These are old archived entries from my journal, Ornamental Illness. I have eliminated all graphics (except those in context of an entry) to save on my bandwidth usage.

Please visit my other sites below. I promise they're more visually interesting.

Ornamental Illness main entry page

Ann-S-Thesia Web Graphics

Ann's Gemstone Jewelry

The Dingbatcave

Art Objects

Eyebalm Fine Art

Windowsill Cactus

Friday, August 9, 2002

My cold dead hands!

Charleton Heston has the beginnings of alzheimers. Just that much closer to proving a link between alzheimers and GUN TOTIN' RIGHT WING REPUBLICANISM.

Posted by Ann on 08/09/02@03:52 PM CST ..::Link::..

Another new house DREAM

Stan and I were inside a new house (fairly new construction). We were going to buy it. It was a two story and had four bedrooms, but it only had one full bath; the master bath just had a shower not a full tub (Not that it would matter for a couple like us, but it's actually fewer full bathrooms than we presently have) and the tub that they did have was a hideous bluish turquoise made out of plastic and it was very shallow. New houses...yuck. The layout was pretty boring, and I was having second thoughts about getting this new house in place of our old one, even though there'd be more room for studios and all. It was just VERY BORING. As we were looking around in the lower level, I was flashing Stan something nasty. ;-) and hoping no one else would see because I think it was an open house. Then I had to tie my shoe and was looking around for some place to sit down, but all I could find were two small mattresses in one of the bedrooms. I couldn't figure out it was a bedroom for two kids or a dog, because I noticed very coarse black hair or fur on one of the mattresses.

Posted by Ann on 08/09/02@09:58 AM CST ..::Link::..

Thursday, August 8, 2002

Kvetch about excess

Too much talk on NPR today about what to do this September 11.

First it was the week anniversary, then the two week, then the month, then the two month, three month, half year, and now the memorial to end all memorials, the year anniversary.

"My boss will let us employees get off early."
"My parents are flying out here to be with us on September 11."
"We have the day off so that everyone can attend special events."
"My family will be taking a trip to New York City."
"We'll have a special inservice at work where we share our feelings about what happened."

Geez...doesn't anyone have to just go to work like any other day and perform their mundane tasks that they do every day? Looks like the terrorists have changed things, haven't they? Them and the privileged celebration party people who always can afford to have an excuse for time off from work for whatever their mood strikes. You probably already know what both camps can do with a certain posterior part of my anatomy.

Stan will be at work, just like he always is. So will I, at my computer at home, doing whatever I need to do, just like I always am.

People, just move on. Or DO you want the terroists to win? I would really like to see how foolish they look to people from other cultures, because they look damn ridiculous to me. These are the same people who couldn't get away with a wedding for less than $10,000.

And what is this with people suing McDonald's because they're fat? Hello? Like, they didn't know McDonald's has fattening food? Oooh, big conspiracy...McDonald's has been slipping tiny balls of fat in our meals and they NEVER TOLD US! Some people just need to win the Darwin "too fat to breed and make replicas of myself because I can't find my genitalia" award. And you know what they'll do IF they just happen to win their lawsuit? Go out to celebrate with a big meal!

It's like suing your drug dealer.

Posted by Ann on 08/08/02@02:25 PM CST ..::Link::..

Wednesday, August 7, 2002

The Google Award

Do you have something on your website that comes up as #1 on Google? I'm not talking about something that is relevant to your site, for example, if someone had a site dedicated to Old Mac Plus Macintosh Computers and their site came up #1 on a search of the same words, that's not the same thing as if their site came up as #1 on a search for Fashion Styles for Plus Size Old Women, beating out actual stores that really do sell clothes for large, elderly females. The latter is the Google Award, an unintentional benefit from your site's words that promote your site in a way it wasn't intended.

Ornamental Illness won the Google Award for "David Sedaris Stadium Pal" for its entry Better Living Through Pee Bags. I beat out,, online magazines like Salon that feature his writing, plus other journals, online booksellers, etc.

The Google Award is something you can only give yourself from analyzing your web site referrals.

I'm proud of my award. I'd like to thank all the little peebags...

Posted by Ann on 08/07/02@08:36 AM CST ..::Link::..

