WARNING: THE FOLLOWING BLOG IS ONE OF THOSE ANNOYING FEEL-SORRY-FOR-POOR-POOR-ME WHINEFESTS. NOTHING IN HERE IS INTENTIONALLY FUNNY, JUST ME WHINING ABOUT MY PITIFUL LIFE LIKE AN ANGST-RIDDEN ADOLESCENT. YOU CAN SAFELY SKIP THIS BLOG, I JUST NEEDED TO WRITE IT.

You know, when I left Ohio to come to Houston, I was a sane, happy, healthy, bespectacled person. Well, okay, maybe not THAT sane, but I was insane in a happy, healthy, fun way. I liked my life, I liked what I was doing.
When I return home tomorrow, I will be a stressed, exhausted, depressed, anxious, crampy, nauseated, half-blind nervous wreck. Why?

Well, stressed and exhausted is mostly my mother's fault. She's always been an overachiever, and trying to keep up with her most laid-back days wipes me out. Here I am trying to recuperate from SURGERY and she's dragging me to plays, to museums, to stores, to movies...
Depressed and anxious has to do with my slow recovery from the surgery. More on that in a bit.
The steroid drops that I must put in my eyes four times a day give me terrible stomach cramps and make me feel like throwing up (not to mention that constant bitter taste back in my throat). So today, when I went in for my followup visit, I was told 'wow, you're really healing very very slowly' and given STRONGER steroid drops to use for another two weeks. NOT good.
It's going to take me most of a MONTH to see good, positive results from my surgery. Until then, I'll be half-blind, unable to drive, having to use crappy eyedrops fourteen hundred times a day until my lousy slow metabolism finishes healing up this collateral damage; but the doctor swears that eventually I will have eyesight that is close to perfect. Once I heal.
Until then, I can barely draw, I can't ink, I can't spend too much time on the computer, I have headaches and eye-aches and a bad taste in the back of my throat. Reading is a chore, watching TV or playing games is difficult, and even sleeping isn't that easy, with these stomach cramps.

Was it worth it? Ask me now, the answer is 'no'. Ask me in a month, the answer will almost certainly be 'yes'.
The surgery itself was quick and painless, and only the collateral damage is still giving me trouble. And believe me, I'd do most anything to rid myself of my dependence on glasses. Which I seem to have done. So a month of heck is definitely a small price to pay for that... but right now, in the middle of it all, I am NOT HAPPY.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 10:38 PM

~Blather Back!~

I'd like to take a moment to talk about... chicken fried steak.

Could any foodstuff possibly be worse for you without containing strychnine? You take a cut of meat... beef, no less... coat it in eggs and flour and salt, deep-fat-fry it, and serve it coated with a cream sauce containing the drippings from the frying! If it just had sugar and butter in it, well, you'd keel over dead right there and it'd be a restricted substance.
So of course it tastes wonderful. The worse something is for you, the better it tastes. We're just geared to search out high-fat food from the days when we had to conserve every calorie to survive... pity you can't talk your body out of it. 'Look, body, the worst thing we've had to survive lately is minor static shocks from the computer. Knock it off and start finding celery appetizing.'
Don't know about you folks, but my body would just laugh at me condescendingly and start demanding the ice cream in the fridge. My body WANTS to be fat and lazy and kept pacified with fats and sugars.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, chicken fried steak. I ate some just a couple of hours ago, and now I'm sitting at the computer, happy as an otaku in a hentai site, listening to the fat build dams in my arteries. If I listen really closely, I can hear the fat singing its jolly little working songs: 'Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to clog we go...'

In general, my attitude towards food is this: the ability to digest and handle unhealthy food is at its best when you're young. Once you get to be over forty, you're pretty much ordered to cut that shit out anyway, so I might as well eat it now, while I can.
So I won't live to be ninety. Given my general attitude towards life in general, I can't see that the years between eighty and ninety will be terribly rewarding for me. Just a bunch of health problems, a fixed income, and wrinkles. Yay.
Life without good greasy/salty/sugary food isn't living, it's existing. Go have a bowl of cookies 'n' cream ice cream and tell it Mooncalf sent ya.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 1:38 PM

