Well, a few people have stumbled across my blog (only a very few would do something so foolish on purpose) by using Google. This is a new thing for me. Apparently I am listed on the first page for a few search terms including a #2 rank for the phrases "undershirts everyday" and "Europeans and undershirts." I'm telling you, that's the benefit of using terms that most people don't use, like "undershirt" instead of "t-shirt." So that anyone else who uses the same term to search will find you! and not what he was really looking for.
I am more interested to announce, however, that someone found me by Googling "Impatiens, Fort Knocks." I cannot but think this person was looking for this site. But it probably wasn't someone whose blog I commented on... because the person would have just followed the links to me, right? So I guess someone came across this page and was just not-bored enough by it to want to swing by and see if it had gotten not-boring enough to read yet. Well, no such luck on that, I'm afraid.
But now I have to wonder... is that what really happened? I don't know anyone from New York (oh, yeah, it was a New Yorker), so I don't see what else it could be. And guess whether the mysterious peeker left a comment.
Of course not. Who are you, strange IP, that is interested enough to search for me, but not enough to say, "Hey, Fort Knocks, now you're only barely too boring to read," to which I would weep with equal parts joy, sorrow and Cubs-fan malaise, promising and begging with the alternate halves of my heart for better days.
How is it that I can get text messages, TEXT MESSAGES, from unsolicited sources, from marketers and from foreign personal callers with a subtle sexual bent, and not so much as a comment from someone who puts me at the top of the "almost not-boring" list?!
I've looked at other blogs before, I've flirted in my head, but any time I've gone back for a second look, I say, "Hey. Here I am. I like your moves. I dig your style." Except I don't sound so gay-- or maybe I do. Anyway, you're getting me off the point. The point is... I wonder who that was? What did I do right to attract the attention? What can I do better?
The only time I ever searched for a specific blog was when I had commented on it in politically forceful-ish language. It wasn't that bad. But all I remembered from the blog was that it was by a Jewish woman who had mentioned the Democrats' nominating Hillary, and said, "oh boy, oh boy, wouldn't Conservatives love that!" So there I was, trying to google "Hillary Jewish boy love" and "oh boy oh boy conservative Hillary Jew," and I just couldn't keep it up for long.
Besides, people walk past my back at work and can see my screen. I just hope they can't check my history.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Stories that aren't true, and a couple that are
Over the weekend, I heard someone talking about how he really appreciates self-defecating humor. I was confused to say the least, but also impressed. What could it possibly mean to have a self-defecating sense of humor? Does that mean you poop yourself in a really funny way? Or does your humor poop itself? Or do you poop humor? Or is it just the fact that pooping is funny, especially the facial expressions?
But to poop yourself in a funny way would require that you eat yourself first (you know, so you'd have something to poop). So, what? Amputate, broil and serve? I've heard of people eating their fingernails or boogers, but I just don't think there's enough there to get enough poop to be funny. Unless it's the fact that there's so little poop that makes it funny. Or if you mix the boogers with bran. Maybe make it a cereal-type deal.
Then again, I suppose poop is sort of a part of you-- I mean it's in you for a day or couple of days (or more, I guess, if you haven't had your metamucil). So why don't they just call it "defecating humor" instead of "self-defecating humor"? Maybe it means that hungover pooping (we call it birreria, which is actually Italian for beer store-- I know, those crazy dagos), where you actually slough off a bunch of intestinal lining and it feels like ejecting a pint of warm snot laced with tabasco sauce and chunks of jalapeno.
Well, anyway, it turns out it's self-deprecating humor, and there was no need for me to be so disgusting.
On Saturday, I went to a karaoke bar, and a girl slipped me a roofie. I did not know girls did this. I mean, I had never heard of a girl doing this. Ever. I thought I had picked her out, but looking back, it was clearly she who initiated the encounter by sidling up next to me at the bar, and whispering a sultry "sure, thanks!" to my offer of a drink. Well, one beer turned into three or four, and I had already had somewhere in the neighborhood of five. So I'm good and loopy but nowhere near passing out/blacking out phase. And I remember very clearly up to a certain point. I remember leaving for the bathroom, coming back to a fresh beer "my turn!" she smiled, and taking the first slug out of the bottle. And that's it. Bam. Complete blackout.
I wake up and it is dark. I mean dark. There are sheets on top of me. The bed is big-- king size big. It's warm, the heat must be up. There is breathing to my right. There is a tiny crack of light down near the foot of the bed, so I slooowly sit up, slowly reach out, and grab for it. Now I realize I am completely naked. Oh great, I think. Real great. Fricking perfect. Is this what getting raped is like?
The crack of light is the edge of an air-raid style heavy black curtain. And it's not that light, it's still nighttime outside. Oh, boy, my head feels hazy. And I know it's pitch dark, but my vision is still blurry as shit. And where the hell are my pants?
I shrug out of the sheet and slide myself down onto the floor at the foot of the bed. And start to crawl to the right, to go around the bed to the door. Yes, crawl. Keeping low, below the level of the bed. And now I am glad there is nary a photon of light, because this must look pretty ridiculous, crawling on elbows and knees, naked, in the pitch dark. But hallelujah, here are my jeans, right at the lower corner of the bed. We'll have to wait to get out the door to put them on, though.
Then it was the long, slow, inching crawl up past this sleeping figure, who starts every minute or two, so I have to stop and wait for the breathing to get regular again. But after fifteen minutes or so, I am past, through the doorway, and into the living room, pulling on my jeans as quietly as I can. Man, balancing on one foot was never harder, I swear.
My jacket is thrown on the floor near the door, fantastic. Pull that on. Shoes, socks, shirt, UNDERWEAR? No signs. "Oh well," I'm thinking, and run the cursory check: phone, wallet, key-- no fucking keys. You've got to be kidding me. Where are my effing keys?
I swear if it had been my phone, or even my wallet, I would have called it a sunk cost and bolted. But I can't drive my car without my keys. And I only have $7. Not even close to enough for a cab ride home. Thinking back, I guess I could have stopped at an ATM, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly at the time. So I tip-toe back towards the bedroom, thinking desperately, trying to remember anything, and trying to think of the best way to go about looking for the keys.
OWW!!! You know that feeling of stepping on a toy or a lego when you're a kid going to that bathroom in the middle of a night? It's much worse with keys. I almost yelled, and did definitely grunt, but I was over it in a second. Got my keys, baby!
So I went back to the door, undid the two locks, and opened it just a crack. And then before I left, I turned around, unzipped, and unloaded a full bladder's worth all over the carpeted living room floor.
And then it was out the door, down the stairs (how did she manage this?), and outside. And then I discovered that I was a good half mile from the bar and my car. (Seriously, how did she manage this? Was there a wheelbarrow involved?)
So I hoofed it back to the car, with the pavement very very cold on my bare feet, and the wind pretty cold on my bare chest. And I drove home.
OK, now on to some stuff that really did happen.
Did anybody else hear about the Australian bar maid who got arrested for crushing beer cans with her breasts? Does anybody else wonder how she did that? But still, my favorite part of the story is the "colleague" who "assisted the licence breach by helping to hang spoons from De Faveri’s nipples." I'm sorry, what? Couldn't the barmaid hang spoons from her own nipples? Did it require careful application of epoxy or something?
And wow. "A woman has been charged with letting her 15-year-old daughter lean out of a school van on a highway to get beer from an SUV full of boys, authorities said Wednesday.
Terry Kisling, 47, was driving a van of Norris High School cheerleaders to a football game in Nebraska City earlier this month when a group of boys pulled up next to them, principal John Skretta said.
One of the girls apparently signaled to the boys and asked for a beer, and Kisling inched the van closer to the SUV, letting her daughter lean out to grab the can."
I wish my mom was cool like that.
But to poop yourself in a funny way would require that you eat yourself first (you know, so you'd have something to poop). So, what? Amputate, broil and serve? I've heard of people eating their fingernails or boogers, but I just don't think there's enough there to get enough poop to be funny. Unless it's the fact that there's so little poop that makes it funny. Or if you mix the boogers with bran. Maybe make it a cereal-type deal.
Then again, I suppose poop is sort of a part of you-- I mean it's in you for a day or couple of days (or more, I guess, if you haven't had your metamucil). So why don't they just call it "defecating humor" instead of "self-defecating humor"? Maybe it means that hungover pooping (we call it birreria, which is actually Italian for beer store-- I know, those crazy dagos), where you actually slough off a bunch of intestinal lining and it feels like ejecting a pint of warm snot laced with tabasco sauce and chunks of jalapeno.
Well, anyway, it turns out it's self-deprecating humor, and there was no need for me to be so disgusting.
On Saturday, I went to a karaoke bar, and a girl slipped me a roofie. I did not know girls did this. I mean, I had never heard of a girl doing this. Ever. I thought I had picked her out, but looking back, it was clearly she who initiated the encounter by sidling up next to me at the bar, and whispering a sultry "sure, thanks!" to my offer of a drink. Well, one beer turned into three or four, and I had already had somewhere in the neighborhood of five. So I'm good and loopy but nowhere near passing out/blacking out phase. And I remember very clearly up to a certain point. I remember leaving for the bathroom, coming back to a fresh beer "my turn!" she smiled, and taking the first slug out of the bottle. And that's it. Bam. Complete blackout.
I wake up and it is dark. I mean dark. There are sheets on top of me. The bed is big-- king size big. It's warm, the heat must be up. There is breathing to my right. There is a tiny crack of light down near the foot of the bed, so I slooowly sit up, slowly reach out, and grab for it. Now I realize I am completely naked. Oh great, I think. Real great. Fricking perfect. Is this what getting raped is like?
The crack of light is the edge of an air-raid style heavy black curtain. And it's not that light, it's still nighttime outside. Oh, boy, my head feels hazy. And I know it's pitch dark, but my vision is still blurry as shit. And where the hell are my pants?
