When I Get Bored With Myself, I Dye My Hair.

Duh! I'm so bored.

In Which I Renew My Committment To Having A Crush On Beowulf

Just an example of some of the Beowulf paraphernalia I have accumulated. Please notice that at least one of the paraphernalia is the book.

Lately I've been so busy. Working full time. Hanging out with friends. Writing two non-Beowulf themed novellas. Going jogging. In fact I've almost forgotten about how excited I am anticipating the May 2009 DVD release of Outlander, starring Jim "Jesus" Caviezel as some dude from outer space who lands in a Viking settlement and ends up fighting an epic monster (also from outer space, as to my understanding). According to Wikipedia, my main source of information these days, because this handy informational website is only one click of the mouse away and therefore does not involve me getting out of my super-comfy vintage office chair (in a lovely, nubby, burnt orange fabric, I might add), one of the characters names is Hrothgar, so you can probably see where I am going with this. I almost think it might be time for me to do a Beowulf tie-in of my own. After all, I have been making such a fuss about a poem in a dead language for so long, it only seems like the next logical step. Look, I can already say a few things in Anglo-Saxon. Like "se geong mon." Which means "the young man." Clearly I am on my way to something really big here.


In other news, I feel totally vindicated regarding my great fondness for the movie "Beowulf and Grendel," a movie inveterate blogger and poet Jack Morgan claimed was "bad." But my friend, the super-smart and very talented poet Trevor Calvert, (who has a book you should read called "Rarer and More Wonderful") on the other hand, thinks "Beowulf and Grendel" is a fantastic film, and I am pretty sure he is not merely being swayed by a good-looking actor in a long-haired wig. Really, if you ask me, the movie (which is admittedly pretty post-modern in its treatment of Grendel) is about what happens when you open a door by committing an immoral act and then don't get to decide what comes back over the threshold at you. And Grendel, who is wronged by Hrothgar, brings measureless violence back upon him. Sort of like Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho." Janet Leigh doesn't just get it from Norman Bates. She embezzles the money from her boss and then she gets it from Norman Bates. In the shower. Thank you.

Now That I'm Not Blogging About My Cat, I FInd I Have Very Little To Say.

Not blogging about the cat. Nope. Not gonna do it.

Right now he is staring blankly into space, just one of the many tasks he has difficulty completing because of his crippling Attention Deficit Disorder.

Obviously, I am sick. Thank you.

In Other News, Importand Staff Meeting Turns Out To Be Really Boring

1. In a thoroughly unexpected turn of events, a meticulously planned, long-anticipated staff meeting attended by this blogger for most of one recent day turned out to be less than uproariously entertaining. Normally, this blogger might use the next few lines to quickly sum up the all-important topics covered at the gripping all-day informational session, but she stopped paying attention after the first five minutes and started thinking instead about all the other things she'd rather be doing on what was supposed to be one of her precious days off. Like laying face down on the sofa. Like drinking diet Pepsi until she felt light-headed, which these days is about her only vice. This blogger did not, however, fail to notice the upbeat motivational sayings about the value of a positive *attitude* printed in the margins of the pamphlets passed out for all to read and continues to be really glad she's not in sales where it is required you believe in such things or you will not win friends and influence people into spending four thousand dollars on a new leather sofa and love seat for their living room and instead will just die in shame and penury and with the knowledge that you are ranked last for this month because you can't shake your *attitude* problem. Sheeeesh.

2. In other news, my friends are smarter than me. While I have been daydreaming about becoming a famous novelist, my friends Cameron Jackson and Jessica Cox have actually opened up an art gallery in the actual real world, a place I only occasionally visit, usually to eat or go to the bathroom. It is called the Alphonse Berber Gallery and it is located near Cal and you should go there, for Christ's sake. But don't take my word for it. Check out their website.
Also, although the gallery has got great art hanging on the walls, it is worth just checking it out to see the fantastic space, designed by architect Justin Botros. Someone named Jeremy Graves manages the gallery, but I have never met him although I am sure he is also much smarter than I am. Here's to you, Jeremy!

3. In even other news, my cat, Gerard Butler, is going away and will never be heard from again. My poor little cat, Stanley, can no longer bear the hefty weight of shouldering two identities and has asked to be relieved from public service. Also, I am sort of down on cats right now. They are bothersome with their constant meowing and always need their litter tended or else the whole house smells like a toilet. This is the real world that I live in. Thank you.

