This is it boys...we'll have to tummy kiss our way out.

Bella & Tara

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 17:35:00 +0000

Watch CBS Videos Online

Palin & Clinton

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 20:00:00 +0000

Cuban Circus

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Mon, 19 May 2008 00:18:00 +0000

¡Adios Camellos!

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 01:50:00 +0000

The Camel, originally uploaded by amycgx.

Changing Cuba: Monster buses vanish from Havana streets

By WILL WEISSERT

HAVANA (AP) — First comes the stink of diesel, then a metallic roar, and finally a tower of black smoke that tells you the "camello" — the camel — has reached your stop.

These hulking 18-wheeled beasts, iron mutants made of two Soviet-era buses welded together on a flatbed and pulled by a separate cab, have long been Havana's public transport nightmare — bumpy, hot and jammed with up to 400 passengers at a time.

But their gradual disappearance is a telling sign of change in the twilight of the Fidel Castro age. The last "camello" is expected to go out of service in Havana on Sunday night.

The camello, so named for its humped front and rear sections, is being eclipsed by thousands of new city buses from China as the government under Castro's brother, Raul, resuscitates a public transportation system on the brink of collapse.

Route M-6, running from the capital's southern outskirts uptown to the University of Havana, is the city's last remaining camello route, and municipal authorities say they have been told to pull all camellos off it this weekend.

"I think we should build a monument to the camello," said retiree Salvador Carrera, a camello passenger. "It has been an extraordinary thing."

The capital aside, camellos are far from extinct. The government has an island-wide fleet of more than 1,000, and those from Havana could be used to augment bus service elsewhere, transportation employees say.

Like those ubiquitous Detroit cars that predate the U.S. embargo, the camello is a definer of Cuba on wheels, but without the fun of a San Francisco cable car ride or the clean efficiency of the Washington, D.C. Metro.

What it lacks in glamor, it makes up for in sheer mass that dwarfs its Chinese successors.

"We can carry up to 400 people. The bus cannot," lamented conductor Estela Doira. "I'm happy, also sad, because the camello handles a lot more than the bus."

At the start of a camello run one morning last week, it took just over five minutes for 75 passengers to swarm up the steep steps and through the narrow doors at the rear. Doira hung out of a window to make sure no one got stuck. The doors, thin metal with sharp edges, shut with a metallic crack that sounded sharp enough to sever limbs.

The fortunate got one of the 58 plastic seats, while the rest had to stand. Each alighting passenger paid Doira 20 centavos, less than an American penny.

Camellos have no shock absorbers, and every pothole sends a violent jolt through one's feet. At each stop more passengers crowd in — people carrying infants, backpacks, gardening tools and beer bottles stuffed with black market honey. Baby-faced soldiers squeeze in beside college students in hot-pink sunglasses and elderly men looking thin enough to be crushed in the crowd.

It's hard to work one's way on or off, and the driver in his cab can't hear people screaming, "The door! Open the door!"

"Move it, companeros! Move to the front!" they yell.

With no air conditioning, the tropical heat quickly becomes unbearable, and the stench sets in — fresh sweat and body odor, mixed with exhaust and rotting food. Those seated stick their heads out of the windows.

"Only in Cuba. In other countries people wouldn't put up with so much," whispered retiree Mari Gonzalez, who was fortunate enough to snag a seat.

Cubans joke that camellos are racier than a Saturday night at the movies — full of sex and crime, pickpockets and gropers. Overheard conversations between passengers feed the onboard rumor mill: Fidel Castro is dead. No, wait, he's healthy again; he spent last weekend at the beach. The peso will strengthen against the dollar. Or maybe will be replaced with a new currency.

The camello was born in response to fuel shortages in the early 1990s, when the Soviet Union collapsed and Cuba lost its annual $6 billion in subsidies. The economy has since recovered thanks to heavy borrowing from China and nearly 100,000 barrels of oil a day from Venezuela.

Cuba is spending $2 billion to upgrade public transportation and has imported 3,000 modern buses just for the capital. The Yutongs are less sturdy than the camellos and crews are repaving streets to spare them wear and tear.

Fares are double the camello's but offer far more seats and a dramatically smoother ride. Riders can climb on and off easily, ensuring faster trips.

Carmen Lopez, waiting for a Chinese bus to whisk her to her janitor's job, said she's glad to be rid of the camellos but doesn't believe she's seen the last of them.

"When the new buses break down," she said, "they will bring the camellos back again."

Local Chicks ...

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 19:03:00 +0000

Local Chicks Folksy Remix, originally uploaded by Linzie Hunter.

