So, I’ve come to the realization, after having my blog since 2005 and Facebook since 2008, that the benefit of the blog environment is that you own your content and the domain in which it resides; there’s somewhat of a “this is MY backyard…” mentality, and people are less likely to start a foul-mouthed debate with you regarding your opinions, whereas Facebook is somewhat tantamount to staring into the refrigerator for hours on end, not knowing what you want, then ranting about it’s contents as if it’s somehow the household appliance’s fault. Then, ultimately deciding to engage in an argument with your housemate over the lonely jar of mayonnaise. Meanwhile the mayo is thinking to itself, “Begging your pardon? *I* didn’t put this dollop of mustard in here, I fail to see how I’m involved in this debate…”. Alas, the internet has become an unruly daycare center filled with faceless, gramatically-incorrect diatribes. I blame social media. And texting.

Wackos everywhere, plague and madness…

And while in this Pensive Facebook Pondering Period, I shamefully engaged in this narcissistic activity whereby an application evaluates your online activity and sums you up in a report not entirely unworthy of a PowerPoint presentation with pie charts and diagrams and maybe even a pivot table thrown in here and there for added flair. And then of course posts it on Facebook for all to see.

Apparently I post 136 statuses a month. The average user posts 12. I have typed 144,004 words. The Hobbit has 95,022.

I could have written a bloody book? Ye gods. Now Zuckerberg owns it? *hangs head*.

So now that Facebook has this feature whereby you can archive every status, photo, link, etc cetera you have ever posted, I am in the process of reclaiming my thoughts, queries, memes, rants (mostly rants but it is what it is…) But, since there are over five thousand of them, it seems to be taking a bit of time. And me, being the impatient twit that I am, have begun the arduous task of sifting through them piecemeal, which is proving to be somewhat of an insurmountable task.

So, what you are about to experience (and my apologies in advance) is an amalgamation of random Facebook posts over the years that *should* have turned into blog entries, or at least provided amusing anecdotal introductions thereof, but failed. Because Facebook, that pus-spewing, blood-gutted leech of creativity, has made me incomprehensibly lazy. Tragically, I post small snippets of witticism THERE, on a FREE service (on which I am subjected to endless advertising, no less), yet my blog, in which I pour my hard-earned dollars into on a monthly basis, goes completely neglected.

So I am making a concentrated effort here to import, as you will, the long-lost wasted blog-children of Facebook.

These tend to span from 2008 – present, about the time my blog started to suck. (And can I just add, as a segue, this dude at the next table needs to *seriously* cut back on the Old Spice. What IS that??)

So these are just a few, since I began to get seasick from scrolling through endless Facebook posts. Hopefully I’ll get my archived file soon…

