Not A Dollarshort

M-I-C (See you in court) K-E-Y (Why? Because you're liable).

In an act "not related to several high profile accidents at the park," Disneyland will begin stationing full-time paramedics at both its California parks.

Accidents at Disneyland, along with other Disneyland-related legends, have always been the grist for my family's gossip mill. My dad and I are two generations of native Los Angelians, who take pride in the fact that we're always the ones at parties who convince everyone that Walt Disney is buried, or rather cryogenic'ized underneath the Pirates of the Caribbean. It's not true, by the way.

Most of our interest in Disneyland-related accidents stems from the Park's fanatical desire to maintain their image as, well, the Happiest Place on Earth. This of course requires a fast-acting crew of spin-doctors and re-imagineers.

My dad and I have this long-standing joke that when an accident occurs on Disneyland property, the first one in the hospital with the settlement check is none other than Mickey himself.

Of course, we picture him doing that annoying white-gloves-over-mouth pantomime, a behavior that is probably first on the syllabus at character-training school.

I love Disneyland but I can't stand Mickey Mouse. And I can't think of anything I would hate more than Mickey Mouse appearing in my room -- accident or not.

CNN link via Boing Boing.

Here's a sweet picture of me to wash the taste of the "Mickey's hospital visit" picture out of your mouth.

There's a man on the wing!

My teeth and I are not on very good terms.

After four awkward years of braces, I was required to wear a hideous glow-in-the-dark retainer. Tired of wires, metal and brackets, I went for months without putting the thing on. And then, out of guilt, I tried to start wearing it again. To my horror, it didn't fit. And this wasn't a "it's too snug" or an "it's bent" kind of fit, it was an "oh my god, how did my teeth shift so much?" fit.

That was seven years ago.

And now, I feel this odd tooth -- one of my front teeth -- in a place never I've never felt before. Of course I panic because I automatically think it's loose -- the stuff of nightmares. But, I guess my teeth are just shifting even more.

Adding to my mouth woes, I've been clenching my teeth at an alarming frequency. This was confirmed when, at my last dentist appointment, the hygienist pointed out the teeth imprints on my tongue.

I'm assuming that this is just another symptom of stress.

Yeah, what isn't? Even my attempts at de-stressing myself backfire in only a Mena sort of way. Tonight I decided that I would take a relaxing, candle-lit shower while Ben cooked dinner. After turning off the lights in the bathroom and getting into the shower, I started panicking that I would see some hideous face looking at me through the glass shower doors.

I don't know why I do it, but I always force myself into thinking of the most horrible thing that could be waiting for me around the corner, outside the window or under the bed. It's pleasure derived from fear. Or, maybe just fear derived from foolishness.

And then I wonder why I'm so stressed all the time.

What are you afraid of?

Turner Classic Movies redesigned their

Turner Classic Movies redesigned their site and I think it's just stunning. Check out the periodic table of essential movies and make sure to schedule these gems into your calendar.

Link via MetaFilter.

Pick-Me-Up Song.

Even with grey skies and rain, I find it impossible to be in a glum mood after listening to Scott Walker's version of Jacques Brel's Jacky.

What is your pick-me-up song?

Call me crazy, but this doesn't seem quite healthy.

If you met me in person, you would realize in a matter of moments that I'm an only child. This epiphany would not occur because of those tired impressions of an only child being selfish and spoiled. Instead, you would realize that something's just not right with me -- it's as if I missed the day in school when they taught peer socializing.

"Mena has a hard time relating to children her age." This was the lame old mantra that each of my teachers seemed to pass to the next.

"Mena likes to police the other children."

"Mena won't stop performing."

"Mena's a tattletale."

"What's with Mena?"

I'll tell you what's with Mena. Mena had parents who told her, still tell her, that she has a brother named Larry. This started when I around 5 or 6. I wanted a baby brother and they invented Larry to fill the void. Larry wasn't around, they'd explain, because he liked to cause trouble. They got rid of Larry and therefore got rid of the problems. But Larry had reformed, and he was itching to come home.

"It's a matter of time," my dad would say.

My parents are a textbook example of why it is important to mature first, breed later.

Larry was a big joke to my parents, or rather, my dad. Let's say I had a temper-tantrum:

Dad: Larry would be disappointed if he knew that you were behaving like this.

Me: Larry's not real!

Dad: Larry wouldn't want to hear you say that.