Spam One Liners

Madison Goodman

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 16:33:00 +0000

(I'm channeling Joel & Kelley from my inbox to this blog ... xo Amy)

Hi All,

We had a beautiful baby girl, Madison Emma Goodman, on March 26, 2008 at 3:00 in the afternoon. The delivery went well and both the mom and baby are healthy. Conner was instantly in love with her. Needless to say our hands are full, but we are enjoying every minute of it. We will try to send more pictures soon.

Love to you all,

Kelley and Joel

Conner giving kisses to Madison

Joel and Kelley with Madison

Cute as can bee

You've got to love this guy...

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 23:56:00 +0000

This is a true story about a recent wedding that took place at Clemson University . It was in the local newspaper and even Jay Leno mentioned it.It was a huge wedding with about 300 guests.

After the wedding, at the reception, the groom got up on stage with a microphone to talk to the crowd. He said he wanted to thank everyone for coming, many from long distances, to support them at their wedding.

He especially wanted to thank the bride's and his family and to thank his new father-in-law for providing such a lavish reception.As a token of his deep appreciation he said he wanted to give everyone a special gift just from him.

So taped to the bottom of everyone's chair, including the wedding party was an envelope.He said this was his gift to everyone, and asked them to open their envelope.

Inside each manila envelope was an 8x10 glossy of his bride having sex with the best man.The groom had gotten suspicious of them weeks earlier and had hired a private detective to tail them.

After just standing there, just watching the guests' reactions for a couple of minutes, he turned to the best man and said, 'F---you!' Then he turned to his bride and said, 'F--- you!'

Then he turned to the dumbfounded crowd and said, 'I'm outta here.'He had the marriage annulled first thing in the morning.

While most people would have canceled the wedding immediately after finding out about the affair, this guy goes through with the charade, as if nothing were wrong. His revenge--making the bride's parents pay over $32,000 for a 300-guest wedding and reception, and best of all, trashing the bride's and best man's reputations in front of 300 friends and family members.

(apparently this is old news ... something that's been forwarded around the internet for a while - but today is the first day I've seen it and it made me laugh, so I wanted to share.)

Nice Indians Behind You

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 23:02:00 +0000

... and a government office ...

going for the finish

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 00:06:00 +0000

going for the finish, originally uploaded by hkvam.

Mz. Chief

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 02:04:00 +0000

Maybe they were in awe of all those books
Flash mob - Dozens of people appear outside Powell's, freeze for a few minutes,
and then leave
Sunday, February 24, 2008
STEVE WOODWARD
The Oregonian

Dozens of people mobbed the intersection of West Burnside and 10th Avenue on Saturday afternoon.

And did nothing.

They didn't riot. They didn't block traffic. They didn't yell angry epithets.

They simply froze in place for five minutes, creating much confusion among the unfrozen.

The Samuel Beckett-like drama was classic guerrilla theater, Portland's contribution to a nationwide effort Saturday to wreak a few moments of quiet non-havoc through performance art.

For the uninitiated, this type of spontaneous event is known as a flash mob. The mob -- often strangers -- gathers at a designated time, drawn by announcements via the Internet. At a prearranged moment, the participants simultaneously perform some bizarre action, then just as suddenly disperse into the crowd.

Cities where people came to a halt Saturday included Boston, Dallas and San Diego.

Portland has seen pantsless flash mobs appear on MAX trains. Best Buy has been invaded by crowds of customers dressed exactly like store employees. And New York's Grand Central Station has found itself in suspended animation when a flash mob froze in place.

Saturday's so-called Portland Freeze was masterminded by a woman who calls herself Mz. Chief. (Get it? Mischief?)

A half hour before the freeze, she stood on a bench in the North Park Blocks and reminded the 100-plus crowd that the event was to be a spectacle -- and to watch their valuables in case pickpockets tried to take advantage of the moment. Participants were told to set their first cell phone alarm to 3:15 p.m. for the start of the freeze and 3:20 p.m. for the end.

At exactly 3:15 p.m., non-pandemonium broke out at West Burnside and 10th.

As many as 200 people's forward motion came to an abrupt halt in front of Powell's City of Books and the other three corners of the intersection. A guitarist froze in mid-chord. A couple froze in mid-kiss. Another couple froze pointing up at the sculpture across the streets from Powell's. People froze in mid-conversation, mid-stroll, mid-waiting-for-the-bus.

At exactly 3:20 p.m., life suddenly resumed as though nothing had happened.

And to tell the truth, nothing had.

Rush Hour

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 20:56:00 +0000

Rush Hour, originally uploaded by saufnase.