I shrug out of the sheet and slide myself down onto the floor at the foot of the bed. And start to crawl to the right, to go around the bed to the door. Yes, crawl. Keeping low, below the level of the bed. And now I am glad there is nary a photon of light, because this must look pretty ridiculous, crawling on elbows and knees, naked, in the pitch dark. But hallelujah, here are my jeans, right at the lower corner of the bed. We'll have to wait to get out the door to put them on, though.
Then it was the long, slow, inching crawl up past this sleeping figure, who starts every minute or two, so I have to stop and wait for the breathing to get regular again. But after fifteen minutes or so, I am past, through the doorway, and into the living room, pulling on my jeans as quietly as I can. Man, balancing on one foot was never harder, I swear.
My jacket is thrown on the floor near the door, fantastic. Pull that on. Shoes, socks, shirt, UNDERWEAR? No signs. "Oh well," I'm thinking, and run the cursory check: phone, wallet, key-- no fucking keys. You've got to be kidding me. Where are my effing keys?
I swear if it had been my phone, or even my wallet, I would have called it a sunk cost and bolted. But I can't drive my car without my keys. And I only have $7. Not even close to enough for a cab ride home. Thinking back, I guess I could have stopped at an ATM, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly at the time. So I tip-toe back towards the bedroom, thinking desperately, trying to remember anything, and trying to think of the best way to go about looking for the keys.
OWW!!! You know that feeling of stepping on a toy or a lego when you're a kid going to that bathroom in the middle of a night? It's much worse with keys. I almost yelled, and did definitely grunt, but I was over it in a second. Got my keys, baby!
So I went back to the door, undid the two locks, and opened it just a crack. And then before I left, I turned around, unzipped, and unloaded a full bladder's worth all over the carpeted living room floor.
And then it was out the door, down the stairs (how did she manage this?), and outside. And then I discovered that I was a good half mile from the bar and my car. (Seriously, how did she manage this? Was there a wheelbarrow involved?)
So I hoofed it back to the car, with the pavement very very cold on my bare feet, and the wind pretty cold on my bare chest. And I drove home.
OK, now on to some stuff that really did happen.
Did anybody else hear about the Australian bar maid who got arrested for crushing beer cans with her breasts? Does anybody else wonder how she did that? But still, my favorite part of the story is the "colleague" who "assisted the licence breach by helping to hang spoons from De Faveri’s nipples." I'm sorry, what? Couldn't the barmaid hang spoons from her own nipples? Did it require careful application of epoxy or something?
And wow. "A woman has been charged with letting her 15-year-old daughter lean out of a school van on a highway to get beer from an SUV full of boys, authorities said Wednesday.
Terry Kisling, 47, was driving a van of Norris High School cheerleaders to a football game in Nebraska City earlier this month when a group of boys pulled up next to them, principal John Skretta said.
One of the girls apparently signaled to the boys and asked for a beer, and Kisling inched the van closer to the SUV, letting her daughter lean out to grab the can."
I wish my mom was cool like that.
Another stunt for the billionaire hack shitty-writer-british-whorebag
Does anyone still think Harry Potter doesn't suck? Does anyone doubt that JK Rowling is a pandering hack?
OK, what about now?
OK, what about now?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I hope this doesn't come out wrong. No seriously, I do.
Well, it's been noted that some of my recent posts have been a little racy. So how about instead of racy, I go with racist?
No, not really, of course, even though some people will think that's what this is. So let me preface the rest of this by saying that I am not a racist. or a sexist. I believe everyone is equal in basic human dignity.
I do not, however, believe that everyone is the same. I think it's a good idea for men and women to use separate bathrooms. Separate but equal. ok, it makes sense here, unlike separating drinking fountains by race, because people expose themselves when they go to the bathroom, and we deserve a measure of sexual privacy. So separate the bathrooms.
Races are different physically; this is not up for debate. It is not racist to say that a black guy is black, or that a white guy is white. They are.
Black people tend to have more fast-twitch muscles than white people, which means a lot of the time, they can jump higher and run faster. Eskimos are fatter, on average; they have a layer of fat that acts like blubber insulation. It's not racist to say these things; they're just true. Mexicans and Asians tend to be shorter than black people and white people.
Now are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. But that doesn't mean the tendency isn't there.
Most NBA players are black-- a much higher percentage than in the rest of the population. Is that surprising?
No, you say, that's a cultural phenomenon. Black kids grow up playing basketball, white kids play baseball and soccer, so of course most NBA players will be black. Well, I don't think that account for the disparity, but OK, I’ll give it to you.
How about track? Track is as mixed a sport as you can find—and in some areas, dominated by white kids. But the best ones, the world class sprinters,… Green, Johnson, Gay, Montgomery, Lewis—they’re all black.
So black people can run faster—ok. So what? They have different genes; it makes sense.
So why is it impossible that intelligence might have trends across racial lines? Why is it impossible that white people might have a higher average intelligence than black people?
Are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. Look at Condoleeza Rice, Martin Luther King, Alan Keyes, Chinua Achebe, Paris Hilton and my dumbass cousin Kenny.
But then the guy who won the Nobel Prize for discovering the structure of the DNA molecule (I’d think he’s got a pretty decent grasp on genetics) gets suspended and run out of the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in New York, for saying that he was “inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa” because “all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours — whereas all the testing says not really.”
Read the whole story here
The Mayor of London called it “racist propaganda.” And they threw his 79-year-old ass out on the street.
Look, I have no idea if white people are smarter than black people. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. But I don’t think we can say with certainty that it’s not true. And if the guy who invented the field says he thinks the evidence indicates a certain thing, I wouldn’t be the first one to crucify him.
So there it is. Is that racist? I don’t think so. People are different. We’re equal, yes, but we’re not the same. If we were all the same, damn, the world would be a boring place to live.
Enslaving people of a different race? That’s a horrible, damnable violation of their human dignity.
Genocide? Ditto.
Saying black people can jump higher than white people? Ok, as far as I can see.
Saying American Indians are genetically predisposed to alcoholism? Unfortunately true.
Saying white people tend to be smarter than black people? I don’t know, let’s see the evidence. But don’t call someone who says it a racist if we really don’t know.
No, not really, of course, even though some people will think that's what this is. So let me preface the rest of this by saying that I am not a racist. or a sexist. I believe everyone is equal in basic human dignity.
I do not, however, believe that everyone is the same. I think it's a good idea for men and women to use separate bathrooms. Separate but equal. ok, it makes sense here, unlike separating drinking fountains by race, because people expose themselves when they go to the bathroom, and we deserve a measure of sexual privacy. So separate the bathrooms.
Races are different physically; this is not up for debate. It is not racist to say that a black guy is black, or that a white guy is white. They are.
Black people tend to have more fast-twitch muscles than white people, which means a lot of the time, they can jump higher and run faster. Eskimos are fatter, on average; they have a layer of fat that acts like blubber insulation. It's not racist to say these things; they're just true. Mexicans and Asians tend to be shorter than black people and white people.
Now are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. But that doesn't mean the tendency isn't there.
Most NBA players are black-- a much higher percentage than in the rest of the population. Is that surprising?
No, you say, that's a cultural phenomenon. Black kids grow up playing basketball, white kids play baseball and soccer, so of course most NBA players will be black. Well, I don't think that account for the disparity, but OK, I’ll give it to you.
How about track? Track is as mixed a sport as you can find—and in some areas, dominated by white kids. But the best ones, the world class sprinters,… Green, Johnson, Gay, Montgomery, Lewis—they’re all black.
So black people can run faster—ok. So what? They have different genes; it makes sense.
So why is it impossible that intelligence might have trends across racial lines? Why is it impossible that white people might have a higher average intelligence than black people?
Are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. Look at Condoleeza Rice, Martin Luther King, Alan Keyes, Chinua Achebe, Paris Hilton and my dumbass cousin Kenny.
But then the guy who won the Nobel Prize for discovering the structure of the DNA molecule (I’d think he’s got a pretty decent grasp on genetics) gets suspended and run out of the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in New York, for saying that he was “inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa” because “all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours — whereas all the testing says not really.”
Read the whole story here
The Mayor of London called it “racist propaganda.” And they threw his 79-year-old ass out on the street.
Look, I have no idea if white people are smarter than black people. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. But I don’t think we can say with certainty that it’s not true. And if the guy who invented the field says he thinks the evidence indicates a certain thing, I wouldn’t be the first one to crucify him.
So there it is. Is that racist? I don’t think so. People are different. We’re equal, yes, but we’re not the same. If we were all the same, damn, the world would be a boring place to live.
Enslaving people of a different race? That’s a horrible, damnable violation of their human dignity.
Genocide? Ditto.
Saying black people can jump higher than white people? Ok, as far as I can see.
Saying American Indians are genetically predisposed to alcoholism? Unfortunately true.
Saying white people tend to be smarter than black people? I don’t know, let’s see the evidence. But don’t call someone who says it a racist if we really don’t know.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
can't you smell that smell?
For the life of me, I cannot decide what smells better: a clean, beautiful, fragrant woman, or a beef/sausage combo from Portillo's. Obviously both are intensely arousing and immediately distract me from whatever I was doing.
Obviously both are waaaaay better when you're drunk.
But it gets tricky because the Smell-Goodness Factor (SGF) varies so much more with the combo. Obviously, the combo smells great at the end of a long night out (but so does the girl), obviously after a long day at work (but so does the girl), obviously first thing in the morning (and so does the girl). But the key is this: right after you've pleasured yourself completely with the combo, it doesn't smell as good anymore. This is unlike the girl.
No no, I'm not talking about when you hook up with a girl and have that awkward mild regret, or even real embarrassment if the beer goggles were a particularly high prescription.
I'm talking about the visceral repulsion of a giant stinky dripping beefy sandwich when you've just finished your own. Immediately after the ecstasy of your oral combo experience, you feel a little bit dirty, and not immediately ready for another go-round.
