Put another wacky message on my answering machine. I *again* used the voice synthesizer on http://www.research.att.com/projects/tts/demo.html and mixed it in with a snippet from the Firesign Theatre CD Everything You Know Is Wrong (where "Nino the Mindboggler" comes from); email me for my phone number if you want to hear it - it's a hoot.
Plopped my kids in front of Shrek 2 for their 1,250th viewing; collected their limp bodies and tucked them in after they passed out, one-by-one. No mythology tonight, just lots of Cheetos and root beer. My living room floor is covered in a fine, orange dust.
Yahoo chat with several friends. IM, not chat. The days of fun chat rooms are OVER. Script kiddies have ruined chat rooms for adults. Pathetically, half the idiots with boot codes and mic lockers are 40-something dipshits with serious gender-identity issues. Idiots. Unfortunately, for the rest of us, those morons don't realize that the apps they run are generally given a trojan payload and their machines are used to deliver spam (thus, how the script-writers finance their worthless endeavors).
Did another installment in The Great Cycle of Laundry. Tonight's installment: clothes my daughters pulled out of their dresser, wore for five minutes, and discarded on the floor in order to put something else on. When I asked a female friend what was up with that all I got was, "It's a GIRL THING." Obviously, The Great Cycle of Laundry is NOT a "girl thing" because I'm the only one doing the folding and putting away of my daughters capricious wardrobe.
Dishwasher-less, looked at tonight's sink and said, "nah".
After the wee ones were tucked in, put on Autechre, weird, skull-splitting industrial music (very bass-heavy) to annoy the lesbian downstairs who insists on listening to Ani DeFranco over and over and over and over and over again... played it through an ancient 600-gazillion watts-per-channel Phillips amp and old skool speakers the size of a 351 Hemi engine blocks that create little puffs of orange clouds (from the Cheetos orgy) with every bass boom. That'll show ya'. Put on something different or I'll put on Big Black, you annoy me.
Read a few pages of a Tom Clancy novel ("Splinter Cell") that, after I bought it, discovered was NOT actually a Tom Clancy novel but was "created by" Tom Clancy. WTF? The guy doesn't even write his own novels now, just tells some ghost writer his ideas? Must be nice (the novel isn't - it's a piece of crap). I'm a literature snob but I do like my mind candy. Splinter Cell is a cough drop.
When I put Lilly to bed, kissed her and Rudolph (her constant companion). Put on Debussy because the classical station she usually listens to at bedtime plays jazz on the weekends and she can't handle that drifting into slumber.
Looked at all my sleeping kids and thought there are much worse ways to spend a Friday night.