LookUp

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 05:53:00 +0000

, originally uploaded by wirallie.

Snow Bunting

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 01:22:00 +0000

Snow Bunting, originally uploaded by imapix.

Pacman

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 07:47:00 +0000

Pacman, originally uploaded by fd.

Escape

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 16:20:00 +0000

Ocean series 2, originally uploaded by g thomas.

happy boy

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 16:14:00 +0000

happy boy, originally uploaded by Suzimo.

Consumer Man

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 13 Jan 2008 19:39:00 +0000

I've decided I should probably always leave the writing to the professionals (which reminds me -- have you seen the "Speechless" Videos?).

I will just share some of my favorite Sunday Times discoveries with you here. (Someday, if I ever have anything to say myself - perhaps I'll take a shot at my own words.)

Today, after being swept off my feet reading about a fairytale romance in the Sunday Styles section, and falling in love with an apartment in Manhattan that will cost more than I am likely to make in 3 lifetimes (three very financially successful lifetimes), I found myself laughing out loud while reading "Consumer Man." Enjoy!

Consumer Man
By PAUL MECURIO

I’m one of those people who yell at store clerks. Not just any store clerks, but the ones who are rude, incompetent or indifferent. In other words, all store clerks. I’m the guy who always has to speak to the manager. In my head, I’m “Consumer Man”: a superhero fighting on behalf of oppressed consumers the world over. In my wife’s head, I’m crazy.

“Someday you’re going to scream at the wrong person,” she says. “And you’re going to get shot.” This “wrong person” has figured into so many of our conversations that I feel as if I know him, even though I really know only two things: 1) he’s “wrong” and 2) he’s going to shoot me.

One day I called a computer company and tried to reach a human in customer service. As I ran a gantlet of voice prompts, I couldn’t get the automated female voice to understand me when I said “yes.” Repeatedly, she asked if I’d like customer service. Each time, I said “yes.” She kept asking. I could feel consumers everywhere being oppressed. So, standing there in my superhero costume (boxers and T-shirt), it was Consumer Man to the rescue. Instead of saying “yes,” I tried other one-word responses.

“Would you like customer service?”

“Idiot!”

“Would you like customer service?”

“Moron!”

“Would you like customer service?”

“Whore!”

As this insane tirade took place, my wife and 8-year-old son looked on in shock. I vowed to change my ways — or at least to tell my wife that I was changing them. A new, more tolerant me was born. Someone else would have to fight for the rights of consumers. I had a family to not “frighten to death” anymore.

With this new approach, one day I found myself with eight items in the express lane at the supermarket. I felt great. Then the guy at the register asked, “Would you like a bag for these?”

He was kidding, right? No — he ag. Who carries eight loose items? He asked again: Would I like a bag? I wanted to say: “No, I’m from Africa. I’ll just balance these on my head as I walk barefoot 126 miles to my village.” But the “new Paul” politely said, “Yes, I’d like a bag,” and I was on my way.

Being passive wasn’t so bad. Although I did feel a pain in my chest and a tingling in my left arm. But if repressing my true feelings caused a heart attack, so be it. It was better than being shot. My wife would have been proud.

On the way home I stopped at a little newsstand to buy a paper. It’s owned by a nice Indian gentleman I had given my business to for years. With him I never needed to “speak to the manager.” Besides, in his stand there wasn’t room for one.

It was raining, so I asked for a plastic bag for my paper. He lashed out at me: “We have no bag, just go, we don’t have a bag, go, go, no bag!!” I was shocked, first at his hostile refusal, then at his use of “we.” Denied a bag again! Had the supermarket guy called the newsstand guy to tell him I was coming?

In my new, positive tone I asked again if I could please have a bag. He said: “No! I only make 5 cents on the paper.”

Since when was rain protection given for only periodicals with a healthy profit margin? In other words, I needed a bag. I saw a big pile of bags behind him. I was crestfallen. After all the business I had given him, I earned the right to encase my news in plastic. “New Paul” was gone. “Consumer Man” was back.

“I want to speak to the manager,” I bellowed.

“What? No manager, no bag, just go!!”

I said he was rude, incompetent and indifferent. Although not in those words. He responded, “I’m going to kick your butt, properly!” He said “properly.” I had never been told off so politely. “Go or I’ll kick your butt!” he repeated.

“Do it!” I screamed and dropped my drawers right there on the sidewalk in Midtown Manhattan. While slapping myself on the backside I yelled: “You want it? Here it is! I demand a bag!”

Soon we were being watched by a large crowd — if they only knew I was doing this for them! — and two police officers.