Also, you have to pay for them, which is not like the women I am talking about.
This is why I have come to the conclusion that combos are a type of prostitute. You're in the mood, one comes along, you can't resist, you do the deed, and afterwards you feel a little guilty and you're off them for a while.
But hoo-boy, just for a while.
Combo, I wish I could quit you.
Obviously both are waaaaay better when you're drunk.
But it gets tricky because the Smell-Goodness Factor (SGF) varies so much more with the combo. Obviously, the combo smells great at the end of a long night out (but so does the girl), obviously after a long day at work (but so does the girl), obviously first thing in the morning (and so does the girl). But the key is this: right after you've pleasured yourself completely with the combo, it doesn't smell as good anymore. This is unlike the girl.
No no, I'm not talking about when you hook up with a girl and have that awkward mild regret, or even real embarrassment if the beer goggles were a particularly high prescription.
I'm talking about the visceral repulsion of a giant stinky dripping beefy sandwich when you've just finished your own. Immediately after the ecstasy of your oral combo experience, you feel a little bit dirty, and not immediately ready for another go-round.
Also, you have to pay for them, which is not like the women I am talking about.
This is why I have come to the conclusion that combos are a type of prostitute. You're in the mood, one comes along, you can't resist, you do the deed, and afterwards you feel a little guilty and you're off them for a while.
But hoo-boy, just for a while.
Combo, I wish I could quit you.
Monday, October 22, 2007
I am the kind of guy you hear about, if, you know, you're a therapist: a three-strike story
"That's a nice dress," I said, "it allows everyone a nice view of your breasts."
She narrowed her eyes for a moment. "I'm Christine."
"Good, good. Can you get me a drink?"
Another pause. More narrowed eyes. "I can't decide if you're funny, if you're nice, or if you're an asshole," she said, "but it's one of the three."
"Both," I said and smiled. Then I planted a kiss on her mouth and left to get myself another beer.
Later, after we had snoggled for a while, she asked me if I wanted to come to her place. "Hey, want to come to my place?" she said.
"No."
And then, for the first of three times, she gave me a chance to take back a mistake. "You're not that type of guy, huh?"
"No, no," I said, "I'm just not interested." Then I laughed, and she laughed too-- a little uneasily at first, but then more heartily.
"Nice, funny, or asshole, it's one of the three," she said again. We resumed snoggling.
This continued for some time. "There's a lot of you to handle," I observed presently. She looked at me, not even asking what I meant. She was pretty apparently confused. I clarified for her. "Like, the handles-- the fat rolls, you know?"
She masked her hurt by putting on a hurt face. "You can NOT say that to a girl," she said. It was strike two.
She decided to leave. It was pretty late. We were at the door. "Why haven't you asked for my phone number?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm not interested," I told her, which was true enough.
She laughed again, but more tentatively now. "You won't take my phone number, huh?" she smiled.
"No, thanks."
She went down the stairs more rapidly, calling after her, "I know which one of the three you are now!"
"No you don't," I reassured her, and laughed and laughed.
It was a very tongue-in-cheek night.
She narrowed her eyes for a moment. "I'm Christine."
"Good, good. Can you get me a drink?"
Another pause. More narrowed eyes. "I can't decide if you're funny, if you're nice, or if you're an asshole," she said, "but it's one of the three."
"Both," I said and smiled. Then I planted a kiss on her mouth and left to get myself another beer.
Later, after we had snoggled for a while, she asked me if I wanted to come to her place. "Hey, want to come to my place?" she said.
"No."
And then, for the first of three times, she gave me a chance to take back a mistake. "You're not that type of guy, huh?"
"No, no," I said, "I'm just not interested." Then I laughed, and she laughed too-- a little uneasily at first, but then more heartily.
"Nice, funny, or asshole, it's one of the three," she said again. We resumed snoggling.
This continued for some time. "There's a lot of you to handle," I observed presently. She looked at me, not even asking what I meant. She was pretty apparently confused. I clarified for her. "Like, the handles-- the fat rolls, you know?"
She masked her hurt by putting on a hurt face. "You can NOT say that to a girl," she said. It was strike two.
She decided to leave. It was pretty late. We were at the door. "Why haven't you asked for my phone number?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm not interested," I told her, which was true enough.
She laughed again, but more tentatively now. "You won't take my phone number, huh?" she smiled.
"No, thanks."
She went down the stairs more rapidly, calling after her, "I know which one of the three you are now!"
"No you don't," I reassured her, and laughed and laughed.
It was a very tongue-in-cheek night.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The phrase is "tongue-in-cheek"
Top five things I do every day that you don’t and how it is ok to feel about them
But before we get to that, I would like to offer a final explanation for my belief that thinking is better than feeling. You might remember the beginning of this monologue (I’d prefer not to call it a diatribe, but whatever-- maybe we can go with sermon) from this post. To summarize, I sometimes have trouble apologizing because my attitude is mistaken for flippant when I intend to signify mutual forgiveness. I mean to convey “I’m over it, I hope you’re over it, are we good? Ok great,” and instead am interpreted as, “I don’t care, you might be hurt but I’m not, so I piss on you.”
But here’s the deal, people: if I say I’m sorry, please have the courtesy to believe me. And don’t judge me by how you feel about what I feel, judge me by what you think about what I say.
Why? Because do you know what I think about all your feelings? They’re so unoriginal. They’re the most unoriginal thing about you, and you are a pretty unoriginal person. Yeah, you feel unique? Guess what? Thousands, millions of people have felt unique before you. You feel sad? Lonely? Content? Depressed? Overjoyed? So has everyone else. So don’t tell me you feel upset about some situation, for God’s sake; I’m bored already. Everyone feels upset about situations. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you want to do-- because no one has ever thought these specific things and done these specific things before. But everyone on God’s green earth has felt the way you feel. So if that’s all you want to talk about, go tell someone who likes hearing the same thing all the time, over and over again.
Basically, I’m talking to all you women out there. Feelings are so boring. So start thinking, you know, with your brain? And stop feeling. And for God’s sake, don’t even think of telling me how this makes you feel. I swear I’d rather drown myself in a shallow pool of my own urine.
I am going to be such a good husband. On to the list:
Top five things I do every day that I bet you don’t, and acceptable ways to describe how I feel about them
1. Drive to work in a car that is 14 years old. Plus, the previous owner, who is also my landlord, who is also my mother, who also gave me the car for free this summer, crashed it, or let one or more of her dumb sons crash it (no, actually, I never did-- that was my dumb brothers) and it’s pretty beat up. It makes me feel like Ace Ventura, only with better hair. Or maybe I mean worse hair. Well, anyway, more mundane hair. And smaller teeth. See? It’s ok to say that, because feeling like Ace Ventura is not a common thing. This is not a thing people have boring heart-to-hearts about because no one ever felt like Ace Ventura, because he wasn’t a real person. So it’s ok to say you feel like a fictional character. Except to feel like Leo DiCaprio in Titanic as the king of the world, or like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, because, yeah, dumbass, my cousin has said that before you. And he’s seven and has water in his brain.
2. Eat three soft-boiled eggs every morning for breakfast. Sure, they might be a little slimy, and sure they might smell a little like a dusty fart, but they got plenty of protein. Which is why they make me feel like a domesticated pro wrestler without the roids. I remember an old baseball teammate telling me about how his brother had three eggs for breakfast every morning to put on weight because he was a wrestler, and running out of ways to eat them, so he just ate them raw, and I remember thinking “man, your brother sounds like a douche bag,” but I didn’t say that because the guy was bigger than I was. The only time I ate raw eggs was when my rich friend offered to buy me two thirty packs in college to eat one in the shell, so that was obviously a great deal (if you’ve been to college, you know I’m right).
Sidenote: my Microsoft Works Word Processor just auto-corrected douchebag to douche bag. I think this is either the hippest word processor program ever, or my computer is making fun of me. Or maybe both.
3. Have a well-motivated bowel movement between 10 and 11 am every day. This makes me feel two things: regular, and clever for thinking of the term ‘regular.’ And no, that is not why I poop at the same time every day. I just do.
4. Eat a lunch prepared by my mother. Yes, indeed, she is not just my transportation source and landlord, but also a hell of a chef. And when I got back from work today, it was just in time for a delicious plate of spaghetti. And oh yeah, remember those soft-boiled eggs from earlier? Yeah, she made those too. So how do I feel about that?
The perfect blend of the seemingly contradictory smug and embarrassed. Hey, I’ve got a lunch that everybody envies, but at the same time, I’m twenty-one and my mother is making all of my meals. Actually, my feelings are deep and complicated on this matter. I feel alone, and yet united to the world. I feel complicated and deceptive, and yet cathartically honest. I feel alone and together.
There, see how gay that was? I eat the lunch prepared by my mother, and I feel Roman, because the Romans had a matrilineal society, and mothers were important to Romans. So even though my nose is a generic Irish pug and I fricking detest toga parties, I like olives, pita bread and my mom. And vomitoriums, at times.
5. Gauge the traffic to my blog according to IP address. That’s right, I know who you are. That makes me feel like Norman Bates without the shower. And if you’ve heard that before, if you think that doesn’t prove my point, if you’ve heard of this emotion before, well then… I guess I was talking too loud while looking through the pinhole in your cubicle. No, over here, on the other side.
And we’ll stop this before your feelings get the best of you and you scream for the janitor, because he’ll find me here for sure. Damn feelings.
But before we get to that, I would like to offer a final explanation for my belief that thinking is better than feeling. You might remember the beginning of this monologue (I’d prefer not to call it a diatribe, but whatever-- maybe we can go with sermon) from this post. To summarize, I sometimes have trouble apologizing because my attitude is mistaken for flippant when I intend to signify mutual forgiveness. I mean to convey “I’m over it, I hope you’re over it, are we good? Ok great,” and instead am interpreted as, “I don’t care, you might be hurt but I’m not, so I piss on you.”
