Some things just inspire me. Babies, yes. Extra meat toppings, yes. But most of all, Crystal Oaklee and bathrooms.
In my new fancy downtown office, everything is automated. You pee, it flushes. You wash hands, it gives you soap. You dry, it papers. You poop, it wipes. Well, maybe not, but you get the idea.
This phenomenon has made a fool of me. In my own home, and in the homes of those dear to me, I have stuck (stucken?) my hands beneath the faucet and waited for the flow, which didn't come.
Let me paint you a picture here: I'm at a rest stop in Eastern Ohio. I've been in a car with same six people for about twelve hours now. I've been driving for the last five of those hours. I'm nursing a tall coffee and a two-day hangover. The time is either 4:15 am or 3:15 am, because supposedly Indiana doesn't believe in Daylight Savings Time and in certain months that leaks into Ohio, or something. Like I said, I'm tired. The drive back from Boston is long.
I shuffle into the door, catching an unfortunate reflection of myself in the single-pane door. My hair is disgustingly everywhere. Also disgusting everywhere. I just remember to hold the door for my brothers, with a look like "you're welcome, and who's driving next?" which they didn't even notice because they're almost as tired as I am.
Then it's in to the bathroom, picking urinals with the requisite empty in between so that we take up almost the whole nine-peeshot-row. I know just enough to ignore the sludge on the urinal cake, but not enough to avoid eye contact. I stare into his eyes, and both zippers are down. That's a nay-nay.
But we shake it off, share an awkward chuckle, and move to the sinks. And that's when it happens. I lift my red eyes to meet his, hoping that this too shall pass. But he's busy turning the faucet on, so that when he turns and notices me, he's washing his hands. And what am I doing? Shuffling dry hands in an empty sink and staring. And nodding a little, until I realize, that once again, I'm the creeper, and automation has gotten me.
I'd make like those freaks from the New York Times who forswore all bathroom luxuries, but that's just gross. Plus, I think I might have just pooped in my pants.
So thanks for that, Crystal.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Four months later...
I moved into the city a week and a half ago, and I thought about titling a post "My Big Movement," but that was pretty easy to abandon, with its scatological implications. Plus, if you write about something that is actually important, it gets gay real fast. At least that's what I tell myself as I write super-important super-gay entries in my diary before I cry myself to sleep.
An anonymous commenter suggested that I blog again, and I was 65% tempted to tell him to fuck himself, since he has told me before that I blog like a pussy, or something like that. But then I remembered that his pubes are golden and honestly remind me of Aslan's mane, and I thought, "how can you deny that?" So, you're welcome, Jake.
As I waited for the train today, I couldn't help noticing the bald black guy on the other platform brushing his hair with a lint remover. You know what I'm talking about: those double-edged felt things that you see rich dudes in movies use on their suits -- only not the rolly ones, the slidy ones. So here this guy was, brushing hair that was maybe a quarter inch long, and going at it intensely, switching hands and smoothing with the free hand, switching hands and stroking and smoothing again. And he went at it assiduously for a good six minutes (I timed him). Had he just come out of the dryer or what? How do you get a black man to stop jumping on the bed? Sprinkle dust in his hair and hand him a lint remover. Simple.
In conclusion, I would like to offer you this horrific joke. Stop reading if you have any decency. How is a gay man like shoes from the clearance rack? Neither one comes in a box.
Shut up, I was already leaving.
An anonymous commenter suggested that I blog again, and I was 65% tempted to tell him to fuck himself, since he has told me before that I blog like a pussy, or something like that. But then I remembered that his pubes are golden and honestly remind me of Aslan's mane, and I thought, "how can you deny that?" So, you're welcome, Jake.
