Proceed with caution, Vogon poetry ahead.

In honor of the forthcoming (opening today, in fact) "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" movie, I have composed a little poetry for your reading (dis)pleasure.

As I have already issued a warning, you may proceed as you choose.

Flatulence and Death

See, see the cratch sky
Marvel at its big aubergine depths.
Tell me, you smag, do you
Wonder
why the vulture ignores you?
Why its foobly stare makes you feel snerly.
I can tell you,
It is worried by your filkot facial growth
That looks like
A rotting parsnip.
What's more, it knows
Your rutch potting shed
Smells of peas.
Everything under the big cratch sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm dilges.

I'll have some revulsion with my martini.

Saturday afternoon, after hours of walking around and being productive, I decided to sit and have a beer and relax with a friend of mine at the local watering hole.

We had a clear view of the bar and looked on with interest as the following took place (we could also very hear very clearly, as well.)

You see, a waitress came to pick up two martinis for some customers and noticed something in one of them.

"Hold on." The bartender looked closer.
He then picked up a straw and performed a minor surgery on the drink by suctioning up whatever 'it' was using the straw and his forefinger and depositing it on the counter.

"Ew. What is that!?" The waitress peered down closely.

"Is it still alive?" Bartender queried after the health of what I believe must have been a fly.
"Oh, well" he decided quickly, "It won't kill 'em."

And with that, the waitress whisked the drinks off to the unsuspecting patrons. *

The bartender looked up and saw us staring at him in disbelief.
"You didn't see anything."

Uh...


*I always suspected things like that happened, but I really didn't expect it to be so BLATANT!
I mean, shouldn't the removing of flies from a customers drink be masked by a sleight of hand trick or a little subterfuge or something?
At least go into the kitchen to remove the body, geez!!!

Last night, I died.

Yes, it's true.

I was engaged on a mission to take over a ship from the enemy, and in my state of high stress, I shot and killed a compatriot.

As I looked on in horror, he fell to the ground, and I saw one of my other team members turn and shot at me.
I realized it was the proper punishment for taking another's life, so I stood, one hand in the air, the other clutching my machine gun, and waited for the bullet.

It entered my eye and ended my life.

I was a ghost over the sea for a few moments before I awoke in a cold sweat.

I've heard that dreams about your own death are actually signs of imminent renewal in your waking life, so I guess I'll just keep my fingers crossed.

I don't think any of my team members here at work actually know how to shoot a gun anyway.

Besides, they're more prone to stab me in the back.

Jazz in a small cozy room.

I went and saw some sublime jazz Saturday night.

http://www.redholloway.com/

Sheer brilliance.
And while 'Red' Halloway is a saxophonist who's abilities are honed from years and years of playing, I have to admit that it was the stand up bass that really had me swooning.

Love that low, sultry sound.

Stain...Saint...it's all the same to me!

I guess when someone said there's a big salt STAIN on a concrete wall under the Kennedy Expressway in Chicago, everyone thought they said SAINT.

It's an easy mistake to make.

Thus, there are hundreds of devote and faithful flocking down there to leave flowers and light candles, and to pray at the foot of this enormous salt stain which dripped down from the highway above.
They seem to think it looks like Mary.

So, when's the next bus to Chicago?

Um...what just happened there?

She looked like a sweet little old lady.
But I’m very concerned that I’ve done something terribly wrong.
You see, yesterday as I walked back to my car after paying for my gas, a darling old woman approached me and we began a very strange conversation.

“Hello dearie, did you pay first?” She asked, looking up at me. (And yes, she really DID say 'dearie'.)

I looked down, an unusual occurrence for my 5’3” height, and saw her.

“Um, pay first?” I asked, not sure what she was referring to.

“Yes, do you have to pay for the gas first?” She repeated, her voice sweet, kind, and a little shaky from long years of use.

“Oh, no. You can go ahead and start putting gas in your car and then pay when you’re done.”

“Ah, but I did have to pay here first, once.” She smelled gently of Crabtree and Evelyn talcum powder, her hair carefully coiffed and a pale shade of pink lipstick on her lips.

“That’s possible. But usually that’s after dark.” I was walking back to my car as we spoke, and she tagged along.

Her car was parked behind mine, and I began to get the feeling that she might need some help pumping her gas, so I went to her car to assist.

“Oh, thank you. Just $10 please.” She was staring carefully as the numbers whizzed by.
At ten dollars, I stopped and replaced the nozzle and re-capped her tank, and said, “There you go. Now you can pay.”

“I hope I don’t get caught.” She grabbed at my arm conspiratorially and lowered her voice.

“Caught?” Pardon me?

“I’m not supposed to have…I shouldn’t be driving.” She started and stopped, looking around suspiciously.

“Well,” I laughed, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Those people at ICBC, three times I went in there…” She trailed off, pulling her cardigan close over her rounded shoulders.

“But, the last time was in March,” she continued, “I had to, I didn’t have food in the house for months!”

“uh…” How did this conversation spin so oddly?

