Yesterday, I pulled out everything from my studio and piled it around the house. Boxes, baskets, piles. Fabric, quilt tops, unfinished projects by the pound. Roving, Knitting supplies, spinning supplies, quilting supplies. And papers. I spent a few hours culling the paper. Then I went to the Container Store and dumped a grand on shelving/organizing tools. Was up till midnight building the new shelf/basket system. Now the big question: did it help? That remains to be seen. But I am amazed at how much STUFF I was able to cram into my studio. I was also amazed at the amount of dust and dirt a baseball bat, judiciously applied, can loosen and remove from a rug. No wonder our fore-mothers beat them every spring. Holy hell.

On another note: the human spammers who are infecting my comments with drivel and ads for limo services and mailing lists? Go die in a fire. And quickly. Thank you.

To the media: Anesthesia is not a sleep aid. Michael Jackson was not administered a powerful anesthesia to “help him sleep”. That’s like saying someone shoots heroin to “take the edge off”. A junkie is a junkie is a junkie. Looking for a high or a low. MJ just had enough money to pay those with dubious morals to acquire his drugs for him. The doctors, nurses, pharmacists who were complicit should all have their licenses revoked. For that matter, the drug company that sold the Propofol to a doctor and not to a hospital? They are culpable, too, and should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t give a rat’s patootie about Michael Jackson or his addictions. But the hooha following his death has just gotten me sick. Dude was a high-functioning junkie. Pure and simple. Just like Anna Nicole Smith. And junkies tend to die of ODs. End of story. Sad, but hardly the stuff of Shakespearean tragedy.

Yesterday the RLA, the Number Two Surrogate Daughter and her squeeze and I all went to see the new Harry Potter movie. It was great. But that’s not what I’m writing about. In the interminable run-up to the interminable previews, there were any number of locally-produced commercials. They were for nutrition supplement vendors, cosmetic dentistry, cosmetic surgeons and a fundie church (the #2 and I debated who goes to this theater, if these ads are targeted to a demographic). The last one was for… a car dealership maybe? It featured a blue-eyed blonde little boy who was supposed to be a super secret agent, taking super important documents to the POTUS. And that, my friends, is when my brain imploded. Because there was a very believable Barack Obama impersonator in the ad. Believable, that is, until he opened his mouth, and then he spoke with a ludicrously perfect and stereotypical Cuban accent. And nobody in the theater seemed to notice this disconnect except the four of us. And then it was just jaw-droppingly horrendous.

Ah, Miami. My tropical home. But the movie was fun. Sad, and almost a Cliff-notes version of the book, but splendidly done. I can’t wait for the last two. The RLA and I want to re-read the whole series…again.

Tickets purchased for the September 13 show. It took many tries to get the seats in the section I wanted, which, of course, all failed. Despite my old age and bad knees, I gave up and bought general admission floor space. Whatever. I’m going to see BRUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! and the legendary, incendiary, incomparable E STREET BAND!

This could be a photo of my old hefty-boy. It is certainly the philosophy of the animal companions at the Casita des Zapatos.

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