“What’s going on?” asked one cop. With my pants around my ankles and a tone of complete justification, I explained, “He won’t give me a bag!”

Unbelievably, the officers made him give me one (“I hate it when my paper gets wet,” explained the cop), but they gave us both summonses. “Looks like you picked the wrong person to tangle with,” they said to the newsstand guy. “You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you.” I couldn’t wait to tell my wife. I had finally met the wrong person — and he was I.

Paul Mecurio is a comedian, an actor and an Emmy- and Peabody-Award-winning writer.

Amas de Casa Desesparadas

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 16:25:00 +0000

Desperate Housewives ... ¡en español!

I don't really like this show in English, but I'm really looking forward to it in Spanish. :)

I tried to embed the video from Univision, but they've got some bad code - so here's a link if you want to watch.

Happy Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 18:32:00 +0000

Zoe and I are alone for Christmas. (It's all by design, though I'm not sure if it's the best design I've ever conceived.) I cleaned last night so we could wake up Christmas morning to a nice comfortable house, (in lieu of an empty cookie plate and milk glass and a lit Christmas tree with loads of presents).

There are a bunch of Christmas cards on the piano (including one from my vet and a few from charities I've donated to over the years as well as a couple from two MBA programs I've been considering ... I think I'm going to get all of my family and friends into a database that will automatically send cards and gifts on time so I get back on track with being "the responsible one") and a few wrapped presents (they're staying wrapped for the moment - I'll break into them one at a time in very slow intervals today).

The Christmas cards and gifts others have sent - along with the pot of beans cooking on the counter and the green corn tamales in the fridge sent from Arizona - are the only signs it's Christmas around here.

I don't even have a day off of work - but at least today's work is fun. As one of the few people who both:

1) have access to our work servers from home
2) have little else to do on Christmas

I'm in charge of making sure the customers who ordered last minute virtual gift certificates from our website actually get processed and delivered. I have to email a few people to tell them something has gone awry with their credit card - and hope that they're checking in today so they can fix it while they still have a chance of not giving a *belated* holiday gift.

I made crepes and coffee this morning for breakfast. And, I'm *finally* opening up the Sunday paper. (I'm actually several weeks behind on reading the paper - but I'm starting with the 23rd and working my way back. You may wonder why I bother with older papers - but the truth is - I have little interest in the actual news ... I'm more interested in reading articles that aren't so easily dated.)

One of those stories, in fact, is why I decided to sit down and write today. Or at least why I decided to sit down and copy and paste today. Not sure where this long preamble came from - but here's the story. There were a couple of lines that made me laugh out loud - so if you're reading - I hope something here resonates for you as well.

Take It in the Spirit Intended
The Sweater Only a Mom (and Analyst) Could Love
By MATTHEW WEINER

I LOVE giving gifts, but let’s not pretend: I prefer to receive them. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who is never satisfied and mostly disappointed. It could be because I am an ungrateful jerk with a childish temperament who places too much emphasis on what is essentially a symbolic ritual. Or it could be the media’s fault.

As I see it, I am the victim of years of conditioning from movies and commercials. They prepared me for the gaudily wrapped package with its golden bow, the moment of intense expectation charged with mystery climaxing as the tissue crinkles and the prize is revealed. You are overwhelmed, and there are hugs and kisses and sometimes tears.

But the reality is that getting a gift is like being set up on a blind date. Like it or not, your friend or family member is sending you a message telling you in a coded way what they think you want, what you deserve and, on some level, who they think you are.

I’m not talking about business gifts. They are formal and often unexpected. A bottle of wine, a certificate for a massage, and those wonderful electronic trinkets: they are part of a different language. Everyone gets the same thing.

Family is where it breaks down. And my family is big on gifts. Everyone refuses to stop exchanging them, even though we have all declared them a waste of time and money.

A few years ago my parents gave me a crimson suede Nascar jacket. It was covered with sewn-on patches with emblems of Skoal chewing tobacco and Drakkar Noir cologne. On the back was a huge Budweiser insignia. I stared at it in awe, a fake smile pasted on my face, trying to determine if it was a joke.

As I slowly realized this was not an attempt at kitsch, I tried to avoid eye contact with my wife, who was astounded by its redness.

I hated myself for my feelings. It was just some stupid present. But I couldn’t quiet the voice in my head screaming, “You have no idea who I am!” Then it dawned on me that almost 20 years before, I had briefly been given the nickname of “Budweiser” by my sister. That explained the gigantic word “Bud” on the back in gold script. The gift had come from a sentimental place.

