channonyarrow

I think I am dead of total ennui. Something needs to happen or I'll probably just slit my wrists to see if that's different.

Also - my phone is the tool of the devil, and I think that two people I texted last week don't have text, so if you're trying to get hold of me, that's why I haven't called you back. I will call back when my phone is NOT EVIL. Hopefully, I will just be able to buy a goddamn NEW phone tomorrow rather than dealing with a warranty...no, wait, this is actually interesting. Or different, at least. I can't guarantee interesting.

Step 1. My phone turns into an evil bitch whore cockbiting fucktard and decides that it can't find the network on occasion, generally when I am in the middle of a phone call.
Step 2. People at the store I bought the phone tell me that I need to talk to warranty - if the problem persists.
Step 3. The problem goes away. Problem solved.
Step 4. The problem returns. Slightly worse. No one wants to talk to me as I cannot guarantee that my phone will stay connected. My phone has no other reason to exist, so I'm not sure why it wants to fail at its one task, but there you go.
Step 6. My phone adds "not finding the network for up to ten minutes at a time after a call has dropped" to its list of favourite activities EVAR.
Step 7. I go on vacation to the centre of the universe. The centre of the universe has a warranty centre.
Step 8. The centre of the universe tells me they can do nothing about this and I need to CALL THE WARRANTY CENTER (apparently located in Bumfuck, Arkansas, because it's not in New York).
Step 9. I say sod it all and rock out with my...sock? hawk? I lack a cock, so it wasn't that. My SOMETHING out. Phone continues to TOTALLY NOT FUCKING WORK, AND, in fact, FAILS in the middle of a call to the person who GOT ME INTO THE CONCERT IN THE FIRST PLACE. Way to make me look like an asshat, you piece of shit.
Step 10. My mother believes I have been eaten by wolves due to inability to contact me. I point out it was more likely to be the Jersey Devil.
Step 11. I return home. I refuse to call the Warranty Centre, with, apparently, the thought that ignoring the problem will make it go away. I don't know why, because that didn't work when I was six, but at least it's EASIER.
Step 12. My phone adds "randomly shutting off, oh wait, you pushed that button again so I'll COME BACK ON AND THEN SHUT OFF." I swear to god I hear maniacal laughter coming from it.
Step 13. I call the Warranty Centre, who tell me ALL KINDS of evil things, including that if the scratches on the front of the phone from when I sort of dropped it on gravel and kind of stepped on it (like, I figured it out before I turned it into phone pate, but still) might have caused the malfunction, I will owe them $115 dollars for the phone they're sending me. They don't care that the scratches happened after the phone started fucking up, as if I could PROVE THIS ANYWAY.
Step 14. I am not stupid. They will charge me this amount for ANY REASON AT ALL BECAUSE CHRIST FORBID ANYONE FULFILL A WARRANTY OBLIGATION.
Step 15. New phone arrives! New phone is made of total evil! New phone hates me, and, I think, has different functions in different places! I beat phone to death and make it resemble old phone. I still hate old phone for not being like OLD phone, which was a different brand, and also for the manifold ways in which the designer of THIS phone was on crack.
Step 16. New phone is remanufactured, not actually NEW. This is important.
Step 17. Apparently this phone had a problem with reception. How do I know this? Because I ONLY have reception when standing in the middle of, like, a field of cell phone towers.
Step 18. I decide this is UNACCEPTABLE.
Step 19. I decide further that if I'm paying for a fucking phone - again, my cynicism, but HONESTLY, who has EVER had a phone returned under warranty that they did NOT pay for - I'm going to be able to get a cheaper phone than a piece of shit remanufactured Samsung assbiscuit that costs $115.00. SUPPOSEDLY.
Step 20. I continue to get phone calls that I have no wish to return because I don't like conversations that mostly consist of "Can you hear me? Can you hear me?" My phone sulks because, FOR SOME STRANGE REASON, I do not love it as much as I love whiskey. Maybe if it acted like a phone, we could totally talk.
Step 21. I run out of time to do ANYTHING, let alone get a new phone. I have until Monday to do SOMETHING with this piece of shit cockmonkey phone before I get charged $115.00
Step 22. I kill myself and refuse to deal with any of this because it's more than I need right now.
Step 23. I return from the dead and vanquish AT&T. I may even break my contract and go to TMobile so I can have a Sidekick, which I will use, essentially, as a) a phone and b) a large paperweight, but OMG COVET. It helps that AT&T doesn't see a problem with illegal government wiretapping, which I did not know about until about three days after I reupped my contract with them.
Step 24. I nominate myself Darth Vader Of The Day for this win.