As I waited for the train today, I couldn't help noticing the bald black guy on the other platform brushing his hair with a lint remover. You know what I'm talking about: those double-edged felt things that you see rich dudes in movies use on their suits -- only not the rolly ones, the slidy ones. So here this guy was, brushing hair that was maybe a quarter inch long, and going at it intensely, switching hands and smoothing with the free hand, switching hands and stroking and smoothing again. And he went at it assiduously for a good six minutes (I timed him). Had he just come out of the dryer or what? How do you get a black man to stop jumping on the bed? Sprinkle dust in his hair and hand him a lint remover. Simple.
In conclusion, I would like to offer you this horrific joke. Stop reading if you have any decency. How is a gay man like shoes from the clearance rack? Neither one comes in a box.
Shut up, I was already leaving.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Bathrooms so automatic they poop for you
I'm about to finish my third week at a new job, working in this building. Fancy, right? I've never worked downtown before, and this is very much downtown. So far, this is what I'm thinking:
1. Working downtown is fun. The city and the people and the bustle and all of that. For about a second, when I caught myself looking up at the building as I was walking in, I made a pact with myself that I would always look up to admire the view on my way in. Naturally, I haven't done that since. Maybe now I will tomorrow -- that might make some kind of sense. But I don't really get sense.
2. The girls are a lot cuter, and there are a lot more of them. In the suburbs, it's just kind of different. In the suburbs you have families and white trash, and not a lot in between. In the city, you have all those girls who used to be part of a family but wanted to rebel and didn't have anywhere else to go because they didn't like the way white trash folks smelled. So now they're out there in the grand metropolis, distracting themselves from daddy with makeup and boots that aren't quite slutty. But then they all get on the Brown Line when I'm waiting for the Green Line, and I get disappointed.
3. Yesterday on the morning train, I smelled phenomenal for some reason. Believe me, it's unusual. So every time I would catch a whiff, I would stop and look around, like, "heck, who smells so good on the Green Line?" and then I would remember it was me and I'd take a big sniff of my jacket and smile and even manage to freak out the bag-lady across from me. And that's no small feat.
4. After that, I had sort of an off day -- you know, when you just feel dumber than usual, and think, "oh, this is what it's like to be everybody else," and then you spend ten minutes trying to remember where the "Save As" button is in Vista, and then you decide that maybe a nice cup of coffee will do the trick, but you can't figure out how to use the nice high-tech coffee-hot-beverage machine in the office, so you just poke at it for a while and then fill your travel-size mug with water and pretend that's what you wanted all along, and shuffle back out of the kitchen, remembering a second too late to wink at the cute girl from Room 33-something, so you're actually winking alone in the hallway.
5. But then I found myself giggling at my bed last night. This tends to happen when I go to bed early. And there I was, chuckling while I shimmied out of my pants (I'm kidding -- I never shimmy out of my pants, except that one time). So I guess the whole day couldn't have been that bad.
6. But the coffee machine does bother me. Flavia? Anyone ever heard of this? Supposedly it's God's gift to the 4:30 blahs, but my problem is that when I have the 4:30 blahs, I'm in no mood for cool, zany, hipster machinery. I bet if I ever had a nice big cup of coffee out of that machine, it would put me in the perfect mood to make myself one. Which doesn't exactly work.
7. Everything else in the office is all high-tech too. Like in the bathroom (come on -- you knew I was going there), it's automatic flushing, automatic water, automatic soap and automatic paper towels. My first time through the gamut, I had to stop before I got paper towels and say "ooooh" while doing Jazz hands.
8. Going back to a regular job in a regular office, which I haven't done in a while, reminded me of my old routine, and part of that was this blog. So while I'm making no guarantees, I wouldn't be surprised to find myself pouring out my poopful thoughts with some regularity again. I guess we'll see.
1. Working downtown is fun. The city and the people and the bustle and all of that. For about a second, when I caught myself looking up at the building as I was walking in, I made a pact with myself that I would always look up to admire the view on my way in. Naturally, I haven't done that since. Maybe now I will tomorrow -- that might make some kind of sense. But I don't really get sense.