Not Ready For The Looooooove-Seat? Happily, I Present An Alternative.

Now that I work in a furniture store dedicated to insuring comfort to all its customers ("Comfort. It's what we do"), I have started to spend my down time at the store thinking of ways that I, a lowly administrative assistant, could come up with a brilliant new product and/or marketing strategy in order to strike it rich, thus ensuring a lifetime of a whole 'nother type of comfort for myself and my cat, Gerard Butler. I am talking about the comfort that is called 'being rich and not having to work as a lowly administrative assistant in a furniture store.' And now, thanks to key meditations on my currently stunted emotional status, I have come up with a new product. In the words of one of my favorite, if essentially long-winded, playwrights Pierre Marivaux (in 'The Triumph of Love'): "Would you have me lose my reason? Must I now give my life over to my feelings?" The answer is no, not yet. You can sit and think about your predicament for awhile on my new product, the Like Seat. Not as large as a sofa, but with just a little more room than a love seat, the like seat offers some much-needed breathing room for those of us with cold feet (me), or for those of us still trying to escape in our minds the fiery train wreck of our last relationship (me), or even just for those of us who just like being single because then you don't have to worry about what your apartment looks like every time your significant other comes over (me). (Preferably, the like seat would be at your non-romantic totally platonic buddy's house and he or she would never know that you don't change the totally platonic kitty litter quite just often enough. And also they would pay for it because you can't afford to purchase big-ticket upholstery items on your admin wages. Unless of course the furniture store you work for doesn't steal your idea outright and you (I) receive some sort of tangible financial remuneration in the form of a big fat check.) Aaaah. The likeseat. Isn't it time our romance-centric culture focused a little more on ideas involving friendship that incidentally might make me financially solvent? Please say yes. Then promptly fall in love with me. Thank you.

I Think I Am Fantastic

Just a sampling of the beautifully designed, pre-printed return address labels I recently received in the mail

And here I thought I no longer mattered to anyone but my tightly knit inner circle consisting almost entirely of my mother and my cat, Gerard Butler. But now I feel like the VIP I know I am somewhere deep inside thanks to the arrival by post of some tastefully designed return address labels with my name, 'Jennifer Drai,' printed across the surface in a bold, eye-catching font right next to various and sundry cute little icons like a glittery 'USA' sign or a huge calligraphy 'D.' Really, this personal touch says everything I need to know about the care and trouble taken by these anonymous persons sweating away in their graphic design workshop, somewhere on or near the North Pole presumably, to make sure I get the appropriate calligraphy letter next to my name, 'Jennifer Drai,' emblazoned across the shiny white surface of the labels in a beautifully designed (serif) font. Did I mention the jolly smiling snowman icon or the red-white-and-blue banner icon? Such cold weather centricism or unflailing commitment to 'patriotic' values could hardly prevent me from slathering the upper left hand corner of every single last one of my outgoing envelopes with these small, rectangular status symbols. Nothing says you have arrived on the scene like not having to scrawl out your return address in your painfully illegible handwriting every time you have to pay a bill or send a thank you card. Bring it on, little white dove bearing olive branch icon! I am going to use you.

Another Exciting Day In The Life Of My Cat, Gerard Butler

My cat, Gerard Butler, recuperates after his stressful bathing experience

If you thought the Oscars last night were all about drama, you obviously did not see my cat, Gerard Butler's prima donna performance in the bathtub between the hours of 4 and 4:30, Pacific Standard Time. You are probably wondering why my cat, Gerard Butler, needed a bath in the first place since he is constantly licking his own body with his tongue, so I will tell you. My cat, Gerard Butler, has fleas. Seriously. He cannot be comfortable with his constant scratching, so you would think he would be grateful that I took the initiative and shelled out some cash for a bottle of flea shampoo. But he was not. His constant meows took on the tenor of guttural moans as I lathered up his flea-infested regions within the delightful confines of our bathroom. You would think I was trying to kill him when really I was just trying to save him. Not only that, but today I walked all the way from Walgreen's lugging a heavy container of expensive Tidy Cats kitty litter for his cat toilet instead of just buying a bag of Johnny Cat at the corner store. My cat, Gerard Butler, is spoiled. Several hours later, my elbows are still sore. Next thing I know, my cat, Gerard Butler, is going to be demanding Fancy Feast. If that day comes, it might be time for my cat, Gerard Butler, to go live with his father again.