There aren't enough swear words to fully express my reaction . . . scroll down to Coney Island Death Watch Halloween Edition: New Renderings

I seriously hope whatever gets built there? Spontaneously implodes before it opens. I don't want anyone to die, but I want enough property damage to happen, and on such a scale, that Thor equities--the assholes that have the stones--fucking audacity to knock down my amusement park uses the very last of their fortune--that they're gonna pour into wrecking a national monument--to salt the soon-to-blighted earth on which they're gonna perpetrate the foulest misdeed since--I don't know what.

How the dare they? This is Coney fucking Island. You do not tear it down, you do not improve upon. You don't remodel the childhoods of millions of New Yorkers until they can't even reconcile memory with reality.

. . . a grand vision of the famed summer amusement area's rundown streets being transformed into a glitzy year-round playground and public attraction.In one image, Stillwell Avenue becomes a fantasy-filled boulevard marked by larger-than-life street furniture, such as a mermaid swimming in a martini glass and a gigantic tattooed elephant.

If the people at Thor had bothered to get the opinions of real New Yorkers--those of us from the Five Borroughs or Long Island, and therefore the only New Yorkers who count--we coulda told them that every idea in that paragraph? Is a shit idea. What the fuck do New Yorkers want with that kinda overdone, Atlantic City-style bullshit? This ain't Vegas. Cirque Du Soleil does not live in here.

Coney Island isn't the safest place in the world. A lot of the time, it's downright perilous, depending on the time of day and the time of year. The park itself can be creepy-good fun. I'm pretty sure there's still an actual freak show there. All the pitch-til-u-win games are rigged. Everything you get at Nathan's is scorched and covered with carcinogens. Every summer, I keep an ear out in case the Cyclone--made out of wood, a roller coaster made out of fucking wood--finally collapses and takes a whole bunch of stupid teenagers with it--

For Christ's sake, I once almost got landed on by a dude parachuting out of an airplane as part of some airshow! Swear to god. My mom literally yanked me out of the way, just as he landed on the boardwalk.

That's the kinda place my Coney Island is. Not this--monstrosity that's about to be unrolled on my fair borrough and the world (New York City) at large.

Coney Island, as it stands, suits its community, safety issues aside. I wouldn't touch the Coney Island Thor's proposing with a ten foot pole. I would sooner never go there again than see it . . . compromised.

But let's see how long all that shiny, touristy carny crap lasts on Stillwell Ave. Between the gangs, the shake downs from the Russian mafia, the shakedowns from the Mafia mafia and the hordes of mentally disturbed that call the area home. . . .

Do the Thor corp-rats have any idea what they're getting into? How little this plan fits any of the people they're counting on for most of their revenue? NYCers don't wanna see this kinda shit in their backyard.

Let's see how long that fantasy-filled boulevard nonsense lasts once the heart of New York City, of Brooklyn, of Coney Island--the one and only, the real Coney Island--starts seeping through. Let's just see.

I called Paulina/Alec, two weeks ago. I'm Jeebus, right? Mighty, wrathful and fucking infallible? So here're my picks. In order of awesomeness:

( Laila/Maks )

It's my secret obsession--some people watch "Idol" or "Survivor". For me, it's DwtS.

In order of kickassness are:

( Laila/Maks )

My Lynnevitational assignment, Gentles:

Requested pairing: Spike/Angel(us)

Preferred rating: R or higher

Would like to see: Historical/period setting, amusement at someone else's evil, a plan to beat Darla & Drusilla to a destination

Would prefer not to see: overt fluff (although funny is of course welcome)

See why I'm shitting my pants?

I've written very little Spangel(us), all of it angsty as fuck, no humor to be found.

I've never written a period piece, because I dunno jack shit about the Victorian era. Except that the poetry was overblown and the clothing terrifying.

I've never written anything with a plot, not as such--with, like, scheming in it. I wouldn't even begin to know how to write that. Not to mention I've never gotten the hang of writing Drusilla--although my Darla . . . isn't horrible. I don't think it was, anyway.

