I think I am the only person I know who has written about suicide on their birthday. Why? I don't know. Some people wondered about it, or asked "hey, are you ok?" Yes, thank you. I wasn't the one trying to kill myself; that was just a character. No one says, oh, you wrote about a plane crash, did your plane crash? Or, are you worried about a plan crash. No, I'm not.
Actually, some of the stuff I write on here is made up. For example, I never wore a blue thong to work, I never got slipped a roofie, I never got caught with a fingernail in my mouth by my boss, and I never saw a guy get arrested and keep repeating "I'm gonna die." I'm sorry, is that kind of a betrayal? Do you feel like you can't trust me now?
Why? Why does it matter if any of this stuff happened or didn't happen? It could have, right? And most of y'all don't know who I am anyway, so what's the big diff?
I could be wrong about this. If I am, let me know, and I won't make up stories any more.
In the meantime, here are ten genuinely true things about me:
1. The story about my profile picture is 100% true.
2. I am eating a cold, four-day old gyro right now, and the sauce is sort of congealedish.
3. My sister is in Costa Rica singing at a wedding, and she is going to miss my family's New Year's Eve Party for the first time ever.
4. I am 6'6", can dunk a basketball with two hands with no running start, and can throw a baseball 90 mph.
5. I have not won a writing contest since junior year of high school.
6. Pizza is far and away my favorite food, but Christmas breakfast is my favorite meal of the year.
7. I can drink a lot, and I drink too much.
8. I did badly on APs but well on SATs and ACTs.
9. I almost failed out of college. Sort of.
10. My favorite color is red. I am not afraid of blood, but I really don't like watching knee injuries even though I have never injured my knee.
OK, Happy New Year, y'all. Find some mistletoe and have a ball.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I know what to write.
Roy Smith sat with his fingers on the keyboard, trying to figure out the least awkward way to introduce his main character’s name. This writing thing wasn’t as easy as he had figured it to be, thought Roy. He removed his fingers from the keyboard and turned his palms toward his face to stretch his wrists. They were sore. Sore from being turned down, waiting on the keyboard for some instruction from his brain, and also sore from the long wounds running “up the river,” as they say.
Unfortunately, no instructions were forthcoming from his brain. The faucet of Roy’s inspiration hadn’t flowed full-strength for a while now. Instead, he thought of it like the faucet in a volcano movie, when the cool-under-pressure hot guy turns the tap and brown water comes sputtering and coughing out. And it smells like rotten eggs.
That’s what it had been for Roy for a while now. His inspiration, or motivation, or call it the wellspring of his spirit for life, whatever, had been choking out dark discharge that smelled. And Roy knew he had to get out of town before the volcano blew, before he was melted alive by a flow of molten rock or choked under the gradual weight of billions of tons of ash.
Although, in a way, he was already too late; the volcano had already blown, the eruption already destructive. He touched the bandage over his left wrist. It felt like he was just beginning to scab. It’s remarkable how fast we can heal, Roy thought. And it gave him gray hope.
He hadn’t been taken, hadn’t been destroyed, in the eruption. But it had been close. And Roy knew that as long as he stayed, another eruption was always waiting, trembling to explode, right inside himself. And Roy knew that he would not survive the next explosion, if it came. He would make sure of it.
Roy Smith sat. He looked out the window. There were no answers in the tree outside. There were no answers anywhere, as far as he could see. It was springtime. There were no flowers, but the leaves on the trees were the light, clear green that reminded him of daisies, he didn’t know why. Spring was just spring, as far as Roy had ever known, and he could feel the fresh grass, the flowers and the rain, the bright sunshine and soft, damp earth all at once. He smiled at the thought of suicide in the spring. Who would think of such a thing? Then he thought about himself, Roy Smith, committing suicide, and the thought made him laugh out loud. It was something he could never have seen coming. Never. Things could never get so bad, never so dark, so painful, that you would be better off to off yourself.
That wasn’t it, of course, and Roy knew it. The laugh was gone, and he rolled his eyes. Suicide was not a logical choice. Roy hadn’t reasoned himself to it, like he was reasoning now. It had just been the end for the course he was on, and he had no power to choose or reject it. It had been inevitable; it had just happened.
Except, of course, it hasn’t, Roy thought. Because I am not dead. And I’m not going to die. I’m going to leave.
The suicide note, which he had whipped up easily, seemed so vulgar to him now. He didn’t mind the juvenile, angsty feel to it, or the fact that it had been so easy to write. He just didn’t like how crude it sounded, how base, like the first time you heard about Elvis dying on the toilet or Marilyn Monroe dying from an enema. It wasn’t horrifying, it was just vaguely gross.
The whole idea of a note was unattractive at this point, which is why Roy had decided on a story. A story was really more like the way he thought about his life anyway. Notes, notes written “from me to you” seemed at once too direct and not direct enough. You could say something in a story that would be an insult in a note; but a vagueness in a note would be expressive in a story. A note carries more offense than a story and less meaning.
Roy didn’t really understand his reasoning, but it felt right, and when the world is tumbling down in heaps and shards, you hold onto things that feel right. The only problem was that he didn’t know what the story should say, or how any story he wrote could explain to a reader what he, Roy, was planning to do.
He had wrestled with the possibility that this idea, this half-plan of his, didn’t even make any sense for more than an hour now, and still the screen sat blank, the cursor blinking at him. The cursor blinked, and seemed to Roy both impatient and patient. It would wait for as long as he wanted, it would bear with him forever if need be. But while it was waiting, it would tap its foot. Kind of like a parent.
The main character was going to be at the train station, Roy knew, waiting with the sun in his eyes and a one-way ticket in his hand. And the story wouldn’t say which way the character was going, or how far. He might be heading into town or out of town; he might be on his way to Fairfax or Jackson Ferry or California or Maine.
But Roy couldn’t even think of his name. He picked his hands up, looked at the palms again, and pressed the butts into each other. The straight razor had been much easier to use than the keyboard. It sat to the Roy’s right on the table, sparkling clean. He had scrubbed it clean in embarrassed fear last night while he bled into towels tied tight around his forearms. Roy bet most people didn’t know how hard it was to tie a towel around your own wrist.
A bird darted past the window, very close, a glimpse of red and gray. It made Roy want to go outside. And right then, he knew what would be in his story, and how he would introduce the main character. And how, in spite of everything, he really wanted everyone to know that it was all right, that he had escaped the volcano, that springtime in the American Midwest is a beautiful thing. In ten minutes, Roy would be gone. He knew what to write.
Roy Smith sat with his fingers on the keyboard, trying to figure out the least awkward way to introduce his main character’s name. This writing thing wasn’t as easy as he had figured it to be, thought Roy. He removed his fingers from the keyboard and turned his palms toward his face to stretch his wrists. They were sore. Sore from being turned down, waiting on the keyboard for some instruction from his brain, and also sore from the long wounds running “up the river,” as they say.
Unfortunately, no instructions were forthcoming from his brain. The faucet of Roy’s inspiration hadn’t flowed full-strength for a while now. Instead, he thought of it like the faucet in a volcano movie, when the cool-under-pressure hot guy turns the tap and brown water comes sputtering and coughing out. And it smells like rotten eggs.
That’s what it had been for Roy for a while now. His inspiration, or motivation, or call it the wellspring of his spirit for life, whatever, had been choking out dark discharge that smelled. And Roy knew he had to get out of town before the volcano blew, before he was melted alive by a flow of molten rock or choked under the gradual weight of billions of tons of ash.
Although, in a way, he was already too late; the volcano had already blown, the eruption already destructive. He touched the bandage over his left wrist. It felt like he was just beginning to scab. It’s remarkable how fast we can heal, Roy thought. And it gave him gray hope.
He hadn’t been taken, hadn’t been destroyed, in the eruption. But it had been close. And Roy knew that as long as he stayed, another eruption was always waiting, trembling to explode, right inside himself. And Roy knew that he would not survive the next explosion, if it came. He would make sure of it.
Roy Smith sat. He looked out the window. There were no answers in the tree outside. There were no answers anywhere, as far as he could see. It was springtime. There were no flowers, but the leaves on the trees were the light, clear green that reminded him of daisies, he didn’t know why. Spring was just spring, as far as Roy had ever known, and he could feel the fresh grass, the flowers and the rain, the bright sunshine and soft, damp earth all at once. He smiled at the thought of suicide in the spring. Who would think of such a thing? Then he thought about himself, Roy Smith, committing suicide, and the thought made him laugh out loud. It was something he could never have seen coming. Never. Things could never get so bad, never so dark, so painful, that you would be better off to off yourself.
That wasn’t it, of course, and Roy knew it. The laugh was gone, and he rolled his eyes. Suicide was not a logical choice. Roy hadn’t reasoned himself to it, like he was reasoning now. It had just been the end for the course he was on, and he had no power to choose or reject it. It had been inevitable; it had just happened.
Except, of course, it hasn’t, Roy thought. Because I am not dead. And I’m not going to die. I’m going to leave.
The suicide note, which he had whipped up easily, seemed so vulgar to him now. He didn’t mind the juvenile, angsty feel to it, or the fact that it had been so easy to write. He just didn’t like how crude it sounded, how base, like the first time you heard about Elvis dying on the toilet or Marilyn Monroe dying from an enema. It wasn’t horrifying, it was just vaguely gross.
The whole idea of a note was unattractive at this point, which is why Roy had decided on a story. A story was really more like the way he thought about his life anyway. Notes, notes written “from me to you” seemed at once too direct and not direct enough. You could say something in a story that would be an insult in a note; but a vagueness in a note would be expressive in a story. A note carries more offense than a story and less meaning.
Roy didn’t really understand his reasoning, but it felt right, and when the world is tumbling down in heaps and shards, you hold onto things that feel right. The only problem was that he didn’t know what the story should say, or how any story he wrote could explain to a reader what he, Roy, was planning to do.
He had wrestled with the possibility that this idea, this half-plan of his, didn’t even make any sense for more than an hour now, and still the screen sat blank, the cursor blinking at him. The cursor blinked, and seemed to Roy both impatient and patient. It would wait for as long as he wanted, it would bear with him forever if need be. But while it was waiting, it would tap its foot. Kind of like a parent.
The main character was going to be at the train station, Roy knew, waiting with the sun in his eyes and a one-way ticket in his hand. And the story wouldn’t say which way the character was going, or how far. He might be heading into town or out of town; he might be on his way to Fairfax or Jackson Ferry or California or Maine.
But Roy couldn’t even think of his name. He picked his hands up, looked at the palms again, and pressed the butts into each other. The straight razor had been much easier to use than the keyboard. It sat to the Roy’s right on the table, sparkling clean. He had scrubbed it clean in embarrassed fear last night while he bled into towels tied tight around his forearms. Roy bet most people didn’t know how hard it was to tie a towel around your own wrist.
A bird darted past the window, very close, a glimpse of red and gray. It made Roy want to go outside. And right then, he knew what would be in his story, and how he would introduce the main character. And how, in spite of everything, he really wanted everyone to know that it was all right, that he had escaped the volcano, that springtime in the American Midwest is a beautiful thing. In ten minutes, Roy would be gone. He knew what to write.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Merry Christmas
God bless us, every one.
Santa, I'm not sure if you read this, but I want a pony. Thanks.
Santa, I'm not sure if you read this, but I want a pony. Thanks.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
There's a reason for the things your parents tell you, besides that they hate fun
Your mom always told you not to bite your nails, but she never told you why. It's a little gross, you figured, putting your fingers into your mouth, but it's nowhere near as gross as sticking your finger in your ear or digging it into your nose. In fact, I can think of at least seven locations on or in the average human body that are more disgusting places to put your finger than your mouth.
Some people, my brother among them, bite their nails too aggressively, or bite them nervously, and end up with ingrown and malfeasant nubbins on the end of their fingers, but I never fell into this camp. I just trimmed my nails to the appropriate length with my teeth. So the cosmetics were not the problem.
I couldn't think of any problem with it, really. My mom had never told me what the problem with it was. I loved biting my nails. Today, I had an epiphany. Today I realized with nauseating profundity the reason why you shouldn't bite your nails. Are you ready for it?
Let me set the scene for you. I'm sitting at my desk, pretty content. I had just gotten my paycheck. I had just finished a festive Happy Holidays chocolate swirl peppermint candy cane, a gift from a co-worker. Unfortunately, that selfsame candy cane had gotten me in a chewy mood. And by that I mean neither that I felt like a plush dog toy nor that I was the wookie first mate of the Millenium Falcon. More like I felt like biting. Not biting like "biting it," falling down. And not like "sucks," or "blows," as in "Ben Gordon bites at defense." Like actually using my mandibles.
So I looked at my nails, found one whose protracting tip had overstayed its welcome, and started nibbling. OK, it sounds more gross now I'm writing it than it did at the time. It wasn't that bad. I started at the right edge, and slowly began working my way across. I trim my fingernails evenly, keeping one long strand intact. And I was just a little more than halfway through the middle finger of my right hand (with probably about 8 more seconds of standard-pace-biteage to go when I heard a noise behind me.
I turned, and oh hello, there's my boss, and with him an important associate visiting the office, ready for introductions. My finger is in my mouth. My boss's cheerful greeting is gurgling to a grinding halt in his. My choices are (1) to remove my finger as is, with a string of attached nail dangling wetly across my fingertip, (2) to make a desperate yank to remove the nail, risking a grievous tear of the cuticle which could yield blood, chaos and crying, or (3) continue the biting and finish the job.