“Oh, yes, but now I know that Safeway will deliver.” She nodded wisely to herself.

“Okay, well, don’t go speeding around now. Be safe.” I said, sounding like a fool.

“That’s okay, they won’t catch me.” I pretty sure I didn’t want to hear that from her.

As she made her way to the store to pay for her gas, she turned, waved and coyly pressed a single finger to her lips.

At least, I think she was going in to pay.

Who knows...perhaps the minute my back was turned she held up the store, jumped into her stolen(?) car and raced away on ten dollars worth of gas to the nearest Safeway to stock up for her great escape.

Maybe I should have taken down her license plate number.

Not much to report...

...oh, except 'stupid idiot boy' ran his Ferrari into the back end of some ladies car so hard the other day that her tail pipe came off and stuck in his hood like some deranged unicorn caricature.

And "The Lesson" for today?

Sometimes bad things happen to nice cars.

(There's a lesson in there about Karma too, somewhere. See if you can find it.)

Benedict the 16th, eh?

Quite the big kurfuffle over the new pope.

"OOOH, the smoke is BLACK!"
"No no, that's definitely white!!"
"uh..I think it's kinda gray, don't you?

I realize that it's a tradition, but it just doesn't seem to work that well.
Mind you, it's my understanding that the Catholic Church is run on archaic, out dated 'traditions'.. like putting the kibosh on condoms. *

I wonder what Benedict is going to be like.
Wonder if he'll be a hard-liner and really start enforcing the religious policies, or if he'll take a more modern approach.

The modern approach has MY vote.

*There is no way that could be a good idea.

Po' Girl

I've never seen anyone play a washtub before, but WOW!

What an great band!
A little Ani DeFranco-ish and whole lot of their very own original sound.

http://www.pogirl.net/bio.html

Check 'em out, they sound great!

The apology to Mr. Satriani still stands.

Those tickets I was mentioning...turned out I judged stupid idiot boy to harshly.

He DID send them, yeah, he really did...at 6:30 at night to my work e-mail.

So I did get them.

Yup, at 7:45...THE NEXT MORNING!!!

Way to go, dude.

Please forgive me, Mr. Satriani.

Dear Mr. Satriani,
I'm really sorry I missed your show on Wednesday night, Joe. (Can I call you Joe?)

I was waiting for my EX, also known as "stupid idiot boy", to send tickets to me over my e-mail as a thank you for looking after his cat. (see my last e-mail regarding my "recently-returned-to-me-on-a-temporary-cat-sitting-basis-cat").
But he never did.

So, Joe...I guess we won't meet this time around.
I DID see your wicked guitar talented self a few years back, but I was sitting with a different boyfriend at the time, so any chance of our meeting was null then, too.

Anyhoo...please accept my apologies for having ever dated such an inconsiderate lout.

And please, don't hold it against me next time you're in town and we finally meet and fall madly in love and you are crushed to learn that another man kept me from your arms all those years ago.

Yours in sorrow and rage,
Tai

p.s. I doubt we'll ever fall in love Joe, that hat just looks goofy!
http://www.satriani.com/2004/

p.p.s. The hat in no way affects my respect my awe at your talent however. Just so you know.

p.p.p.s That shade of skin blue is a little dodgy, too.

What ever happened to natural instincts?

I recently got my cat back after 7 years (that all by itself is a long story).
However, this is not about the events leading up to the return of my little cat, but about what is currently going on in my apartment.

You see...
I already HAVE a cat.
Bentley is a large 20 pound 14 year old male (hey! he is NOT fat!)

Attessa (the recent re-acquisition) is a teeny 5 pound 8 year old female.
They knew each other many years ago when she was but a wee kitten.

Now, she's back and she is behaving very...like a cat I guess.
She alternates between hiding underneath the bed in the deepest darkest recesses as if I was going to flay her and eat her alive, to parading around my apartment hissing and growling (quite meanly, I might add) at Bentley.
Rather ungrateful I think.

But what I find really strange is Bentley's reaction to the whole thing.
Which would be no reaction.
None.
Zip.

She hisses and growls and acts all aggressive at him and he sits there calmly and looks at her as if she were mad.

He doesn't mind sharing his food, the bed OR his litter box.

Sometimes, while she's cowering behind the couch, he'll go looking for her. Once he's ascertained where she is though, he goes back to whatever he was doing (lounging or eating usually), and pretends she doesn't actually exist.

I thought that natural instinct dictated that he freak out and get territorial and spit and hiss and generally act pissed off about the little bitchy cat that has invaded his space.
Instead, he takes everything in with great calmness and resides regally over his space.

He's confident, I suppose, with the fact that if he WANTED, he could kick her ass and chuck her off the balcony.

The fact remains however, that he's not behaving like a normal cat.
Which, really, is why I love him so very much.

Drinky Mc Drink-Drink and the story of Jesus.

I LOVE this post, it reminds me of conversations I had with my friends in our youth about the 'Red Sea' and the 'Reed Sea' and Jesus's loincloth flapping in the breeze....

http://newyorkintern.blogspot.com/

This is a REALLY funny blog site.
Cheers to you Andy, keep it coming!

