NOVEMBER 30
IN CASE one or both of you hadn't noticed, Planet Mut has been off the air for a few days. It's a long and sordid tale, so bear with me.
Basically, what's happened is that my host (now ex-host) Blue Capacity has by all appearances ceased to exist. Thanks to some digging around by a mate who's also got (had) a site hosted with them, it turns out BC was reselling server space from a firm in Texas called Planet.com. He called them to discover they knew BC was down but not why, although it sounds like Nicholas, the bloke who runs BC, hasn't paid his bill. So basically I've had to shell out $120 for a two-year deal with a new host and I'm having a right runaround trying to get the planetmut.com domain transferred over. This is a total pain in the arse, to be frank, as I've now lost the past 2 1/2 years of site stats and spent days hoping BC would come back up. Still, thanks for your patience and hopefully Planet Mut will be back to normality (or at least close to it) soon.
NOVEMBER 27
HERE'S some pics from our trip to Catalina Island on Saturday:
AND here's some pics from the swap meet on Sunday:
The best bit of this pic is the little red square saying "Similar to as seen on TV". Always a sign of quality.
NOVEMBER 23
AFTER a week or so of the PC nagging me to install Internet Explorer 7, I finally gave in, downloaded it and ran it. Within seconds, the pic above is what I saw. Dear Bill Gates - kiss my hairy Welsh arse.
AND it's Thanksgiving over here today, a special day in the calendar when Americans give thanks for something or other. Ranch dressing, I think, or maybe Diet Coke. This year to save the hassle of cooking Ev decided to get the food from Lucille's, a barbecue place on Second Street that's really good. As we had people coming she got the Super Feast, which consists of:
eight half-BBQ chickens;
two pounds of hot links;
two pounds of tri tip;
a pound of sweet potatoes;
a pound of macaroni and cheese.
According to Lucille's website this feeds "the whole family" (or three Americans) and as you can imagine we had to smash a hole in the wall so people could get out after eating. In case you can't imagine it, here's a pic of one of the tubs of mashed sweet potatoes next to my 19" monitor:
I say "one of" because we had FOUR of these. And a turkey, sweetcorn, cakes and FSM knows what else. I myself have trebled in body mass during the 30 seconds it's taken me to write this sentence. In fact I'm writing this sitting three feet from the PC and typing by jiggling my manboobs over the keyboard. And with that image branded into your minds, I'm off to bed.
NOVEMBER 17
AFTER 20 minutes of arsing around with Real Player and the BBC Radio Wales website I managed to get the Wales v Canada rugby match live on the PC for dad. In eternal gratitude, dad fell asleep five minutes later.
NOVEMBER 16
THE family arrived safe and well this afternoon, so to celebrate here's some pics of the case my sis brought her 1,000 cigarettes in:
On the way to the airport one of my headlamp bulbs gave up the ghost, so I've just had to install new ones (I got the bright white ones so now I can dazzle other drivers just like the bastards do to me) and I have no idea if they're in properly, aligned properly or liable to catch fire within seconds of being switched on. But rest assured, if they do make the Cooper go up in a ball of flame while I'm doing 80 down the 710 I'll try to take a couple of SUVs with me.
NOVEMBER 10
WELL, it had to happen; I got nicked for speeding on the 710 south about 30 mins ago. Bugger. I was minding my own business doing about 80 in the fast lane when the flashing red lights go on behind me. "Oh dear," I thought, "I think I'm being nicked." Well I didn't actually think that, I thought something else but my mum reads this so I have to keep it clean. Anyway I moved to the hard shoulder on the right, only to be told over the cop car's PA to exit Willow. "Oh great," I thought, "I have to drive a Mini into a neighbourhood that makes Basra look like Beverly Hills." Well, I didn't actually think "Oh great," but you know the story. So I pull off and the copper tells me to make another right, which I do and pull over at the kerb. I've seen enough movies and TV to know to keep my hands on the wheel which I do, but I have a ciggie in my mouth that's burning down to the filter and filling my eyes with smoke but I daren't chuck it out of the window in case I get done for littering. So I'm sitting there with both hands on the wheel, watering eyes and fag ash all over my shirt when the officer comes over to my window (and for those of you back in God's country, remember that the driver's side is where the passenger should be).
"Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?" he asks. You know bloody well why, mate, but I have to get rid of this cigarette before the fluid in my left eye evaporates. "Er... I was speeding?" I ask around the ciggie, sending another pound of ash cascading down the front of my shirt ($2.50 at finer Wal-Marts). "Yes sir," he says, then adds words which at that moment sounded to me like the laugh of a small child: "Sir, could you dispose of the cigarette?" "Yes," I reply, and without thinking chuck it out of the window. But he ignores it and asks for my license, insurance and registration. Now here in the land of the free you have to carry these documents at all times whereas in Commie-loving Britain you don't, but luckily I got into the habit a few months ago. I dig my license and insurance card out of my wallet and root around in the glove box for my registration. "Er... hang on a second," I say as I'm pulling out CDs, empty fag packets, enough disposable lighters to burn down the Forest of Dean and - inexplicably - a nicotine patch. I almost hand over my Mini warranty before finding what I think is the registration and giving him that, all the while ready with the "I'm terribly sorry, I'm British" excuse in case I've actually given him a sheet of directions to the Target in Seal Beach. "Could you wait here sir?" he asks and heads back to his car.