I persevere, accelerating the pace and finish with a flourish. I am about to spit the fingernail out, but think better of it at the last minute, and whisk it off my lip back into my mouth like a frog with a fly. I stand, nod. You could have cut the awkwardness with a knife. In fact, I wish I had. I wish I had eviscerated that damned awkwardness.
The guy offers me his hand! It seems like a reflex, as he automatically responds to being introduced by extending the gesture. Immediately, he tenses. I can tell he realizes his mistake and regrets his decision. But he is polite, and resolute to accept the fate he has prepared for himself. The hand stays out. I think about wiping my finger on my pants, but instead opt for the "pretend everything is normal and forge ahead" approach. I shake his hand. My finger may or may not be a little damp. Actually, no, that's a lie. It's definitely damp.
It is some twenty minutes after the episode that the real, epic awkwardness of the whole affair sinks in to me. It makes me want to giggle and cry at the same time. But I can't do that at work. What can I do at work? That's right. Pick my teeth with staples.
Some people, my brother among them, bite their nails too aggressively, or bite them nervously, and end up with ingrown and malfeasant nubbins on the end of their fingers, but I never fell into this camp. I just trimmed my nails to the appropriate length with my teeth. So the cosmetics were not the problem.
I couldn't think of any problem with it, really. My mom had never told me what the problem with it was. I loved biting my nails. Today, I had an epiphany. Today I realized with nauseating profundity the reason why you shouldn't bite your nails. Are you ready for it?
Let me set the scene for you. I'm sitting at my desk, pretty content. I had just gotten my paycheck. I had just finished a festive Happy Holidays chocolate swirl peppermint candy cane, a gift from a co-worker. Unfortunately, that selfsame candy cane had gotten me in a chewy mood. And by that I mean neither that I felt like a plush dog toy nor that I was the wookie first mate of the Millenium Falcon. More like I felt like biting. Not biting like "biting it," falling down. And not like "sucks," or "blows," as in "Ben Gordon bites at defense." Like actually using my mandibles.
So I looked at my nails, found one whose protracting tip had overstayed its welcome, and started nibbling. OK, it sounds more gross now I'm writing it than it did at the time. It wasn't that bad. I started at the right edge, and slowly began working my way across. I trim my fingernails evenly, keeping one long strand intact. And I was just a little more than halfway through the middle finger of my right hand (with probably about 8 more seconds of standard-pace-biteage to go when I heard a noise behind me.
I turned, and oh hello, there's my boss, and with him an important associate visiting the office, ready for introductions. My finger is in my mouth. My boss's cheerful greeting is gurgling to a grinding halt in his. My choices are (1) to remove my finger as is, with a string of attached nail dangling wetly across my fingertip, (2) to make a desperate yank to remove the nail, risking a grievous tear of the cuticle which could yield blood, chaos and crying, or (3) continue the biting and finish the job.
I persevere, accelerating the pace and finish with a flourish. I am about to spit the fingernail out, but think better of it at the last minute, and whisk it off my lip back into my mouth like a frog with a fly. I stand, nod. You could have cut the awkwardness with a knife. In fact, I wish I had. I wish I had eviscerated that damned awkwardness.
The guy offers me his hand! It seems like a reflex, as he automatically responds to being introduced by extending the gesture. Immediately, he tenses. I can tell he realizes his mistake and regrets his decision. But he is polite, and resolute to accept the fate he has prepared for himself. The hand stays out. I think about wiping my finger on my pants, but instead opt for the "pretend everything is normal and forge ahead" approach. I shake his hand. My finger may or may not be a little damp. Actually, no, that's a lie. It's definitely damp.
It is some twenty minutes after the episode that the real, epic awkwardness of the whole affair sinks in to me. It makes me want to giggle and cry at the same time. But I can't do that at work. What can I do at work? That's right. Pick my teeth with staples.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
I invented a meme that allows you to humiliate yourself a little bit
ok, so Tiff just posted a poem she wrote a long time ago, and it struck me as a memeworthy idea. So, here are the rules:
1. Find a poem (or two, if you're ambitious) that you wrote in high school. If you can't find a poem, find a piece of prose. If you can't find a piece of prose, find a history paper or something.
2. Post it!
3. Tag three people to do the same.
And away we go...
Summertime
When the sun has gone down and the moon takes its place,
And the revelers rise to give darkness new grace,
When the harshness of sunlight has softened to night,
And all beauty increases, by softness of sight,
Then the friends are more friendly, and enemies too,
Which is more than the unreserved drinking can do,
For there's magic about, and it's all through the air,
And as long as you're with me, I long to be there.
And I tag Asiankp, Crystal, and Lil. If any of you can't stand memes and hate them and never want to hear their name again, I'm sorry. But come on, get over it.
1. Find a poem (or two, if you're ambitious) that you wrote in high school. If you can't find a poem, find a piece of prose. If you can't find a piece of prose, find a history paper or something.
2. Post it!
3. Tag three people to do the same.
And away we go...
Summertime
When the sun has gone down and the moon takes its place,
And the revelers rise to give darkness new grace,
When the harshness of sunlight has softened to night,
And all beauty increases, by softness of sight,
Then the friends are more friendly, and enemies too,
Which is more than the unreserved drinking can do,
For there's magic about, and it's all through the air,
And as long as you're with me, I long to be there.
And I tag Asiankp, Crystal, and Lil. If any of you can't stand memes and hate them and never want to hear their name again, I'm sorry. But come on, get over it.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Oscar Wilde to the rescue!
I am glad, so glad, that enough writers on blogs I read decided to post those pre-Christmas-melancholy bits. I was about to do it myself before I was heaped with a pile of other people's. (Plus, mine was going to have the added bonus of my unrequited love of a movie character-- honestly, Eva Green's character in Casino Royale, how could you not love her?
I seriously swore at the screen when Bond said he loved her because I knew, right then, that she would have to die. And that got to me. Can you blame me?
But anyway, I read a few other people's weepings and it totally removed my desire to write my own. Don't get me wrong- they were well-written and I appreciate them for what they are. But
[coming back two hours later] There is no way to say what I mean without entering the mood I don't want to enter. But this is what Oscar Wilde had to say: "There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores the better."
And while we're on Oscar Wilde quotes, here are a few of my favorites:
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
"Seriousness is the last refuge of the shallow."
"The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her if she is pretty, and to someone else if she is plain."
"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."
"Woman begins by resisting a man's advances and ends by blocking his retreat."
The point is, whenever you feel dangerously serious, find some Oscar Wilde and innoculate yourself.
I seriously swore at the screen when Bond said he loved her because I knew, right then, that she would have to die. And that got to me. Can you blame me?
But anyway, I read a few other people's weepings and it totally removed my desire to write my own. Don't get me wrong- they were well-written and I appreciate them for what they are. But
[coming back two hours later] There is no way to say what I mean without entering the mood I don't want to enter. But this is what Oscar Wilde had to say: "There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores the better."
And while we're on Oscar Wilde quotes, here are a few of my favorites:
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
"Seriousness is the last refuge of the shallow."
"The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her if she is pretty, and to someone else if she is plain."
"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."
"Woman begins by resisting a man's advances and ends by blocking his retreat."
The point is, whenever you feel dangerously serious, find some Oscar Wilde and innoculate yourself.
Monday, December 3, 2007
I didn't feel like having breakfast, so I got drunk instead
Last night, my sister said, "seriously, AA. You should check it out." I said,"...". Well, I don't remember what I said, but I was sorta drunk at the time, so maybe you should give me a break.
This morning, I woke up feeling very, very Monday. So I started drinking (I mean REALLY Monday), read about Lancelot and Guenever, shaved, and thought about how every guy wants to fall in love with a girl named Jenny.
In Mass on Sunday, I determined that the chief criterion I will employ to find my wife will be whether I can have the following conversation with her:
Me: "Your nose sure is big. I don't want to pass that on to our kids."
Her: "I guess we should adopt."
Me: "I love you."
Her: "OK."
I don't know why this enchants me so much, or why my wife has to have a big nose. But I really liked Cyrano de Bergerac, and Pinocchio's not bad either.
I am, I discovered, the top organic result for a Google search "scorched chowder." I wonder what that person was looking for, and I hope they didn't find it.
Speaking of unnecessary assholism, my cousin told a story on Friday about a former co-worker of his at Starbucks who made up directions to a pet store for a lost lady. When the guy got fired a month later for poor performance, my cousin had to stop him at the door, since the guy was carrying about thirty pounds of coffee. "What are you doing with that?" The guy shrugs. "Ehh, I was trying to steal it." He puts it down, walks out.
I made a paper airplane out of my "Time Worked Request for Payroll" sheet.
And now here's a quiz for you. I debated the title in my head for a while, whether to call it "10 questions that say nothing about you because you taught them not to talk back" or "The quiz that needs more choices" or "Buttrape is a funny word" but I decided on:
The 10 Question Quiz
that just needs an answer
1. The most common mistake parents make in raising their children is
a. giving them too much credit.
b. not giving them enough credit.
2. Celebrities
a. should be effusive and professional.
b. realize that the public spotlight can be used for good.
c. shouldn't affect ordinary people.
d. automatically suck, which is unfortunate, because I want to be a celebrity.
3. I like things to happen
a. gradually
b. suddenly
4. Yearbooks exist because
a. people who are inappropriately proud of their signatures need to sign them.
b. memories are worth holding onto, if only to cry over.
c. no one wants to forget that one dork's eminently punchable face.
5. Hitler chose a cross to represent the Third Reich because
a. he was raised a Catholic in Sweden.
b. Christians hate Jews, just like Hitler.
c. it was a masochistic guilt-trip.
6. In the southern hemisphere
a. the water spins counter-clockwise when you flush the toilet.
b. Christmas is in the summer.
c. the phrase "penal colony" gives people existential etymological questions.
d. I don't want to live
e. Michael Jackson once ate 21 frozen burritos.
f. hemisphere is a neat word.
7. Coffee
a. is dangerously caffeinated (4x coke).
b. helps me go to sleep.
c. was the 8th dwarf- Sneezy's younger brother.
8. Force is
a. unfortunate.
b. necessary.
c. Ben Kenobi
d. His name is Obi Wan, idiot.
e. ok, relax, you nerd.
9. Destiny
a. is what people believe in if their last name ends in "-opoulus."
b. exists.
c. was the name of a stripper I met once.
d. I thought you cared.
10. God is
a. complicated.
b. simple.
For the record, my mom thought the quiz was my way of telling her I was suicidal (I don't think she understood question 6), and the only answer she circled was that force was "necessary."
Final notes: the good thing about getting to work at 10:45 is that it's already 1:00. The noun of the day that people incorrectly use as a verb is: leverage. Also in the running were impact, reference, and upkeep.
This morning, I woke up feeling very, very Monday. So I started drinking (I mean REALLY Monday), read about Lancelot and Guenever, shaved, and thought about how every guy wants to fall in love with a girl named Jenny.
In Mass on Sunday, I determined that the chief criterion I will employ to find my wife will be whether I can have the following conversation with her:
Me: "Your nose sure is big. I don't want to pass that on to our kids."
Her: "I guess we should adopt."
Me: "I love you."
Her: "OK."
I don't know why this enchants me so much, or why my wife has to have a big nose. But I really liked Cyrano de Bergerac, and Pinocchio's not bad either.
I am, I discovered, the top organic result for a Google search "scorched chowder." I wonder what that person was looking for, and I hope they didn't find it.
Speaking of unnecessary assholism, my cousin told a story on Friday about a former co-worker of his at Starbucks who made up directions to a pet store for a lost lady. When the guy got fired a month later for poor performance, my cousin had to stop him at the door, since the guy was carrying about thirty pounds of coffee. "What are you doing with that?" The guy shrugs. "Ehh, I was trying to steal it." He puts it down, walks out.
I made a paper airplane out of my "Time Worked Request for Payroll" sheet.
And now here's a quiz for you. I debated the title in my head for a while, whether to call it "10 questions that say nothing about you because you taught them not to talk back" or "The quiz that needs more choices" or "Buttrape is a funny word" but I decided on:
The 10 Question Quiz
that just needs an answer
1. The most common mistake parents make in raising their children is
a. giving them too much credit.
b. not giving them enough credit.
2. Celebrities
a. should be effusive and professional.
b. realize that the public spotlight can be used for good.
c. shouldn't affect ordinary people.
d. automatically suck, which is unfortunate, because I want to be a celebrity.
3. I like things to happen
a. gradually
b. suddenly
4. Yearbooks exist because
a. people who are inappropriately proud of their signatures need to sign them.
b. memories are worth holding onto, if only to cry over.
c. no one wants to forget that one dork's eminently punchable face.
5. Hitler chose a cross to represent the Third Reich because
a. he was raised a Catholic in Sweden.
b. Christians hate Jews, just like Hitler.
c. it was a masochistic guilt-trip.
6. In the southern hemisphere
a. the water spins counter-clockwise when you flush the toilet.
b. Christmas is in the summer.
c. the phrase "penal colony" gives people existential etymological questions.
d. I don't want to live
e. Michael Jackson once ate 21 frozen burritos.
f. hemisphere is a neat word.
7. Coffee
a. is dangerously caffeinated (4x coke).
b. helps me go to sleep.
c. was the 8th dwarf- Sneezy's younger brother.