But here’s the deal, people: if I say I’m sorry, please have the courtesy to believe me. And don’t judge me by how you feel about what I feel, judge me by what you think about what I say.
Why? Because do you know what I think about all your feelings? They’re so unoriginal. They’re the most unoriginal thing about you, and you are a pretty unoriginal person. Yeah, you feel unique? Guess what? Thousands, millions of people have felt unique before you. You feel sad? Lonely? Content? Depressed? Overjoyed? So has everyone else. So don’t tell me you feel upset about some situation, for God’s sake; I’m bored already. Everyone feels upset about situations. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you want to do-- because no one has ever thought these specific things and done these specific things before. But everyone on God’s green earth has felt the way you feel. So if that’s all you want to talk about, go tell someone who likes hearing the same thing all the time, over and over again.
Basically, I’m talking to all you women out there. Feelings are so boring. So start thinking, you know, with your brain? And stop feeling. And for God’s sake, don’t even think of telling me how this makes you feel. I swear I’d rather drown myself in a shallow pool of my own urine.
I am going to be such a good husband. On to the list:
Top five things I do every day that I bet you don’t, and acceptable ways to describe how I feel about them
1. Drive to work in a car that is 14 years old. Plus, the previous owner, who is also my landlord, who is also my mother, who also gave me the car for free this summer, crashed it, or let one or more of her dumb sons crash it (no, actually, I never did-- that was my dumb brothers) and it’s pretty beat up. It makes me feel like Ace Ventura, only with better hair. Or maybe I mean worse hair. Well, anyway, more mundane hair. And smaller teeth. See? It’s ok to say that, because feeling like Ace Ventura is not a common thing. This is not a thing people have boring heart-to-hearts about because no one ever felt like Ace Ventura, because he wasn’t a real person. So it’s ok to say you feel like a fictional character. Except to feel like Leo DiCaprio in Titanic as the king of the world, or like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, because, yeah, dumbass, my cousin has said that before you. And he’s seven and has water in his brain.
2. Eat three soft-boiled eggs every morning for breakfast. Sure, they might be a little slimy, and sure they might smell a little like a dusty fart, but they got plenty of protein. Which is why they make me feel like a domesticated pro wrestler without the roids. I remember an old baseball teammate telling me about how his brother had three eggs for breakfast every morning to put on weight because he was a wrestler, and running out of ways to eat them, so he just ate them raw, and I remember thinking “man, your brother sounds like a douche bag,” but I didn’t say that because the guy was bigger than I was. The only time I ate raw eggs was when my rich friend offered to buy me two thirty packs in college to eat one in the shell, so that was obviously a great deal (if you’ve been to college, you know I’m right).
Sidenote: my Microsoft Works Word Processor just auto-corrected douchebag to douche bag. I think this is either the hippest word processor program ever, or my computer is making fun of me. Or maybe both.
3. Have a well-motivated bowel movement between 10 and 11 am every day. This makes me feel two things: regular, and clever for thinking of the term ‘regular.’ And no, that is not why I poop at the same time every day. I just do.
4. Eat a lunch prepared by my mother. Yes, indeed, she is not just my transportation source and landlord, but also a hell of a chef. And when I got back from work today, it was just in time for a delicious plate of spaghetti. And oh yeah, remember those soft-boiled eggs from earlier? Yeah, she made those too. So how do I feel about that?
The perfect blend of the seemingly contradictory smug and embarrassed. Hey, I’ve got a lunch that everybody envies, but at the same time, I’m twenty-one and my mother is making all of my meals. Actually, my feelings are deep and complicated on this matter. I feel alone, and yet united to the world. I feel complicated and deceptive, and yet cathartically honest. I feel alone and together.
There, see how gay that was? I eat the lunch prepared by my mother, and I feel Roman, because the Romans had a matrilineal society, and mothers were important to Romans. So even though my nose is a generic Irish pug and I fricking detest toga parties, I like olives, pita bread and my mom. And vomitoriums, at times.
5. Gauge the traffic to my blog according to IP address. That’s right, I know who you are. That makes me feel like Norman Bates without the shower. And if you’ve heard that before, if you think that doesn’t prove my point, if you’ve heard of this emotion before, well then… I guess I was talking too loud while looking through the pinhole in your cubicle. No, over here, on the other side.
And we’ll stop this before your feelings get the best of you and you scream for the janitor, because he’ll find me here for sure. Damn feelings.
Monday, October 15, 2007
I am such a slutty lush
I couldn't figure out whether to write that as the title, or go with:
My boss farted in my eye, figuratively
but they say "sex sells," and I say, "the first round's on me."
I am wearing panties to work today. A nice, blue-green striped number that really makes me feel liberated, and oh-so-undomesticated. This is me.
I like the feeling that all these women I work with don't know the big strong guy is actually wearing silk panties. And I like the feeling of silk panties. on my undercarriage.
I sprained my foot on Saturday playing football. Those guys didn't know I was wearing panties either, but that's not the point. The point is, how bullshit is spraining your foot? It's not even a joint, it should be impossible to sprain. But I managed, and it hurts more than that Wendy's commercial with the guys whispering "two ninety-nine" to each other that makes me want to mash their faces. and pee in a frosty.
Then, after spraining my foot and having it examined by another player, my cousin, who is an orthopedic surgeon and can do such things, I got drunk and drove around. And Sunday morning, I had no idea where my car was, and I was pretty sure that I had crashed and/or left my car somewhere behind in the night. But it turns out I just parked it in the street, so all's well that ends well, right?
Then I choked a baby, and cut off a puppy's tail. and put on panties. But don't worry, most of the stuff in this post didn't really happen. Now if you'll excuse me, my panties are riding up a little, and I need to adjust them.
My boss farted in my eye, figuratively
but they say "sex sells," and I say, "the first round's on me."
I am wearing panties to work today. A nice, blue-green striped number that really makes me feel liberated, and oh-so-undomesticated. This is me.
I like the feeling that all these women I work with don't know the big strong guy is actually wearing silk panties. And I like the feeling of silk panties. on my undercarriage.
I sprained my foot on Saturday playing football. Those guys didn't know I was wearing panties either, but that's not the point. The point is, how bullshit is spraining your foot? It's not even a joint, it should be impossible to sprain. But I managed, and it hurts more than that Wendy's commercial with the guys whispering "two ninety-nine" to each other that makes me want to mash their faces. and pee in a frosty.
Then, after spraining my foot and having it examined by another player, my cousin, who is an orthopedic surgeon and can do such things, I got drunk and drove around. And Sunday morning, I had no idea where my car was, and I was pretty sure that I had crashed and/or left my car somewhere behind in the night. But it turns out I just parked it in the street, so all's well that ends well, right?
Then I choked a baby, and cut off a puppy's tail. and put on panties. But don't worry, most of the stuff in this post didn't really happen. Now if you'll excuse me, my panties are riding up a little, and I need to adjust them.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Quick Question
I haven't smoked this week, but I sorta feel like a cigarette right now.
Pro:
It's the weekend, after all
I want one
Con:
It's smoking
So should I go get some smokes, or not?
Pro:
It's the weekend, after all
I want one
Con:
It's smoking
So should I go get some smokes, or not?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I wrote this last night on my computer
using Microsoft Works Word Processor, and saved it to a CD, and the computers at work only have Word, and Word can't read Word Processor. Are you kidding? It's not even like I used Apple or Linux or anything else, they're both Microsoft. So anyway, it inserted a space after every character, and it took me too long to fix the first two paragraphs, so just deal with it.
ok I fixed it. Never mind.
So while I was suffering through another bathroom trip today at work, pulling my pants up after finishing my chores, I said to myself, "he pulls up his pants, grasping them by the seat, grabbing those pants by the back." And how about that: the back of pants is the same thing as the seat of pants. So I say we start calling a big ass a “backseat,” rather than, or in addition to, the phrase “junk in the trunk,” because “junk in the trunk” is vastly overused. Think of this for a moment please. “Whoah, dude, check out that girls backseat! You could land a Huey on that thing!”
Then I said, “boy, it sure is pretentious of me to narrate my own life. But it’s kind of funny too. Eccentric and cute. My narcissism is the best ever.” And then as I walked back to my desk, I said, “and narrating my own life has its upsides too. On the way to the bathroom, for example, as I reassuringly predicted that it would be unoccupied, and spoke soothingly while turning the knob and opening the door, I relieved myself.” And then I laughed lightly, and said, “he surely is a jokester.” And the cute girl from logistics looked at me like she had just eaten bad sushi.
If you’re wondering what the narration sounds like right now, it’s “he takes another sip of martini, which really isn’t good. He wonders why he made it for himself.”
Speaking of the bathroom, I would like to update/explain my William Carlos Williams imitation. I went in there on Monday, and discovered that the reason it smelled like someone had shit in the garbage was because someone had shit in the garbage. Trust me, it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. I peeked over the edge holding my breath, and saw a multitude of wadded toilet paper and paper towels smeared and covered in poop. So, yeah, someone took a dump in the trash. I shit you not. I wish he hadn’t either.
Now, on to the top fives. I thought top five lists would be a good idea to add; lists are alway fun. Like Schindler’s List. Who didn’t giggle all the way through that one? I guess I was still a little drunk this morning when I woke up, because I took notes for what seemed like a great top five while I was shaving, and texted them to myself. The list consisted of four words: “razor mustache hair temp.” So, great list, huh? But I will try to explain
Top Five things I was thinking while shaving this morning that seemed pretty damn profound at the time
1. Razor. I do not have a razor, so I shave with replacement blades, clutched between thumb and forefinger. And you know what? The blades are good, and a razor to fit them would cost $25 or so, and I think I can manage. So whatever.