So I'm sitting there waiting for him to come back and being blinded by the spotlights shining directly into my wing mirror. And I wait. And wait. Then it dawns on me that I'm going to have to call Ev at some point and explain that I've been done for speeding but before the full terror of this thought can make itself felt the copper's back. As he's telling me about the ticket and what I have to do, the other cop is shining his torch all over the passenger side of the Mini (and for those of you back in God's country, remember that the passenger side is where the steering wheel should be). He then shines it over the roof and goes to the back of the car and shines it over the boot and rear window. At this point I start to wonder if he's going to a)give me advice on keeping the car clean, b) ask what the GB letters on the back stand for (and knowing me I'd probably say "Guantanamo Bay"), or c) wondering why Europeans drive such small cars and not gas-guzzling god-fearing SUVs. But then the first cop hands me my documents and ticket and tells me to take care, which is pretty sound advice in the neighbourhood we're in. "Um..." I ask, "how do I get back to the 710 from here?" He gives me directions and I make my way - slowly - onto the freeway, followed by the cops who nicked me. They shoot off at a speed just under warp 9, joining a flow of traffic that also appears to be doing just under warp 9, while for the first time since owning my crappy VW Polo I take more than 30 seconds to reach 50mph. "Well thank Christ that's over," I think, and then the overwhelming terror returns to fill my very soul as I realise I have to ring Ev.
Of course, I took my Bluetooth headset off when I was pulled over so now I have to call while trying to negotiate Shoreline Drive one-handed. Remembering the level of ballisticness Ev reached when I lost my wallet a few months ago I try to concoct ways of breaking the news gently, but can't so I just tell her I've been pulled over and ticketed for speeding. She takes the news very calmly, not even reaching the level of ballisticness she gets to when I leave the bog seat up and wet towels on the bathroom floor. When I get home I give her the full story, and she looks over my ticket. The officer had written "approx. 80" on the part where it says "speed of vehicle" which is good as it was more like 83, and then Ev tells me I'll probably have to go to something called "traffic school" to do some tests, which at least will wipe the ticket off my record and not put my insurance up. So there you have it, and I'm off to bed.
NOVEMBER 8
MYSPACE morons are very much like the H37 bus from Hounslow to Twickenham; you wait ages and ages then two come along in quick succession. You can see the latest arsehole here.
For those of you who didn't spend three years attending Brunel University College, the H37 bus service was so unreliable that saying you were waiting for one was an acceptable excuse for being late for lectures. In other words, if you lived on the Hounslow - Iselworth - Twickenham route you had a cast-iron alibi for turning up pretty much any time you wanted. The cream on the cake came when the lazy bastards who drove the buses went on strike for more money. On strike? They did sod all at work, how a strike was going to make commuters' lives any worse was anyone's guess.
NOVEMBER 3
LADIES and gentlemen, boys and girls, fresh from its three-month tour of the Deep South, MySpace Sucks makes a triumphant return!
NOVEMBER 2
I'VE seen this stuff advertised on a couple of billboards while coming home on the 710 south and I've been wanting to give it a go for a while. Ken did warn me that it tastes like gorilla arse, and I think he's right as we had to search Target, Ralph's and Albertson's before we found some in the CVS pharmacy in Seal Beach. But enough idle banter, on to the taste test!
When I grow up I want to be paid for coming up with meaningless phrases like "Carbonated Fusion Beverage."
Remember, kids - illiteracy will get you a high-paying job in the Coca-Cola marketing department!
And here it is, decanted into one of our finest crystal goblets (12 for $4.99 at better Wal-Marts). It has the colour and consistency of normal Coke - ie runny shit - but the taste is certainly different, and certainly bloody awful. Not even my sister, who basically lives on a diet of Pepsi, would touch this stuff with a bargepole. To be fair it does taste like a fusion of Coke and coffee... and that's the fundamental problem. There are things that should never be joined together and coffee and Coke, much like Hitler and power or the back end of a Ford Pinto with anything harder than a marshmallow, are two such things.
NOVEMBER 1
I GENERALLY don't like Halloween, but meeting an Imperial Stormtrooper certainly makes up for looking at pics of stupid kids wearing sheets. We spotted this member of the Empire's finest (or Joe, as he's called) across the road from the office late last night and sent Tammy out to get his picture. She did better than that - she brought him back to the office so we could say hello. The suit cost him about $3,000 and comes complete with an air-cooled helmet and voice modulator. Flynn's going to puke when he sees this pic.