2. The girls are a lot cuter, and there are a lot more of them. In the suburbs, it's just kind of different. In the suburbs you have families and white trash, and not a lot in between. In the city, you have all those girls who used to be part of a family but wanted to rebel and didn't have anywhere else to go because they didn't like the way white trash folks smelled. So now they're out there in the grand metropolis, distracting themselves from daddy with makeup and boots that aren't quite slutty. But then they all get on the Brown Line when I'm waiting for the Green Line, and I get disappointed.
3. Yesterday on the morning train, I smelled phenomenal for some reason. Believe me, it's unusual. So every time I would catch a whiff, I would stop and look around, like, "heck, who smells so good on the Green Line?" and then I would remember it was me and I'd take a big sniff of my jacket and smile and even manage to freak out the bag-lady across from me. And that's no small feat.
4. After that, I had sort of an off day -- you know, when you just feel dumber than usual, and think, "oh, this is what it's like to be everybody else," and then you spend ten minutes trying to remember where the "Save As" button is in Vista, and then you decide that maybe a nice cup of coffee will do the trick, but you can't figure out how to use the nice high-tech coffee-hot-beverage machine in the office, so you just poke at it for a while and then fill your travel-size mug with water and pretend that's what you wanted all along, and shuffle back out of the kitchen, remembering a second too late to wink at the cute girl from Room 33-something, so you're actually winking alone in the hallway.
5. But then I found myself giggling at my bed last night. This tends to happen when I go to bed early. And there I was, chuckling while I shimmied out of my pants (I'm kidding -- I never shimmy out of my pants, except that one time). So I guess the whole day couldn't have been that bad.
6. But the coffee machine does bother me. Flavia? Anyone ever heard of this? Supposedly it's God's gift to the 4:30 blahs, but my problem is that when I have the 4:30 blahs, I'm in no mood for cool, zany, hipster machinery. I bet if I ever had a nice big cup of coffee out of that machine, it would put me in the perfect mood to make myself one. Which doesn't exactly work.
7. Everything else in the office is all high-tech too. Like in the bathroom (come on -- you knew I was going there), it's automatic flushing, automatic water, automatic soap and automatic paper towels. My first time through the gamut, I had to stop before I got paper towels and say "ooooh" while doing Jazz hands.
8. Going back to a regular job in a regular office, which I haven't done in a while, reminded me of my old routine, and part of that was this blog. So while I'm making no guarantees, I wouldn't be surprised to find myself pouring out my poopful thoughts with some regularity again. I guess we'll see.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Seeing red?
Red makes you look fat. Who knew? Here I was thinking it was just the snazzy, sharp color to wear for a night out, and all along it's just a recipe for making yourself into a marshmallow. And as anyone who has ever appreciated a sexual food metaphor knows, marshmallows may be delicious, but they're not worth the mess.
I guess pinstripes are supposed to be the answer, but you know what? Fuck that. I look good in red, I don't care what your camera says. I look marshmallowy and delicious, and maybe, just maybe, worth the mess.
And no, your breath is not bad because of what you did in bed, it just gets that way when you stay awake too long after drinking. Let that be a lesson to you. Seriously, buy some mints or something. Or else just go to sleep; no one wants to deal with this.
I went to California between Christmas and New Years for my cousin Jake's wedding. I was in it; I had to. My flights were overbooked and then canceled and then retarded for one thing after another (naturally), and by the time I got there, I had missed the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner. I was just in time to drink scotch and hear that I would be the first groomsman in line the next day. And that all struck me as fine at the time - because I was wearing red and I thought I looked good, and also because scotch is delicious.
The next morning the rain had cleared (I didn't tell you it was raining? Yeah, I didn't tell you it was my birthday either, but it was. Deal with it.) and the sun was out. It was that stupid kind of great California weather that makes you hate yourself for some reason, probably because you just saw the pictures of yourself wearing red the night before. Mimosas and Crabcakes Benedict happened for brunch (fucking California) and then there was the wedding.