My new favoritest thing in the whole world: playing “Red Light, Green Light” when my coworker walks out of the office. Cuz, he like, totally does it. Awesomesauce.
I am finding your sentence bewildering. Almost like looking at a Salvador Dali picture. I like it.
I’d like to modify my Foursquare app so instead of reporting, “Niff has just checked into ___”, it states instead, “Niff is Occupying Elliott Bay Book Co”, or, “Niff is Occupying Bellevue Transit Center.”
For example, Niff is Occupying her desk. Concurrently, Niff is Occupied.
With every passing hour our solar system comes forty-three thousand miles closer to globular cluster 13 in the constellation Hercules, and still there are some misfits who continue to insist that there is no such thing as progress.
Happy Birthday, Mom! Thanks for contributing half of the genetic material to create me & stuff…
“The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
My boss just threatened to stab me in the throat with his pen if I said the number “eleven” again. Think maybe I won’t do that anymore.
So…death metal lip-syncing satanic burlesque. Down to the freakish zombie face paint and the guzzling down the goblet of blood. I’m afraid to go to sleep…
I’m having one of those mornings where I feel the need to audibly narrate everything I’m doing, sing-song style, and follow it up with, “like a boss”.
Jesus christ, I need coffee.
♪ ♫ …like a boss… ♫ ♪
I can’t help but observe the bizarre situational irony that is downing my variety of nutritional supplements with Diet Coke. O_o
Three things I heard tonight that I wish I could un-hear:
– “We’re the blonde-tourage! You know, cuz we’re both blonde!” (Trust me…they weren’t really.)
– “Can we get six MGD’s in champagne glasses?”
– “Sike!”
If you have trouble with simple counting, use the following mnemonic device: one comes before two comes before 60 comes after 12 comes before six trillion comes after 504. This will make your earlier counting difficulties seem like no big deal.
[Niff] is fortified with 9 essential vitamins and minerals and is now available at 0.4% APR financing. Act now and get two free DVD’s with purchase. All a nutritious part of a complete breakfast. Rated M for Mature.
The most interesting passenger on the 249 by far: the dude in the camouflage jacket who, daily, reads an obviously outdated Scholastic “Encyclopedia of the Presidents”.
Niff hereby dubs this Third-Person Wednesday. Niff thinks this won’t be too confusing since there aren’t altogether too many Niff’s running about. The *other* Jennifer’s, and Michael’s, and Chris’, however, might experience and/or cause confusion with this, however. Feel free to promote or denounce at will.
I think the key to happiness is finding one thing every day to be thankful for.
My token of gratitude this fine Wednesday?
That I’m not water-soluble.
Ok. Confession time.
Les Misérables was epic and beautiful and grand and all that. But I shed not a single tear. And he reason is this:
It is virtually impossible to become emotionally attached to a scene of someone clinging to life, taking their last, gasping breaths, because I’m like, “Ok, so…lemme get this straight…you’re dying… hemorrhaging internally, even, and and you still have the wherewithal to bust into a showtune about the ‘rain making the flowers grow, laa dee daa dee daa?’ Suspension of disbelief = SHATTERED!” Ok. That is all.
(I actually have an entire blog entry about this planned; much to what I’m sure will be the chagrin of certain people…)

So, We’ll see if Facebook folows through with their promise to send me my stuff. I may have to go to their offices and bang on their doors or something. Bloger rage. I haz it.

Voulez-voulez-vous “What’s going on, Niff?”


I’m glad I located my noise-canceling headphones. Because some days you simply feel like ignoring the world, ya know?

Notice: reading xkcd on your phone while walking home from the drugstore may result in a sudden and unexpected encounter with gravity/sidewalk, thus resulting in a backtrack to aforementioned drugstore for Band-Aids because you inadvertently knocked your last box into the toilet when looking for safety pins while getting ready for that thing last week.
…of course posting this while walking home from getting the Band-Aids isn’t altogether too bright, either.

Yes, I have a celebrity crush on Tom Brokaw.  So?

Tip: be good to your kidneys. They’re vengeful little bastards. They hold grudges.  Oftentimes in unison.

Photos aren’t loading on my news feed. On my desktop or my phone. I must have missed the memo where they informed us that Facebook was infallible.

Here is your Today’s Scorpio Horoscope:
It may be hard to believe something impossible, but try to do so — especially if it’s right in front of your eyes. The phrase ‘too good to be true’ was invented by killjoys, anyway.

I have a feeling why Arthur Dent could never get the hang of Thursdays. Thursday just f*cks with you. It’s like it’s saying, “Hey bitches. I’m THURSDAY. You know what that means? It’s SOOO not Friday. And you just gotta sit there and deal with me. You just gotta bend over and take it. HA! How ya like that? That’s right! Say my name! THURSDAY! MUAHAHAHA!!!”
Yeah.  I get ya, Arthur.

God really needs to stop hogging all the Zone 7 parking in my neighborhood. #stjamescathedral

“Mr. Beeblebrox, sir,” said the insect in awed wonder, “you’re so weird you should be in movies.”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod patting the thing on a glittering pink wing, “and you, baby, should be in real life.”

Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est.

‎…wondering if good things really *do* come in threes.

“The fact that we live at the bottom of a deep gravity well, on the surface of a gas covered planet going around a nuclear fireball 90 million miles away and think this to be normal is obviously some indication of how skewed our perspective tends to be.”
— Douglas Adams

Niff’s Law #3: Yelling at your art accomplishes *nothing*.
(aside from making you look completely *mad* in a bar).