DREAMS - Pet Problems

Dream 1: Caligula, our cat, had somehow managed to wedge himself inside the top inner and outer glass areas of one of our bedroom windows. I found him there like that and started removing plants and stuff from the window so that I could extract him. As I pulled him out, he wasn't moving, and I feared his lungs collapsed. I started massaging his chest, trying to stimulate his lungs or heart, but he wasn't breathing. It was so sad.

Dream 2: Stan had taken the dogs somewhere, and when he returned, they didn't look like our dogs. Hieronymus's fur was darker and warmer colored...more tan or mahogany rather than the pale buff fawn color. Plato had more white on him and he looked more like one of the weird little mutt dogs in the neighborhood rather than Plato. We also were having Plato perform a trick where he jumped up for a biscuit, but he landed right on his back and I was afraid he'd broken it. I asked Stan, "are you sure these are our dogs?" He said something to the effect of, "Look, if you're worried that I picked up the wrong dogs, you should've come with me." I was thinking "I can't send you anywhere." The weird thing was, the dogs were responding to their names. I think this dream was also taking place somewhere around downtown Fort Collins.

Posted by Ann on 08/07/02@08:16 AM CST ..::Link::..

Tuesday, August 6, 2002

Why Plastic Surgery Will Actually Make The Human Species Uglier

While mentally flogging a dead horse in my recent journal subjects as I took my dog out to poop, I had this thought. If we continue to have cosmetic surgery as a society, we will in fact get uglier. How? If no one had plastic surgery, beautiful people will continue to breed with beautiful people, naturally increasing the beautiful population. Rich, old, homely men will still get young, beautiful, gold digging women who will temper their sub-par aesthetic genes with model good looks. Natural selection will select beauty, naturally. Get plastic surgery involved, and no one will know who is naturally comely, or who payed for their high cheekbones. Two people compelled toward eachother via an atavistic need to breed with the attractive of the species could actually be creating very ugly offspring, unbeknownst to eachother. It's almost a way of ensuring plastic surgeons stay in business from generation to generation.

Posted by Ann on 08/06/02@05:11 PM CST ..::Link::..

More talk about Love

You know what? I am psychic. I think she did get a nose job *after* this entry/dream of mine, which despite the erroneous Greymatterscriptscrewup top date, was actually posted on May 28 of this year (note the comments). Just doing a little of my own investigation...

I don't care what anyone says, I think she looked better pre-plastic surgery. So what if her nose was big. So what if anyone's nose is big. What is the BFD about bignosephobia and why can't people deal with what they are dealt when what they are dealt is perfectly in the range of NORMAL? It's not as if any of these plasticly-altered celebrities were the Elephant Man or something. On an related aside, take a look at this HisTory of Michael Jackson's face (which contains the hilariously memorable line "Even the staunch defenders of Michael's sanity have to admit the boy's cheese has slid off his cracker.")...will this be the fate of Courtney some day in her eternal quest for world domination?

My nose (and everything else on my body except for four teeth I had pulled by a dentist before I got braces when I was 13 so that all my teeth would fit in my mouth) is completely intact and screw anyone who suggests I should ever alter myself to look a certain way. And I am far from a model, it's not as if I have room to say this because I'm perfect. I have a big nose--not only is the bottom part bulbous, but it also has a bump on the bridge which I rather fancy. It actually looked bigger when I was younger before I got plumper cheeks to distract from its schnozzitude. I have no cheekbones. I'm short. I used to look heroin chic in an era when it wasn't cool to be and now I'm plumper than I should be in an era when it's cool to be heroin chic (according to society's standard). My head is long and narrow like anemic British royalty. My mouth is too small to accommodate all 32 teeth an adult is given, and if it weren't for the orthodontia my parents forced on me, I'd probably never open up my mouth to smile. And my severe jawline angle which contributes to my oral crowding would be a challenge for even the most skilled plastic surgeon to correct. But you know what? I don't care. You could offer me FREE plastic surgery and I wouldn't fix a thing.

Screw anyone who is so insecure with themselves that they resort to these sorts of operations that should be reserved for those who need it to function, breathe or just maintain a normal, healthy life. Plastic surgery should have a huge tax attached to it so that when one gets a vanity job, a large portion will go into a fund to help the truly unfortunate of this world whose deformities are actually causing them health problems.

