AOL STILL misses me, and in my mind I'm a rock god
I received a very threatening letter from AOL yesterday, titled "LAST CHANCE to avoid termination of your AOL account!" It informed me in no uncertain terms that, despite several reminders, I haven't updated my payment information so my account WILL be terminated. Dire words indeed, if I hadn't cancelled my account already 5 months ago to the day. Furthermore, this was my last chance to keep my screen name, "IRUVINES," and.....wait, what? Yes. There are no less than 4 threats throughout the letter that I would be losing my screen name IRUVINES. I'd certainly be quaking in my boots if I were this IRUVINES person. I hope they don't cancel the real IRUVINES' account because of my obstinate refusal to pay them. They actually say accusingly, "Your time has run out." Like I'm on the lam, I've been skating by using AOL for free all this time, but the jig is finally up. I never should have run from you, Javert. I'm sure AOL has some way to monitor online activity. I'm equally sure my AOL mailbox is full of about 20,000 spam letters by now. Take the hint, AOL. GOD. [/Napoleon Dynamite]
(The funniest thing is, as if the letter itself isn't clear enough, they add a P.S. Usually a P.S. is used for additional information, like an afterthought you forgot to include in the letter. But this P.S. just restates everything said in the letter much more succinctly. In the world of English Lit papers (take it from me, I've written my share), this would be a summarizing conclusion paragraph, not a P.S. I really have to question your letter-writing skills, Pat Carter from Member Services.)
Thoroughly unrelated, I've never understood the private fantasies of some people to be rock stars, until now. Since seeing the ease with which Tery takes the karaoke stage and sings her heart out to thunderous applause, I've yearned to have those kinds of guts. Sitting at my computer, downloading a likely play list (an odd collection including Ricky Martin, "No Myth," "Jane's Gettin' Serious," "Sex and Candy," and finally, "Smooth" by Rob Thomas), with the music blaring in my headphones I can picture it perfectly: On the stage, singing and dancing wantonly but well, workin' my blue jeans sensuously, causing throats to go suddenly dry in men and women alike as they can't take their eyes off my hypnotic, ambiguous, undeniable sex appeal. I want to be a karaoke rock GOD, baby.
Unfortunately, I think I sing best first thing in the morning, before I've done much talking and my voice is a full two octaves lower than normal. I discovered accidentally that in this state my voice is perfectly suited to any Depeche Mode song I could throw at it. This is unfortunate because, as Tery pointed out, there are really not a lot of early morning karaoke bars in the Denver area. Such is my life.
Last but not least, I've finally seen Disc 1 of Firefly, completing the season for me. I had to watch this last because all the bandwagon jumpers who had just come back from seeing Serenity beat me to it at Netflix. Except the disc was two days late in shipping so I reported it as missing in the mail. Then it arrived the same afternoon, the address label mangled beyond recognition by the post office, but I couldn't stop Netflix sending me a replacement. How ironic, first I couldn't get a single copy of the disc, now suddenly I had two. I also protest mightily Netflix's warning that my account would be suspended if I reported too many discs missing in the mail (this was my second), as if it's MY fault the post office loses things. Stupid post office. Stupid Netflix.
(The funniest thing is, as if the letter itself isn't clear enough, they add a P.S. Usually a P.S. is used for additional information, like an afterthought you forgot to include in the letter. But this P.S. just restates everything said in the letter much more succinctly. In the world of English Lit papers (take it from me, I've written my share), this would be a summarizing conclusion paragraph, not a P.S. I really have to question your letter-writing skills, Pat Carter from Member Services.)
Thoroughly unrelated, I've never understood the private fantasies of some people to be rock stars, until now. Since seeing the ease with which Tery takes the karaoke stage and sings her heart out to thunderous applause, I've yearned to have those kinds of guts. Sitting at my computer, downloading a likely play list (an odd collection including Ricky Martin, "No Myth," "Jane's Gettin' Serious," "Sex and Candy," and finally, "Smooth" by Rob Thomas), with the music blaring in my headphones I can picture it perfectly: On the stage, singing and dancing wantonly but well, workin' my blue jeans sensuously, causing throats to go suddenly dry in men and women alike as they can't take their eyes off my hypnotic, ambiguous, undeniable sex appeal. I want to be a karaoke rock GOD, baby.
Unfortunately, I think I sing best first thing in the morning, before I've done much talking and my voice is a full two octaves lower than normal. I discovered accidentally that in this state my voice is perfectly suited to any Depeche Mode song I could throw at it. This is unfortunate because, as Tery pointed out, there are really not a lot of early morning karaoke bars in the Denver area. Such is my life.
Last but not least, I've finally seen Disc 1 of Firefly, completing the season for me. I had to watch this last because all the bandwagon jumpers who had just come back from seeing Serenity beat me to it at Netflix. Except the disc was two days late in shipping so I reported it as missing in the mail. Then it arrived the same afternoon, the address label mangled beyond recognition by the post office, but I couldn't stop Netflix sending me a replacement. How ironic, first I couldn't get a single copy of the disc, now suddenly I had two. I also protest mightily Netflix's warning that my account would be suspended if I reported too many discs missing in the mail (this was my second), as if it's MY fault the post office loses things. Stupid post office. Stupid Netflix.