*Only uses *yellow* Post-its. Neon just doesn’t fly.

Great things are afoot. Both of them. (Meaning great things *and* feet.)

*is a two-cube kind of gal.

You can never be too rich, too thin, or have too many Sharpies.

111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321

Satsumas make sunny days double-plus sunny. -ish. (Forgot about my -ish Manifesto).

Just to be obnoxious and vague, I’m going to add “-ish” to as many words as possible today.
As in, “this woman on the bus is being loud-ish while on her cell phone”.
Actually, screw that. She IS bloody loud. I’m-a smack her in the head kinda hard-ish. Bawwww.

“Bawwww” is a cuteness descriptor, as in, “That’s so BAWWWWWW! Like, Choco-Cat BAWWWWW!!!!”
Ok, now anyone wanna tell me what the HELL that means??

Ok, so BAWWWWW + Choco-Cat = BAWWWWWW, therefore BAWWWWW + Choco-Cat = BAWWWWW? Is this the reflexive property of wtf?

OR, BAWWWW = π(Choco-Cat)^2

Or, Choco-Cat Cream π


If you have trouble with simple counting, use the following mnemonic device: one comes before two comes before 60 comes after 12 comes before six trillion comes after 504. This will make your earlier counting difficulties seem like no big deal.


Voulez-voulez-vous sometimes you must go a long distance out of the way in order to return a short distance correctly.

Smiles are free.

Every morning as I walk down Cherry under the I-5 overpass, there is a rather cheerful, 40-something African American man wearing a knit cap and standing on the side of the road with a ragged-looking cardboard sign, asking for spare change from the cars waiting at the stoplight. And every morning he does nothing more than wave, send me a large, beaming smile and shout “Good morning!” across the busy street.  He’s never once asked me for money.  
I never realized how I appreciated his greetings until he was gone for a few days and replaced by a curmudgeonly, withered old man who said nothing, just held his sign with a glowering look on his face.  It’s funny how we don’t notice things until they’re absent.  But then lo, this morning there he was, as usual, making sure I could hear him over my headphones.

And I thought…if he can have the sort of life that calls for spending his mornings under an overpass asking for money and still manages to give large beaming smile every day…why do we let ourselves get so upset and frustrated over trivialities?  Traffic, the internet being slow, lines taking too long at the grocery store…Facebook not loading properly.  Everything has become so automated and instantaneous that the slightest inconvenience sends us ranting.  Perhaps it’s the people who are disconnected and unplugged from all the gadgets and the internets that know simple happiness.

I appreciate this daily reminder to slow down, enjoy my walk and prioritize. 

It’s just unfortunate I forget it by the time my inbox at work starts overflowing.  😉



A taco can only pull at four (4) knots per hour.

Categories: old blogs I forgot to post.

Ok, so maybe he said ‘tugboat’. I heard ‘taco’. And it made me bust a gut laughing, so I’m staying with it.

The University Village shopping center is a terrifying prospect on a Sunday afternoon. But I needed a new keyboard. I suppose I could have gotten a non-Mac keyboard at Target or something, but after careful consideration, Target would have been just as crowded and the parking situation would have been far worse, and uh, hey. The Mac store is prettier. And more efficient. And so what if I wanted my keyboard to match my computer? I’m a Mac user. It’s my thing. Let it go.

I’m working on a canvas right now. No, really. Ok, so maybe I’ve only gotten to the stretching phase and the only one who’s worked on it is Doppler, which involves licking the lower-right quadrant for some reason beyond my understanding. He seems quite intense about the whole thing, and since it doesn’t seem to be eroding the 7 oz medium-texture cotton duck canvas or anything, I see no reason to squelch his enthusiasm.

I thought I had the motivation to write but it seems as if I was mistaken. I need to get going on this canvas if I am going to avoid feeling like today is a Sunday-fail. And I need a shower. No, really.

Today was definitely a hat day.

I dig the new keyboard. To ensure its longevity I feel I should avoid the miso soup, water, charcoal, even pomegranates just to be safe. I even brought about the demise of a keyboard by overturning a pint of white latex primer on it.

At least the color matched.