2. Mustache. “Always apply shaving cream to your mustache last, because you can use as little or as much shaving cream as you need to make it come out even.” I was thinking this because I had already filled the sink (to rinse and re-rinse my nub of a razor) and I didn’t want to sully it with shaving cream before it was really time. I don’t know what about the upper lip seems perfect to bear a heap of shaving cream one day and a paucity the next. I think it might have had something to do with Hercule Poirot or whether bears give bear hugs, but I don’t really know.
3. Hair. I am one of those who, squeezed for time, will sacrifice a shower in the morning and instead splash water over my hair to create the appearance of having showered. Am I alone in this? Is this unethical?
side note: the martini is starting to taste better. He feels a growing warmth in his belly that makes him feel comfortably resolute against the cold wind at the windows.
4. Temp. I know this stands for temperature, not temporary or tempered steel or temptation, or Temple University, because I remember wondering if I needed to type it all out or if I would remember. Right about then, I had to stop texting myself and get dressed, because I was beginning to carve small holes in my undershirt with my frigid and erect nipples.
side note: My entire 53 gigabyte database of music (16000 some songs) was on shuffle, but Pete Yorn’s Nightcrawler just came on, and I am turning shuffle off. This is a good album
5. There was no number five. I guess I can say that my final thought while shaving was that it would be a good idea to text myself an awesome list that totally sucked. And that it was getting cold and my nipples had upgraded from firm to rigid and the graduation to diamond-cutter-erect was imminent.
I have been noticing that most bloggers whose blogs I really enjoy are big on two things: Arrested Development and alcohol. I guess since Arrested Development is the wittiest show ever on TV, good bloggers might like it. And I guess people who wast their lives with tons of TV and alcohol will also be the type to waste hours and hours blogging. So I aspire to greatness. I love Arrested Development, and alcohol is why I get up in the morning. And, excessive comma use.
Top three shows that I would rather have my knees taken out by a linebacker than watch
1. Ugly Betty. It’s pretty much one big platitude, one big exercise in apology for political correctness. I get it. Don’t judge. The acting and plot lines still suck and honestly, I don’t watch sitcoms for the life lessons, surprisingly enough. Plus, she’s ugly.
2. Grey’s Anatomy. I saw one episode of this show a year ago, or maybe two years ago, and I am certain that it is the worst show on TV. Ever. I felt very much like I did after reading the first Harry Potter book. After months of deriding and ridiculing, I began to lose credibility, because, well, I had never read a book or seen a show. So I did one of each. And they were so bad, I will never go there again. Sandra Oh looks like her time in the make-up trailer consists of a team of technicians lying her on her back and running over her face with a steamroller repeatedly. And then a touch of rouge, you re good to go, Sandra. And Ellen Pompeo is a tramp. Plus, she’s ugly.
3. Kid nation. If a show is going to take advantage of child-labor-law-loopholes and abuse children for extended periods of time in exchange for a nominal fee, at least it shouldn’t be really boring too. Plus, she’s ugly.
side note: my martini tastes really sweet now. Like, cloyingly sweet. I better freshen it up. Excuse me.
Oh, that reminds me: roofies. I guess I’ll have to tell you that story next time.
The word of the day is fiduciary. Just admit it, when you say it, you smirk a little bit.
Now about that martini.
ok I fixed it. Never mind.
So while I was suffering through another bathroom trip today at work, pulling my pants up after finishing my chores, I said to myself, "he pulls up his pants, grasping them by the seat, grabbing those pants by the back." And how about that: the back of pants is the same thing as the seat of pants. So I say we start calling a big ass a “backseat,” rather than, or in addition to, the phrase “junk in the trunk,” because “junk in the trunk” is vastly overused. Think of this for a moment please. “Whoah, dude, check out that girls backseat! You could land a Huey on that thing!”
Then I said, “boy, it sure is pretentious of me to narrate my own life. But it’s kind of funny too. Eccentric and cute. My narcissism is the best ever.” And then as I walked back to my desk, I said, “and narrating my own life has its upsides too. On the way to the bathroom, for example, as I reassuringly predicted that it would be unoccupied, and spoke soothingly while turning the knob and opening the door, I relieved myself.” And then I laughed lightly, and said, “he surely is a jokester.” And the cute girl from logistics looked at me like she had just eaten bad sushi.
If you’re wondering what the narration sounds like right now, it’s “he takes another sip of martini, which really isn’t good. He wonders why he made it for himself.”
Speaking of the bathroom, I would like to update/explain my William Carlos Williams imitation. I went in there on Monday, and discovered that the reason it smelled like someone had shit in the garbage was because someone had shit in the garbage. Trust me, it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. I peeked over the edge holding my breath, and saw a multitude of wadded toilet paper and paper towels smeared and covered in poop. So, yeah, someone took a dump in the trash. I shit you not. I wish he hadn’t either.
Now, on to the top fives. I thought top five lists would be a good idea to add; lists are alway fun. Like Schindler’s List. Who didn’t giggle all the way through that one? I guess I was still a little drunk this morning when I woke up, because I took notes for what seemed like a great top five while I was shaving, and texted them to myself. The list consisted of four words: “razor mustache hair temp.” So, great list, huh? But I will try to explain
Top Five things I was thinking while shaving this morning that seemed pretty damn profound at the time
1. Razor. I do not have a razor, so I shave with replacement blades, clutched between thumb and forefinger. And you know what? The blades are good, and a razor to fit them would cost $25 or so, and I think I can manage. So whatever.
2. Mustache. “Always apply shaving cream to your mustache last, because you can use as little or as much shaving cream as you need to make it come out even.” I was thinking this because I had already filled the sink (to rinse and re-rinse my nub of a razor) and I didn’t want to sully it with shaving cream before it was really time. I don’t know what about the upper lip seems perfect to bear a heap of shaving cream one day and a paucity the next. I think it might have had something to do with Hercule Poirot or whether bears give bear hugs, but I don’t really know.
3. Hair. I am one of those who, squeezed for time, will sacrifice a shower in the morning and instead splash water over my hair to create the appearance of having showered. Am I alone in this? Is this unethical?
side note: the martini is starting to taste better. He feels a growing warmth in his belly that makes him feel comfortably resolute against the cold wind at the windows.
4. Temp. I know this stands for temperature, not temporary or tempered steel or temptation, or Temple University, because I remember wondering if I needed to type it all out or if I would remember. Right about then, I had to stop texting myself and get dressed, because I was beginning to carve small holes in my undershirt with my frigid and erect nipples.
side note: My entire 53 gigabyte database of music (16000 some songs) was on shuffle, but Pete Yorn’s Nightcrawler just came on, and I am turning shuffle off. This is a good album
5. There was no number five. I guess I can say that my final thought while shaving was that it would be a good idea to text myself an awesome list that totally sucked. And that it was getting cold and my nipples had upgraded from firm to rigid and the graduation to diamond-cutter-erect was imminent.
I have been noticing that most bloggers whose blogs I really enjoy are big on two things: Arrested Development and alcohol. I guess since Arrested Development is the wittiest show ever on TV, good bloggers might like it. And I guess people who wast their lives with tons of TV and alcohol will also be the type to waste hours and hours blogging. So I aspire to greatness. I love Arrested Development, and alcohol is why I get up in the morning. And, excessive comma use.
Top three shows that I would rather have my knees taken out by a linebacker than watch
1. Ugly Betty. It’s pretty much one big platitude, one big exercise in apology for political correctness. I get it. Don’t judge. The acting and plot lines still suck and honestly, I don’t watch sitcoms for the life lessons, surprisingly enough. Plus, she’s ugly.
2. Grey’s Anatomy. I saw one episode of this show a year ago, or maybe two years ago, and I am certain that it is the worst show on TV. Ever. I felt very much like I did after reading the first Harry Potter book. After months of deriding and ridiculing, I began to lose credibility, because, well, I had never read a book or seen a show. So I did one of each. And they were so bad, I will never go there again. Sandra Oh looks like her time in the make-up trailer consists of a team of technicians lying her on her back and running over her face with a steamroller repeatedly. And then a touch of rouge, you re good to go, Sandra. And Ellen Pompeo is a tramp. Plus, she’s ugly.
3. Kid nation. If a show is going to take advantage of child-labor-law-loopholes and abuse children for extended periods of time in exchange for a nominal fee, at least it shouldn’t be really boring too. Plus, she’s ugly.
side note: my martini tastes really sweet now. Like, cloyingly sweet. I better freshen it up. Excuse me.
Oh, that reminds me: roofies. I guess I’ll have to tell you that story next time.
The word of the day is fiduciary. Just admit it, when you say it, you smirk a little bit.
Now about that martini.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Autumn and things
I don't know why it is, but I feel fricking great today. Maybe it's the weather-- I mean, you can't really ask for better than 65 with bright sun and a fresh wind on October 9th, unless you want to nitpick the hell out of Thor, which I try to avoid this early in the week.
Today, Portillo's opened a brand new branch right down the street from the office, and I just polished off a double bacon cheeseburger courtesy of the Editor in payment of a bet I won that neither of us remembers. Still delicious. But here's a question: I've heard both "double bacon cheeseburger" and "bacon double cheeseburger." So which the hell is it? The way I see it, it makes sense to keep the food items next to each other-- hence, dbc. But it also works to keep the more commonly used base phrase intact; and recently, "double cheeseburger" has become more common than "bacon cheeseburger," thus bdc arises. But do you know why dc is becoming more common than bc? Because fast food companies are talking more about burgers than anyone else, and THEY'RE TOO STINGY to use bacon with any regularity-- just cut a decent sized patty in half longwise, put a piece of processed cheese in the middle, and call it a double cheeseburger. And now, come to think of it, I can trace the phrase bdc back to the same company that produces the most famous double cheeseburger in the world: McDonald's. Remember that commercial from about ten years ago with the guys in top hats, right before McD's switched their motto to "have you had your break today"? You're thinking, "no of course I don't fricking remember a 30 second commercial from ten years ago, you loser." Well fine, maybe Crystal can throw me a bone here. All these guys in tophats, cruisin' around and across a blank white screen while fast food sandwiches flash psychedelically in the background, are singing "Howza boutza bacon double cheez double cheez..." anyone? anyone? I feel like a baby on the toilet ready to be wiped. Well, anyway, that's where bdc came from. I'm glad I call it dbc.