8. Force is
a. unfortunate.
b. necessary.
c. Ben Kenobi
d. His name is Obi Wan, idiot.
e. ok, relax, you nerd.
9. Destiny
a. is what people believe in if their last name ends in "-opoulus."
b. exists.
c. was the name of a stripper I met once.
d. I thought you cared.
10. God is
a. complicated.
b. simple.
For the record, my mom thought the quiz was my way of telling her I was suicidal (I don't think she understood question 6), and the only answer she circled was that force was "necessary."
Final notes: the good thing about getting to work at 10:45 is that it's already 1:00. The noun of the day that people incorrectly use as a verb is: leverage. Also in the running were impact, reference, and upkeep.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Judge This
I am the kind of guy who gets mad at people who think girls should be altar boys (or altar servers). Shortly afterwards, I am the kind of guy who makes fun of the people (who think girls should be altar servers) for spelling it "chauvenist." I laugh and laugh, and don't make my point very well, and they get incensed (liturgical zing).
The point is, aloof as I sometimes pretend to be, I am a boringly rigid traditional conservative who liked Ronald Reagan, doesn't think affirmative action makes sense, submits to no "rape/incest exception" to the no-abortion tenet, thinks that reason works, and that George Bush, in addition to being a lovable clumsy bumbler, is not only a good man, but also a good president. So sue me.
Most of the time, I like to laugh and have fun, because let's face it, having fun is more fun than... I don't know, not having fun? I am sarcastic and ironic and especially love the phrase "double-in-your-endo."
But there are times, let me tell you, when normally funny, off-the-cuff satirists get too into the liberal mindset and John Stewart forgets that what makes him great (and made him rich and famous) was not that he was a liberal, but that he was funny. There are literally millions of liberals, John. Very few bordering on none are also hilarious like you. So be funny and concentrate on that; it's what you're good at.
Then there are folks who get so caught up with what seems like a good idea that they lose all perspective, and cling onto a pretty mundane idea as if it were all that mattered. What's getting my goat this time is the commandment "Don't judge." Two Arrested Development quotes spring immediately to mind: "I don't think that one made it down the mountain," and "new-age feel-goodery."
Don't judge? Are you kidding me? Is that a message for your kids? How about "judge everyone," is that more realistic? "Don't talk to strangers." Hello? Don't go get in the guy's car when he offers you candy. Don't go on that mean neighbor's lawn. Don't ride your bike on that side of the tracks in the bad neighborhood.
Another example: why do we say that a first impression so important? Because everyone is judging everyone around them ALL THE TIME. It's how people work, and there's nothing wrong with that.
A girl walking down an alley in a bad neighborhood at night will not recognize a five-year old girl as a potential threat. A six-four guy on the other hand... she'll get nervous.
Why? Is she accusing that guy of being a thief or a rapist? No, she's just recognizing that a much higher percentage of rapes are perpetrated by men than girls.
And again, did you know that a significantly higher proportion of black men are violent criminals than white men? So if you're a little more nervous passing a black guy in an alley than a white guy, what does that say? That you're racist? That you think all black men are criminals? No. It means you recognize that a higher percentage of blah blah blah whatever.
Same thing with Arabs being terrorists. I mean, I guess it sucks for all those groups, getting sketchy looks from everyone all the time, but you know what? I'm a guy. A big, 6'6" guy. And if people are nervous when they pass me in a dark alley, I'm not offended. They know very few things about me: I am much bigger than they are, I could probably overpower them physically, I am out late at night, and I am a man. Odds (as far as they can tell) that I'm a rapist? Still not very good, but a lot higher than average. So, please, judge me (not that you need my permission, or that my wanting you to or not will affect you at all).
And you know what else is true? You're judging me right now. You're taking what I'm saying, digesting it, and arriving at conclusions about what I am and who I am. That's what people do. It's OK. That's why we have interviews, and dates, and conversations.
I am one of the people (I don't know how many there are these days- and I don't mean that condescendingly, I mean honestly, it could be 60% or 5%, I really don't know) who believe in absolute truth- that there is only one truth, and it's the same for everyone. What's right for one person is right for every other person and what's wrong for one person is wrong for everyone else.
I am not a person that will say, "ok, you believe that, I believe this, that's ok, we can both do that and not contradict each other." No, they do contradict each other. Jews and Christians and Buddhists and Muslims cannot all be right, because they disagree. This seems very obvious to me. If one person says A is B, and another person says A is not B, then one of them is wrong. It doesn't mean they're going to hell, or that their mother doesn't love them, or that they're going to suffer from premature baldness. It just means that they're wrong.
To deny that, it would seem to me, would be to deny reason. And if reason goes, then I'm confused, and I think most other people would be too. Maybe that's why a lot of people already are confused.
The point is, aloof as I sometimes pretend to be, I am a boringly rigid traditional conservative who liked Ronald Reagan, doesn't think affirmative action makes sense, submits to no "rape/incest exception" to the no-abortion tenet, thinks that reason works, and that George Bush, in addition to being a lovable clumsy bumbler, is not only a good man, but also a good president. So sue me.
Most of the time, I like to laugh and have fun, because let's face it, having fun is more fun than... I don't know, not having fun? I am sarcastic and ironic and especially love the phrase "double-in-your-endo."
But there are times, let me tell you, when normally funny, off-the-cuff satirists get too into the liberal mindset and John Stewart forgets that what makes him great (and made him rich and famous) was not that he was a liberal, but that he was funny. There are literally millions of liberals, John. Very few bordering on none are also hilarious like you. So be funny and concentrate on that; it's what you're good at.
Then there are folks who get so caught up with what seems like a good idea that they lose all perspective, and cling onto a pretty mundane idea as if it were all that mattered. What's getting my goat this time is the commandment "Don't judge." Two Arrested Development quotes spring immediately to mind: "I don't think that one made it down the mountain," and "new-age feel-goodery."
Don't judge? Are you kidding me? Is that a message for your kids? How about "judge everyone," is that more realistic? "Don't talk to strangers." Hello? Don't go get in the guy's car when he offers you candy. Don't go on that mean neighbor's lawn. Don't ride your bike on that side of the tracks in the bad neighborhood.
Another example: why do we say that a first impression so important? Because everyone is judging everyone around them ALL THE TIME. It's how people work, and there's nothing wrong with that.
A girl walking down an alley in a bad neighborhood at night will not recognize a five-year old girl as a potential threat. A six-four guy on the other hand... she'll get nervous.
Why? Is she accusing that guy of being a thief or a rapist? No, she's just recognizing that a much higher percentage of rapes are perpetrated by men than girls.
And again, did you know that a significantly higher proportion of black men are violent criminals than white men? So if you're a little more nervous passing a black guy in an alley than a white guy, what does that say? That you're racist? That you think all black men are criminals? No. It means you recognize that a higher percentage of blah blah blah whatever.
Same thing with Arabs being terrorists. I mean, I guess it sucks for all those groups, getting sketchy looks from everyone all the time, but you know what? I'm a guy. A big, 6'6" guy. And if people are nervous when they pass me in a dark alley, I'm not offended. They know very few things about me: I am much bigger than they are, I could probably overpower them physically, I am out late at night, and I am a man. Odds (as far as they can tell) that I'm a rapist? Still not very good, but a lot higher than average. So, please, judge me (not that you need my permission, or that my wanting you to or not will affect you at all).
And you know what else is true? You're judging me right now. You're taking what I'm saying, digesting it, and arriving at conclusions about what I am and who I am. That's what people do. It's OK. That's why we have interviews, and dates, and conversations.
I am one of the people (I don't know how many there are these days- and I don't mean that condescendingly, I mean honestly, it could be 60% or 5%, I really don't know) who believe in absolute truth- that there is only one truth, and it's the same for everyone. What's right for one person is right for every other person and what's wrong for one person is wrong for everyone else.
I am not a person that will say, "ok, you believe that, I believe this, that's ok, we can both do that and not contradict each other." No, they do contradict each other. Jews and Christians and Buddhists and Muslims cannot all be right, because they disagree. This seems very obvious to me. If one person says A is B, and another person says A is not B, then one of them is wrong. It doesn't mean they're going to hell, or that their mother doesn't love them, or that they're going to suffer from premature baldness. It just means that they're wrong.
To deny that, it would seem to me, would be to deny reason. And if reason goes, then I'm confused, and I think most other people would be too. Maybe that's why a lot of people already are confused.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
My sweet love dances with the stars. Seriously.
I would like to take this moment to say: I TOLD YOU SO!!!
The Dancing with the Stars finale was in. tense. last night. But that might be because I was so emotionally invested. But whatever, you can't blame me-- that was my future wife up there, for heaven's sake!
Tom Bergeron (or however you spell his last name) didn't give his final announcement as much lead-up time as I expected, and I had just taken a mouthful of wine. Needless to say, I couldn't swallow for the agonizing, slow seconds that followed. The screen was dark, I was leaning forward slightly. Love and fear were in my heart. I was frozen. I didn't breathe.
And then [!] the explosion of joy. I raised my arm in triumphant silence (I would have spewed my wine if I had yielded to the urge to cry out in jubilation). My tightly clenched fist shook twice. I was overcome with emotion.
Julianne Hough. I can't wait to marry this girl. What a doll! What a babe.
Fine. Fine. I admit it, she looks kind of dumb, kind of ditzy. I agree. She might be awkward and a little too giggly. Fine, a lot.
But since I'm never going to meet her anyway, I don't need to worry about the fact that she'd probably bore me to tears. I'm going to stick with the following truths: she is happy, bubbly, vivacious and wonderful; she is unbelievably gorgeous, especially when she's got that husky voice going (don't tell me it's from hours of mindless shrieking- we're past that, remember?); and she can move. Dancing is sexy, and she is pretty damn good at it.
Therefore I will revel in my love for her- you know, that breath-catching second-grade love that makes you clench your buttcheeks together in your chair and giggle. I'll watch her from afar, imagining that I'm not afraid to go right up and talk to her, and living a thousand charming encounters in my mind.
And in the meantime, I won't feel bad about lording it over you that I predicted her repeat victory after the first effing episode of the season. Because I had faith in the one I love.
[insert buttsquirm and giggle, mental image of my wedding with Julianne on top of a mountain, cherubs are hovering like hummingbirds and dropping white rose petals that cover the green grass where the white cuppola stands, Julianne and I are holding hands under her bouquet and giggling, possible butterfly kisses]
Monday, November 26, 2007
Recaps, retrievals, redolence
Before I get into anything else, here is the answer to the “One question picture quiz” from last Tuesday: A. My picture is a picture of me doing an imitation of a retarded man who lived two apartments down from us in college. This guy had a really bad speech problem, and generally sounded like the rudest impression of a retard you've ever heard, but a little more snarly and less intelligible. And one day, Randy (we named him Randy after one of my friends-- his real name was Sam) came over and gave us a Van Halen CD, and tried to explain to us that he didn't know who was on it because he couldn't see, and kept putting his hands over his eyes. We made fun of him for weeks behind his back, and never gave the CD back.
Is this true? Yes. Am I proud of it? That’s a stupid question. Does it make me an asshole? Hey, I don’t like your tone. Besides, I was an asshole long before some lonely tard cruised up to my porch and started distracting me from what I was doing, which was cutting class, drinking the morning away and hitting on cute freshmen girls.
Speaking of drinking all the time, my Thanksgiving break was very relaxing, even though I found out Wednesday afternoon that I don’t get paid for skipping work on Friday and if I don’t work eight hours the day before a holiday, I don’t even get paid for the holiday. So that blows. Still, I said “eff it, I’m done,” and left at 1:30 on Wednesday. And got to work at 11:00 this morning.
In the meantime, I hung out with my family in Michigan, reading by day and drinking by night. Here are a few highlights:
We stopped for McDonalds on the way Wednesday evening, and I ate a Big Mac, a crispy honey mustard chicken snack wrap, large fries, a large coke, a McChicken sandwich and a triple-thick chocolate milk shake. My bowel movements were irregular for the rest of the weekend.
On Thanksgiving morning, my dad brought down a deer, a one-and-a-half-year-old doe which I thought was two-and-a-half. I was shouted down, the deer was strung up, the kids gathered round, the fire was near, the bowels were left in (Chronic Wasting Disease fear), the skin was taken off, the carcass was taken apart, the meat was cut out, and prepositions were all about. General merriment, slight disgust, primal satisfaction, and some hunger ensued. We cut some of the more tender rib and tenderloin meat off the ribcage and roasted little pieces on spits over the fire.
My hilarious niece amused us as we stuffed ourselves, referring to hors d’oeuvres as “duverves,” and pumpkin pie as “punkmin pie” or “punkpin pie,” alternatively.
I read two novels in one day (Saturday), which I think is a first for me, though I could be wrong. Tony Hillerman’s “Skinwalkers,” and James Patterson’s “When the Wind Blows.” Neither was that good, but I’d recommend “Skinwalkers” if you like Indians, police, witchcraft or murder.
We read in the paper on Saturday that Thanksgiving morning (when my dad got his deer) a hunter had been shot in the head with a shotgun about ten miles from where we were.
Interesting statistic: there are more men in the woods with rifles in Michigan on Opening Day of the hunting season than there were men in the Allied invasion force on D-Day.