Voulez-voulez-vous buy it, use it, break it, fix it, trash it, change it, mail – upgrade it…

Starbucks, Sucrose & Subterfuge

“I am angry at Starbucks!”
“Ah,” says I.  “And what has the producer of fine caffeinated beverages done this time to incur your wrath?”
He inhales in preparation.

“They have hidden ALL of the white sugar packets behind the counter!”

First World Problems.
This is the latest in mine and my co-worker Kirill’s lunchtime rants, though this particular tirade only he can claim as my morning coffee routine consists of a triple-grande nonfat peppermint latte, no controversial sugar packets required.
Prior to this revelation I had yet to investigate this confectionary phenomenon for myself.  I must confess it creates a certain amount of bewilderment, as one would consider sugar a relative staple in the coffee preparation routine. However, Starbucks, in either an effort to cater to the more hipster/trendy population or in order to single-handedly tackle hypoglycemia and type-2 diabetes, has removed the offensive pink-and-white packets and left nothing but Splenda, Sweet n’ Low, and “Sugar in the Raw” which, ironically, is merely sugar with a henna treatment.  Eco-friendly-looking packets filled with molasses-coated sugar chunks.  Marketing FTW.

My co-worker, however, will not be swayed.

“Why don’t you just use the ‘raw sugar’ stuff?”
“Because!” (Furrowed brow.)  “White sugar dissolves INSTANTLY! The minute it touches your coffee, it’s gone!” (He then proceeds to make vacuum-swooshing-noises and flourishing hand gestures to better illustrate the superior dissolving power of white sugar.)  “That raw sugar crap, it NEVER dissolves! It just sinks!” His voice, with it’s slight Russian accent, is getting rather high-pitched and frustrated at this point.  I can tell he has very strong opinions about “Sugar in the Raw”.

He’s not done.  “And then you get to the bottom of your coffee, and all you have are little bricks! Little sugar bricks!” He is, at this point, glaring furiously down into an imaginary coffee cup.  “This does not make any sense! I should not have to ask for sugar! It takes two minutes out of my day to walk up to the counter and ask the barista who’s busy making all their special drinks (mimicking the “whoosh” sound of the milk steamer with relative non-success) and no! They don’t help me! I should not have to ask for sugar! It’s very simple!”

I cannot tell which he finds more bothersome; the frittering away of his time, or the injustice he feels having to justify (or that he *feels* he has to justify) five packets of sugar…

Mercifully, the restaurant we’re having lunch at provides an entire vessel on the table teeming with sugar packets.
No Splenda though. Which is what *I* wanted.  Bugger.  I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve begun carrying Stevia around with me. Yes, I’m one of *those* people.

Post-lunch.  Cut to: the kitchen, at work, Kirill is relating his coffee/sugar/Starbucks woes to Jerry, our resident tech guru.  Or, to be fair, anyone who will listen, really.  Some have fled to the relative comfort and safety of their offices.

“Isnt the raw sugar stuff better for you?” Jerry asks.  Sigh.  Poor Jerry.  Actually, I think he’s playing devil’s advocate in this case in order to provoke.  Which I of course appreciate.

Kirill, 27, works full time, is in Grad school, spends his weekends in nightclubs, and weighs about 90 pounds soaking wet.  He cares not for such things as ‘health’ and ‘glycemic index’.  Jerry, however, is in his early 50’s, an avid cyclist, has a family, and always has the most interesting assortment of unintentionally chromatically-organized fruit on his desk.  I’m not kidding.  One day everything on his desk will be orange.  Or green. It’s fascinating.  Or sorted in ascending order by size.  I don’t think his coworkers truly appreciate the awesomeness that is the fruit and vegetable artistry that takes place on a daily basis behind Jerry’s keyboard.
Anyway, my point is, Jerry might be more apt to show concern towards the glucose content of his beverages.

Kirill begins to get that shriek-y, “no-one-understands-my-plight” tone in his voice again.  “No!  What’s better for me is not wasting my precious time-” (we get the animated hands to illustrate again, this time to emphasize his bullet points) “1. Waiting in line to ASK for the sugar, 2.  Actually having to explain why I want *five* sugars, and 3.  wasting my time stirring that raw crap when the line was too long to get what I REALLY wanted!”

