lives together, and through this whole speechless montage, maybe 15 minutes into the movie, tears are pouring down my face and all I can think is: I want that.

It wasn't anything revelatory; I've known since the beginning that this is what I want, this, a lifetime spent with TheNoah, a life shared with him. But it really hit me, then, just how much I want it, how much it means to me. It's the hardest wish I've got, but there's nothing that can guarantee its fulfillment. Not a ring, not a ceremony, not the sincerest mutual offerings of love everlasting-- nothing, there is nothing in this world that can promise more time. And admonishments to just be grateful for the time I have now mean nothing. I *am* grateful. But I'm greedy. More. I will always want more time with him. [1] (Speaking of wanting more time: have you seen this? Thai life insurance ads. Oh my god.)

Anyway. Really, go see "Up" (in 3D!-- it's worth the extra three bucks or whatever they charge for the glasses, or at least, it is the first time [2]), and if you don't know what it's supposed to be about (other than something to do with a house tied to balloons), it'll be that much better. I had no idea what the plot concerned-- I thought it was going to be something like "The Twenty-One Balloons" (which is such a good book)-- and I think I loved the movie just a little bit more because of it.

That's it. You have your orders. I'll try and post a little more frequently since apparently there are still people reading this (other than TheNoah, who I think just checks in to see if I've written about him, and if I have, to make sure that I haven't posted the picture of the connect-the-freckle-dots dinosaur I drew on his back), but given that my current posting rate is something like three a month, don't get too hopeful.

In the meanwhile, do you know who David Thorne is? He writes things to people and posts it on the Internet. I'd start with "I'll spend the money on drugs instead" (a.k.a. Seven-Legged Spider), then "The ducks in the bathroom are not mine", and then Bill's Internet Guide. From there, the choices are plentiful. And that oughta keep you busy until I get back.

   

  

 
[1] It's a little ironic that I should be wanting more time now when until a few years ago, I honestly never thought I'd live past 40. Forty years seemed like a perfectly reasonable amount of time to be alive and curious and interesting and interested. That's love for you, though, always coming in and messing up the plans you've had for years and making you rethink your priorities.

[2] I got a little overenthusiastic about the 3D glasses and put them on as soon as we sat down, and I kept insisting to TheNoah (who kept taking his off) that look! this is in 3D! and how 3D today is so different from 3D when we were kids, when things leaped out at you (whereas today, the depth goes *into* the screen, if that makes any sense), and on and on and on I went about why the 3D stuff we were watching wasn't as good as the old-style 3D... and then finally after a trailer for something, there was a still frame that said "Please put on your 3D glasses now". Whereupon TheNoah gave me a withering look. Whereupon, classic Lora style, I indignantly insisted that everything we'd just watched had too been in 3D. Whereupon TheNoah demonstrated how brilliant he is by responding with absolutely nothing.

The loving ties that bind

That phrase is from a book I read somewhere once upon a time, after the beginning of high school but before the end of college. I always used to think that it came from Susan Cooper's "The Dark is Rising" series (in particular the final book, "Silver on the Tree"), but no. It doesn't.

I'm having more and more trouble with my writing with every passing week of non-writing (which these days is mostly in the form of posting here; though I've had some successful e-mails lately so at least there's that). It started off with technical issues but now I think it's just inertia. A body of written work at rest tends to stay at rest. And this is a pretty massive body that is completely uninterested in being nudged to action. Which is timely, because now I'm being asked to write more and more for my job.

Partly it's that oft-recurring issue of "why?" Like this. Why am I telling you why I'm having trouble writing? It's not all that interesting: I can't seem to wrap anything up, and nearing the top of my list of pet peeves with published writing is crappy (or nonexistent) endings. Newspapers tend to be the most frequent perpetrators of this crime, and more by chance [1] than anything else (I hope), the New York Times has been seriously annoying me with crap pieces that either don't end well or contain idiotic content.

Anyway. Do you know about the Internet Wayback Machine? It's mostly amazing in that it has mostly recovered mostly everything ever published on the Internet. I was thinking a few days ago about how I first got started reading defective yeti (I still can't remember), and it got me wondering how I ever got started reading all these other sites that I read near-daily to this day, and one of those sites was dooce. And the reason I ever found dooce back in 2004 was because I did a search for something or other and wound up on stella-blue.org, which went offline I think in 2005 or 2006, but luckily, the Wayback Machine has proof that I'm not making this up.