~Blather Back!~

When I was a senior in high school, my mother sold the house I had grown up in because of money problems. (We didn't have any, and that's a problem.) So now, when I come home to visit her in her new house, I sleep in the guestroom, on the trundle bed that's always been 'for guests'. And every time I turn around, I am confronted with the Wall of Me.
I was one of those 'miracle babies'. My parents had been married for seventeen years before I was born, and they'd always been told that they couldn't have children; I'm an only child, born to middle-aged middle-class parents. Let me tell you, there are DEFINITELY worse ways to grow up. There are probably better, too.
Therefore, my childhood and adolescence were excruciatingly well-documented. All of my mother's family photos are on one wall of the guest bedroom. There are plenty of pictures of her siblings, her parents, other random relatives, and so on, but the wall is DOMINATED by pictures of me.
Am I bitching? No. What the hell would I have to bitch about? 'Oh, my parents love me too too much so I'm always having to pose for pictures!' Wah, my heart bleeds for... well, for me.
But it's CREEPY. I sleep in this room with hundreds of eyes watching me, day and night. It's really the worst when I have to change clothes. It's like being a stripper, except every single audience member is related to you (or actually IS you) and no one sticks money in your underwear. Damn cheap relatives. Damn cheap me.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 7:51 PM

~Blather Back!~

I guess I really wasn't absent from the blog, was I? Turns out it's about the only thing I -can- keep up with from Houston. Can't ICQ, can't IRC, can't oekaki, but I can surf the Web, therefore, I can blog. When I can see.

Here's a fun trick that demonstrates just how interconnected our bodies are. Get eyedrops. Something really powerful, like steroids or antibiotics, will work best (funny, I have both) but normal lubricating drops work fine (funny, I have three kinds of those too). Put a fairly large amount in your eyes. Now wipe all the excess off your face before your mother sees the droplet hanging off your chin and wipes it off for you.
In less than five minutes, there'll be a bitter taste in the back of your throat, even though you didn't eat or drink anything. That's right, boys and girls, the eyedrops enter your tear ducts and, from there, magically migrate down into your throat! Now go drink something, unless you enjoy the taste of aspirin dust.

So I figure that in the last three days, I've swallowed a dose or two of liquid steroids. Not getting much muscle mass, unfortunately. Except maybe in my eyeballs... haven't tried to lift weights with them yet. Maybe I'll at least develop a powerful gaze. A weighty stare. Heck, right now I'd be happy if the whites of my eyes weren't bright red.

Bitch, bitch, moan, I know. But hell, eye surgery is definitely the biggest thing I've done in a while, so I might as well wring a few thousand blogs from it, right?
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 11:42 PM

~Blather Back!~

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING BLOG IS ABOUT MY EYE SURGERY. I CAN GUARANTEE YOU THAT SOME OF THIS BLOG WILL BE GROSS. IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH, IT'S PROBABLY BEST TO SKIP THIS ENTRY AND GO READ ABOUT 80S FASHIONS INSTEAD. NO, WAIT, THAT'S PRETTY GROSS TOO. MAYBE THE CONDOM STORY... NO... UM... THE CAT PUKE STORY... ER... IF YOU'RE SQUEAMISH, MAYBE YOU'D BETTER JUST NOT READ MY BLOGS IN GENERAL. ANYWAY.

THURSDAY
I met with the eye doctor to go over the procedure, so that I wouldn't be startled by anything that happened. I never knew that I could be so blase' about having words like 'suction', 'knife', 'vaporize', and 'laser' applied to my own personal eyeballs. I watched the little video, got my eyes examined, got told that I was a perfect candidate. Basically, they were going to cut a little flap out of the front of my cornea and vaporize a lot of the middle parts of my cornea. They wouldn't have to cut all the way through or anything.