Perhaps you’re beginning to sense a pattern. I know I have.

Thanks to my peer’s tirade I began to take stock of the sweeteners offered not just by Starbucks but by any of the cafes I happened to frequent in my neighborhood, which happens to be in and around one of the trendier locales of downtown Seattle.  Some even go so far as to offer agave syrup to their patrons.  Agave, really?  As in cacti?  To be honest I’d never considered cactus in my coffee but I suppose it’s no stranger than sweetening your tea with the salivary secretions of honeybees or cutting your Sumatra blend with the breast milk of a bovine when you think about it.

Yesterday morning.  Kirill storms into my office.  Egads. This is never going to end.
“I have a NEW strategy!!” declares he.
“Is that so?” inquires I.
“Yes!” he exclaims, and takes a deep breath in preparation to unveil his grand plans for cafe Harey Carey.  “I have decided…”
(Insert dramatic pause here _____)
…that for every packet of Sugar in the Raw I am forced to use…I will -”


“Throw one away!!” Self-satisfied facial expression complimentary.

I need to start closing my office door.

Voulez-voulez-vous one lump, or two?

You must be at least this tall —> to read this post.

Interesting headline crawled up my Facebook feed recently.

“Taller women more likely to develop cancer.”


I must confess to a somewhat morbid amusement and fascination with the reaction of some to these completely fanatical doomsday prognoses that are, in my mind, on par with those found in the tabloids:

“OH, I was having such a good day until I read this…”

“Ugh. Awesome.”

“I’m so glad I’m short!”

“I’m just going to value my life all the more.”

“Trust in the Lord. God is good.”

In my estimation you’re more likely to die of a brain aneurism brought on by head trauma from knocking your ass out on the bulkhead of a boat than from height-related carcinoma. Fuck me in the eye, people. Really?

It just seems like we live in a pathogenically-paranoid society and this nonsense doesn’t help. When I was growing up, I didn’t get to stay home from school sick unless I was *bleeding from the eyes* and had a limb that was being held on by entrails.

So, I don’t mind articles that attribute smoking to cancer. That’s peachy. Great. Smoking’s bad for ya. Shouldn’t do it, quit smoking, cancer risk goes down, you have a little extra pocket cash every month, everybody wins. Obesity-related type-2 diabetes? Great! Quit eading McDonald’s, drink more water, ride a bike, health improves…pure win. Now…

Height-related cancer. Here we go:

“Lets see…you there. Ok…”

*whips out imaginary measuring tape*

“Well, hell’s bells, darlin’. You realize at 5’10”, you’re prolly gonna die of brain cancer, right?”

“What? Oh, no! Oh, no, what can I do? Eat better? Excercise?”

“Well, unfortunately, this is based on your height, so, you’re fucked. In fact, I don’t know why we even told you.”

“Oh, uh, ok. Should I eat right and excercise anyway?”

“Nah, don’t bother. I’d just drink and smoke and eat a vat of Crisco every night and just wait for the inevitable.”

“Is that covered by insurane?”

“Uh, no, not likely. Come to think of it, neither is this conversation, since it’s still considered to be ‘in research’. We’ll send you a bill. And the name of a sub-par therapist. Also not covered.”

*Patient then hurriedly storms outside and knocks themselves out on some painting scaffolding and gets hit by a car, killing her instantly.

Voulez-Voulez-vouz this blog has proven to cause cancer in laboratory test equipment.


Called my friend Mark, which is what I usually do when I’m feeling foul.  Mostly because he’s become the most adept at processing it.  He’s somehow developed this incredibly sensational Niff-Algorithm that forces me to anger-mock myself and within minutes I’m rambling in nonsense that has him laughing uncontrollably and me purging my rage and it thus becomes a win-win for all involved.

And all my other friends remain safe, sheltered and *stay* my friends because they aren’t turned off by my whining.

I decided to keep it simple.  “I’m gonna move next year.”

“You should move to Latvia.”