Also, I totally voted for AN INSANE PERSON (like, really) yesterday, but I felt he was the better candidate, so I hope he's elected.

So the concert was made of total fucking win. Seriously. There were like two hundred people MAYBE in the room, and sparkfrost and I were standing like eight feet from the MINUTE stage. I have slept in larger beds than that stage, I'm pretty sure. It is possible that the bed in the hotel was larger than that stage.

The concert was amazing and awesome and I'm buying the DVD (it's for charity!) the day it comes out because honestly I don't remember that much of the details I'd like to, like all of Gerard's talking to the crowd and shit, and I REALLY want to see if they put the bit in where someone started to throw down with Worm and Worm was clearly about to eat him alive. I had to move, as it seemed the odds of getting hit with a stray detached arm was high.

On the other hand, I hope, rather badly, that they edit out the part where I punched the chick who crowd-surfed me and kicked me in the head, knocking my glasses and my goggles off. I don't mind having my personal space so invaded that I am only jumping up and down because everyone else around me is, but I do mind having my shit fucked up, and I also mind being used as a backstop for the mosh pit, which is why I started throwing elbows.

Frank is not 5'4". Sorry, bandom, but I think he's like 5'6". They all look like hippies now, with their goddamn long hair, except for Gerard, who pretty much looks like Christina Ricci with short hair. Seriously, Bob's hair is so long it's in his face, and Frank's hair is just hot, and Mikey (thank GOD) got over the dye job and has normal-coloured hair (I do not like his Black Parade look, I do not like it, Sam I Am) and Ray is just so awesome that it's hard to imagine someone more awesome.

I have no idea what they played or in what order, but I know that there was Welcome To The Black Parade, Mama, The Sharpest Lives, Give 'Em Hell Kid, a bunch of others, and something new that Gerard would not tell us the name of because we would bitch about it when they change the title in a year. But still! New!

The part that I did not like about this concert was the part where I was forced to avoid killing the security guard for something that turned out to be Not His Fault. See, there was a list of attendees, because this was for charity and etc or some damn thing, but in ANY event, ordinary mortals going to this show had their names on a list and got numbered wrist bands, presumably in the order of appearance at the venue. So you had to show your id to the security guard to get your wrist band. sparkfrost and I decided to get ours before going to eat, as - well, why not?

Thank god for time zones is what I have to say about that. My name was not on the list. I immediately blew a gasket and started calling people, starting with my boss, who had to break into my computer and retrieve an email, then the woman at Riot Squad who'd arranged this, and then things were out of my hands, because she called the tour manager. When she called back, it turned out there were two lists, one of which hadn't been transmitted yet, but we were on that one, and then my phone, which is make of fucking FAIL, cut out and stayed cut out. I called back on sparkfrost's phone, and I'm going to send an email today that basically says "HI I'M NOT A DICK."

But the relevant point was that we could eat dinner, secure in the knowledge that if her information was incorrect I would, personally, skewer everyone I could find with pointy sticks of wrath.

And then we went back and we got wristbands that did not have numbers on them! Instead, they said "Band guest" and we were able to go inside and there was Gerard looking painfully earnest on a computer during sound check, and that was all I could see because I did not actually wish to be like the group of women who were watching them soundcheck under the pretext of needing the bathroom. I need to take my wristband off some time. Like next week.

Sometimes it's good to know people. It's even better to be on the right side of the time difference.

It was very awesome to meet sparkfrost, who is seriously awesome, and who also gave me a ride to DC, and that was where the weirdness started.

So okay, I dress like an absolute twit. My SAD takes colourful forms. But honest to god people, I have never had a second head, and I promise you that where I come from no one would look at me like that. But I got off the DC metro at Union Station, where I was meeting faithinthejudas (who is also fantastically awesome and has awesome roommates, even if they're all in a state that is about as fucked up as a soup sandwich) and people were staring at me. Like, serious doubletakes and stares.