FRIDAY
While I may have been blase' about having the word 'laser' applied to my eyeballs, I certainly wasn't calm about having the actual laser applied. Fortunately, the surgery is quick, about ten minutes in all. Unfortunately, you have to be conscious so that you can hold your eye still for them.
They gave me a large Valium, but it didn't really have time to kick in before they swung me under. The conversation went like this:
'Okay, now we're going to apply a disinfectant to your eyelids. This'll be cold.'
'Nnngh.'
'We're going to give you these anesthetic drops now.'
'Mm.'
'Now we're going to tape your eyelids back so that your eyelashes will be well out of the way.'
'Ggh.'
'Now we're going to put in this metal speculum to hold your eyelids open. Have you ever seen A Clockwork Orange?'
'Naargh.'
Here's where it gets gross:
'Okay. We're going to apply some strong suction to your eyeball now. You'll feel pressure and your vision is going to dim out and go black. Don't panic.'
'Gnnnngh.'
'You're going to hear a whirring sound now. That's the knife cutting the flap out of your cornea. Then the pressure will go away and you'll be able to see again.'
'Nn.'
'Now I'm going to flip that flap back. You'll see the tool stroking along your eyeball, but you shouldn't feel anything.'
'...'
'You see that little red light? Stare directly at that light and try not to move your eyeball. You'll hear a lot of little popping noises. That's the laser vaporizing bits of your cornea. Try REALLY hard not to move your eyeball, okay?'
'.......'
45 seconds later:
'Okay, that was great! I'm going to put the flap back in place now. I'll have to press it into place with this little plastic thing.'
'Nnnnn.'
'Okay, close your eye, time to do the other one.'
'Gah.'

After the other eye was done (it was harder), I got to stand up and leave the room. I could see, sort of, blurrily. I went into a little darkened room so they could stare at my eyeballs and make sure everything looked okay. Apparently it did, so they gave me about forty kinds of eyedrops and this TERRIBLY attractive pair of Ray Charles sunglasses ('you'll be really sensitive to light for a week or two') and sent me home to sleep.
The rest of the day was boring as hell. I couldn't see worth a damn, so I couldn't read or watch TV or anything. I slept a little, listened to music, put in eyedrops every half an hour or so (that's another fun phrase associated with laser surgery - 'going to sever the nerves associated with producing moisture for the eye') and tried really hard not to focus on anything.

SATURDAY
I look like I lost a fight with the Three Stooges. My eyelids are bruised on the INSIDE from the little metal Clockwork Orange doodad and I have huge swathes of bloodshot veins running from my irises. However, I can see, sort of.
Everything is just blurry enough to be REALLY REALLY obnoxious. I still can't read, TV gives me a headache, and I definitely shouldn't be on the computer typing this right now, but I can see more or less clearly, without glasses, up to about twenty feet away. I'm told that this will get markedly better as the week goes on and I heal. Damn well better.

However, the doctor tells me that my corneas have already healed almost completely (corneas are like that, apparently, total overachievers) and that my eyesight is now 20/30 in one eye and 20/70 in the other. The downside is that, despite my obsessional devotion to eyedrops, I have a raw dry spot on my left eye. So I get ANOTHER kind of eyedrops, the really scary moisturizing kind. These are gummy sticky drops that apparently work by gluing my eyelashes shut. I'm supposed to put them in right before bed, then tape these clear plastic shields over my eyes. As you can probably guess, these accoutrements don't make sleeping terribly easy. But there's not much else to do, so I still try.
I can see, though. I can, sort of, see without glasses. Although I still WEAR glasses. I'm constantly in my oh-so-pretty Ray Charles sunglasses. At least I look funky.
More to come... now, I must rest my eyes. Owie.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 8:08 PM

~Blather Back!~

So I'm sitting here at my mother's oogly Gateway computer, literally two hours before my eye surgery is scheduled to begin. Thought I'd blog.
I must remember that I should not kill my mother. She means well, and she's paying for this. She means well. She means well. She loves me, she means well, she's not trying to be annoying. I love my mother. I do, I do.
All the same, she requires constant attention. Oe.
At least she'll probably give me a break once I'm recuperating, right? Right?
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 10:21 AM

~Blather Back!~

Ever since I graduated from high school I've gravitated more and more towards comfortable, inoffensive, inexpensive clothing. I spent most of my college years wearing three-dollar black canvas slip-on shoes. They were comfortable, totally unnoticeable, and so cheap that I didn't mind replacing them every four months. I usually bought them three pairs at a time at Target and kept the extras stashed away.
This is a habit that I've kept to this day, although my latest pair of black canvas shoes cost TEN dollars at Wal-Mart. I loved those shoes, but they're starting to fall apart. So I went to the big shoe warehouse place yesterday to try and replace them.
Women's shoes are the most ridiculous-looking things on the face of the planet. My boyfriend and I spent most of our time there picking up various hideous shoes and making snide comments to each other. Pink slippers with iridescent sequins, sneaker-shaped mules, leopard-print spike heels, gold lame' platform sandals, you name it.