I am currently sucking down long draughts of cold drinking fountain water from my Dunkin Donuts cup because I didn't drink anything with lunch, and grease sure does make a fellow thirsty. But still not as thirsty as I was last night after my softball games. Great, now it's out there for all the world to see. Yes, I play softball with a team mostly of family members. Yes, we suck. Yes, it is probably (read 'definitely') not the best thing for my arm if I expect to be in shape for baseball early next spring. But yes, we won last night, even if it was our first win and we're still in last place at 1-9. Go screw yourself. Anyway, the point is that last night after getting home from softball, I drank an entire gallon of water in 40 minutes. I heard people say it was impossible to drink a gallon of water in an hour... or maybe they said half an hour, but still, I wasn't even pushing it; I bet I could do it in half an hour too. And not have my brain swell up and kill me like that frat boy did.
A bad thing about softball is that when I slid into second to break up a double play (which I did, but which I think the whole laid-back, softball, just-here-to-have-fun attitude takes offense at-- sorry, guys), I incurred the father and lord of all strawberries. My calf had some scratches, which were then caked full with dirt, so they didn't bleed, but it was good slide, which meant I took the brunt of the weight, force, and scraping-friction-stopping power in my biggest padding-- my ass. And the basketball shorts I was wearing do not provide the same buffer that thick baseball pants and compression shorts do. To sum it up, most of the epidermis from the lower half of my left buttock is no longer with me, and every time I stand up here at work, my underwear has started to enmesh itself in the wound.
So whether I was too distracted by the pain (this I really doubt), or whether my esophagus was too tired after swallowing a whole gallon of water (this I sort of doubt), or whether I was just too tired from softball (I guess this must have been it?), I didn't drink at all last night. And I am so disappointed, because I love drinking. I love it. I think it's a great thing, and I really enjoy doing it. This past weekend, I didn't drink too much on Friday, Saturday or Sunday, and I got up early and got plenty of stuff done, and still had time to kick back and drink a couple each evening/night. And I think I'm going to drink a few tonight too. Because I love it.
Also, the Paris Hilton Britney Spears Lindsay Lohan thing is up. Next, I'm looking at either global warming, skydiving or plane crashes. I've gotta find what's the most substantive and make it most fun/good. What do you think?
The word of the day is merkin: a pubic wig.
Today, Portillo's opened a brand new branch right down the street from the office, and I just polished off a double bacon cheeseburger courtesy of the Editor in payment of a bet I won that neither of us remembers. Still delicious. But here's a question: I've heard both "double bacon cheeseburger" and "bacon double cheeseburger." So which the hell is it? The way I see it, it makes sense to keep the food items next to each other-- hence, dbc. But it also works to keep the more commonly used base phrase intact; and recently, "double cheeseburger" has become more common than "bacon cheeseburger," thus bdc arises. But do you know why dc is becoming more common than bc? Because fast food companies are talking more about burgers than anyone else, and THEY'RE TOO STINGY to use bacon with any regularity-- just cut a decent sized patty in half longwise, put a piece of processed cheese in the middle, and call it a double cheeseburger. And now, come to think of it, I can trace the phrase bdc back to the same company that produces the most famous double cheeseburger in the world: McDonald's. Remember that commercial from about ten years ago with the guys in top hats, right before McD's switched their motto to "have you had your break today"? You're thinking, "no of course I don't fricking remember a 30 second commercial from ten years ago, you loser." Well fine, maybe Crystal can throw me a bone here. All these guys in tophats, cruisin' around and across a blank white screen while fast food sandwiches flash psychedelically in the background, are singing "Howza boutza bacon double cheez double cheez..." anyone? anyone? I feel like a baby on the toilet ready to be wiped. Well, anyway, that's where bdc came from. I'm glad I call it dbc.
I am currently sucking down long draughts of cold drinking fountain water from my Dunkin Donuts cup because I didn't drink anything with lunch, and grease sure does make a fellow thirsty. But still not as thirsty as I was last night after my softball games. Great, now it's out there for all the world to see. Yes, I play softball with a team mostly of family members. Yes, we suck. Yes, it is probably (read 'definitely') not the best thing for my arm if I expect to be in shape for baseball early next spring. But yes, we won last night, even if it was our first win and we're still in last place at 1-9. Go screw yourself. Anyway, the point is that last night after getting home from softball, I drank an entire gallon of water in 40 minutes. I heard people say it was impossible to drink a gallon of water in an hour... or maybe they said half an hour, but still, I wasn't even pushing it; I bet I could do it in half an hour too. And not have my brain swell up and kill me like that frat boy did.
A bad thing about softball is that when I slid into second to break up a double play (which I did, but which I think the whole laid-back, softball, just-here-to-have-fun attitude takes offense at-- sorry, guys), I incurred the father and lord of all strawberries. My calf had some scratches, which were then caked full with dirt, so they didn't bleed, but it was good slide, which meant I took the brunt of the weight, force, and scraping-friction-stopping power in my biggest padding-- my ass. And the basketball shorts I was wearing do not provide the same buffer that thick baseball pants and compression shorts do. To sum it up, most of the epidermis from the lower half of my left buttock is no longer with me, and every time I stand up here at work, my underwear has started to enmesh itself in the wound.
So whether I was too distracted by the pain (this I really doubt), or whether my esophagus was too tired after swallowing a whole gallon of water (this I sort of doubt), or whether I was just too tired from softball (I guess this must have been it?), I didn't drink at all last night. And I am so disappointed, because I love drinking. I love it. I think it's a great thing, and I really enjoy doing it. This past weekend, I didn't drink too much on Friday, Saturday or Sunday, and I got up early and got plenty of stuff done, and still had time to kick back and drink a couple each evening/night. And I think I'm going to drink a few tonight too. Because I love it.
Also, the Paris Hilton Britney Spears Lindsay Lohan thing is up. Next, I'm looking at either global warming, skydiving or plane crashes. I've gotta find what's the most substantive and make it most fun/good. What do you think?
The word of the day is merkin: a pubic wig.
Monday, October 8, 2007
"I am a type A personality!" Oh, really? Shut the hell up.
I hate people who talk about themselves.
Don't you hate that? "I'm introspective, and sometimes I can be too critical."
"I'm emotionally driven and a great listener." "I am very analytical but sometimes impulsive too!:)"
I want to pound a stake through your temple. Screw you people, I want to talk about me!
If you also hate people who talk about themselves, we'd probably get along. So drop me a line, tell me a little about yourself.
And I will beat you to death.
Don't you hate that? "I'm introspective, and sometimes I can be too critical."
"I'm emotionally driven and a great listener." "I am very analytical but sometimes impulsive too!:)"
I want to pound a stake through your temple. Screw you people, I want to talk about me!
If you also hate people who talk about themselves, we'd probably get along. So drop me a line, tell me a little about yourself.
And I will beat you to death.
I can whine with the best of them
Descriptions that are used by people to describe other people, that when people use to describe themselves, come across as arrogant, ignorant, or just not-quite-right.
1. brutally honest
2. sweet
3. complicated
4. insane
5. not living up to potential
6. high-maintenance
7. slutty
8. cheerful
9. funny
10. sharp as a tack
Also, I had a plan to write about how Brett Favre is so reliable he's like insurance, 16 straight years starting every game, you know what you're getting, he manages your risk, etc., but then the Bears won, and I think it would sound hella cynical at this point. Not what we're going for here.
1. brutally honest
2. sweet
3. complicated
4. insane
5. not living up to potential
6. high-maintenance
7. slutty
8. cheerful
9. funny
10. sharp as a tack
Also, I had a plan to write about how Brett Favre is so reliable he's like insurance, 16 straight years starting every game, you know what you're getting, he manages your risk, etc., but then the Bears won, and I think it would sound hella cynical at this point. Not what we're going for here.
Babies, young and otherwise
I just saw some random personality's blog who was describing their experience of getting Brody Jenner's phone number mysteriously and calling only to be answered by Spencer Pratt. I was delighted and jealous in equal parts because it was only recently that I decided to make Spencer my Buddha and reconstruct my chi around the tenets of his aurawesomeness. I wish I could get my hands on that number. In the meantime, here are my favorite Spencer quotes, which also currently adorn the walls of my facebook page.
"All right, then here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna start dating Nicole Richie. And you’re gonna get that skinny bitch to eat, all right? You are about to become The Guy Who Got Nicole Richie to Eat. Process that shit, bro. You’ll be, like, a fucking hero to America."
--Spencer Pratt
“Basically, I made it, like, my mission to try to go on a date with every girl on The Hills.”
--Spencer Pratt
"Remember when we denied that Heidi ever had plastic surgery? Yes, on Ryan Seacrest’s radio show we literally said NO when he asked if Heidi has ever had her body surgically augmented, and said that her breasts were real. But now we’re telling the truth because we do whatever we can to make more money! Who cares about integrity or honesty? Who cares about being happy with one’s own natural body? Is that who I am? Is that who Heidi is? NO WAY!"
--Spencer Pratt
"I get that the show is about her and we’re just there because of Lauren, but man. Why can’t me and Heidi just be famous already? How many people do we have to backstab? Do I have to get a nose job and boob job too just to get some attention around here?!"
--Spencer Pratt
"Sweet. My answer is get outta my car."
--Spencer Pratt
"Oh, I am K-Fed. I am K-Fed!"