The girls beat us two nights in a row at Trivial Pursuit. No excuses. It is amazing, though, how impatient old people get when they play this game. And disturbing how much toddlers love to put small plastic game pieces in their mouth—not that I’m worried about choking, but that we can’t play when some kid is eating the dice.
Grammy burned the shrimp chowder on Friday. Damn it. I was really looking forward to that, and we just had to throw it all away, a giant cauldron of scorched chowder.
So we came back yesterday, picked up a bunch of gyros and subs and garlic fries and watched the best Bears game I’ve seen in a while. Fanfrickintastic. I think ever weekend should be four days long.
Is this true? Yes. Am I proud of it? That’s a stupid question. Does it make me an asshole? Hey, I don’t like your tone. Besides, I was an asshole long before some lonely tard cruised up to my porch and started distracting me from what I was doing, which was cutting class, drinking the morning away and hitting on cute freshmen girls.
Speaking of drinking all the time, my Thanksgiving break was very relaxing, even though I found out Wednesday afternoon that I don’t get paid for skipping work on Friday and if I don’t work eight hours the day before a holiday, I don’t even get paid for the holiday. So that blows. Still, I said “eff it, I’m done,” and left at 1:30 on Wednesday. And got to work at 11:00 this morning.
In the meantime, I hung out with my family in Michigan, reading by day and drinking by night. Here are a few highlights:
We stopped for McDonalds on the way Wednesday evening, and I ate a Big Mac, a crispy honey mustard chicken snack wrap, large fries, a large coke, a McChicken sandwich and a triple-thick chocolate milk shake. My bowel movements were irregular for the rest of the weekend.
On Thanksgiving morning, my dad brought down a deer, a one-and-a-half-year-old doe which I thought was two-and-a-half. I was shouted down, the deer was strung up, the kids gathered round, the fire was near, the bowels were left in (Chronic Wasting Disease fear), the skin was taken off, the carcass was taken apart, the meat was cut out, and prepositions were all about. General merriment, slight disgust, primal satisfaction, and some hunger ensued. We cut some of the more tender rib and tenderloin meat off the ribcage and roasted little pieces on spits over the fire.
My hilarious niece amused us as we stuffed ourselves, referring to hors d’oeuvres as “duverves,” and pumpkin pie as “punkmin pie” or “punkpin pie,” alternatively.
I read two novels in one day (Saturday), which I think is a first for me, though I could be wrong. Tony Hillerman’s “Skinwalkers,” and James Patterson’s “When the Wind Blows.” Neither was that good, but I’d recommend “Skinwalkers” if you like Indians, police, witchcraft or murder.
We read in the paper on Saturday that Thanksgiving morning (when my dad got his deer) a hunter had been shot in the head with a shotgun about ten miles from where we were.
Interesting statistic: there are more men in the woods with rifles in Michigan on Opening Day of the hunting season than there were men in the Allied invasion force on D-Day.
The girls beat us two nights in a row at Trivial Pursuit. No excuses. It is amazing, though, how impatient old people get when they play this game. And disturbing how much toddlers love to put small plastic game pieces in their mouth—not that I’m worried about choking, but that we can’t play when some kid is eating the dice.
Grammy burned the shrimp chowder on Friday. Damn it. I was really looking forward to that, and we just had to throw it all away, a giant cauldron of scorched chowder.
So we came back yesterday, picked up a bunch of gyros and subs and garlic fries and watched the best Bears game I’ve seen in a while. Fanfrickintastic. I think ever weekend should be four days long.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Thanksgiving is English for Eucharist
Everyone is putting up their Thanksgiving posts. Mostly memories of past holidays, and mostly bad memories of past bad holidays. And a few pre-emptive bad memories, when someone predicts how awkward and awful his weekend will be, and how full of arguments and dramatic confrontations and unpleasant, understated, tight-lipped heart-to-hearts about the gay brother of the brother-in-law.
And I have to say, I can’t relate. I don’t have family issues. At all. We (my brothers and sisters and I) are so close we don’t even think about being close. We hang out all the time, we have dinner together on Sundays most weeks. We’re softball teammates, drinking buddies, and best friends.
I don’t know, maybe it sounds like bragging. Maybe it is bragging. But indulge me here. These people are the best.
I’m leaving in a couple of hours for Michigan, where we will hunt, lie around, drink and eat. I’m leaving work early to grab my brother and sister in the city (with my brother’s car), and we’re going to hit the road. And it’s going to be a blast.
I was reminded of good family by this post, and I think it’s because it mentions prayer, and recognizes prayer as an important part of coming together and staying together as a family. We pray in my family. We’re real, honest-to-goodness Catholics who go to Mass every Sunday, and believe that there are such things as mortal sins and hell.
And it’s not morbid, it’s glorious. I’ll say a prayer for all of you who don’t know where you are in your life, and maybe you can say a prayer for me. Happy thanksgiving.
Don’t even get me started on my extended family (again, no issues, pure bliss). This is an email exchange I just had with my cousin who delights me.
Her: hey, I just wrote my own defense of poesie. Take a look and see if you agree.
"What is the good of reading?" I cannot leave a question like that unanswered. It would be a betrayal of everything I believe in. So, I am sorry if you are over it and are not interested, but I have to respond with the answer that came to me while I was (guess what) reading.
Reading is beneficial in too many ways to enumerate, but I will give the top four.
1. Superficially. (I have to put this first so that hopefully you will forget about it by the time you get to the end.) People will look at a person who is reading a book, and will think "wow, this person is intelligent, sensitive, and cultured! Cool!" This is, of course, not a good reason to read, but it doesn't hurt the cause.
2. Practically. Reading will help with grammar, spelling and style. Since our use of language and communication is one of the things that separate the human from the animal, doesn't it make sense that we should speak and write this language correctly? And really, there is no better way to get in the habit of speaking properly than by reading.
3. Intellectually. Reading stimualtes the mind, and sharpens the imagination of the reader. It leaves the reader with a sense of interest and wonderment in the world around him. The habitual reader will question theories, explore ideas, and will think inventively and creatively. A reading mind is an active mind that will never go dull.
4. Truthfully/Philosophically. (This is the most important reason). Reading provides a completely unique creative escape, that cannot be experienced through any other activity such as watching tv. One might think that watching a movie, which creates a new world of imagination, would supply the watcher with as much creative scope and intellectual fuel as a book. This is incorrect. A movie spoon feeds the reader every single aspect of the created world. Nothing is left to the character's imagination. The watcher cannot imagine how the characters look, how they speak, how they interact with each other. Everything is decided for them by the moviemaker and forced upon them. When reading however, the writer and the reader combine forces to create a completely personal experience. The reader can provide the emotions and the subtle inflections which transform a plain volume of paper and ink into a different world. The reader is the partial creator of this world, since the writer is limited as to what he can portray through the written word. The writer provides the base, the walls and the roof. The reader enters this structure, and provides his own individual embellishment and decoration. In other words, (and I CANNOT help using this cliche. It's really screaming to be used.) The reader makes the house a home.
Me: Very nice. I am going to put it on the internet.
Isn't it fun being smart? Seriously, I can't imagine how boring it would be to be dumb.
ps - guess who is leaving for Michigan in an hour and a half. I'll give you a hint-- it's me.
Her: don't put it on the internet!!! People will plagiarize me!
Me: I'm totally putting it on the internet. I'm not even joking a little bit.
And I have to say, I can’t relate. I don’t have family issues. At all. We (my brothers and sisters and I) are so close we don’t even think about being close. We hang out all the time, we have dinner together on Sundays most weeks. We’re softball teammates, drinking buddies, and best friends.
I don’t know, maybe it sounds like bragging. Maybe it is bragging. But indulge me here. These people are the best.
I’m leaving in a couple of hours for Michigan, where we will hunt, lie around, drink and eat. I’m leaving work early to grab my brother and sister in the city (with my brother’s car), and we’re going to hit the road. And it’s going to be a blast.
I was reminded of good family by this post, and I think it’s because it mentions prayer, and recognizes prayer as an important part of coming together and staying together as a family. We pray in my family. We’re real, honest-to-goodness Catholics who go to Mass every Sunday, and believe that there are such things as mortal sins and hell.
And it’s not morbid, it’s glorious. I’ll say a prayer for all of you who don’t know where you are in your life, and maybe you can say a prayer for me. Happy thanksgiving.
Don’t even get me started on my extended family (again, no issues, pure bliss). This is an email exchange I just had with my cousin who delights me.
Her: hey, I just wrote my own defense of poesie. Take a look and see if you agree.
"What is the good of reading?" I cannot leave a question like that unanswered. It would be a betrayal of everything I believe in. So, I am sorry if you are over it and are not interested, but I have to respond with the answer that came to me while I was (guess what) reading.
Reading is beneficial in too many ways to enumerate, but I will give the top four.
1. Superficially. (I have to put this first so that hopefully you will forget about it by the time you get to the end.) People will look at a person who is reading a book, and will think "wow, this person is intelligent, sensitive, and cultured! Cool!" This is, of course, not a good reason to read, but it doesn't hurt the cause.
2. Practically. Reading will help with grammar, spelling and style. Since our use of language and communication is one of the things that separate the human from the animal, doesn't it make sense that we should speak and write this language correctly? And really, there is no better way to get in the habit of speaking properly than by reading.
3. Intellectually. Reading stimualtes the mind, and sharpens the imagination of the reader. It leaves the reader with a sense of interest and wonderment in the world around him. The habitual reader will question theories, explore ideas, and will think inventively and creatively. A reading mind is an active mind that will never go dull.
4. Truthfully/Philosophically. (This is the most important reason). Reading provides a completely unique creative escape, that cannot be experienced through any other activity such as watching tv. One might think that watching a movie, which creates a new world of imagination, would supply the watcher with as much creative scope and intellectual fuel as a book. This is incorrect. A movie spoon feeds the reader every single aspect of the created world. Nothing is left to the character's imagination. The watcher cannot imagine how the characters look, how they speak, how they interact with each other. Everything is decided for them by the moviemaker and forced upon them. When reading however, the writer and the reader combine forces to create a completely personal experience. The reader can provide the emotions and the subtle inflections which transform a plain volume of paper and ink into a different world. The reader is the partial creator of this world, since the writer is limited as to what he can portray through the written word. The writer provides the base, the walls and the roof. The reader enters this structure, and provides his own individual embellishment and decoration. In other words, (and I CANNOT help using this cliche. It's really screaming to be used.) The reader makes the house a home.
Me: Very nice. I am going to put it on the internet.
Isn't it fun being smart? Seriously, I can't imagine how boring it would be to be dumb.
ps - guess who is leaving for Michigan in an hour and a half. I'll give you a hint-- it's me.
Her: don't put it on the internet!!! People will plagiarize me!
Me: I'm totally putting it on the internet. I'm not even joking a little bit.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
A one question picture quiz
Someone gave me an idea for a post (ok fine, it was myself). What is the deal with that picture you've got up?
Well, I'll give you multiple choice:
A. It was a picture of me doing an imitation of a retarded man who lived two apartments down from us in college. This guy had a really bad speech problem, and generally sounded like the rudest impression of a retard you've ever heard, but a little more snarly and less intelligible. And one day, Randy (we named him Randy after one of my friends-- his real name was Sam) came over and gave us a Van Halen CD, and tried to explain to us that he didn't know who was on it because he couldn't see, and kept putting his hands over his eyes. We made fun of him for weeks behind his back, and never gave the CD back.
B. I am playing charades, trying to act out "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."
C. I just got maced. But it was really funny mace.
D. I am jokingly covering my eyes as I retell the story of finding my roommate making out with my friend from Chicago that he didn't really know. And the making out and subsequent finding-by-me had happened the night before. On the exact patio I was standing on in the picture. Mere seconds after the picture was taken, my roommate's embarrassment turned to anger and he tackled me into the wall, irreparably tearing my shirt.
E. I am wiping tears of laughter from my face at the prospect of my roommate making out with retarded Randy who lives two apartments down.
Well, I'll give you multiple choice:
A. It was a picture of me doing an imitation of a retarded man who lived two apartments down from us in college. This guy had a really bad speech problem, and generally sounded like the rudest impression of a retard you've ever heard, but a little more snarly and less intelligible. And one day, Randy (we named him Randy after one of my friends-- his real name was Sam) came over and gave us a Van Halen CD, and tried to explain to us that he didn't know who was on it because he couldn't see, and kept putting his hands over his eyes. We made fun of him for weeks behind his back, and never gave the CD back.
B. I am playing charades, trying to act out "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."
C. I just got maced. But it was really funny mace.
D. I am jokingly covering my eyes as I retell the story of finding my roommate making out with my friend from Chicago that he didn't really know. And the making out and subsequent finding-by-me had happened the night before. On the exact patio I was standing on in the picture. Mere seconds after the picture was taken, my roommate's embarrassment turned to anger and he tackled me into the wall, irreparably tearing my shirt.
E. I am wiping tears of laughter from my face at the prospect of my roommate making out with retarded Randy who lives two apartments down.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Stupid things to write, I guess
I just finished an article that includes the following excerpt:
"But your [Christmas] presents might not be safe even when you get them home, tucked on the top shelf of the closet where Jimmy and Jane won’t find them. Just like the crooks knew there were presents in the car, the crooks know there are presents in the house. And crooks love presents."