At one point, I picked up a REAL winner. It looked like some sort of moccasin-sneaker hybrid, in a whole range of khakis and grays. Huge knobby black soles, and exposed stitching like a baseball. I showed this shoe to my boyfriend, made the expected snide comment, and then my hands managed to convey to me a message about how comfortable these shoes felt. Both the fleecy parts and the suede parts were soft and flexible, and the soles were well-padded... so I tried on the monstrosities. And then... I bought them.
Yes, I bought these godawful-ugly brownish shoes because they were, quite simply, the most comfortable things I've ever had on my feet. They looked sturdy, too... nothing that ugly would EVER deign to fall apart quickly. They'll just hang around and get uglier.
The best part of the experience, though, was checking out. My cashier was a girl in her late teens who was obviously a fashion victim: carefully arranged 'tousled' hair, too much makeup, matchy-matchy black jacket, crisp white shirt, black pants with JUST the right amount of flare to the legs. She opened the box to make sure I hadn't hidden another pair of shoes in there, and caught sight of these khaki monstrosities. And in a rather brittle but sprightly voice, she said, "Wow, these look (tiny pause) comfortable!"
My answer? "Yeah, they sure are ugly, aren't they?" And then I beamed, accepted my shopping bag, and went home.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 1:03 PM

~Blather Back!~

By the way, I'll be absent from the blog for a while; I'm going home to Houston for a week and a half, and I won't have much net access. Enjoy my stupid fashion ramblings, and I'll check in when I can.
Can't wait to hear what my mother has to say about my new shoes.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 12:58 PM

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FASHION AND ANTI-FASHION BLUNDERS THAT I, PERSONALLY, MADE DURING THE 80S
In 1980, I was in third grade. By the time that 1990 rolled around, I was graduating from high school; so the eighties coincided perfectly with my 'coming of age'. In other words, the 80s were the period of my life when I was most concerned with fashion; when style took precedence over substance; when I was groping for a look of my own that wasn't too different from everyone else's. Neither fashion slave nor fashion slut, but interested in not standing out too dramatically from the junior high herd (lest I be tormented), I made some really spectacular fashion misstatements.

1981 - Fourth grade, and my first experiment with fashion. The current craze was for Izod polo shirts, generally worn with jeans, a belt made from a matching length of ribbon, and a pair of topsiders. Shirt collar should be worn standing up for maximum early-80s chic, of course.
I owned five Izod polo shirts of various colors. Not quite understanding the rules of fashion yet (hey, I was nine), I wore them in a strict sequence; pink on Monday, pale blue on Tuesday, and so on.

1983 - Sixth grade, and the beginning of three years of TERRIBLE clothing. 1983 was marked by several particularly revolting developments:
First, the Flashdance-style sweatband. Worn around the forehead with the 80s hair spraying out of the top, mine was pink with black polka-dots, and a small black bow sewn to it.
Second, the rest of the Flashdance-style clothing. Oversized sweatshirts that fell off my shoulder to reveal a tank top. Lace-up ankle boots in black and white, to be worn with scrunchy socks.
Third, I shudder to admit, I owned not one but TWO pairs of Madonna-esque fingerless lace gloves: one black, one white.
Fourth, metallic leather shoes. I had silver ones and gold ones. From the brief period in history when shoes and purses were supposed to match your jewelry and not your outfit. Speaking of my jewelry, long strings of plastic beads were the norm. I had ten or so strings, both metallic and brightly colored plastic. The accepted way to wear them was to knot them in the front.

When I was in the mood to make an anti-fashion statement, I wore something called a 'Mexican dress'. They really WERE from Mexico, so I don't know if anyone outside of the border states has ever seen one of these. It's a simple, straight-to-the-knee sheath dress with short puffy sleeves; made from brightly colored cheap cotton and liberally embroidered all over with tiny flowers, birds, and flourishes. Usually the embroidery was all different colors, but I had one lavender-colored dress with all-white embroidery.
Not particularly attractive, really, but not particularly unattractive either. They were awe-inspiringly comfortable and easy to wear, and had the added advantage of being cheap as hell... five to ten bucks each.