--Spencer Pratt
"You gotta realize that I went on that [date] to Pinkberry with Audrina [Patridge] just so that Heidi would find out. I never in my wildest dreams ever thought Audrina was remotely cute. That was a play to get Heidi."
--Spencer Pratt
"[Lauren]'s a douche. It's like, go get your own boyfriend!"
--Spencer Pratt
"That friendship is over. It's like Bush and Cheney, and you wouldn't see Cheney rolling with Bin Laden in the club."
--Spencer Pratt
"I watch the show, and I would hate me too. But if we called my grandma right now, you would know she wears a button with my face on it that says 'I'm Spencer Pratt's grandma.' I swear."
--Spencer Pratt
"get the skinny bitch to eat."
--Spencer Pratt
"My new plan is to keep everything secret like a ninja. Too many ideas are taken from me. I wouldn’t even know where to start with that one. My hustle is just too crazy. I’m trying to take over the world."
--Spencer Pratt
That guy is just cool. No two ways about it.
On to the next item of business. An interesting transition takes place in the metabolic events of young children (i.e. babies) as they become gastrointestinally self-aware. Young babies don't even poop. They make no action; poop comes out of the baby, the baby is surprised but accepting, and mom changes the diaper. In fact, many of the times poop comes out of babies, it downright startles them.
But then comes the first phase of pooping. Perhaps the fecal matter is firming up, perhaps the kids have just discovered the real joy of bearing down on a big one, but kids begin to poop. And when they do, they hide. Kids who are pooping (as opposed to babies having poop come out of them) into diapers always hide, or at least avoid eye contact while they're working. Many times, a kid will hide behind or in between furniture to escape the gaze of prying eyes.
And then with toilet-training comes the second phase, comes the transition. As soon as the kid poops in the toilet, his shame is gone. Perhaps he feels vindicated, accepted, a part of the adult world. Mom and dad poop like this; now I poop like this. What do I have to worry about any more? But I'm sure you know the image all too well: A month ago this child was grunting himself beet red underneath the coffee table, or grinding his teeth between the ottoman and the loveseat, and now he's perched on the very front of the toilet seat, balanced percariously like a little pink gargoyle in the cathedral of the powder room. And he's having a fine time. Door cast wide open, peeking out or looking around, satisfied and comfortable. As long as his balance is good (it's gotta be tough-- I mean, imagine trying to sit on a five-foot wide toilet bowl with your feet hanging three feet in the air).
And then, all things having been accomplished in due course, the little person can't be expected to clean himself from such a delicate roost. So, "Mommmmmmm! Mommmmm?? I'm donnnne!! MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!" silence
"MOMMMMMMMMMM!" ...nothing
"ANYBODY!!!!!"
I tell ya, there are a lot of good things about being a kid, but pooping is not one of them.
"All right, then here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna start dating Nicole Richie. And you’re gonna get that skinny bitch to eat, all right? You are about to become The Guy Who Got Nicole Richie to Eat. Process that shit, bro. You’ll be, like, a fucking hero to America."
--Spencer Pratt
“Basically, I made it, like, my mission to try to go on a date with every girl on The Hills.”
--Spencer Pratt
"Remember when we denied that Heidi ever had plastic surgery? Yes, on Ryan Seacrest’s radio show we literally said NO when he asked if Heidi has ever had her body surgically augmented, and said that her breasts were real. But now we’re telling the truth because we do whatever we can to make more money! Who cares about integrity or honesty? Who cares about being happy with one’s own natural body? Is that who I am? Is that who Heidi is? NO WAY!"
--Spencer Pratt
"I get that the show is about her and we’re just there because of Lauren, but man. Why can’t me and Heidi just be famous already? How many people do we have to backstab? Do I have to get a nose job and boob job too just to get some attention around here?!"
--Spencer Pratt
"Sweet. My answer is get outta my car."
--Spencer Pratt
"Oh, I am K-Fed. I am K-Fed!"
--Spencer Pratt
"You gotta realize that I went on that [date] to Pinkberry with Audrina [Patridge] just so that Heidi would find out. I never in my wildest dreams ever thought Audrina was remotely cute. That was a play to get Heidi."
--Spencer Pratt
"[Lauren]'s a douche. It's like, go get your own boyfriend!"
--Spencer Pratt
"That friendship is over. It's like Bush and Cheney, and you wouldn't see Cheney rolling with Bin Laden in the club."
--Spencer Pratt
"I watch the show, and I would hate me too. But if we called my grandma right now, you would know she wears a button with my face on it that says 'I'm Spencer Pratt's grandma.' I swear."
--Spencer Pratt
"get the skinny bitch to eat."
--Spencer Pratt
"My new plan is to keep everything secret like a ninja. Too many ideas are taken from me. I wouldn’t even know where to start with that one. My hustle is just too crazy. I’m trying to take over the world."
--Spencer Pratt
That guy is just cool. No two ways about it.
On to the next item of business. An interesting transition takes place in the metabolic events of young children (i.e. babies) as they become gastrointestinally self-aware. Young babies don't even poop. They make no action; poop comes out of the baby, the baby is surprised but accepting, and mom changes the diaper. In fact, many of the times poop comes out of babies, it downright startles them.
But then comes the first phase of pooping. Perhaps the fecal matter is firming up, perhaps the kids have just discovered the real joy of bearing down on a big one, but kids begin to poop. And when they do, they hide. Kids who are pooping (as opposed to babies having poop come out of them) into diapers always hide, or at least avoid eye contact while they're working. Many times, a kid will hide behind or in between furniture to escape the gaze of prying eyes.
And then with toilet-training comes the second phase, comes the transition. As soon as the kid poops in the toilet, his shame is gone. Perhaps he feels vindicated, accepted, a part of the adult world. Mom and dad poop like this; now I poop like this. What do I have to worry about any more? But I'm sure you know the image all too well: A month ago this child was grunting himself beet red underneath the coffee table, or grinding his teeth between the ottoman and the loveseat, and now he's perched on the very front of the toilet seat, balanced percariously like a little pink gargoyle in the cathedral of the powder room. And he's having a fine time. Door cast wide open, peeking out or looking around, satisfied and comfortable. As long as his balance is good (it's gotta be tough-- I mean, imagine trying to sit on a five-foot wide toilet bowl with your feet hanging three feet in the air).
And then, all things having been accomplished in due course, the little person can't be expected to clean himself from such a delicate roost. So, "Mommmmmmm! Mommmmm?? I'm donnnne!! MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!" silence
"MOMMMMMMMMMM!" ...nothing
"ANYBODY!!!!!"
I tell ya, there are a lot of good things about being a kid, but pooping is not one of them.
Friday, October 5, 2007
It's not all doom and gloom
but I've been writing more chipper stuff for work, and so all the balance of thuppity drubbishness got thrown onto the blog. Well, tisn't so.
here is something more dapper, even if it is vapid. whatever, it's a Friday piece, so get over yourself.
[redacted]
here is something more dapper, even if it is vapid. whatever, it's a Friday piece, so get over yourself.
[redacted]
two-story house with a short chain-link fence around the lawn. and the lawn was patchy.
He didn't try to deny it. He didn't play games with the police. He didn't threaten anyone else or himself. He just handed over the razor to the arresting officers, one of those barber's razors that folds back in on itself, with the blade maybe three quarters of an inch wide.
When they asked him, "Did you stab him?" he just nodded. And then said, "yeah, I stabbed him. I stabbed him."
"Why? Why'd you stab him?" The officer was tall and white and his bullet-proof vest made him look even more impassive.
"I don't know. I don't know, man." And then he started crying. He wasn't pleading with the cops. He wasn't trying to make a scene. He didn't wipe his nose or blot his tears with that grubby white undershirt. The tears just ran down his cheeks over the stubble and down the neck that had more wrinkles than five years ago.
And his shoulders shook, which made it awkward as they put the handcuffs on his wrists, behind his back. "If y-," he started, but had to swallow, sniff and swallow. "If you take me in there," he said, "I'm gonna die." And then the tears returned, and that genuine intestinal sob resumed.
They bundled him towards the waiting car, right past me where I stood on the sidewalk. He was trying to walk slowly, as if he wanted to preserve some dignity, and the cops didn't seem to mind it at all. They gave him plenty of space, one officer with a firm grip above his elbow on either side, letting him set the pace.
And right as he passed me, he looked over at me. "I'm gonna die," he said to me, and his voice was hollow. And his eyes made my skin crawl, my stomach turn, and a cold sweat spring out on my back.
They loaded him into the back seat, a firm hand guiding his head beneath the doorpost. I looked over, afraid that his eyes would still be fixed on me. But he was staring straight in front of himself. The door closed, and I saw his lips move again. "I'm gonna die."
And two days later, he was dead. I wonder why they never read him his Miranda rights. Maybe they did that inside.
When they asked him, "Did you stab him?" he just nodded. And then said, "yeah, I stabbed him. I stabbed him."
"Why? Why'd you stab him?" The officer was tall and white and his bullet-proof vest made him look even more impassive.
"I don't know. I don't know, man." And then he started crying. He wasn't pleading with the cops. He wasn't trying to make a scene. He didn't wipe his nose or blot his tears with that grubby white undershirt. The tears just ran down his cheeks over the stubble and down the neck that had more wrinkles than five years ago.
And his shoulders shook, which made it awkward as they put the handcuffs on his wrists, behind his back. "If y-," he started, but had to swallow, sniff and swallow. "If you take me in there," he said, "I'm gonna die." And then the tears returned, and that genuine intestinal sob resumed.
They bundled him towards the waiting car, right past me where I stood on the sidewalk. He was trying to walk slowly, as if he wanted to preserve some dignity, and the cops didn't seem to mind it at all. They gave him plenty of space, one officer with a firm grip above his elbow on either side, letting him set the pace.
And right as he passed me, he looked over at me. "I'm gonna die," he said to me, and his voice was hollow. And his eyes made my skin crawl, my stomach turn, and a cold sweat spring out on my back.