I feel a little bit bad, because I have no idea if that is true or not, but I'm learning more and more each day that good journalism consists chiefly of making shit up, but making sure it sounds believable. Like "crooks love presents." Do they? I don't know. But presents are fun, right? So why wouldn't they love presents? I place the burden of proof on the skeptic, not the reporter who made the statement. In fact, I think I'm going to go back and add "and crooks love cake too, even more than presents. Except crooks that are on the Atkins diet."
Speaking of retarded things to say, I would like to take this opportunity to point out a few phrases that many, MANY bloggers (including many good ones) use way too often:
"Blog fodder," as in "an excursion to the Hungarian rave with that old guy that had given me a roofie on our blind date sounded like a bad idea, but it would make great blog fodder, so I went for it."
"Bated breath," as in "I am super-duper busy this week, so it'll take a little bit for me to post the pictures of the wrestling party in the pool full of chili we had for halloween. I know you're all waiting with bated breath..." Except sometimes people spell it "baited breath," which makes me want to knee-drop them all the more.
"In other news," used just as a cute segway. Well, I've got news for you. A segway is not a cliche, it's a gyroscoped scooter that Gob Bluth and dorky policemen ride.
Over the weekend, I didn't do anything interesting. I ate crackers and cheese for dinner on Friday, and then drank a couple bottles of wine and watched TV by myself. On Saturday, I watched football all day and did about eight loads of laundry. When 7:00 rolled around and I realized nothing was going on, I got real hyper and drunk on gin and cleaned my room for about two hours. Sunday I went to Mass, ate four hot dogs, and went to sister and brother-in-laws to watch the (disappointing) Bears game and drink three manhattans, three glasses of wine a bourbon and two doses of Drambuie. Oh yeah, and we ate dinner. Well, that sounds depressing.
Today, I laughed and laughed at this post. Really, it's worth your time.
"But your [Christmas] presents might not be safe even when you get them home, tucked on the top shelf of the closet where Jimmy and Jane won’t find them. Just like the crooks knew there were presents in the car, the crooks know there are presents in the house. And crooks love presents."
I feel a little bit bad, because I have no idea if that is true or not, but I'm learning more and more each day that good journalism consists chiefly of making shit up, but making sure it sounds believable. Like "crooks love presents." Do they? I don't know. But presents are fun, right? So why wouldn't they love presents? I place the burden of proof on the skeptic, not the reporter who made the statement. In fact, I think I'm going to go back and add "and crooks love cake too, even more than presents. Except crooks that are on the Atkins diet."
Speaking of retarded things to say, I would like to take this opportunity to point out a few phrases that many, MANY bloggers (including many good ones) use way too often:
"Blog fodder," as in "an excursion to the Hungarian rave with that old guy that had given me a roofie on our blind date sounded like a bad idea, but it would make great blog fodder, so I went for it."
"Bated breath," as in "I am super-duper busy this week, so it'll take a little bit for me to post the pictures of the wrestling party in the pool full of chili we had for halloween. I know you're all waiting with bated breath..." Except sometimes people spell it "baited breath," which makes me want to knee-drop them all the more.
"In other news," used just as a cute segway. Well, I've got news for you. A segway is not a cliche, it's a gyroscoped scooter that Gob Bluth and dorky policemen ride.
Over the weekend, I didn't do anything interesting. I ate crackers and cheese for dinner on Friday, and then drank a couple bottles of wine and watched TV by myself. On Saturday, I watched football all day and did about eight loads of laundry. When 7:00 rolled around and I realized nothing was going on, I got real hyper and drunk on gin and cleaned my room for about two hours. Sunday I went to Mass, ate four hot dogs, and went to sister and brother-in-laws to watch the (disappointing) Bears game and drink three manhattans, three glasses of wine a bourbon and two doses of Drambuie. Oh yeah, and we ate dinner. Well, that sounds depressing.
Today, I laughed and laughed at this post. Really, it's worth your time.
Friday, November 16, 2007
The internet is a funny place
For my friend John's intermediate (Sophomore level) French class requirement, which he was finishing up second semester of senior year (this spring), he had to make a video for a project he was working on. Our other roommate's brother had visited a month before and left us with a new awe for four things: Right Guard RGX body spray (still use that stuff), the sexual attractiveness (to coeds) of a college graduate who plays guitar, the potential for screwy relationships with hot women from broken homes, and the French rap song La Belle et Le Bad Boy, by MC Solaar.
Naturally, for his project, John decided to make a music video of La Belle et Le Bad Boy, consisting chiefly of jiggly shots of him walking down the hallways of a recording studio and lip-synching. But there were other scenes too, including a shooting, a funeral, cars with underlighting at night, and a shot of the two young lovers (two more of my friends) counterfeiting money and doing lines of fake cocaine off the coffee table.
And now? The thing just blew up on YouTube. 51,000 hits or something? (I can’t check because YouTube is blocked at work.) And guess what the number one result on a Google search “MC Solaar La Belle Le Boy”?
This video took him a few hours to put together and now he’s practically famous. I was almost in the shooting scene, but I didn’t want to put down my bourbon because I had to finish it before my baseball game (what? I wasn’t pitching that day).
But I think I deserve a little acknowledgement in the credits for the “fake cocaine off the coffee table” scene. I guess you’ll need a backstory for that.
At the end of the fall semester, at a flag football game (which we won—actually we won the whole shebang—championship, yeah bitches), John broke his finger… really fecked it up as a matter of fact: the middle bone of his middle finger was snapped into four pieces, and it was bent directly sideways. The two of us were collaborating to stop a kickoff return on the play, and he got his hand caught in the flag belt and twisted around. When he turned to me and showed me, I told him he should get a sub (I think maybe he knew that). And then I yelled over to the sideline that one of the girls should drive him to the hospital (I was into the game).
After a sort-of botched surgery (his finger is still kind of crooked), he got a prescription for Laritab, which is basically Vicodin to the third power. Strong stuff. One of those days when we were all sitting around drinking and various people we didn’t invite were coming into our apartment to drink (there were a lot of those days in those days), John thought it would be a good idea to grind one of the pills up and snort it.
He went and got one of the pills (gigantic! 1000 milligrams aka a gram), and set to dicing it with a paring knife on a kitchen plate. We took a few minutes chopping and grinding, and a few more minutes finding a twenty dollar bill for authenticity’s sake. But when push came to shove, there was still a great deal of awkward laughing and “Are you fucking serious?” and more laughing and “I’ll do it if you do it” and then awkward seriousness, and then a little more giggling.
I had never done drugs of any kind, except for antibiotics and Capri Sun, and I wasn’t interested in doing any, but I just wasn’t sure if this qualified. But after enough mooning, I grabbed the bill, bent down and snerked up a column of powder.
It burned. Not because it was acidic or anything, it was just a bunch of powder up my nose. Ouch. So I sniffed a few times, took a drink of beer, and sat back. Everyone took their turns, and that was that. It didn’t make me feel funny, or feel good, or feel bad.
So the episode was pretty much forgotten. Every once in a while, one of us would whip out some aspirin or Vitamin C and convince some freshman to do it because we though that was pretty funny, but soon the novelty wore off, and we let it go.
Until they made that video, and the video made it big. Now, if you please, I would like credit for being the first person to snort a line of imitation coke off the coffee table that so many thousands have since seen.
Naturally, for his project, John decided to make a music video of La Belle et Le Bad Boy, consisting chiefly of jiggly shots of him walking down the hallways of a recording studio and lip-synching. But there were other scenes too, including a shooting, a funeral, cars with underlighting at night, and a shot of the two young lovers (two more of my friends) counterfeiting money and doing lines of fake cocaine off the coffee table.
And now? The thing just blew up on YouTube. 51,000 hits or something? (I can’t check because YouTube is blocked at work.) And guess what the number one result on a Google search “MC Solaar La Belle Le Boy”?
This video took him a few hours to put together and now he’s practically famous. I was almost in the shooting scene, but I didn’t want to put down my bourbon because I had to finish it before my baseball game (what? I wasn’t pitching that day).
But I think I deserve a little acknowledgement in the credits for the “fake cocaine off the coffee table” scene. I guess you’ll need a backstory for that.
At the end of the fall semester, at a flag football game (which we won—actually we won the whole shebang—championship, yeah bitches), John broke his finger… really fecked it up as a matter of fact: the middle bone of his middle finger was snapped into four pieces, and it was bent directly sideways. The two of us were collaborating to stop a kickoff return on the play, and he got his hand caught in the flag belt and twisted around. When he turned to me and showed me, I told him he should get a sub (I think maybe he knew that). And then I yelled over to the sideline that one of the girls should drive him to the hospital (I was into the game).
After a sort-of botched surgery (his finger is still kind of crooked), he got a prescription for Laritab, which is basically Vicodin to the third power. Strong stuff. One of those days when we were all sitting around drinking and various people we didn’t invite were coming into our apartment to drink (there were a lot of those days in those days), John thought it would be a good idea to grind one of the pills up and snort it.
He went and got one of the pills (gigantic! 1000 milligrams aka a gram), and set to dicing it with a paring knife on a kitchen plate. We took a few minutes chopping and grinding, and a few more minutes finding a twenty dollar bill for authenticity’s sake. But when push came to shove, there was still a great deal of awkward laughing and “Are you fucking serious?” and more laughing and “I’ll do it if you do it” and then awkward seriousness, and then a little more giggling.
I had never done drugs of any kind, except for antibiotics and Capri Sun, and I wasn’t interested in doing any, but I just wasn’t sure if this qualified. But after enough mooning, I grabbed the bill, bent down and snerked up a column of powder.
It burned. Not because it was acidic or anything, it was just a bunch of powder up my nose. Ouch. So I sniffed a few times, took a drink of beer, and sat back. Everyone took their turns, and that was that. It didn’t make me feel funny, or feel good, or feel bad.
So the episode was pretty much forgotten. Every once in a while, one of us would whip out some aspirin or Vitamin C and convince some freshman to do it because we though that was pretty funny, but soon the novelty wore off, and we let it go.
Until they made that video, and the video made it big. Now, if you please, I would like credit for being the first person to snort a line of imitation coke off the coffee table that so many thousands have since seen.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Copping Out, and why I shouldn't
Well, Tiff threw a meme out there, and unoriginal little soul that I am, I decided to go ahead and resort to it.
Blog’s Self-Description
Hello, I am Fort Knocks’s blog. I don’t know my own name, since I’m alternately referred to as Impatiens and Pellinore. I guess Pellinore was a goofy king from Arthurian legend and Impatiens is a kind of semi-edible flower. I have no idea what those two have to do with each other; maybe Fort Knocks has schizophrenia. Or at least ADD, hopefully. Anyway, I’m 6’2”, have a white beard and receding hairline, and I like mutton.
How would you really describe yourself?
I probably wouldn’t. Or I would be excessively boastful and hope people thought it was sarcastic, self-deprecating and cute (when really I’m just an arrogant prick). See? Like that.
What motivated you to start blogging and what do you hope to accomplish with your blog?
I was bored, and my sister had one, so I said “what the hell?” This is what I say immediately before most of my worst decisions. I hope to conquer the world and garner a lucrative shoe endorsement contract from Nike.
Why did you pick your blog name, is there a story behind that?
I changed it a couple of times. It used to be called “Turning the Cornered,” and then it was “Corner” for a little bit. Now I guess I think “Impatiens” just sounds cool. Plus Dean Koontz uses the word a lot, and I sort of have a crush on him.
Name 3 of your favourite/best beauty buys you’ve ever purchased, and why?
1. I bought shampoo in college once, when my roommates told me to stop using theirs.
2. I got a hair clippers/buzzer thing for Christmas.
3. That’s all. So since they’re the only two, I guess they’re the best two.
You have $1000, where would you go (which stores), why, and what would you look for?
I do have a thousand dollars. But I have far more than a thousand dollars in debt. Ok, that’s a boring answer. I guess I would go to Kohl’s, but first I would go to the Army store and buy a flamethrower with the thousand dollars so I could burn Kohl’s down because they sold me a suit with a missing button, and I didn’t notice and my mom did and I was embarrassed.
What’s on your “need-to-buy” list at the moment?
Socks. I swear.
Pick 1 dish you could eat forever, for the rest of your life. (5 if you really cannot decide)
Chicago-style deep dish pizza with sausage, spinach, pepperoni, onions and peppers. I would seriously have no problem with that.
Do you have a signature style, fragrance, accessory? If so, why, what made you choose it, and how does it make you feel?
Are you serious? I borrowed my cousin’s cologne a couple of times. Oh, wait! I have a breast cancer bracelet that I’ve been wearing for the last year and a half. It’s kind of yellow-peach by now, but whatever. Lay off, my mom had cancer. It makes me feel like it’s too small, because it is.
What is your go-to, fail-safe outfit for work, and for play?
For work: pants and a button-down shirt.
For play: jeans and a button-down shirt.
I guess being a guy is really easy. Or at least being a lazy guy.
What is the one gadget or item that you absolutely could not live without?
My phone? I think I’m the most boring person in the world. I hate this survey for making me realize it.
What are the top 3 most frustrating things about going shopping?
1. Buying a suit without a button and not noticing and having your mom notice and being embarrased.
2. That was the only time I’ve ever been shopping.
Well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Realizing what an uninteresting person I am has been a painful, but necessary process. I am going to go kill myself now.