1984 - Seventh grade. More awful yet. This was the year that fluorescent clothing came briefly into vogue. I owned a pair of eye-blinding fluorescent pink suspenders and a TRULY revolting pair of fluorescent yellow-greenish socks. Of COURSE I wore them together.
This is also the year that I got a pair of metallic silver socks. In an amazing display of self-control, I only wore them with matching silver shoes once. Astonishingly, I STILL own those socks, seventeen years later. The yellow-greeny ones are, fortunately, lost to history.

Anti-fashion statement? An old lab coat of my father's. He was a scientist and also quite heavy, so this pale blue coat was FAR too large for me... I wore it over a white oxford-cloth shirt and a pair of jeans. I don't think anyone knew what to make of it, but I liked it. I wish I still had it.

1985 - Eighth grade. Having essentially gone the lowest I could possibly go, this was a more subdued year. The first major fad that I followed was the multiple silver necklaces fad (I had a set of four, I think, in varying degrees of tacky). Most people wore silver puffy-heart charms; I wore this utterly cool sterling-silver cat's head that used to be a Christmas tree ornament. I still have THAT too. I still LIKE it.
Of course, I wore it with ugly cheap silver beads. Remember, multiple necklaces.
The second fad? Jams! Aiee. Colorfully printed knee-length shorts. Usually worn with two t-shirts in mostly-matching shades, the top t-shirt tied up to reveal the second one; and an also-matching bandana, rolled up, tied in the center, and worn like a necklace. Or a lei.
Jams were usually printed with so many different colors that matching them was easy; my favorite pair of jams were pink, but they were printed in green, yellow, blue, and black. I usually wore a pale green t-shirt under a pale yellow t-shirt, and a pink bandana.

My anti-fashion statement for eighth grade was PARTICULARLY memorable. It was a sweater with wide horizontal stripes of yellow and black. I usually wore it with black stirrup pants and a matching yellow beret. And yes, I looked startlingly like an oversized bumblebee, a fact which my classmates did not fail to notice. Ironically, I was wearing this outfit on the same day that I won the school spelling bee. Bzz.

1986 - Ninth grade, and the debut of the Big Shirt From Hell. I've always liked oversized shirts. But this one... I think at base it was white, but it was blobbed liberally with every color possible, mostly brilliant blue and orange, but also yellow, red, pink, green, and so on. It showed up on radar. It blinded people. It was made of this really neat soft shiny slippery material which was probably polyester, damn the luck.
I also remember a pair of white stirrup pants, and some knee-high white leather boots. Which I probably wore together and with the Big Shirt.

1987 - Tenth grade. Apparently I got most of my really awful fashion blunders out of the way in junior high, but my sophomore year is when I started wearing pantyhose and spike heels to school. Which were, of course, terribly uncomfortable, but I rather liked being 5'10, and when I walked down an empty concrete-floored hallway the shoes made this really cool 'pock-pock-pock' noise.

1988 - Eleventh grade. By this point my mother had taught me to sew. I'm sure she meant well.
I promptly took a big-shirt pattern and lengthened it, making a knee-length buttondown shirt. It was white with black splotches. I wore it like a jacket, ignoring the fact that my clumsy hemming had made the hem turn inside out. Generally, I wore it with a tanktop and the white stirrup pants mentioned above.

My anti-fashion statement for that year was actually something I remember with a certain sneaking fondness. I had a Land's End 'polo dress'... basically a huge oversized knee-length t-shirt with a sash of the same material. Mine was fuschia.
I wore the shirt tied up on one hip, over a pair of black stirrup pants. And I took the sash and wrapped it around the leg that was thus exposed, a strap that crisscrossed my leg from the bow at the knee to the strap that ran under my foot, disappearing into my shoe. It looked like a toe shoe. Asymmetry, woo.
I still think that looked cool, except for the color. I'm sure many of you disagree with that.

1989 - The beginning of twelfth grade. About halfway through that year, I discovered that if I wore jeans, a slightly large white oxford-cloth shirt (not tucked in) and a pair of white slippers, I still looked reasonably good and was insanely comfortable.
By the time I got to college, I was dressing like that most of the time. My fashion nightmare was mostly over. (Except for the poet's shirt incident. More on that later.)
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 1:56 PM

~Blather Back!~

I've added (or am trying to add) a commentary system to Mooncalf Noises. Which means that after you've listened to me blather on, you can blather back.
Please note that I am not sane, and furthermore that I can be vengeful. I'm not going to set any rules, but I'll also delete things that I find inappropriate with no warning and no reason, rather like Tripod. Don't whine at me. It's my blog and I'll do what I damn well please, even if that includes shredding totally inoffensive posts because I have a headache.
Be nice, or be dogfood. Follow?
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 1:52 PM