I was always a little sad that stella-blue went offline because I really liked her writing, and if I had a way to contact her (I don't think her name was actually stella... if memory serves me correctly, the domain name came from Stella of "A Streetcar Named Desire" fame and the author's favorite color), I would send her a random e-mail thanking her for ever posting in the first place. As it would turn out, because of stella-blue, I found dooce, and because of dooce [2] I found Heather Champ, through whom I found Derek Powazek, and then at CES 2005 when I did promo work with Yahoo! I actually got to meet the latter two, which was a heart-palpitations-and-adrenaline-rush experience I shared three months later with TheNoah when he first IM'd me to tell me he liked my weird little del.icio.us pants piece, and his understanding of my excitement (considering I've never been a Hollywood star-struck type) instantly made me feel more comfortable with him. I would hardly say that TheNoah and I are together now because of events set in motion by stella-blue, but it -is- interesting how life weaves itself together in the most random of patterns.

On an unrelated note, my friend Jason shoots wedding videos for Digs Studio and, inspired by a (very) few others across the nation (possibly the globe, I forget, I kind of tuned out this detail), is revolutionizing the wedding video industry. In that he makes wedding videos that other people will want to watch even when they're complete strangers. I've been watching the one below and it makes me all teary and sentimental every time. If you or someone you know is getting married, I would highly recommend snagging Jason while you can still afford him.

Jenny+Danny from Digs Studio- Jason Roberts on Vimeo.

One of the studios Jason studied with is Stillmotion, based in Canada. My favorite video of theirs so far is a Trash The Dress video, and whereas before I never gave much thought or care to the issue of having a wedding gown, now I want the dress just so I can trash it and have it all on film:

Frances + James TTD - Times Square + Coney Island from StillMotion on Vimeo.

Finally: Whack-a-kitty. Your insides might explode from the cuteness of it all, but it's worth the hours of cleaning up. Really.

 

 

[1] I don't read NYT very often, usually only when I click on a link to one of their stories that has either been e-mailed to me from a friend or that I've come across via some other site. And to be fair, I've read some really good pieces from NYT. So I'd like to think that it's just bad luck that the majority of articles I do read happen to ruffle my journalism feathers.

[2] Also very likely because of dooce I am still alive.

If they could just not move so spastically. And have fewer legs. And not be shiny. I think we could get along better, then.

TheNoah was recently here, in Vegas, for five days, which was beyond fantastic, except that on the third evening on our way back to the house, he hopscotched into a convenience store and bought a 24-ounce can of Chelata. I would have stopped him except I was too busy being uselessly drunk in the shotgun of my car, good for nothing other than updating my Twitter account from my phone regarding just how useless I was. A lot, in case you're wondering.

And Chelata, in case you're wondering this as well, is the most useless beverage created by middle-class America. It's Clamato and Bud Light. Because it wasn't enough that someone created a beverage based on the premise of: "I really like clams and cocktail sauce, but all this chewing requires so much effort..." No, someone actually proceeded to take the next step, and voilá! Clam juice + tomato juice + crappy beer.

Anyway. He bought it and put it in my fridge and then never drank it. And then two nights later I found a giant dead roach in my kitchen: [1]

[WARNING: BUG AHEAD]

And then five minutes later saw a giant LIVE roach pacing around the baby fig tree I keep inside by the balcony door.

I screamed bloody murder (both times, actually) and leapt on top of the kitchen island and watched it move around for a good ten minutes before it disappeared into the shadows, whereupon I realized I was now trapped, because if I didn't know precisely where it was, it could be anywhere, hungry for the flesh and blood of a freaked-out 20-something girl. So I continued sitting (sometimes standing) on top of the island, gazing nervously at the floor, for another hour before I finally grabbed all my pertinent things (laptop, phone) and made a break for my bedroom upstairs.

Fourteen hours later, I finally had the courage to go back downstairs. TheNoah had chastised me the night before, saying I should just suck it up and kill the roach, but the thing is, I can't kill bugs. Usually I just trap them under a cup and put them outside (see: crickets, spiders (even fucking poisonous brown recluses) and moths), but this doesn't apply to roaches because HELLO THEY'RE ROACHES. (I've never been squeamish about rodents because we don't have rodent problems out here and also because I grew up with pet mice and a pet rat.)

It was afternoon, though, with plenty of sunshine still flooding the kitchen, so I had little expectation of seeing anything scuttling across the floor, and true enough, the only things moving across the kitchen floor were lint bunnies (the blanket that I drag between the kitchen couch and the big couch thing pills and sheds linty pieces like nobody's business).