I felt so deeply awful, so guilty, that each Halloween, with the addition of a mullet wig and some hillbilly teeth, I try to become the person for whom the jacket was intended.

My brother thought I was being oversensitive. That was before he received a Ralph Lauren crew-neck sweater in a ritzy box from Nordstrom. It was Day-Glo orange, which may be some people’s favorite color, but my brother is a big guy and he thought it made him look like a prehistoric Creamsicle. O.K., maybe I said that.

Anyway, he decided that he would return it. “That’s what adults do,” he said. “They don’t take it as a measure of their self-worth.”

Hanukkah had come late that year, and now it was right after the New Year. He and I were headed to the San Fernando Valley to go golfing, so we stopped at the Fashion Square mall and went into Nordstrom to take advantage of its courteous and liberal return policy. But we were told that, despite the box, the sweater was not Nordstrom merchandise. Perhaps we should try Bloomingdale’s right across the food court.

Bloomingdale’s was also courteous, but unfortunately the orange crew-neck sweater was not part of its Chaps collection.

I figured that it was probably from Marshalls and had been placed in that Nordstrom box to hide the bargain. We went to Marshalls. Not theirs. Marshalls suggested we try T. J. Maxx right across the parking lot. We did. Not theirs.

We drove toward the golf course and it hit me that it was probably from Ross. It was the only place left and, as a Ross enthusiast, I knew there was one nearby. We went to the sales counter where the overwhelmed clerk grabbed the sweater and appraised it.

“Not your merchandise?” I asked in a leading way.

“No,” he said, “It’s ours. Just a minute.” He disappeared and came back with a tag gun and shot a price through the sweater. He handed it back and leaned on the cash register. “It’s $1.”

I explained to him that it had been bought before Christmas and that whatever price it was now reduced to should be recalibrated. He explained to my brother, who was now looking at the sweater with some kind of awe, that this was last year’s merchandise and that it had been at that price for some time. We stood there in silence. The clerk then asked, “Would you like the dollar?”

“Just give me the sweater,” my brother said, angrily grabbing it back.

We walked out to the car and started driving. I turned to him and quietly said, “Mom spent $1 on you.”

We did not go golfing.

The problem with gifts is the expectation — the truth is that one good experience can ruin you for life. For me it was two years into my marriage. I had graduated from film school and was living without a job, writing every day (or at least saying I was) and being supported by my wife’s starting architect salary and a small stipend from her mom.

My birthday came, and the gift I wanted was to be shot in the back of the head while I slept — to be mercifully put out of my misery before I gained any more weight or finished the extremely depressing movie I was writing.

My wife handed me a large, very heavy flat box. Inside was a silver Zero Halliburton briefcase.

Now, if you missed the ’80s, let me explain what this was. It was the ultimate briefcase. It was the one you saw in the movies, carried by Feds, moguls, guys in sports cars, drug dealers. It was the kind that was filled with rows of hundreds and then handcuffed to somebody’s wrist. I had admired one in a window at the mall. My wife had clocked that and delivered. It cost $300. Our rent was $800 a month.

It was so extravagant, so ridiculous, so desired. I was speechless. My wife knew what I wanted. I wanted to feel successful. I wanted to go somewhere everyday with my papers in that gleaming hand-held Learjet.

When I saw that gift, I knew that no matter what I felt like, she somehow saw me as the kind of person who carried that thing. She somehow saw me as a success. And yes, there were hugs and kisses and tears.

Matthew Weiner is the creator and the executive producer of the AMC television series “Mad Men,” and was an executive producer on “The Sopranos.”

This is too much elfin' fun.

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 16:27:00 +0000

Click on the images to see the dance. Sometimes the site gets overloaded and can be slow - so either be patient or come back to see if it's better later. It's most fun when you know the elves dancing ... so make some of your own!

Thanks money for all the happiness!

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 01:20:00 +0000

Saying money can't buy happiness is like saying money can't buy new clothes, HDTVs or designer handbags. Like it can't buy new music, black coffee and leather jackets ... ipods, digital cameras or plane tickets to tropical islands.

Silly saying.

Thanks money -- for all the happiness!

Brown Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 19:27:00 +0000

This story makes me feel good about my fellow human beings.

Click here to see the original images (in color) and story I 'borrowed' from BBC.

A River Runs Through It

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Tue, 04 Sep 2007 00:29:00 +0000

A River Runs Through It, originally uploaded by [ CK ].

Composite of eclipse progression

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 11:42:00 +0000

Composite of eclipse progression
Originally uploaded by chadmill.

Kiss da Piggy

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 04:53:00 +0000

FrenchKiss
Originally uploaded by Limbic.