They loaded him into the back seat, a firm hand guiding his head beneath the doorpost. I looked over, afraid that his eyes would still be fixed on me. But he was staring straight in front of himself. The door closed, and I saw his lips move again. "I'm gonna die."
And two days later, he was dead. I wonder why they never read him his Miranda rights. Maybe they did that inside.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
My major malfunction
It's some psychological term, but I can't remember the name of it-- not transference, I don't think repression. Dang it. Dr. Novinski would be so disappointed in me after I just took her psych class last semester. Wait, maybe it's just denial. No, no. never mind. Definitely not.
Anyway, what I'm talking about is when someone has a problem, an issue, a conflict, whatever, he/she refuses to address it. Instead, the person oh! internalization? no? ok, anyway the person glosses over the problem psychologically, and won't admit that there is a problem. Naturally, this makes things more difficult. People who are accepting the fact of a problem and meeting it head on will bounce off the denial-ers with some force. or rub against them with some friction. or whatever.
You know, like in scene from Good Will Hunting, "it's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault... etc." and then Matt Damon finally breaks down his facade and deals with all his issues and the turbulence comes pouring out, and finally he can relate to people again. ok that's what I'm talking about-- what he had before Robin Williams fixed him. So maybe I have something like that, being pretty emotionally reserved and all, maybe it's a little too much.
But I prefer this explanation: I'm over it. Whatever happened happened, and stressing about it afterwards isn't going to make it not happen, so why bother? Why do people say, "oh, it's good to cry." Why? What is that going to solve? And if nothing, why bother?
Ok, you say, "what, are you a robot? emotions are part of what defines a human being." Fine, good. I have no problem with people crying. If you're really sad, and being sad makes you cry, then cry. If you'll feel better after you cry, or while you cry, then bawl your eyes out. That's fine. But I don't think that means it's necessary to cry. Some people like to go fishing when they've had a real stressful week, or couple days, or a nasty break-up. Ok. Go for it. But don't tell me I have to go fishing after something important or something bad or something stressful happens. I don't feel like going fishing. And don't tell me to cry, because I don't feel like crying.
But sometimes, if I have a fight with someone, or some falling out, or whatever the hell, they come back and apologize, and I'll apologize, and it seems to me that the situation is resolved, and then the person will start prodding and poking to see if I have any emotional response, as if an emotional reaction will validate what I said, or prove my sincerity. And maybe he'll talk about how he feels so bad... and trail off. What am I supposed to say? I don't feel bad at all. Something happened, but I'm done with it.
And inevitably, the person takes my response to mean that I'm really still harboring resentment, or not ready to talk about it. They interpret my reaction as inhuman. And I interpret theirs as irrational. They might try a couple times, like Robin Williams repeating "it's not your fault," but then I usually just get confused/disgusted because No, guy, we already did that, remember? What do you expect? What do you want? I guess I could pretend to sniffle, or stop blinking so my eyes water. But why do people feel like that's necessary in the first place?
So that's my disorder. In deference for the sensitive nature of my psychological condition, I request that when you're around me, you turn off your emotions, and behave like an automaton, because automatons believe me when I say it's ok, don't worry about it.
Anyway, what I'm talking about is when someone has a problem, an issue, a conflict, whatever, he/she refuses to address it. Instead, the person oh! internalization? no? ok, anyway the person glosses over the problem psychologically, and won't admit that there is a problem. Naturally, this makes things more difficult. People who are accepting the fact of a problem and meeting it head on will bounce off the denial-ers with some force. or rub against them with some friction. or whatever.
You know, like in scene from Good Will Hunting, "it's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault... etc." and then Matt Damon finally breaks down his facade and deals with all his issues and the turbulence comes pouring out, and finally he can relate to people again. ok that's what I'm talking about-- what he had before Robin Williams fixed him. So maybe I have something like that, being pretty emotionally reserved and all, maybe it's a little too much.
But I prefer this explanation: I'm over it. Whatever happened happened, and stressing about it afterwards isn't going to make it not happen, so why bother? Why do people say, "oh, it's good to cry." Why? What is that going to solve? And if nothing, why bother?
Ok, you say, "what, are you a robot? emotions are part of what defines a human being." Fine, good. I have no problem with people crying. If you're really sad, and being sad makes you cry, then cry. If you'll feel better after you cry, or while you cry, then bawl your eyes out. That's fine. But I don't think that means it's necessary to cry. Some people like to go fishing when they've had a real stressful week, or couple days, or a nasty break-up. Ok. Go for it. But don't tell me I have to go fishing after something important or something bad or something stressful happens. I don't feel like going fishing. And don't tell me to cry, because I don't feel like crying.
But sometimes, if I have a fight with someone, or some falling out, or whatever the hell, they come back and apologize, and I'll apologize, and it seems to me that the situation is resolved, and then the person will start prodding and poking to see if I have any emotional response, as if an emotional reaction will validate what I said, or prove my sincerity. And maybe he'll talk about how he feels so bad... and trail off. What am I supposed to say? I don't feel bad at all. Something happened, but I'm done with it.
And inevitably, the person takes my response to mean that I'm really still harboring resentment, or not ready to talk about it. They interpret my reaction as inhuman. And I interpret theirs as irrational. They might try a couple times, like Robin Williams repeating "it's not your fault," but then I usually just get confused/disgusted because No, guy, we already did that, remember? What do you expect? What do you want? I guess I could pretend to sniffle, or stop blinking so my eyes water. But why do people feel like that's necessary in the first place?
So that's my disorder. In deference for the sensitive nature of my psychological condition, I request that when you're around me, you turn off your emotions, and behave like an automaton, because automatons believe me when I say it's ok, don't worry about it.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
disinterested
is what my piece had to be. Not uninterested, no no, I had to be very interested in the topic. But I had to be detached-- couldn't pick a side, even though I have one.
For the first few paragraphs, it was easy, because I was mostly giving background and talking generalities, but by the end, when I was getting to thinking, "ok what's the point," and the reader is too, I totally stalled and stumbled. I still may have left just a hint of opinion in there at the end (or maybe a little throughout), but I don't mind that. Heck, I am right, after all.
But still, it's a different kind of writing than I'm used to. In a normal essay or college paper, your opinion is the point. You want the professor to know what you think and you want the professor to think you're smart. In an article like this, you want the reader to think that HE's smart, and then convince him of an idea while also convincing him that you're not convincing him and he thought it all along.
So it's a little choppy, and some parts might get a little too academic-sounding. Then again, some parts probably sound like I'm talking down, which no one likes. But what can I say, I'm new to this scene. I'm working on it.
Meanwhile, if you are interested in the prospect of universal health care, perhaps you'd like to take a gander.
For the first few paragraphs, it was easy, because I was mostly giving background and talking generalities, but by the end, when I was getting to thinking, "ok what's the point," and the reader is too, I totally stalled and stumbled. I still may have left just a hint of opinion in there at the end (or maybe a little throughout), but I don't mind that. Heck, I am right, after all.
But still, it's a different kind of writing than I'm used to. In a normal essay or college paper, your opinion is the point. You want the professor to know what you think and you want the professor to think you're smart. In an article like this, you want the reader to think that HE's smart, and then convince him of an idea while also convincing him that you're not convincing him and he thought it all along.
So it's a little choppy, and some parts might get a little too academic-sounding. Then again, some parts probably sound like I'm talking down, which no one likes. But what can I say, I'm new to this scene. I'm working on it.
Meanwhile, if you are interested in the prospect of universal health care, perhaps you'd like to take a gander.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
a show that I am a little bit ashamed to admit I watch sometimes
is Sex and the City. WGN just started rerunning old episodes (I have no idea how old, or what season, or how many season there were or anything whatever), and sometimes after everyone is in bed I will catch one. And they're always so dramatic. Last night, Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) got arrested for smoking weed. What? I definitely did not think of those girls as potheads, did you?
Sometimes, things happen to me that are more like the show than like my life, and I don't know whether to enjoy it or be disgusted. I blogged one of them a couple weeks ago. Currently there are at least three girls that I communicate with somewhat regularly, like I'm garnering a rolodex of potential romances. Of course none of the three is even remotely close to being serious. Two are barely even acquaintances that I met this summer or since, and one is hundreds of miles away. But still, there's a little, even if it's very little, more than nothing on the radar, so to speak, and I don't believe that's ever happened before. Question is, do I want anything on my radar now? I kind of think no.
I don't generally like the same girl for very long (great, right? so classy?). I pursue intermittently, gradually or suddenly, whatever. But the point is, as soon as a girl likes me, I am immediately over it. As soon as I get what I want, I don't want it any more. Like any kind of a relationship right now. Yuck, not interested.
'What a shitty way to be!' you cry. And you are right, I guess. But I don't really care, and I don't expect anything to change any time soon. Sorry (but not really). OK, that's all; bring on the withering criticism.
Sometimes, things happen to me that are more like the show than like my life, and I don't know whether to enjoy it or be disgusted. I blogged one of them a couple weeks ago. Currently there are at least three girls that I communicate with somewhat regularly, like I'm garnering a rolodex of potential romances. Of course none of the three is even remotely close to being serious. Two are barely even acquaintances that I met this summer or since, and one is hundreds of miles away. But still, there's a little, even if it's very little, more than nothing on the radar, so to speak, and I don't believe that's ever happened before. Question is, do I want anything on my radar now? I kind of think no.
I don't generally like the same girl for very long (great, right? so classy?). I pursue intermittently, gradually or suddenly, whatever. But the point is, as soon as a girl likes me, I am immediately over it. As soon as I get what I want, I don't want it any more. Like any kind of a relationship right now. Yuck, not interested.
'What a shitty way to be!' you cry. And you are right, I guess. But I don't really care, and I don't expect anything to change any time soon. Sorry (but not really). OK, that's all; bring on the withering criticism.
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