And if I were to attempt this fic I can guarantee you, due to lack of writing chops, it would quickly turn into a farce (fluff).

Why, in the name of Zoroaster the Good, did I sign-up for this?

Apparently because I enjoy shitting my pants.

Today at work, this happened:

Me: "May I have your brand and model number, sir?"
Customer: "1234fakemodel#."
Me: "Alright, sir, and may I have your brand, please?"
Customer: "Remote control."

I'm tired. Very, very tired.

To be fair, he was calling to order a remote control for his tv.

But fuck fairness, that dipshit called me "Lisa" for the whole call. Though I guess I should be grateful he didn't call me "Ginger". I'm still marveling over how anyone who isn't Helen Keller could mistake "Rachel" for "Ginger". . . .

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

You guys can thank Squishy for that.

Also, I fucking hate Time Warner cable. I average a call to them at least once a day, those fuckers.

A bee flew up my nose, today.

I was warp-nining it down the shortcut I take to my bus stop--I cut across this parking lot and a one-way street, it's all terribly adventurous and exciting--and I noticed this bee flying straight at me. Like it's on a kamikaze mission with my face.

Now, I was walking pretty fast and it was flying pretty fast, so I knew it was too late for either of us to change direction. I thought: Well, damn, bet that's gonna hit me right on the forehead.

Yeah, I was off by an inch or two.

This thing flew straight up my right nostril. Got wedged in there, halfway. I could even hear its distressed little buzzes--coming from my nose.

Color me shocked and awed. The only reason I didn't start screaming was because I figured I'd just wind up sucking it down my windpipe and into my lung. Like I don't got enough problems with nature making it hard for me to breathe.

I flailed my arms about in a state of total belief (belief, I say, because if anyone could accidentally hork a bee up her nose, it'd be me) while three little girls playing about ten yards away, stared at me like I was both crazy and smelly.

After about four and a half seconds, I realize this dumbass bee isn't gonna find it's own way out of my snout, so--in a moment of pure, unadulterated genius--I farmer's handkerchiefed the little bastard out of my nose and ran like hell. On the off, off chance it had enough bee-rage left to try and sting me.

Last I saw of it, however, it was plummeting ground-ward.

I'd like to see you try and fly covered in my snot.

I strolled past the staring teeny-boppers, head held high--wished them a good day, then sauntered to the bus stop.

Caught my bus, and listened to Superunknown till I got to work.

I just hope I don't get sinus cancer from all the bee-germs.

ETA!
One "drabble" down, eleven more to go, so far! Keep piling 'em on, my friends! Bring it!

I'm at work and I'm seriously about to have a bitch fit with these goddamn customers. Tonight was apparently my night to deal with every inbred, crack-skulled mongoloid who dragged himself out of a puddle of his own filth, and somehow figured out how to work a touch-tone phone.

(Especially the call I'm on now. These people should be dragged out into the street, and shot for being so fucking stupid and belligerent.)

So. I am bored, as well as disgruntled. To save my sanity, and the lives of coworkers and supervisors alike, I'm putting out a drabble call.

I will totally drabble/ficlet any gen/het/slash pairings you name, any series I can write . . . and even the ones I can't write (nothing to lose by trying). Any prompts, too: songs, colors, phrases, feelings, etc. Be as specific as you like, there's freedom in rules. Be as vague as you want, that's cool, too (you dirty fuckers).

No time/drabble limit, either, so whenever you straggle in and see this, feel free to put in a bid(s). All drabbles will be posted as replies to comments.

Questions?

Concerns?

Comments?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalrighty, then! Hit me with your best shot, flisties--fire away!

Just makes sure to aim for my head.

Randal Graves: You know who I could do without? I could do without the people in the video store.
Dante Hicks: Which ones?
Randal Graves: All of them.

Sorry for the long-time/no-see bit. Been both busy and sick, lately. So much to comment on, so little library time.