Which DID make it easy to tell him that he could find me - I was the one stopping traffic. And the guy who was giving me directions to get from point A to point B because DC is made of fucking traffic fail started laughing.

And then my phone decided to shit itself, but we eventually connected and started out of town and had a marvellous evening (I probably made too much fun of a movie that we watched, but that's how I roll, honestly, and I did LIKE the movie, I just thought it had some majorly mockable points). And I found out that I will never stay at a Ramada again, but I love Best Western with the power of a thousand burning suns, EVEN IF the desk registrar clearly assumed that a) I was probably crazy and b) that my "grampaw must've struck GOLD in Alaska!" for me to be able to afford a vacation like this one.

Okay, NO, dude. No, nein, nyet, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I may work for a company that has, in my opinion, an overinflated pay scale, I may work for a company that has problems syncing its divisional and corporate calendars so that I got a cheque for five months of back pay for my raise this month, I may work for a company that manufactures satanic dolls for all you know, I may make more money now than my parents made at the peak of their respective careers, but that does not make my vacation somehow ludicrous. I did not wind up in Virginia from New Jersey because I was "lost", and in any event, if I required assistance it would be MY JOB to ask for it.

All of which will teach me not to be nice and assume that when people ask questions they have some interest in the truth. I probably should have said "I'm in Virginia to practise ritual sacrifice, collect fifteen hillbilly heads, and have a lesbian orgy in the state capitol," and then I could have gone to sleep while he called the police. Which, fine, whatever, not my problem. Not until the SWAT team hits the scene.

Anyway, I feel sure that I will have more to say about this trip, but I am going HOME to go to two halloween parties, because my life never stops. Actually, I think I'll have a lot to say on the subject of "Common Assumptions Made By Waitstaff When Two People Dine At The Table, or, He Doesn't Get The Cheque Because He Has A Penis And She Is Not My Dessert-Sharing Girlfriend". And on the subject of "Why A Big Hole In The Ground Does Not Actually Impress Me: My Time in New York".

Also, Newark may be many things, but it is clearly the home of the large-footed woman. I got three pairs of shoes in my size. I only stopped because I didn't want to take my boots off to check out a fourth pair.

You learn something new every day, they tell me, and I guess they're right, even if I did learn three things on Saturday and nothing yesterday.

1. The world has someone, a genius of staggering intellect, who feels that a void in retail is the lack of mirror ball garlands, and this genius, with their powerful mind and compassion for humanity, has chosen to address this problem, with conveniently-sized mirror ball garlands. I bought three. I have not done anything with them yet, but that is because they are so awesome that hanging them anywhere would overwhelm with awesome.

2. Another genius makes spats! I am wearing said spats. I don't know what the fuck they were for originally, but let me tell you, my ankles are warm and dry, and on a day like today, that's not to be sneezed at. Also, they make my mother think I am insane.

3. I am never going to another 21+ show ever again in my life. Pat Monahan turned out to be a surprisingly good showman, despite having the most ridiculous voice ever (seriously, graeae, remember how funny we thought Gerard's voice was at that concert? Yeah, this one was funnier. This was the John Cleese of voices.) so of course the whirling vortex of suck came from the audience.

3-sub-1. There is no planet on which it is appropriate to intentionally slap someone on the back of the head, after digging your fingers into their ribs several times, at a concert. Seriously. If it hadn't been for the whole police and being arrested thing and that I was there for a birthday gift, not on my own recognisance, and I was not the person being so honoured, I would have punched her. It was the namby-pamby look of totally fake innocence that made me want to, far more than any sort of insult offered by being stabbed in the ribs and slapped in the head did.

3-sub-2. I am not actually homophobic, if anyone at the Showbox was interested in knowing this. I simply have a problem with having my face stroked by people that drunk. And no, drunk lady, I do not love you, because you are so drunk you are falling over. Is it reasonable to assume that making passes at people when you are so drunk you can't stand up will not get your offer accepted? Yes it is!

But I'm sorry if you have bruises. I get flaily when people I don't know try to touch me. Screaming at you didn't seem to help, either. Possibly this was because you were so drunk that all you could do was ask my niece why I didn't love you?