Turns out, though, this was less because of daylight and more because of this:

[WARNING: ANOTHER BUG AHEAD]

I want to take a second to point out to you how difficult it was to take these pictures, by the way. I had to streeeeeeeeetch my hand over the point of interest and squint through one barely-opened eye at the screen to confirm that said point of interest was within the frame, then snap the picture and run away. When I transferred the pictures to the computer? I had to cover my face and look between my fingers. Same for uploading. Actually I haven't even uploaded the pictures at this point in writing; I'm still debating whether to put the pictures inline with this post or just put links, because frankly, I don't write often enough these days to ensure that this post will be off the front page anytime soon.

I'd also like to take a second to ponder something with you: the fuck is up with roaches committing suicide in my kitchen? Though I had my doubts about the first one for a good while; for all I know, roaches consider dishes of leftover vegetable oil to be the finest of spa treatments and that dude was just getting some R&R before leaping up to gnaw my face off. But more importantly: why are they climbing on top of the counters? It's like realizing that oh, bears can climb trees-- after you've already climbed to the top of one. Roaches climb up cabinetry? Willingly? Is there no justice in this world?

And thirdly, a second to inform you that the blue dish? Yeah it's like four feet across. Same with the plate in the sink (it's a big sink). Just so you have an idea of how big the bugs are. TheNoah didn't believe me but I swear it's true.

So the moral of this story is Chelata is the devil's hairy ball sweat and serves only to be a harbinger of evil and doom, and if you ever need an efficient tactic to scare your girlfriend into finally moving out of the house she (deeply) loves in the city she (strangely) loves and up to San Francisco instead, well, here you go.

[1] There's an argument floating around out there that the bugs came into my kitchen because I've been leaving the balcony door open (with the flimsy screen door still closed) for the last week or more and their presence has nothing to do with the bringing of the Chelata into the house. This argument is wrong.

Insufficient data for meaningful answer, so here are some pictures instead

5 megapixels, RIM. That's all I'm asking. Samsung's already working on *12*, and they've already released an 8 with HD video recording. Blah blah best at e-mail blah enterprise service blah. I'm just saying. Sometimes we like to snap pictures while we do our e-mail kung-fu, and sometimes we like to share those pictures with the Internet, and sometimes the Internet appreciates it when said pictures don't look all washed-out and sub-standard.

From front to back: barren inhospitable desert landscape, a city of enough money to make Solomon blush, gorgeous mountains of Ye Olde Underwater Times, and snow. I love this city so fucking much.

The left eye is a freckle, and the rest was drawn in by TheNoah. I spent the rest of that night staring at my palm like an idiot and smiling like an even bigger idiot.

I took this picture to prove a point and win a bet. The product is not a "cup o' noodles"; the product is noodles. What kind of noodles? CUP noodles, that's what kind. Cup Noodles, friends. Unless you're in Japan, in which case it's Cup Noodle.

V. Sattui, Napa Valley. Yep, that's a bottle of Freixenet Nevada Brut inside a Trader Joe's bread bag. Because we are classy, classy people. Almost as classy as Lady GaGa, but not quite. One can only dream.

Headaches and worthless insomnia

    Samuel had leaned his elbows on the table and his hands covered his eyes and his forehead. "I want to think," he said. "Damn you, I want to think. I'll want to take this off alone where I can pick it apart and see. Maybe you've tumbled a world for me. And I don't know what I can build in my world's place."
    Lee said softly, "Couldn't a world be built around accepted truth? Couldn't some pains and insanities be rooted out if the causes were known?"
    "I don't know, damn you. You've disturbed my pretty universe. You've taken a contentious game and made an answer of it. Let me alone-- let me think! Your damned bitch is having pups in my brain already..."

    ("East of Eden", John Steinbeck)

What are you passionate about? To what lengths would you go in order to achieve what you believe in? What would you sacrifice? Would you be willing to give up your life? The life of another? The lives of hundreds, thousands-- billions? What are you passionate about, and why? Really think about it: why? Why does it matter? Why does it matter to you, and why should it matter to others?

TheNoah says we don't have to have reasons for everything, that we can be passionate about and love things without a specific why... but I don't know. When the means to your end involve the extinction of an entire species, it seems to me you'd better have a damned good explanation ready to back up your stance.

Also chocolate-covered grasshoppers to represent the locusts, with baby bottles of cab to represent the Red Sea. Passover Baskets: not for pansies. Or kids, apparently.

We spent the better portion of a gorgeous, sunny Easter Zombie Christmas Sunday in Napa, which was fitting, you know, because Jesus had that whole water-into-wine thing, and Napa is renowned for, uh, turning grapes into wine using water to grow grapes to be turned into wine (ta-da!). Also Jesus was held up by a cross. And Napa wineries have wooden structures sort of shaped like crosses that hold up the vines. Yeah.