On behalf of the TRUE punk women of this world (punk as an attitude, ethos and not a music label), screw plastic surgery. Screw those indulgers who can't deal with the truth which is themselves, screw them if they're so weak that they can't say "Yeah, I resemble my asshole father, so *uck*g' what?" (I'm also talking about someone Stan and I know personally here, not just famous celebrity hasbeens). You can disguise your face, but your soul will always show the truth.

Posted by Ann on 08/06/02@11:13 AM CST ..::Link::..

Rock and Roll Nightmare

No dreams last night. We watched "Kurt and Courtney" on the Sundance channel. I never saw it before, and recently, within the past few weeks, have thought I'd be ready to see it once and for all, after four years. I can't explain why I didn't want to see it's an emotional thing. But speak of the devil, so to speak, I checked the channel listings and there it was coincidentally on Sundance. I drank coffee to stay awake (I was quite tired yesterday), and after the movie even after taking two Calms, could not get to sleep. The movie operated on two levels. The first level was like a comedy of errors Spinal Tap. The interviewees that the filmmaker, Nick Broomfield, came up with were right out of rock and roll reject central casting. The amateurish quality of the film almost looked intentional, like how could anything be *that* amateurish without it being intentionally so? Why would a truly amateur film include such gafs like Nick walking into the wrong apartment, microphone and camera in tow, if it wasn't in fact a mockumentary? And no disrespect intended, but Kurt's Aunt Mary reminded me too much of SNL's Ana Gasteyer's music teacher character, although, admittedly, she was one of the brighter points in the film. Then there was another side, the sinister side. The David Lynch films incarnate side. All the while I felt I was trapped in the first part of "Fire Walk With Me" when Agent Desmond was going around asking people if they knew Teresa Banks. "Did you know Teresa Banks? Did you know Kurt Cobain?" Seeing Courtney Love in her nouveau phaux Hollywood plastic surgery persona was revolting. There was just something not right with that picture. Let me tell you one thing, any punk rock woman worth her salt and her words would never do a hatchet job on her face, regardless if her nose reminded her of her despised father or not. Now I'm not one to say Courtney murdered Kurt, but one does have to question her sincerity as a musician and her punk rock ethos. To me, her only ethos was to get famous, and she did it however she could and via any vehicle that was around, and that vehicle just happened to be punk and grunge. It was never about the music for was just about her.

Stan made the comment about Courtney's post-Kurt transformation, "She just became someone else." Which brings up one of my favorite movies, "Velvet Goldmine," executively produced, ironically, by Michael Stipe. That movie was loosely based on Ziggy Stardust-era Bowie along with character hybrids of Iggy Pop crossed with Lou Reed, plus others. However, recalling it now in light of "Kurt and Courtney," I am struck by the similarities between the main character Brian Slade and Courtney. They both "became someone else" after the "fake shooting incident" artificially transmogrified into untouchable megastars, unable to answer to the press when questioned about their past. I did wonder why Ewan McGregor's character of Curt Wild (why the name Curt, eh?) resembled Kurt Cobain more than the actual men he was based on, i.e., Pop and Reed, neither of whom resemble Cobain. Strange, hmmm? Brian Slade sees Curt Wild at a performance, falls in love, steals his ideas, and pretty much ruins his career. The only twist is that in Velvet Goldmine, Slade stages a shooting of himself in order to gain more popularity, rather than offing Wild.

As my brain ruminated through all of this information, it was quite a disturbing night. But it was also ironic how people in the town of Twin Peaks kept turning up dead, wasn't it?

Posted by Ann on 08/06/02@10:02 AM CST ..::Link::..

Monday, August 5, 2002

DREAM - Hotel

I was travelling somewhere with my parents and Stan. I checked into a hotel, a rather swanky one in a downtown area of a sort of smallish town. I was in a pickup (so un-me), and drove inside of the hotel with it. I was given room #119. My mom was with me, but Stan and my dad weren't around. We were driving up and down the halls looking for #119, but couldn't find it. Then we finally found it, but the door was disguised and behind a mirror. We entered the room, and it was huge, like a giant classroom. It didn't look like a hotel room at all. There were three huge beds with those tall posts (I actually hate those things), but they were all clustered together in a row...not very private. I was glad that the beds were so large, but wouldn't appreciate sleeping in such close proximity to my parents. Then Stan showed up and I asked him if he wanted to sleep here or in his own room. Weird.

Posted by Ann on 08/05/02@09:12 AM CST ..::Link::..
By Ann @ 20:56 PM CST:08:20:02 ..::Link::..