Okay, first off? Go here and read that. Don't make me tell you twice.

M'kay, what else?

Oh, yeah . . . sick as an effing dog. I felt so bad (hurt to breathe, couldn't stop coughing, couldn't go to work today) that I hoofed it half a mile to the ER. The verdict?

These aren't colds. At least according to the almost-doctor who looked me over (and I do mean looked; I was hoping for x-rays, but I guess my wallet'll be thanking me later). I'm allergic to something--or many things in my environment, which is resulting in the constant, cold/flu-like symptoms.

She proscribed Flonase spray and an Albuterol inhaler for me--I could only afford to get the spray (thanks a fucking heap, Marriott! Only three more months till my health insurance kicks in!) I'm kinda wishing I hadn't gotten that, either. I mean, I'm no longer broke, but I'm not rich, either. That money could've gone to so many other things, all of them more necessary than some nasal spray. I've been like this damn near my whole life. These allergies? Ain't goin' nowheres.

I'm afear'd of the ER bill that'll be coming down the pike.

She also referred me for a follow-up with another doctor within the next couple of weeks. I'm sure I'll be smiling when I get the bill for that, should I even bother to go, which I probably won't. I'm sure whatever they charge me'll exceed what I can afford.

And argh--student loans. . . .

I had an interesting Monday night--I played bouncer at a charity event, as a favor to the Rhythm Methodists of New York, for whom, Demian is the lead guitarist. RMNY and two other bands were raising money for a battered women's shelter. The music was mostly great, although the second band was . . . iffy. Plus, I got to card people and take their no doubt ill-gotten loot.

I re-met an awesome woman who completely shorts out every one of my logic circuits. She's funny, smart, gorgeous, pierced, tattooed, tactless, drinks like a fish, has probably, at one point or another, tried every illegal substance known to man, has awesome taste in music and beer, recognizes entirely too many of my obscure pop-culture references and (sadly) lives in Connecticut. . . .

*sappy sighs*

If the universe plays fair--and I'm sure it's not gonna--someday, I'll marry her. If I live that long =D

Yesterday, I let a coworker talk me into going to bingo night at a nearby Catholic church. The place was festooned in right-to-life propaganda and swag--I kid you not. I blew five bucks on bingo cards, didn't win a goddamned thing, and spent the whole time coughing up phlegm and blowing my nose. If I'd known how sick I was gonna be getting, I can assure you, I would've passed on the bingo. But, as Slartibartfast said: the best laid plans of mice. . . .

So . . . I guess that's pretty much it--hell, that's enough, for the first three days of any week. I'm off home before I hork a lunger on the keyboard.

I owe more commenting. Tomorrow and Saturday--you'se know who you are.

( Blather )

Anyway, fydyan donated to fund_fic for more of DM, and I am her whore *bows* Also, dancinbutterfly has been threatening my life unless I finish this, and mirasol said she’d flash me if I ever wrote more, so . . . Demon Magnet. ( Number_nine,_folks._._._. )

I've got so much everything to catch up on, but this cold is kicking my ass square. And triangular. I can't sleep for coughing, there's a repeat of the bloody phlegm (and frequent enough to have me worried), as well as other RL shit that's blind-siding me on a daily basis.

Suffice it to say, I miss yas, and in case I don't get to say it before Christmas, or Chanukah, or Kwanzaa, or whatever you do or don't celebrate--happy holidays.

ETA!

I'm not gonna end this post on a down note, bloody phlegm, aside!

It's a meme, biznatches, cadged from mirasol:
A. Post a list of up to 20 books/movies/anime/TV shows/video games/etc. that you've had an obsessive fannish love of at some time in your life.
B. Have your friends list guess your favorite character/song/whatever from each item.

Gee, where shall I start and however shall you guess?