Now, I was fairly certain I had mis-heard him and that he had, in actuality, suggested instead Beacon Hill, or Madison Valley, as remote, eastern European countries typically are not presented as an option when moving is brought up in conversation.  Also, as I am one of Mark’s best friends,  I would assume a trans-Atlantic relocation would not be a preferred option.

“Latvia.  Wait, what…you said Latvia?”

“Yeah, Latvia. High crime, Russian gangsters, turnips…haha!  Like *that* won’t get old…”

I considered this for a moment.  “Latvia.  What the hell do they speak over there?  ‘Latvian’?  However…Riga actually has some awesome architecture…GAH. Dude, I can’t live in fucking Latvia.”

He sounded somewhat apologetic.  “I was actually trying to think of some random African country – ”

“You failed…”

” – but then Yugoslavia popped in my head and then I thought, hey, there’s that Latvia thing, and potatoes and beets…wait, is a beet a turnip?”

“I think it’s a tuber.”

“Huh…well, yeah…so, you get your passport.  And then you, ya know.  Move.  To, uh…Latvia.”

“I can’t fucking go to Latvia.  I haven’t, eh, been vaccinated yet.”

Pause.  “You don’t need vaccinations to move to Latvia.”

“I totally do.  I’m full of the rabies.”

“Oh what?  Rabies??”

(Earlier in the conversation we had discussed the sounds cats make when you pet them when they seem as if they desire comforting, then they turn on you like a goddamn vipre.  Then we tried our own.  Sans cats.  If I liked my neighbors more, I’d worry what they must have been thinking.)

“OH, yeah, I totally have the rabies.  There’s foam and drool all over my headset.  It’s why I have THE RAGE.”

“Aw, man Niff…that sucks!  How did you get rabies?”

“Goddamn raccoon in my apartment.”

He sounded sympathetic.  “Just now?”

“Earlier.  ‘Bout 20 minutes ago. Our douchebag cat conversation.  My cat impersonaltion was really my being attacked by a rabid raccoon.  I was trying to keep it on the D.L..  Didn’t wan’t you to freak out.”

Gasp.  “Holy shit Niff! Are you ok?”

I sighed.  “Yeah, they’ll just have to cut my leg off.  Suck, yeah?  I rather fancied the left one.”

“Totally.  Where’s the raccoon??”

“Gave him a $20 and told him to go clean up his life.  I think he’s at the bus station.”

Mark sounded relieved.  “You’re too benevolent…”

“Eh.  he’ll die of the rabies soon anyway,  But hey, I can make that cat noise though:  ‘rrrnnghgghhhhhoooowwwwwwwwrrnghhhhh…..'”

He sounded impressed.  “Sorry about Latvia Niff”.

“It’s ok.”  I said.  “Remember, that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.  The Dalai Lama said that ya know.”

“Holy shit.”


Voulez-voulez-vous rrrnnghgghhhhhoooowwwwwwwwrrnghhhhh…

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet.

Little prouetting carps,
What’s-a flying stump,
Corn on the cob and crying storks,
Hippos don’t dare jump.

Tennis shoes laughing at bees,
Yo-yo’s go on strike,
Nibbling at an angry shrub,
That gerbil stole my bike!

Conniption in a plastic bag,
Where goes daft cohorts?
Must we walk in single-file,
When the rhubarb snorts?

Voulez-voulez-vous rooftops made of Oobleck are a fine idea.

We can’t stop here! This is bat country…

Doppler is in love with a 8-week old yellow Labrador.


Wait, is it considered pedophilia in the canine universe?  They are allowed far more leniency than we in other matters, such as public urination, nudity, and sexual intercourse…so I really don’t know if Doppler’s seduction of a pre-heat yellow lab is considered uncouth in the Canidae family.

Although…I live in downtown Seattle, and public urination is a common occurrence.  And it hits as close to home as the side of my apartment building, most often between the garbage dumpster and recycling bins, I’m sorry to say.  They’re amusingly nonchalant about the whole thing.  I’ve even had a couple of the pit-stop-passers-by nod their heads at me and bid good morning when I’ve come upon them mid-act while walking Doppler.  Who looks upon them, offended, as if to say, “Um.  Pardon me, kind sir. That’s my spot you’re violating, there…”

Doppler’s leg-hiking options are, however, about to be severely reduced.