Anyway, the ironic bit was how I got and finished being drunk all before we even got within the Napa Valley limits. That 808 drink I mentioned in the last post? TheNoah paid for it and I felt guilty for not drinking more than two bitter-faced sips after I opened it, so I stuck it in the fridge and then carried it out to the car with me Sunday morning, thinking I don't know what. Open-container laws and what-have-you. And then I set it on the floor and got out to rummage through the trunk for something and it spilled (TheNoah swears I jostled it; I adamantly blame a shift in the gravitational axis for causing the bottle to knock itself over), but by the time it was rescued, it was still at least half-full. And in a moment of frazzled irritation, I just downed what was left.

I'd only been awake for about two hours and it had been at least 14 hours since I'd last eaten. And I think it had been over a month since I'd had anything else alcoholic (ever the lush, I know).

Cue: drunk on Zombie Christmas Sunday. Before noon.

But did I mention the weather was beautiful? We took the top off his car and stopped by Trader Joe's and bought cheeses, Spanish Champagne-style wine, a loaf of artisan bread, strawberries and dark chocolate. Basically, I was only a scarf-wrapped-around-my-head away from us being a scene in a 1940s film.

And Napa was, as everyone says, lovely. We secured a spot on a grassy, tree-dotted lawn at V. Sattui and ate and drank and watched cute kids dressed up in festive Sunday attire run around and play (we decided we're going to start making Passover baskets, with little chocolate baby Moseses to represent the basket in which he was sent down the river and discovered) and it was a perfect, perfect introduction to the valley. I'm pretty sure it would get a stamp of Zombie Jesus approval, no problem.

A sign of something when my non-writing boyfriend updates his site more often than I update mine

Some words on 808 [1]:

1. I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to my 8th grade health class, but apparently I was listening on they day we covered depressants and stimulants and for whatever reason, I have since clung fervently to this idea that you are not supposed to mix the two, EVER. Bad idea. Bad! Bad, bad idea. So I've always been a little hesitant about Vodka Red Bulls and Irish coffees. Not that that's stopped me from drinking them, but even still, the wariness exists. Hence, I'm likewise a little suspicious of this alcoholic beverage infused with caffeine and guarana.

2. But again, not suspicious enough to not try it. I tried it. It tastes like shit. I realize I say this about 97% of all things alcoholic that I imbue, but I passed it by le petit-ami TheNoah, who thinks 97% of all things alcoholic is great, and even he made a face.

3. At first, I didn't want to drink it because it was nearing midnight and I didn't want to not be able to fall asleep tonight, which-- if the caffeine worked like it's supposed to (97% of the time, caffeinated beverages don't do crap for improving my energy levels)-- would possibly happen. But then a half-hour later, I realized I was really, really tired but still had things I wanted to get done, so suddenly the caffeine infusion was sounding pretty promising-- except now I had the alcohol to contend with, as alcohol tends to put me to sleep (oh, let's say 97% of the time). So this drink has become a total crapshoot (and a slightly unpalatable one at that).

4. Totally unrelated, but whoever was responsible for letting the copy for this story go live (and to the front page, no less) can just go to hell [2]:

"Polar bear mauling", "polar bear attacked", "saved her life"-- really accurate perspective, there, you know? Especially if by "mauling" they meant "invasion of territory", by "attacked" they meant "defended", and accidentally wrote "life" when they meant to write "from her own stupidity". This woman scaled a fence and leapt into the compound DURING FEEDING TIME, and all the article highlights is polar bear violence? Whatever happened to personal accountability? Since polar bears can't be sued, the blame will probably be directed to the zoo, either for keeping vicious animals that pose theats to public safety or for not posting clear and highly-visible signs that people should not be climbing the fence and into the polar bear compound. During feeding time. I cannot emphasize this enough. The woman was not only posing a threat to the bears' territory, but because she committed this ludicrous act during feeding time, she also posed a threat to their food supply.

I can't help but feel like that polar bear should be commended. They're on display at the zoo so people can see how these exotic creatures live in their (simulated) natural habitat, right? Well, now everyone knows. If you ever see a polar bear in the wild and it's about to eat, don't make a mad dash for it and be getting all up in its business.

[1] I can't find a website or product site for this thing anywhere-- we picked it up in some nondescript convenience store in the Mission. The bottle reads: "Imported French Cognac, Premium vodka, apple liqueur with caffeine & guarana. 808 Apple Amp, 10% alc by vol".

[2] As the friend who notified us of this story put it: "How is this news? How is this breaking news??"