Change is good.

Well, the pink was fun while it lasted (and yes, I DID like it, albeit in an obstrusive, ice cream headached sort of way.) But, the time has come for seriousness and I like this style. Thank you for your patience and understanding, while I explored my inner-barbie. ~shudder~

Beware the 'south-paw'.

A recent study by two French academics tracked the prevalence of left-handedness across a variety of traditional societies, and found that the more violent ones tended to have a high percentage of lefties. And the important lesson learned by that little dollop of information? Always keep your left handed friends close by the next time you end up in a bar brawl (or on a school bus with a behemoth named Pam trying to push you through a metal wall), they'll knock the crap out of your enemies, who won't even see it coming (right out of 'left field' as it were!).

I didn't write this, but...

Being happily childless, going to a baby shower is like having a piranha give you oral sex, i.e. it's painful.
Guaranteed things will occur:

1. Several annoying hags will ask you, "So when are YOOOOOOOOOOU going to have a baby? Hmmm?", as they look disapprovingly over the tops of their glasses.
These same hags will shake their heads sadly when you inform them, "I would rather dip my face in acid then have my crotch ripped open by a head the size of a pumpkin, thank you."

2. You will be forced to play insipid games such as "Decorate Someone with Toilet Paper", or "The Clothespin Game". If you're a woman, you know what I'm talking about. If you're a man, get on your knees and thank jeebus you have a penis.

3. You will have to eat finger sandwiches. Okay, this shower is at lunch time, therefore I want food. I don't want watercress and air sandwiches with a side of jordan almonds, mmmkay?

4. You will have to sit through the opening of 5000 presents, each one of which will be held up for the requisite "oooh" or "aaah".
Word to the wise, don't drunkenly yell out, "That headband is going to make your daughter look like she has a garter on her head and is heading out to a baby prom." This is frowned upon.

5. You will have to sit through hours of what I like to call "Delivery Horror Story Porn". This is where every mother at the shower will give you the story of all their deliveries in 3D Technicolor. "I tore from front to back! 35 stitches!" "I delivered a placenta the size of a Labrador Retriever!" "My kid was stuck in the birth canal for 72 hours, she had a conehead!" "My boobs deflated after I stopped nursing and now they look like windsocks!"

When they see the look of complete repugnance on your face, they will try to convince you that - "It's a beautiful experience!"
"You forget the pain!"
"You'll never understand anything in this world or be a complete person unless you experience it!"

Alcohol should be served mandatorily at baby showers. Since it's not, be sure to bring your flask. Personally, I would rather watch the 49'ers lose for the millionth time than go to another shower, but since I have a vagina, I'm sure I'll be forced to attend many more.

The Vancouver International Wine Festival

Oooh, that's tonight!
I'm so looking forward to it!

The host country is South Africa and as I don't know a whole lot about South African wines I'm looking forward to finding a few new favorites!

I'll take notes and impart my (self decreed) wisdom here on Monday or Tuesday.

Yes, it's REALLY pink.

I'm making a statement. Don't harass me about it. What's the statement I'm making? Oh, something about werewolves and color stereotyping, nothing to work yourself up about. Anyway, the point of THIS post is to tell you to ignore the 'Links' section to the right. Because I don't actually know what I'm doing here (and my cat is getting in my way) I don't have the faintest ability or knowledge of how to change it from useless news to something I would ACTUALLY enjoy posting, like www.kbannerman.com or something. Heck, even the site of Merriam-Websters dictionary http://www.m-w.com/ would be an improvement. However. I'm am blog deficient in many ways and I am conceding that point by posting this. Kevin, if you're reading this, you have to promise to help me!

Baby Showers and revulsion.

I hope to offend no one with this particular blog, but it just needs to be said.

It is NOT necessary to completely gross out guests that don't have children and aren't EVER going to have children (especially after this!) by playing vile games focusing on 'pretend used' diapers at baby showers.

Example:

The girl who arranged aforementioned party took 6 diapers.
She filled them with examples of different types of baby food (pureed peas, yams etc...) numbered them, than passed them around.

Object of the game?
To have each participant inspect the contents of aforementioned diaper, either visually or by smell (or both), and correctly identify each of the 6 samples of the food it was 'originally'.

I mean....C'mon!!!

Priorities a little awry?

I've figured out something about myself. And I may have mentioned this before, but just bear with me for another few moments...

I figured out that while I have a hard time purchasing clothing that costs over $30, I will happily, and with out reservation, spend $60 dollars per meal on myself.

Now.
Not only is that a fleeting moment in time, with nothing but a full belly to show later, but it's an exorbitant amount to spend on a single meal.
At least if I was to spend $60 bucks on an article of clothing, I'd definitely have it longer than say...2 or 3 hours (or about 8 hours if you include the digestive process.)
I'm going to have to take this into serious consideration.
Later.

At the moment, I'm trying to figure out if I should make reservations for myself at the Café de Paris tonight, or if I should drop in and hope for the best.