I danced in line behind a guy in an electric wheelchair, and some other stuff happened, and then the next day, I went home. And on the flight, I snored so loud that I woke myself up, and no one even elbowed me.
I guess pinstripes are supposed to be the answer, but you know what? Fuck that. I look good in red, I don't care what your camera says. I look marshmallowy and delicious, and maybe, just maybe, worth the mess.
And no, your breath is not bad because of what you did in bed, it just gets that way when you stay awake too long after drinking. Let that be a lesson to you. Seriously, buy some mints or something. Or else just go to sleep; no one wants to deal with this.
I went to California between Christmas and New Years for my cousin Jake's wedding. I was in it; I had to. My flights were overbooked and then canceled and then retarded for one thing after another (naturally), and by the time I got there, I had missed the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner. I was just in time to drink scotch and hear that I would be the first groomsman in line the next day. And that all struck me as fine at the time - because I was wearing red and I thought I looked good, and also because scotch is delicious.
The next morning the rain had cleared (I didn't tell you it was raining? Yeah, I didn't tell you it was my birthday either, but it was. Deal with it.) and the sun was out. It was that stupid kind of great California weather that makes you hate yourself for some reason, probably because you just saw the pictures of yourself wearing red the night before. Mimosas and Crabcakes Benedict happened for brunch (fucking California) and then there was the wedding.
I danced in line behind a guy in an electric wheelchair, and some other stuff happened, and then the next day, I went home. And on the flight, I snored so loud that I woke myself up, and no one even elbowed me.
Friday, August 7, 2009
On the practicalities of the search in infinite possibilities for true love, and on farts
I was sitting in the Library yesterday, reading, quiet. The woman sitting to my left was not as quiet. I don't know what she was doing; I wasn't ballsy enough to look over (Zounds!), but I do remember thinking, right at that moment, that she and I could never be happy together. That struck me as sad. Sure it's only one person, but still, to say that a human being that God made, loved by her friends and family, could never make me happy - that's a little sad, isn't it?
It was because she was doing this weird snerking thing, like she was sort of trying to clear her sinuses but then also her throat at the same time. And I was sitting there, trying to focus on my book, rereading a longish periodic sentence to find an especially tricky antecedent and- SNERRK! That did it for me.
But I don't give up hope (who am I kidding, of course I do); I know that it is possible to find the perfect someone, because my brother just did. The day after tomorrow, my family and I leave for his wedding in California. And we're driving, which is equal parts exciting, daunting, and gastrointestinally intimidating. Snakes on a Plane haven't got jack on Farts in a Car.
That reminds me of another long family roadtrip, ten years or so back, to Denver, I think, when we passed through Nebraska. Have you ever been to Nebraska? The whole state smells. It's really unbelievable. It's marvelous. Seriously, from border to border, the state of Nebraska is covered by a blanket of dry fart. It's like South Dakota just gave it a Dutch oven. We got out in some podunk town to hit up bathrooms, and for the first five minutes, I was convinced that everyone else in my family was emitting a constant stream of flatus - I think we all thought that. But as the time dragged on and we realized that no one can fart for twelve minutes straight, the sad truth soaked into our consciousness like the butt-dust into our clothes and hair: this town always smelled like doody.
Back in the car, on the highway, with the air on recycle, we tried to shake fart smell out of our shirts and wondered what it would be like for someone who grew up in a town like that. What happens when Charlie Jim ships off to college, opens his suitcase and pollutes his dorm with the stored smell of dry shucked taint? And does Charlie Jim ever come back once he's gotten a whiff of the outside world?
But I guess there are some things that just don't bother some people as much as they bother other people (me). That's why there can be towns and states full of Charlie Jims and why even though I could never bear to love the woman at the library, maybe there's someone out there who can. Still though, dude, yuck.