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I note that it is a specific violation of Lycos/Tripod's Terms of Service to sell 'any goods or services that do not, in fact, exist'. Wow, thanks, Lycos. I feel much safer from the predators that stalk the Internet now.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 3:14 PM

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I've always thought that Houstonians really know how to drive. People in Boston, they're godawful drivers that pull the craziest stunts; people in Houston pull those stunts too, but they're GOOD at it, and stuff moves smoothly. If you're driving on 610 you can expect to see a car merge into a space barely its own width at 65 mph, and no one blinks.
No one HONKS in Houston, either. Traffic jams which would have other people leaning on their horns and screaming cause absolute silence in Houston. I think that's because everyone has guns. Rifle racks on their pickup trucks and everything. You never know when the person you just honked at might be inclined to shoot you, so you don't honk. Hey, it's a survival mechanism.

Which brings me, in a roundabout fashion, to my point. When I was in college, my friends and I used to gather up and go to the Texas Renaissance Festival together, dressed in pseudo-medieval garb. The exit to the RenFest from I-45 was always jammed on weekends, unfortunately, and we'd spend about an hour parked on the freeway waiting to get off. Part of the game, oh well, hey, we always had things to talk about. So I was sitting there in the right lane, about half a mile off the exit still, when VROOM a guy in a black pickup truck goes roaring by on the shoulder, obviously planning to cut out the line by barging into the exit lane up ahead. We watched him go by, muttering imprecations.
What happened then was the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen while behind the wheel of a car. Instantly, telepathically, every car in that mile-long line locked bumpers. And we carefully, silently, quietly inched along, our bumpers with their dented Texas license plates not two inches from each other, leaving not the slightest opening for the shiny new black pickup to exploit.
He was still sitting there when I made it to the offramp, twenty minutes later, pounding on his steering wheel and yelling something, but not willing to risk his paint job by crushing in. He was still there when I got to the light and made the turn, ten minutes after that.

For all I know, he's still there. We Texans do tend to hold a grudge.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 3:47 AM

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I was making myself some pasta for dinner tonight. While I was waiting for the water to boil, I filled a glass with ice for my drink. One of the ice cubes fell on the floor.
I picked up the ice cube and put it in the sink to melt. (Good hygiene.) It fell into the drain and rested on that little cross of metal that keeps large particles out of the drain. And then I put the colander over the drain for my pasta.
So this ice cube is sitting in a small, dank oubliette, and its light source gets cut off abruptly... suddenly, only tiny pinholes of light penetrate to relieve the darkness. And it can hear the water nearby, being boiled and ticking against the sides of the pot, and it knows that it's only a matter of time before that boiling water comes spilling through the airholes of its oubliette, drenching its helpless, trapped body, slaying it utterly...
Yes. Less than an hour ago I willingly and knowingly tortured an ice cube to death. Fear me.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 4:11 AM

~Blather Back!~

You know, when I first heard about the whole Napster controversy, I quite frankly wasn't sure what to think. It sure SOUNDED like bootlegging, piracy, illegalness in general... but they kept trying to defend themselves, and I guess there WERE good uses for the system.
Eventually, my attitude settled down to 'It's probably illegal as all hell, but it's a cool thing. Now, where are those Brave Little Toaster mp3s?'

But you know, the other day I went out to one of those shiny new Virgin Records megastores. And they had shiny new CDs for sale, a few of which I wanted. For sale -- nineteen bucks each. And these were OLD albums, fifteen years old in many cases.

Go, Napster. Screw the music industry over. You have my blessing.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 4:02 AM

~Blather Back!~

Three reasons why today was a good day:
1. In my change from dinner, I got a 1937 Indian-head nickel. I'd never seen one before. It's not in very good shape, but it's just a cool thing.
2. I got to go to CD Warehouse and buy a stack of used CDs. Indigo Girls, Tori Amos, Paula Cole... oh, and a bit of Duran Duran and Depeche Mode for that retro sensibility.
3. Today, March 1, 2001, my website turned one year old. Man, it's been quite a year.
posted by Mie Tsukikoushi at 11:17 PM

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