No, wait! Salvation! Maybe I’m only boring when I’m talking about myself. Maybe I’m just not shallow enough to dither about what I like and don’t like for pages upon entertaining pages. Maybe I’m more interested in issues around me and outside me. Maybe I’m a gold-hearted philanthrope. So maybe all the rest of you self-involved losers should go kill yourselves. And then write a really entertaining blog about how you felt at the time to try to penetrate my self-righteousness. Good luck.
In the meantime, any of you who feel like it, have a crack at the meme. I won't be jealous of your interestingnessitude, I promise. Well, not that jealous.
Blog’s Self-Description
Hello, I am Fort Knocks’s blog. I don’t know my own name, since I’m alternately referred to as Impatiens and Pellinore. I guess Pellinore was a goofy king from Arthurian legend and Impatiens is a kind of semi-edible flower. I have no idea what those two have to do with each other; maybe Fort Knocks has schizophrenia. Or at least ADD, hopefully. Anyway, I’m 6’2”, have a white beard and receding hairline, and I like mutton.
How would you really describe yourself?
I probably wouldn’t. Or I would be excessively boastful and hope people thought it was sarcastic, self-deprecating and cute (when really I’m just an arrogant prick). See? Like that.
What motivated you to start blogging and what do you hope to accomplish with your blog?
I was bored, and my sister had one, so I said “what the hell?” This is what I say immediately before most of my worst decisions. I hope to conquer the world and garner a lucrative shoe endorsement contract from Nike.
Why did you pick your blog name, is there a story behind that?
I changed it a couple of times. It used to be called “Turning the Cornered,” and then it was “Corner” for a little bit. Now I guess I think “Impatiens” just sounds cool. Plus Dean Koontz uses the word a lot, and I sort of have a crush on him.
Name 3 of your favourite/best beauty buys you’ve ever purchased, and why?
1. I bought shampoo in college once, when my roommates told me to stop using theirs.
2. I got a hair clippers/buzzer thing for Christmas.
3. That’s all. So since they’re the only two, I guess they’re the best two.
You have $1000, where would you go (which stores), why, and what would you look for?
I do have a thousand dollars. But I have far more than a thousand dollars in debt. Ok, that’s a boring answer. I guess I would go to Kohl’s, but first I would go to the Army store and buy a flamethrower with the thousand dollars so I could burn Kohl’s down because they sold me a suit with a missing button, and I didn’t notice and my mom did and I was embarrassed.
What’s on your “need-to-buy” list at the moment?
Socks. I swear.
Pick 1 dish you could eat forever, for the rest of your life. (5 if you really cannot decide)
Chicago-style deep dish pizza with sausage, spinach, pepperoni, onions and peppers. I would seriously have no problem with that.
Do you have a signature style, fragrance, accessory? If so, why, what made you choose it, and how does it make you feel?
Are you serious? I borrowed my cousin’s cologne a couple of times. Oh, wait! I have a breast cancer bracelet that I’ve been wearing for the last year and a half. It’s kind of yellow-peach by now, but whatever. Lay off, my mom had cancer. It makes me feel like it’s too small, because it is.
What is your go-to, fail-safe outfit for work, and for play?
For work: pants and a button-down shirt.
For play: jeans and a button-down shirt.
I guess being a guy is really easy. Or at least being a lazy guy.
What is the one gadget or item that you absolutely could not live without?
My phone? I think I’m the most boring person in the world. I hate this survey for making me realize it.
What are the top 3 most frustrating things about going shopping?
1. Buying a suit without a button and not noticing and having your mom notice and being embarrased.
2. That was the only time I’ve ever been shopping.
Well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Realizing what an uninteresting person I am has been a painful, but necessary process. I am going to go kill myself now.
No, wait! Salvation! Maybe I’m only boring when I’m talking about myself. Maybe I’m just not shallow enough to dither about what I like and don’t like for pages upon entertaining pages. Maybe I’m more interested in issues around me and outside me. Maybe I’m a gold-hearted philanthrope. So maybe all the rest of you self-involved losers should go kill yourselves. And then write a really entertaining blog about how you felt at the time to try to penetrate my self-righteousness. Good luck.
In the meantime, any of you who feel like it, have a crack at the meme. I won't be jealous of your interestingnessitude, I promise. Well, not that jealous.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Big city, big tabs, Jamaican accents, and other shit
I spent my Monday and Tuesday at an industry symposium. Interesting stuff, some of it.
Monday morning, I was out of the house by 6:30, ready to do the whole city thing, wearing a suit and taking the train instead of the oh-so-suburban business casual and driving (driving a suburban, interestingly enough, which is what I usually do).
Today I had my usual accoutrements plus more cash and gum, which I stopped for at the White Hen on the way to the train. It’s convenient having an El stop two blocks from my house.
This symposium/seminar/meeting was at the Drake Hotel downtown, a place I had never been. It is as nice as you would imagine (if you imagine it really nice)—rich dark woodwork and fancy upholstery, and chandeliers everywhere, even in the bathroom stalls, which is a little bit awkward.
The first couple of keynotes were interestingish. Jon Kaplan from Google spoke first, and then a panel of a few different dudes. Third was an extremely boring old man with a toupee and wickedly bad teeth. I swear, this guy had one idea: automate your marketing campaigns—and that was it! And he talked for forty-five minutes without explaining anything further than that. So on our evaluation forms (on a scale of 1 to 5), I just ranked him “?” and wrote in the comments, “I don’t even know what this guy was talking about.”
But enough of the business talk. After the last session, all the industry people shuffled back into “the Gold Coast room” for a cocktail reception. Holy goodness, was that something (especially because I had skipped out of the sessions after lunch, and had been drinking all afternoon).
Open bar at the Drake: I encourage any of you who can to give this experience a try sometime. The bartenders are generous, and especially generous if you give them a tip, and Especially generous if you sound like you know what you’re talking about. So even though I didn’t especially want one, it was necessary to order a “Manhattan, down, rocks, and a vodka cranberry with a twist.” The old bartender loved it, even though he didn’t crack a smile, and I could tell as he whipped bottles hither and thither, and sloshed liquor over an already-full measuring shotglass that he preferred serving me to serving the other ignorants.
The second time back, he seemed a little distracted, and I asked him to hit it again with the bourbon, which he did. And I didn’t have any change, so I left him 20 bucks on the bar. And I felt equal parts cool “I hope people noticed that,” pretentious, “oh crap, whoever noticed that is going to think I am a huge douchebag,” and stupid, “wait, what are you doing, dumbass? You really can’t afford that at all. Not even a little bit.” The two guys immediately to my left immediately started yelling. “Hey, whoah! Look at that! … Hey, high-roller, huh, Fort Knocks? Who-ho-hoah!!!”
I don’t think I had met these guys, but I was wearing a name tag. I didn’t acknowledge them, of course, just turned away trying to hide my embarrassment with smugness, which made me even more embarrassed. But I was pretty loopy, so it wasn’t that bad.
At dinner, I found myself at a table with the organizers of the whole damn conference, so we had a couple glasses of wine and talked things over. It seemed like a really good idea to tell the one boss guy Tom how boring the third speaker had been, and I don’t think he was offended. He asked me if I wanted to go outside for a cigarette with one of the boss-women after we finished eating, so I did.
There we continued to chat, and after I made a few blunt remarks, the woman told Tom, “you should give this guy a job. He tells it how it is.”
“Oh, I don’t think you fogies could keep up with me,” I said and sort of laughed, and then went back to talking about how Mark Zuckerberg should have sold Facebook for $4 billion when he had the chance, because the demographic on social networking sites doesn’t have any purchasing power and ad revenue is getting artificially inflated. They went inside soon, and a younger organizer woman came out and started smoking a really thin dark brown cigarette at me.
We spoke; she mentioned that a few of them were heading up to the Signature room on the top of the John Hancock building, and I was welcome to come. I said what the hey?
The following are notes on what ensued. (This is getting too long, so I’ll just summarize. Besides, things get a little blurry at this point.)
1. I rode up and down to the top of the John Hancock building three times. Those elevators are ridiculously fast.
2. An $80 bottle of champagne is not that different than a $40 champagne to the uneducated, drunk palate.
3. Knob Creek doubles are always a good idea. Always.
4. Random hilarious guys who swear a lot but not in front of ladies, who tell you “we’ve got to hang out at this bar up the street right now,” and give you their phone number and then you say, “wait, who the hell are you? What’s your name?” and they leave are confusing.
5. Text messaging “Are they both named Cathy?” to someone across the table about two other people at the table is entirely acceptable. And useful.
6. The $255 tab had better be refunded by my company, or I am well and truly screwed.
7. That bar really is awesome. The best view in the city, and plus it makes you feel really important.
8. The next day we heard from Devon Harris, the guy from “Cool Runnings,” you know, that movie about the Jamaican bobsled team. He has a Jamaican accent (not surprising) and told the following joke: A priest and a cab driver die and go to heaven. At the pearly gates, they meet St. Peter, who gives the cab driver a white silk robe and bids him welcome. The priest is excited at first, but disappointed when St. Peter hands him an ugly plaid bathrobe. “What the hell, St. Peter? Can’t you see I’m a priest?” he says. St. Peter replies, “Well, when the cab driver did his work, people prayed; when you did your work, people slept.” I didn’t say the joke was that funny. But for a Jamaican, it’s not bad. (but not his best, which must be read with a Jamaican accent. Go ahead, try it: “When we heard ‘bobsled,’ our first reaction was… ‘Bob Who? The only Bob we know is Bob Marley. And he’s dead.’” Ok, I guess you had to be there.)
9. I had never been in Holy Name Cathedral and I didn’t know where it was, but I randomly passed it walking the next day so I went in. It’s ok.
10. No way. Our CEO just walked up with the president of the association that runs the meeting for an abbreviated meet'n'greet and some post-mortem grilling (this happened while I was writing #4). How was the breakout session? Um, I missed it because I was still asleep, and the Cool Runnings guy was the only thing that looked interesting for Tuesday? No, that won’t go over well; just bullshit.
Anyway, that’s where I’ve been for the last two days.
Monday morning, I was out of the house by 6:30, ready to do the whole city thing, wearing a suit and taking the train instead of the oh-so-suburban business casual and driving (driving a suburban, interestingly enough, which is what I usually do).
Today I had my usual accoutrements plus more cash and gum, which I stopped for at the White Hen on the way to the train. It’s convenient having an El stop two blocks from my house.
This symposium/seminar/meeting was at the Drake Hotel downtown, a place I had never been. It is as nice as you would imagine (if you imagine it really nice)—rich dark woodwork and fancy upholstery, and chandeliers everywhere, even in the bathroom stalls, which is a little bit awkward.
The first couple of keynotes were interestingish. Jon Kaplan from Google spoke first, and then a panel of a few different dudes. Third was an extremely boring old man with a toupee and wickedly bad teeth. I swear, this guy had one idea: automate your marketing campaigns—and that was it! And he talked for forty-five minutes without explaining anything further than that. So on our evaluation forms (on a scale of 1 to 5), I just ranked him “?” and wrote in the comments, “I don’t even know what this guy was talking about.”
But enough of the business talk. After the last session, all the industry people shuffled back into “the Gold Coast room” for a cocktail reception. Holy goodness, was that something (especially because I had skipped out of the sessions after lunch, and had been drinking all afternoon).
Open bar at the Drake: I encourage any of you who can to give this experience a try sometime. The bartenders are generous, and especially generous if you give them a tip, and Especially generous if you sound like you know what you’re talking about. So even though I didn’t especially want one, it was necessary to order a “Manhattan, down, rocks, and a vodka cranberry with a twist.” The old bartender loved it, even though he didn’t crack a smile, and I could tell as he whipped bottles hither and thither, and sloshed liquor over an already-full measuring shotglass that he preferred serving me to serving the other ignorants.
The second time back, he seemed a little distracted, and I asked him to hit it again with the bourbon, which he did. And I didn’t have any change, so I left him 20 bucks on the bar. And I felt equal parts cool “I hope people noticed that,” pretentious, “oh crap, whoever noticed that is going to think I am a huge douchebag,” and stupid, “wait, what are you doing, dumbass? You really can’t afford that at all. Not even a little bit.” The two guys immediately to my left immediately started yelling. “Hey, whoah! Look at that! … Hey, high-roller, huh, Fort Knocks? Who-ho-hoah!!!”
I don’t think I had met these guys, but I was wearing a name tag. I didn’t acknowledge them, of course, just turned away trying to hide my embarrassment with smugness, which made me even more embarrassed. But I was pretty loopy, so it wasn’t that bad.
At dinner, I found myself at a table with the organizers of the whole damn conference, so we had a couple glasses of wine and talked things over. It seemed like a really good idea to tell the one boss guy Tom how boring the third speaker had been, and I don’t think he was offended. He asked me if I wanted to go outside for a cigarette with one of the boss-women after we finished eating, so I did.
There we continued to chat, and after I made a few blunt remarks, the woman told Tom, “you should give this guy a job. He tells it how it is.”
“Oh, I don’t think you fogies could keep up with me,” I said and sort of laughed, and then went back to talking about how Mark Zuckerberg should have sold Facebook for $4 billion when he had the chance, because the demographic on social networking sites doesn’t have any purchasing power and ad revenue is getting artificially inflated. They went inside soon, and a younger organizer woman came out and started smoking a really thin dark brown cigarette at me.
We spoke; she mentioned that a few of them were heading up to the Signature room on the top of the John Hancock building, and I was welcome to come. I said what the hey?