It was because she was doing this weird snerking thing, like she was sort of trying to clear her sinuses but then also her throat at the same time. And I was sitting there, trying to focus on my book, rereading a longish periodic sentence to find an especially tricky antecedent and- SNERRK! That did it for me.
But I don't give up hope (who am I kidding, of course I do); I know that it is possible to find the perfect someone, because my brother just did. The day after tomorrow, my family and I leave for his wedding in California. And we're driving, which is equal parts exciting, daunting, and gastrointestinally intimidating. Snakes on a Plane haven't got jack on Farts in a Car.
That reminds me of another long family roadtrip, ten years or so back, to Denver, I think, when we passed through Nebraska. Have you ever been to Nebraska? The whole state smells. It's really unbelievable. It's marvelous. Seriously, from border to border, the state of Nebraska is covered by a blanket of dry fart. It's like South Dakota just gave it a Dutch oven. We got out in some podunk town to hit up bathrooms, and for the first five minutes, I was convinced that everyone else in my family was emitting a constant stream of flatus - I think we all thought that. But as the time dragged on and we realized that no one can fart for twelve minutes straight, the sad truth soaked into our consciousness like the butt-dust into our clothes and hair: this town always smelled like doody.
Back in the car, on the highway, with the air on recycle, we tried to shake fart smell out of our shirts and wondered what it would be like for someone who grew up in a town like that. What happens when Charlie Jim ships off to college, opens his suitcase and pollutes his dorm with the stored smell of dry shucked taint? And does Charlie Jim ever come back once he's gotten a whiff of the outside world?
But I guess there are some things that just don't bother some people as much as they bother other people (me). That's why there can be towns and states full of Charlie Jims and why even though I could never bear to love the woman at the library, maybe there's someone out there who can. Still though, dude, yuck.
Monday, March 30, 2009
It's the attitude
I’m always interested to hear from or read stories of the Free Spirits. There are people whose MO is to bounce around through life, from job to job, relationship to relationship, sometimes family to family. And with the bolstering provided by 20th century art from Kerouac to Bridget Jones, the Free Spirit attitude is becoming more and more popular.
I have considered myself to have something of a Free Spirit streak for a long time. It’s a secret pride of mine that gives me a special balanced feeling in the face of my orthodox convictions and traditionalist bent. It’s something I can grab onto where no one else can see, whenever the dull, hard, traditional life becomes more than I think I can handle. And when my fingers touch it, the Free Spirit streak that I carry at the small of my back, I become part of a special club that no one around me knows about, a club to which no one I love belongs.
That’s why I have long hair and smoke cigarettes, and why loneliness gives me a secret melancholy delight. It’s a much more sophisticated attitude, of course, than that of a teenager who says no one understands him; it says, “some people understand me – you’re just not one of them.” Then it blows a confident thin stream of smoke and turns away, bored.
It whispers to you about long road trips with the sunroof rolled back and the music playing, about the big beauty of mountains and the crisp glitz of cities, New York and Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles. You listen with a heartbeat only slightly elevated and then whisper back about sitting on a park bench watching people and feeling like yourself, and about standing on a bridge watching the water twist beneath you. It pulls your eyes to the stars, clashing splashed in the dark, ventures on the potential of sound in space. You spin around with your arms extended, dizzy, seize its hand and walk through crowds where the women’s eyes are dark and their teeth are white, where your old best friend’s favorite song plays and one girl you thought you’d never see again presses against your side.
That glamor diffuses the feeling of uselessness that smacks most people in the face from time to time. It makes it possible to take on life all at once, every moment from now until forever, planned in various vaguenesses with the overarching security of having no limits, no boundaries. It encourages you to jump at life and swallow it whole, promises you that you are bigger than the world. It transcends the day-to-day and moment-to-moment modes of living and supplants the ordinary with the promise of guaranteed extraordinariness. And all you have to do is believe. All you have to do is tell yourself that you are a Free Spirit and the universe opens in front of you like a flower.