I, of course, would just give up. I never really believed them, although in the back of my mind I always wondered "what if?" Of course, Larry was just another way of saying "one was enough" (Me of course being that one).

In a strange way, Larry seems very real. In fact, when I got married, I kind of felt like we were missing someone.

Of course, my dad felt it too, and beat me to the punch.

"Too bad Larry wasn't here to see this."

Hey Sammy Hagar, he's looking for you!

As further proof of my inability to appreciate comic books and superheroes, I present, in my opinion, the most vengeful "action" hero ever.

His weapons of choice: What else? A microphone and dry ice.

I made him at Heromachine.

Link via MetaFilter.

Roll call.

Taking a cue from waferbaby, I want to know who you are. Blogger's Blog of Note brought me the traffic, now you have the task of introducing yourself. Send me a site. Send me your site. Tell me what you think of dollarshort.org. You make the call.

Because, you know, IP addresses don't say a lot about a person.

So send me mail.

A really nicely decorated -- Martha Stewart inspired -- room of one's own.

Today I went to a lecture given by one of my closest friends from high school. I hadn't seen him in about three years and felt it would be a good chance to see what he's been up to. This lecture, held in conjunction with an exhibition of his latest works, was about his experiences, as an artist, while living in Florence and Paris.

Although Frank had always been a talented artist in high school, I was amazed by how much his work has grown. He had the chance to study with classically-trained Italian painters, an opportunity rarely experienced.

Of course, this led me to think about my own life (you knew it would come to this). I have always firmly believed that you are as important as what you create. In my mind, in the past, this theory used to solely apply to the arts, with literature, visual art, and music being the most obvious expressions. Lately, this theory has blurred as I see parenting as the ultimate creation. Although I do not have a child and am not pregnant, my maternal instincts have been stirring as of late.

And then, I see people creating art.

And then, I get sick to my stomach because of what I do -- or rather because of what I don't do. I don't create. I work. I watch Survivor. I buy things for our house. I read Martha Stewart Living. I obsess over things I can't control. I do almost everything but create. Ben says that with this site, I'm creating something artistic. Sure, there's a little something to that -- this page partially fills the non-artistic gaps in my life but c'mon, it's a glorified diary.

I told Frank that if I don't break out of this adulthood rut, I'm going to have a "mid-life" crisis at 27. I have always called my sister-in-law Sarah a flake because she writes poetry and works in a cafe (what should I expect? She's still in college, for goodness sake!). I expect everyone to do as Ben and I did. We started career-track jobs one week after returning from our graduation present to ourselves -- a month in Europe. Since then, it's been marriage, financial planning, furniture refinishing ... it goes on and on.

This feeling will probably pass in a day or two -- probably after seeing a impossibly cute baby toddling down the street.

"Oh Ben, screw art and travel! I want a baby!" I'll say.

He'll say "not now" and I'll be upset until I realize that he knows me more than I know myself and I am in no way ready for a child.

Oh God, we're going straight to hell.

Stephen Hawking's electronic voice will soon be acquiring a British accent. It turns out that Hawking despises his American accent and is having an Indian firm outfit him with a more appropriate voice.

This article led me to recall the horribly offensive message that Ben and I once left on a friend's answering machine during high school. Yes, we were geeks. And 17 year-old geeks do stupid things -- stupid things like coming up with dirty pick-up lines for Stephen Hawking. Listen (208 k) if you aren't easily offended. Remember, we were only 17.

Apologies to Professor Hawking.

What are we doing for Mother's Day?

Easter dinner went remarkably well. We timed everything perfectly and the dishes managed to taste as we imagined they would.

Of course, we won't remember this Easter for the food.

In the future, it will be "Oh, yeah. That was the time...

I was frustrated when my parents wouldn't sit down at the table when I told them dinner was ready.

It was the time Ben and I couldn't find the CD folder where we keep all of our dinner music.

It was the time I was afraid that the creamy tomato bisque was going to burn while I looked for this same CD holder.

It was the time I snapped at my dad for wanting to hear music in the first place.

It was the time my dad threatened to leave our house since he wanted a "peaceful" holiday.

It was the time Ben had enough of family members (on both his side and mine) who threaten to leave family get-togethers.

It was the time Ben yelled "don't you dare leave this house!" at my dad, his father-in-law.

It was the time my dad replied "who the fuck does he think he is?"

It was the time we had a really good coconut cream pie.