The following are notes on what ensued. (This is getting too long, so I’ll just summarize. Besides, things get a little blurry at this point.)
1. I rode up and down to the top of the John Hancock building three times. Those elevators are ridiculously fast.
2. An $80 bottle of champagne is not that different than a $40 champagne to the uneducated, drunk palate.
3. Knob Creek doubles are always a good idea. Always.
4. Random hilarious guys who swear a lot but not in front of ladies, who tell you “we’ve got to hang out at this bar up the street right now,” and give you their phone number and then you say, “wait, who the hell are you? What’s your name?” and they leave are confusing.
5. Text messaging “Are they both named Cathy?” to someone across the table about two other people at the table is entirely acceptable. And useful.
6. The $255 tab had better be refunded by my company, or I am well and truly screwed.
7. That bar really is awesome. The best view in the city, and plus it makes you feel really important.
8. The next day we heard from Devon Harris, the guy from “Cool Runnings,” you know, that movie about the Jamaican bobsled team. He has a Jamaican accent (not surprising) and told the following joke: A priest and a cab driver die and go to heaven. At the pearly gates, they meet St. Peter, who gives the cab driver a white silk robe and bids him welcome. The priest is excited at first, but disappointed when St. Peter hands him an ugly plaid bathrobe. “What the hell, St. Peter? Can’t you see I’m a priest?” he says. St. Peter replies, “Well, when the cab driver did his work, people prayed; when you did your work, people slept.” I didn’t say the joke was that funny. But for a Jamaican, it’s not bad. (but not his best, which must be read with a Jamaican accent. Go ahead, try it: “When we heard ‘bobsled,’ our first reaction was… ‘Bob Who? The only Bob we know is Bob Marley. And he’s dead.’” Ok, I guess you had to be there.)
9. I had never been in Holy Name Cathedral and I didn’t know where it was, but I randomly passed it walking the next day so I went in. It’s ok.
10. No way. Our CEO just walked up with the president of the association that runs the meeting for an abbreviated meet'n'greet and some post-mortem grilling (this happened while I was writing #4). How was the breakout session? Um, I missed it because I was still asleep, and the Cool Runnings guy was the only thing that looked interesting for Tuesday? No, that won’t go over well; just bullshit.
Anyway, that’s where I’ve been for the last two days.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Short and sweet-- and a challenge
Is it proof of a hyperactive imagination that I enjoy reading movie transcripts online, I mean from start to finish, while I'm at work? I've done it a couple of times in the last month, and if I know the movie well enough, it's almost as good as watching it. I'll sit at my desk, laughing at Anchorman or Kingpin, or smiling my way through and old Star Wars, having a great old time.
Also, this is cool as hell. Online vocab quiz, 50 levels (although they say it's very rare to get past 48). The organization donates ten grains of rice through the UN for every word you get right. So I'm a level 44. Bring it on, bitches. You got the word in you?
Finally, I just finished an article about a few studies (by both traditional family institutions and by pro-gay, progressive institutions) that claim that gay men die as much as 20 years younger than the average man. 20 years. So I guess being gay is bad for you. What do you think about that?
Also, this is cool as hell. Online vocab quiz, 50 levels (although they say it's very rare to get past 48). The organization donates ten grains of rice through the UN for every word you get right. So I'm a level 44. Bring it on, bitches. You got the word in you?
Finally, I just finished an article about a few studies (by both traditional family institutions and by pro-gay, progressive institutions) that claim that gay men die as much as 20 years younger than the average man. 20 years. So I guess being gay is bad for you. What do you think about that?
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Sometimes I am just retarded
Nope, there's nothing more to it than that-- no sad backstory or funny anecdote. I just read my post from yesterday, and wow! It's retarded. No other way to describe it. So I apologize. I have no excuse for my behavior and I promise to do better in the future. I hope I didn't drive anyone to hara-kiri, or even worse, to stop reading me.
It puts pressure on you if anyone ever says, "you're funny," or "you're not retarded," because it means they expect funniness and nonretardation forever in the future. But rejecting nonretardation is not something I can avoid at all times; just look at this sentence.
Anyway, I am leaving work [cue jealousy] to meet my family downtown for lunch. No meetings, no more work for me today. I'm sorry for my shameful display yesterday, and I hope we can still be friends.
It puts pressure on you if anyone ever says, "you're funny," or "you're not retarded," because it means they expect funniness and nonretardation forever in the future. But rejecting nonretardation is not something I can avoid at all times; just look at this sentence.
Anyway, I am leaving work [cue jealousy] to meet my family downtown for lunch. No meetings, no more work for me today. I'm sorry for my shameful display yesterday, and I hope we can still be friends.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The absolute zenith of mixed signals
First, I would like to say the following: telling me that there is a surprise ending to a movie "but I won't tell you what it is!" is almost as bad as telling me. And then giving me a paper cut right on my butt so it stretches out every time I sit down. And you soak all my underpants with lemon juice that gets in it.
Because, duh! when I'm watching the movie, I'm going to be guessing what the twist at the end. Surprise!!! Well, no, not really; I knew it was coming even if I didn't know what it was. "It's a surprise ending, so don't let anyone ruin it for you."
Well, dick, it's too late.
Fidelity is out this season.
Women in a Nepal mountain village have been mailing condoms to their husbands working overseas to protect them from sexually transmitted diseases, a news report said Tuesday.
My only question about this whole situation is how awkward do you think the first conversation is when he gets back?
Husband: "Hi! Oh, I love you. Great to see you!"
Wife: "I love you too. We missed you!"
Husband: "Yeah, I missed you all too. I wish there was an easier way to have made some money."
Wife: "Me too. But I really appreciate that you did it. I know it must have been hard."
Husband: "I know it was hard for you, too."
[kiss]
Wife: "It's good to have you back... So did you get letters we sent?"
Husband: "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, they were great. A real pick-me-up on some rotten days."
Wife: "Good... good."
Husband: "Yeah."
Wife: "So did you get the condoms we sent you?"
Husband: "Um, the what? I mean, yeah, yeah, I got those."
Wife: "Oh."
Husband: "Yeah, they were um... yeah, so. Why did you send them to me?"
Wife: "Well, you know, the Caspian Sea's not the same place it used to be..."
Husband: "Oh. Yeah."
Wife: "Yi got elected class treasurer last month."
Husband: "Did he? That's great. Way to go, bud."
Yi: "Thanks, dad."
Wife: "The Changs got a new donkey."
Husband: "How about that. I remember them talking about that."
Wife: "So, about those condoms. How many other women did you nail on you stupid extended business trip, huh?"
Ok, I am sorry. That was even awkward to write. I'm sure it was awkward to read, if you even made it through that crap. Whew. I'm uncomfortable now.
And then on the way home, our little Nepalese family is driving along...
When all of a sudden, a 600 pound cow comes screaming down from a 200-foot cliff and lands on their tiny hatchback, killing all three occupants.
See? Isn't a surprise ending better when you don't know it's coming? I mean, damn, that could practically be an M. Night Shyamalan movie.
Because, duh! when I'm watching the movie, I'm going to be guessing what the twist at the end. Surprise!!! Well, no, not really; I knew it was coming even if I didn't know what it was. "It's a surprise ending, so don't let anyone ruin it for you."
Well, dick, it's too late.
Fidelity is out this season.
Women in a Nepal mountain village have been mailing condoms to their husbands working overseas to protect them from sexually transmitted diseases, a news report said Tuesday.
My only question about this whole situation is how awkward do you think the first conversation is when he gets back?
Husband: "Hi! Oh, I love you. Great to see you!"
Wife: "I love you too. We missed you!"
Husband: "Yeah, I missed you all too. I wish there was an easier way to have made some money."
Wife: "Me too. But I really appreciate that you did it. I know it must have been hard."
Husband: "I know it was hard for you, too."
[kiss]
Wife: "It's good to have you back... So did you get letters we sent?"
Husband: "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, they were great. A real pick-me-up on some rotten days."
Wife: "Good... good."
Husband: "Yeah."
Wife: "So did you get the condoms we sent you?"
Husband: "Um, the what? I mean, yeah, yeah, I got those."
Wife: "Oh."
Husband: "Yeah, they were um... yeah, so. Why did you send them to me?"
Wife: "Well, you know, the Caspian Sea's not the same place it used to be..."
Husband: "Oh. Yeah."
Wife: "Yi got elected class treasurer last month."
Husband: "Did he? That's great. Way to go, bud."
Yi: "Thanks, dad."
Wife: "The Changs got a new donkey."
Husband: "How about that. I remember them talking about that."
Wife: "So, about those condoms. How many other women did you nail on you stupid extended business trip, huh?"
Ok, I am sorry. That was even awkward to write. I'm sure it was awkward to read, if you even made it through that crap. Whew. I'm uncomfortable now.
And then on the way home, our little Nepalese family is driving along...
When all of a sudden, a 600 pound cow comes screaming down from a 200-foot cliff and lands on their tiny hatchback, killing all three occupants.
See? Isn't a surprise ending better when you don't know it's coming? I mean, damn, that could practically be an M. Night Shyamalan movie.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
I used to like him and I hate myself for it
Lance Armstrong playing the Dating-Age-Limbo Game. And winning.
"Ashley Olsen has been spotted exchanging affections with cycling champion Lance Armstrong, sparking speculation of a romance.
The unlikely couple-- with 15 years between them-- enjoyed an intimate evening at the Gramercy Park Hotel bar in New York on Monday night, according to reports.
A source tells Page Six, 'They came together with a group of friends. Ashley drank red wine, sat on his lap and they were making out all night. They left together around 2 a.m.'"
It's the latest in a slew of flings for Armstrong. "I really like those little bony chicks, you know?" said the Captain of Faggotry. "I mean, I knew her sister had the whole anorexia thing, so I'm hopeful we can steer her in the same direction."
Armstrong had previously cheated on his wife with apeish pop-squealer Sheryl Crow, who supplanted Armstrong's wife on the Tour de France stage. "Sheryl was great timing," said the retired cyclist. "I mean, my wife was the one who nursed me through the terrible battle with cancer, so after I got better, seeing her always reminded me of the bad times. I don't need that-- much better to chase some strange ass when you're on top of the world, am I right?"
Olsen was superlatively giggly of the attention. "I remember when he had that cancer, or HIV or whatever it was, because I was in fourth grade at the time, and my mom thought he was cute. Well, actually it wasn't fourth grade, because I dropped out after second grade to be a star." The impossibly whoreish Olsen smiled impishly to reporters, and continued, "I'm going back to school though, cause it's important, right? I mean, I know. So I'm gonna get that eighth grade diploma, hopefully sometime in 2020. Wait, is that a year? I thought that was like, vision or something."
Armstrong was confident of the pair's future. "I realized when I won my seventh Tour de France in a row that I can do anything, man. I mean, I really can. I dated this tennis chick for a while, sandwiched between Sheryl and Ashley-- I mean timewise (God, wouldn't that be nice)-- I can run the New York marathon, I can hang out with Matthew McConaughy and crush ass in SoCal, and yes, I can get with this 90-pound waif of a harlot. Don't doubt me."
The famous balding toolbag had only one worry. "Plus dude, I gotta pass on these genes however I can. Because I've only got one nut, dude. I better get crackin."
Experts speculate that the pair's potential offspring would have larger-than-average hearts, negligible intelligence, cadaverous eye-sockets and bounteous egos.
"Yeah, our kids would be the best man, the best. Especially cause of me," said Armstrong.
"What? What's that? An average baby weighs like, more than me, though, right?" said Olsen. "I don't think I could even vomit one out of my belly. Or wait, you don't poop them, do you? That would be sooo gross."
Armstrong didn't reply, just winked to reporters and put on really cool sunglasses before the two resumed canoodling.
"Ashley Olsen has been spotted exchanging affections with cycling champion Lance Armstrong, sparking speculation of a romance.
The unlikely couple-- with 15 years between them-- enjoyed an intimate evening at the Gramercy Park Hotel bar in New York on Monday night, according to reports.
A source tells Page Six, 'They came together with a group of friends. Ashley drank red wine, sat on his lap and they were making out all night. They left together around 2 a.m.'"
It's the latest in a slew of flings for Armstrong. "I really like those little bony chicks, you know?" said the Captain of Faggotry. "I mean, I knew her sister had the whole anorexia thing, so I'm hopeful we can steer her in the same direction."
Armstrong had previously cheated on his wife with apeish pop-squealer Sheryl Crow, who supplanted Armstrong's wife on the Tour de France stage. "Sheryl was great timing," said the retired cyclist. "I mean, my wife was the one who nursed me through the terrible battle with cancer, so after I got better, seeing her always reminded me of the bad times. I don't need that-- much better to chase some strange ass when you're on top of the world, am I right?"
Olsen was superlatively giggly of the attention. "I remember when he had that cancer, or HIV or whatever it was, because I was in fourth grade at the time, and my mom thought he was cute. Well, actually it wasn't fourth grade, because I dropped out after second grade to be a star." The impossibly whoreish Olsen smiled impishly to reporters, and continued, "I'm going back to school though, cause it's important, right? I mean, I know. So I'm gonna get that eighth grade diploma, hopefully sometime in 2020. Wait, is that a year? I thought that was like, vision or something."