Also: my parents gave me booze for my birthday, and I still hate everyone I hated last week, but I kind of no longer give a shit. I'm in the bear-trap stage of anger, the one where you wait for someone to contact you again in any way at all, and then you rip their leg off and beat them to death with it. In my world, that's pretty zen.

And I have a ninja pumpkin mr potatohead kit. I need a pumpkin, like, now.

I kind of wish that some of my work-related search terms were more normal. I just spent an hour trying to figure out what the First Crusaders would have called the people they walked an ass of a long way to fight.

It turns out that the answer is most likely "Saracen", since "Mohammedan" didn't show up until 1681, and Mahometan is barely older at an origin of 1529. Mahum might be useful, but didn't show up (along with Mahomet) until 1205.

So, basically, I've just spent an hour trying to figure out how to insult people who've been dead one hell of a long time, all the name of "getting it right."


ETA: Let's add "cathedral architecture", "breeds of cattle", "medieval theatre" and "princeps/Godefroy de Bouillon" to the list of "things I know more about now."

Fairly sure that's the second or third time I've used that subject line. But it IS an evil laugh. I was told this when asking someone whose laugh I was imitating for my evil laugh where they had gotten their evil laugh from and was told that it was, in fact, originally mine.

Right, so, the content of this post is: imagine me laughing, evilly. There you go, done. I'd love to share all the details, but there are multitudinous situations that deserve an evil laugh, occuring simultaneously around me.

1) Theft. Muahahahaha!
2) Veganism. Muahahahahaha!
3) KNOWING vegans. Muahahahahaha!
4) Planning ahead. WAY ahead. Muahahahahaha!
5) +2 Wand of Promotion With Retroactive Date of Occurrence. Muahahahahaha!
6) Czarity. Muahahahahaha!
7) Coffee. With extra Muahahahahahaha!
8) Fanon. Muahahahahahahaha!
9) Waaaaaaannk (complete with wahmbulance). Muahahahahaha!

One. ONE evil laugh. Muahahahahaha!

You may address me as the Czar of Catalogues, by the way. I insist that my first edict will be "Yeah, we're totally spelling that British, bitches." I wish now that I had a tiara, because that is TOTALLY a tiara-related emergency.

*muttering darkly* Everyone used to laugh at me for that. Where are they NOW, FOOLS, WHERE ARE YOU NOW? WITHOUT A TIARA OR A TITLE, THAT'S WHERE.

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UNRELATED RANT THAT DOES NOT DESERVE A SECOND POST:
This applies to me, because I am an editor. I would imagine that it applies to anyone who works with or for people who do not physically show up in the office (or perhaps those who do, but I don't think we're THAT big a bunch of assholes).

If you are going to get a blog, particularly on LJ (in my case, because I am ONLY competent at LJ-based systems), as a professional, then use that space ONLY for professional posts. Srs bzns, ppl. The lolcat/1337 makes it more srs. I am not dumb, and I DO know how to google your name (particularly if you have given me a business card that clearly lists your LJ, or use it as part of your sig). I know that manymany people have websites under their names - all well and good. But...dude. Do you REALLY want your editor to know that your kid is barfing? Or, more sensitively, do you REALLY want your editor to know that you are not happy that Shit Has Come Up and they have not gotten back to you about your latest proposal? No shit you're not happy - chances are THEY are not happy EITHER. And they will be less happy if you are not going to play the game of understanding that sometimes, that is totally how life is. At LEAST, ffs, lock those entries. Otherwise...well, you come off a little bit less professionally than you might want.

And let me tell you it is even MORE weird to find all these people listing you by name on their blogs. If I didn't know that someone had a blog before, I DO NOW.

Im in ur internetz lukin at ur life, d00d. Think about what you're showing me, srsly. And one of the things you are showing me is that, if anyone was paying attention to a mutual friend's blog, the cover on this one is TOTALLY blown.

- Posting on playersresource when I know you suck because you've been in a game with me before. And technically, you're still in the game - you just haven't entirely left as far as anyone knows! Relatedly, attempting to suck up in that comm doesn't work.

- Moving.

- Moving on the one weekend this year that it will snow in Seattle. *headdesk*

- Finding the crack addict in the new place.

On the bright side, at least the crack addict is a friendly construction worker who carries boxes of books like they're tinkertoys. But seriously - crack addict.