( Tom-foolery )

Go here and read this, by thedabara

Never Trust A Man Whose Eyebrows Meet In The Middle. The rest of the series is here

Snorfle yourself silly and don't forget to drop some comments =D

Also, read Reassembling, by texanfan. Encourage her to write more by--say it with me--commenting.

So, apparently I'm mildly retarded, now.
*shrugs*

I'm cool with that, which is, like, so retarded.

( Don't_Read_More )

Go here, read this and comment, or I'll--do something really mean to all of you'se.

And you know I can.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/cindershadow/766.html?view=29182#t29182

C'mon. You'se guys know I only pimp quality. Especially when I'm self-pimping--
*rimshot*

Thank you, thank you . . . I'm here all week! Try the veal and remember to tip your waiter!

( Random_Babbling )

I've been fucking sick for weeks now. It's a return to the Rachel of yester-year--and by yester-year, I mean a couple years ago--back when I got those apocalyptic colds that'd start in, oh, let's say October for shits and giggles, go all the way through till Spring, when it morphed into at least one bout of the flu, before finally settling into my usual summer allergies and/or cold.

If I was lucky, I'd get two, maybe three phlegmy-hacking-cough-free months per year. They were bliss, I tell yas! Bliss!

My lungs and throat and sinuses feel like someone's been playing hackey-sack with 'em and my eyes are dry, scratchy and hurty. My immune system is so fucked up and compromised, it scares me. What the fuck happens when I'm all old and less resistant to death? Shit,what happens when that friggin' bird flu gets here from China or Germany or where-the-fuck-ever?

Prolly just croak or something. I have serious and legitimate doubts I'll make it past my sixtieth. And the only reason I'll make it that far? Is because my family is long-lived on both sides. But instead of making it to my mid-eighties (gah! who'd wanna live that long, unless they're Jack Palance? I swear, that guy's fuckin ninety and he's healthier than me--doin' one-armed push-ups, and shit) I'll limp miserably into my late fifties or early sixties, then die of some respiratory/heart disease.

Or I'll get hit by a truck, 'cause I totally never remember to look when I cross the street. Hell, I think it's amazing I made it to twenty, considering my habitual inattention to large, fast moving objects. Heh, I'll proably get flattened by an Acme piano whilst walking down a street well before I turn sixty.

And can the flist say anxiety attacks?

I knew you could. Gold star! Mine are making quite the come-back. God, I need to be on medication.

Anyway--something a teeny bit less tedious and depressing than my shit-problems. . . my shit-writing:

Awakenings 6

Previous installments are here: ”Awakenings”.

Ain't I brilliant? Not to mention original.

Plus--Bones is back, thank doG, so when the bloody hell is Kitchen Confidential coming back? I look forward to very little . . . in life, in t.v.--but KC is one of the few, the proud, the looked-forward-to-by-yours-truly. So quit running goddamn hockey, or baseball, or jai alai, or whatever shit programming you're spewing into the cosmos, Rupert Murdoch, and run some goddamn Kitchen Confidential, before I die of TB!

Thank you!

*clears throat*

So . . . how you guys doin'?

http://www.livejournal.com/community/fall_for_spike/20906.html

And on the heels of that, bitching.

I hate the fucking 'burbs, or small-town America or wherever the fuck I am. I'm a city girl. I don't even know the names of some of the insects that occasionally get into the house. I hate the lack of reliable public transportation--like there's anywhere to effing go, around here--and the small-town small vision. Goddamnit! As soon as I can, I'm gonna hie back to the big city. Doesn't have to be NYC. Just so long as it's a big, English-speaking, smog-producing, culture-having city. I mean--come-the-fuck-on! I can't even get decent Greek food in this country-ass town! Thank God I'm not a fan of sushi, or I'd be up totally upshit-creek.

Oh, and speaking of creeks? We got one. This town has a creek--my bad, a crick--and a swimmin'-hole!

A motherfucking swimmin'-hole.

I am aghast.

I want outta this place. I will never live in a small town again, I mean--24,000 people? That's a slow day at Shea Stadium. That is not a city.