Armstrong was confident of the pair's future. "I realized when I won my seventh Tour de France in a row that I can do anything, man. I mean, I really can. I dated this tennis chick for a while, sandwiched between Sheryl and Ashley-- I mean timewise (God, wouldn't that be nice)-- I can run the New York marathon, I can hang out with Matthew McConaughy and crush ass in SoCal, and yes, I can get with this 90-pound waif of a harlot. Don't doubt me."
The famous balding toolbag had only one worry. "Plus dude, I gotta pass on these genes however I can. Because I've only got one nut, dude. I better get crackin."
Experts speculate that the pair's potential offspring would have larger-than-average hearts, negligible intelligence, cadaverous eye-sockets and bounteous egos.
"Yeah, our kids would be the best man, the best. Especially cause of me," said Armstrong.
"What? What's that? An average baby weighs like, more than me, though, right?" said Olsen. "I don't think I could even vomit one out of my belly. Or wait, you don't poop them, do you? That would be sooo gross."
Armstrong didn't reply, just winked to reporters and put on really cool sunglasses before the two resumed canoodling.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Don't drink and dress
Yes! In your face, Cosmos! Now I have another great title for a post-- and a post to go with it-- or at least a question.
And that question is... Did I go out on Saturday wearing a left shoe and a right shoe from DIFFERENT PAIRS OF UNMATCHING SHOES? I'll give you three guesses.
You guess "no"? Wrong!
You guess "31"? Wrong!
You guess "anal beads... no wait, leotard!... wait no, Haiti..."
Wrong again. The answer, nitwit, is yes. But perhaps a little background is in order.
Friday afternoon I got home from work after my parents had already eaten dinner-- but my dad still had the food on the stove, and cooked up pasta just for me (they're both on the Atkins diet right now). Scallops, onions, red peppers, peapods, mushrooms and a disturbingly creamy sauce: phenomenal. So my dad made me dinner and sat with me at the dining room table and he had a glass of wine while I had a steaming plateful of food. and a glass of wine.
And then we both had another, and talked about various and sundry things until my mom got back. She told me that there was a lot to be done around the house, and that tonight was going to be a good night to stay in. I nodded and poured myself a nice vodka on the rocks.
A little later, a couple later, I was going out to buy some cigarettes, because I felt like it, and decided to call my brother who was down in the city. And right when I was talking to him, I happened to be crossing Harlem right next to 290, so it was the work of a moment to spin the wheel when he told me "sure, come ahead down," and I was on my way.
We went to one bar then another. Then one more, and then over to the cousin's apartment, where we listened to the loudest parts of the Fellowship of the Ring on his new, large sound system, and sucked down a tasty Tanqueray and Tonic. By the time I got home, it was 5:30 in the AM.
I woke up five hours later, maybe six, and I wasn't hungover. This was always a bad sign for my roommates and me in college. We'd ask each other, "you hungover?" as we stumbled out of our rooms and onto the couches in the living room to watch consecutive movies and eat greasy delivered food of one species or another... "Yeah, I'm really hungover-- it was a pretty tame night," you might say. But more typically, a cheerful "Nope! It was crazy last night, man!" Yes, I'm saying what you think I'm saying. I was still buzzed when I woke up Saturday morning.
So we all know how to handle that situation, don't we? I'll give you a hint: it starts with "Pour yourself a tall..." and ends "orange juice." Mmm-hmm, tasty. Oh yeah, and in the middle is "strong vodka and."
But I put too much ice in at first, so some of the vodka splashed out onto a piece of paper on the counter. Which, I shook off, blotted, and recognized as my to-do list for the day, prepared thoughtfully by my mother.
"Clean the back hall," the note said to me, insinuating that there might be dead mice hidden behind the galoshes. "And then clear out underneath the back porch."
"There's so much crap under there," I protested, but the note would have nothing of it. "It's just an old Christmas tree, recycling bins, kindling, and those two giant tarps that smell like old people," it said.
So I set to, shuffling items here and there, and drinking my screwdriver and having a fine time.
"Ah ah ah," the note scolded as I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. "Clean the laundry room, put down all the storm windows, and put away the grill and all the lawn chairs."
"Fine," I said, "I'll get the storm windows, and the grill and the furniture." And I did. "But I'm not going to clean the laundry room," I muttered under my breath, but the note didn't say anything. I think it was probably taking a nap, like all authority figures do in the afternoon.
Unfortunately, the Notre Dame game went to triple overtime before they lost (surprise, surprise), and I had time for one less nap and two more beers than I had planned.
So I guess it's not surprising that when I changed after dinner, I ended up putting on shoes that didn't match. And didn't notice when one shoe clicked and the other shoe landed softly the rest of the night.
Then on Sunday, I don't know why, but I farted pretty much the whole way to church. I think if I had had a skatboard and a lighter, I could have saved my legs a lot of effort. But I probably would have burned my pants.
And now, for the award of the weekend: Best response to the question, "Hey idiot, why were you just making out with that chubby girl over there? Are you in love?"
"I was getting pretty hungry, and I mistook her for a pork sparerib."
And that question is... Did I go out on Saturday wearing a left shoe and a right shoe from DIFFERENT PAIRS OF UNMATCHING SHOES? I'll give you three guesses.
You guess "no"? Wrong!
You guess "31"? Wrong!
You guess "anal beads... no wait, leotard!... wait no, Haiti..."
Wrong again. The answer, nitwit, is yes. But perhaps a little background is in order.
Friday afternoon I got home from work after my parents had already eaten dinner-- but my dad still had the food on the stove, and cooked up pasta just for me (they're both on the Atkins diet right now). Scallops, onions, red peppers, peapods, mushrooms and a disturbingly creamy sauce: phenomenal. So my dad made me dinner and sat with me at the dining room table and he had a glass of wine while I had a steaming plateful of food. and a glass of wine.
And then we both had another, and talked about various and sundry things until my mom got back. She told me that there was a lot to be done around the house, and that tonight was going to be a good night to stay in. I nodded and poured myself a nice vodka on the rocks.
A little later, a couple later, I was going out to buy some cigarettes, because I felt like it, and decided to call my brother who was down in the city. And right when I was talking to him, I happened to be crossing Harlem right next to 290, so it was the work of a moment to spin the wheel when he told me "sure, come ahead down," and I was on my way.
We went to one bar then another. Then one more, and then over to the cousin's apartment, where we listened to the loudest parts of the Fellowship of the Ring on his new, large sound system, and sucked down a tasty Tanqueray and Tonic. By the time I got home, it was 5:30 in the AM.
I woke up five hours later, maybe six, and I wasn't hungover. This was always a bad sign for my roommates and me in college. We'd ask each other, "you hungover?" as we stumbled out of our rooms and onto the couches in the living room to watch consecutive movies and eat greasy delivered food of one species or another... "Yeah, I'm really hungover-- it was a pretty tame night," you might say. But more typically, a cheerful "Nope! It was crazy last night, man!" Yes, I'm saying what you think I'm saying. I was still buzzed when I woke up Saturday morning.
So we all know how to handle that situation, don't we? I'll give you a hint: it starts with "Pour yourself a tall..." and ends "orange juice." Mmm-hmm, tasty. Oh yeah, and in the middle is "strong vodka and."
But I put too much ice in at first, so some of the vodka splashed out onto a piece of paper on the counter. Which, I shook off, blotted, and recognized as my to-do list for the day, prepared thoughtfully by my mother.
"Clean the back hall," the note said to me, insinuating that there might be dead mice hidden behind the galoshes. "And then clear out underneath the back porch."
"There's so much crap under there," I protested, but the note would have nothing of it. "It's just an old Christmas tree, recycling bins, kindling, and those two giant tarps that smell like old people," it said.
So I set to, shuffling items here and there, and drinking my screwdriver and having a fine time.
"Ah ah ah," the note scolded as I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. "Clean the laundry room, put down all the storm windows, and put away the grill and all the lawn chairs."
"Fine," I said, "I'll get the storm windows, and the grill and the furniture." And I did. "But I'm not going to clean the laundry room," I muttered under my breath, but the note didn't say anything. I think it was probably taking a nap, like all authority figures do in the afternoon.
Unfortunately, the Notre Dame game went to triple overtime before they lost (surprise, surprise), and I had time for one less nap and two more beers than I had planned.
So I guess it's not surprising that when I changed after dinner, I ended up putting on shoes that didn't match. And didn't notice when one shoe clicked and the other shoe landed softly the rest of the night.
Then on Sunday, I don't know why, but I farted pretty much the whole way to church. I think if I had had a skatboard and a lighter, I could have saved my legs a lot of effort. But I probably would have burned my pants.
And now, for the award of the weekend: Best response to the question, "Hey idiot, why were you just making out with that chubby girl over there? Are you in love?"
"I was getting pretty hungry, and I mistook her for a pork sparerib."
Friday, November 2, 2007
NaBloPoMo
So I've officially registered for NaBloPoMo, a day late, but I posted yesterday, so I'm still in good standing (I think-- if not, whatever). I had actually thought of trying NaNoWriMo, which is the inspiration for NaBloPoMo. In fact, I had a really great plan to shift my working hours, take up smoking at least a pack a day, grow my hair really long or wear a wig, and basically pretend I was an author for a month. But Apathy is my middle name. I was actually going to get my middle name legally changed to Apathy, but then, ... eh.
What I've discovered is that since the NaBloPoMo is still pretty small-ish, people hitting 'next blog' or 'random blog' or 'waste more time' or whatever the button is get to my blog a lot more frequently than from Blogger. In the last four hours, for example, I have had IPs check in from locales as various as Chicago, New York, Sprinfield, IL, Springfield, VA, Beltsville, MD, Victorville, CA, San Antonio, Arlington, VA, Ann Arbor, MI, College Station, TX, Grand Rapids, MI, Mesa, AZ, Portland, OR, Washington, D.C., Phoenix, AZ, Manila, Philippines, and Prior Lake, MN, among others.
Why do you care? I'm sure you don't. It just surprised me a little bit. Usually I just get a very few regulars and anyone who googles "europeans with immodest undershirts," or "thick laid-back softball merkin sucking bacon," both of whom I hope were disappointed. I mean, jeez, I don't even know what that means. I'm getting the heebie-jeebies just imagining someone hunched over a computer googling this, let alone imagining a "thick laid-back softball merkin sucking bacon." Gross.
Much more reassuring to think about things like this: A judge who ordered a woman to drop her pants and decided a custody dispute by flipping a coin was removed from the bench by the Virginia Supreme Court on Friday.
"a black lacy thing," the judge said of the mental patient's underwear. "... it looked good, didn't it?"
Whatever you say, your honor.
What I've discovered is that since the NaBloPoMo is still pretty small-ish, people hitting 'next blog' or 'random blog' or 'waste more time' or whatever the button is get to my blog a lot more frequently than from Blogger. In the last four hours, for example, I have had IPs check in from locales as various as Chicago, New York, Sprinfield, IL, Springfield, VA, Beltsville, MD, Victorville, CA, San Antonio, Arlington, VA, Ann Arbor, MI, College Station, TX, Grand Rapids, MI, Mesa, AZ, Portland, OR, Washington, D.C., Phoenix, AZ, Manila, Philippines, and Prior Lake, MN, among others.
Why do you care? I'm sure you don't. It just surprised me a little bit. Usually I just get a very few regulars and anyone who googles "europeans with immodest undershirts," or "thick laid-back softball merkin sucking bacon," both of whom I hope were disappointed. I mean, jeez, I don't even know what that means. I'm getting the heebie-jeebies just imagining someone hunched over a computer googling this, let alone imagining a "thick laid-back softball merkin sucking bacon." Gross.
Much more reassuring to think about things like this: A judge who ordered a woman to drop her pants and decided a custody dispute by flipping a coin was removed from the bench by the Virginia Supreme Court on Friday.
"a black lacy thing," the judge said of the mental patient's underwear. "... it looked good, didn't it?"
Whatever you say, your honor.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Exes and Owes
A quick note for your consideration. When we sign off a message with “hugs and kisses,” we write xoxo, x for a kiss, o for a hug. When we draw a dead stick figure, we put x’s on his eyes (as opposed to the more realistic flat lines, which are used for the eyes of stick figures who are asleep or Asian… or both). Coincidence? Ever heard of the kiss of death? Ok, fine, it makes no sense. Forget I said anything
Top two things that are quick and dirty:
1. The draft I have prepared for a new article.
2. Break-up sex.
All right, I admit, I really didn’t have anything to write regarding the title of this post, but I had to write something, because, come on, how awesome is that title? I guess I’m in debt for college loans, but I don’t have collection agencies on me about it, let alone much fiercer creditors like my friends. And I don’t have any exes, because either I’ve never had a relationship, or they’ve all ended in murder. Awkward silence.
Anyway, I might need to hire someone who’s more familiar with the subjects, like I don’t know, Kevin Federline or Joey Tribbiani.
Top two things that are quick and dirty:
1. The draft I have prepared for a new article.
2. Break-up sex.
All right, I admit, I really didn’t have anything to write regarding the title of this post, but I had to write something, because, come on, how awesome is that title? I guess I’m in debt for college loans, but I don’t have collection agencies on me about it, let alone much fiercer creditors like my friends. And I don’t have any exes, because either I’ve never had a relationship, or they’ve all ended in murder. Awkward silence.
Anyway, I might need to hire someone who’s more familiar with the subjects, like I don’t know, Kevin Federline or Joey Tribbiani.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
First I would just like to get to know you-- who is your daddy, and what does he do?
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.
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.
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.
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