Enter two very large, majestic maple trees in the front of my apartment building.

Or, very soon, it will be: there *were* two very large, majestic maple trees in front of my apartment building.

The city of Seattle has deemed them a safety hazard as apparently they have become diseased, defective, or otherwise afflicted with some sort of “rotted stump” condition, and will be cut to the quick post-haste.  And as such we will be denied the beautiful aesthetic contribution and lovely shade they provide to our domestic environment.  And Doppler denied a convenient place to relieve himself diurnally.  Of course, I had never before pondered the correlation between his choice of real estate and the pathology of the trees…

I feel like going all Virgin Suicides on them pre-process in protest not only for myself and my fellow residents but for the sake of my dog who cannot speak for himself.

Of course, knowing my lack of good fortune and propensity for clumsiness and related injuries, they would permit the trees to remain, and one lovely, unassuming morning, Doppler and I are engaging upon his daily constitutional and immediately following a great deal of grinding and crackling, our bodies become crushed and mangled under two tons of rotted maple whilst dozens of confused squirrels scamper about, grateful that they are more spry than we.

(I have to interject here:  Thanks to my goddamn iPhone, I keep expecting a period (.) to be automatically supplemented every time I double-tap the space bar.  I’m such a mindless drone.)

Voulez-voulez-vous arbor annihilation angst.

“So I’m reading my genderbending zombie book. And suddenly there’s this talking bird…”

Direct quote.

This is the genderbending zombie book.

It’s action-packed with hedgehogs and violins and bad-ass, milk-drinking cuddle-puppy protagonists and I suddenly realize that there’s this entire realm of literary genre that I have yet to appreciate.

But that’s not what I came to talk about…

Occasionally when I am in need of blogger-fodder I will peruse photo albums both on my computer and phone to see if there is anything that I *intended* to write about and didn’t.

Enter exhibit A.  Including subtitles.







At the time this photo was taken, it was Christmas.  Not thanksgiving.  I wondered why they had not generated new, holiday-specific signage.

Also, this spectacle was taking place across from the Church of Scientology, whose representatives were also out in force, looking for “new recruits”, or money, or wanting to attach their electrode-device to people’s temporal lobes…I’m stereotyping.  I avoided that side of Pine St.

Combine this theological “Battle of the Bands” with the busiest shopping center in downtown Seattle during the holiday season, and you get this almost pep-rally feel that is not dissimilar to the “WE GOT SPIRIT!  YES WE DO!!” cheering volley between warring high schools during football season.  They have a whole host of heathens to convert, and a finite number of shopping days to pick them off.  Or terrify/intimidate them while they’re waiting with their kids/dogs to have their photo taken with Santa.  Cuz God knows that’s what I’d love about my religion.  Never-ending paranoia of being cast into the depths of hell for sleeping in on Sundays, having a potty mouth and premarital sex.  (All three may, or may not, be concurrent.  Is punishment worse for such an all-inclusive slight against God?)

I gotta say I especially enjoyed the friendly, bright blue “Repent or Perish” hoodies.  It almost makes you feel kinda ok about eternal damnation, so long as you get a hoodie.

This fine weekend they were requesting funds from passers-by, with their large, bedraggled looking signs and “Flames of Damnation” attire.  I surmised to finance the production of  more said zealot-hoodies, or to go to Utrecht and get materials to make a seasonally-appropriate damnation banner.  Either way, I had none to give.  I had given what I had to the Planned Parenthood advocates two blocks previous.

It took a great deal of impulse control not to reveal this fact.

I’m cool with religion…the Catholics know how to bust out some damn fine architecture.  Which I tend to be a bit obsessive about.  But religion, church, “oh forgive me lord..!” etc etc… just not my thing.  I’ll draw and paint cathedrals (the photo to the right is a piece of mine), but that’s about as close as I’m willing to get to the whole environment. (Despite breaking into Mass once or twice out of curiosity).

I think I need a hoodie.

Voulez-voulez-vous REPENT or PERISH!!