When I’m walking down the street and I remember that feeling, I have to straighten my shoulders, smile then frown for appearance’s sake, and pat myself on the back, the small of my back.
It loves when you pat yourself on the back.
I have considered myself to have something of a Free Spirit streak for a long time. It’s a secret pride of mine that gives me a special balanced feeling in the face of my orthodox convictions and traditionalist bent. It’s something I can grab onto where no one else can see, whenever the dull, hard, traditional life becomes more than I think I can handle. And when my fingers touch it, the Free Spirit streak that I carry at the small of my back, I become part of a special club that no one around me knows about, a club to which no one I love belongs.
That’s why I have long hair and smoke cigarettes, and why loneliness gives me a secret melancholy delight. It’s a much more sophisticated attitude, of course, than that of a teenager who says no one understands him; it says, “some people understand me – you’re just not one of them.” Then it blows a confident thin stream of smoke and turns away, bored.
It whispers to you about long road trips with the sunroof rolled back and the music playing, about the big beauty of mountains and the crisp glitz of cities, New York and Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles. You listen with a heartbeat only slightly elevated and then whisper back about sitting on a park bench watching people and feeling like yourself, and about standing on a bridge watching the water twist beneath you. It pulls your eyes to the stars, clashing splashed in the dark, ventures on the potential of sound in space. You spin around with your arms extended, dizzy, seize its hand and walk through crowds where the women’s eyes are dark and their teeth are white, where your old best friend’s favorite song plays and one girl you thought you’d never see again presses against your side.
That glamor diffuses the feeling of uselessness that smacks most people in the face from time to time. It makes it possible to take on life all at once, every moment from now until forever, planned in various vaguenesses with the overarching security of having no limits, no boundaries. It encourages you to jump at life and swallow it whole, promises you that you are bigger than the world. It transcends the day-to-day and moment-to-moment modes of living and supplants the ordinary with the promise of guaranteed extraordinariness. And all you have to do is believe. All you have to do is tell yourself that you are a Free Spirit and the universe opens in front of you like a flower.
When I’m walking down the street and I remember that feeling, I have to straighten my shoulders, smile then frown for appearance’s sake, and pat myself on the back, the small of my back.
It loves when you pat yourself on the back.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
25 Questions
I saw this going around with a few mothers of young children, and thought a new perspective might be interesting. So I asked the 25 questions to my brother Ed, who is 20, but sometimes acts like he's two (who doesn't?). The answers:
1. What is something mom always says to you?
Get a job.
2. What makes mom happy?
When I do my chores
3. What makes mom sad?
When I sleep in too late
4. How does your mom make you laugh?
When she's sassy
5. What did your mom like to do when she was a child?
Ride her bike
6. How old is your mom?
59
7. How tall is your mom?
5'8" 5'6" I dunno, 5'10" ... 5'9"!
8. What is her favorite thing to watch on TV?
Biggest Fattest
9. What does your mom do when you’re not around?
take a nap
10. What is your mom really good at?
Spider solitaire
11. What is your mom not very good at?
computers
12. What does your mom do for her job?
Takes care of the family
13. What is your mom favorite food?
Roasted beast
14. What makes you proud of your mom?
Her smarts
15. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
Fiona's mom
16. What do you and your mom do together?
Make dinner and eat dinner
17. How are you and your mom the same?
We're both smart
18. How are you and your mom different?
She has more common sense
19. How do you know your mom loves you?
She helps me with stuff
20. What does your mom like most about your dad?
His hard-workingness, his hard work, his work habits
21. Where is your mom’s favorite place to go?
Michigan
22. What is one thing you wish you could change about your mom?
Her computer-savviness
23. What would your mom do with a million dollars?
Help pay off her kids' student loans
24. What do you wish you could go and do with your mom?
Go shopping
25. What is one thing you hope never changes about your mom?
Her awareness of human nature.
A charming mix of childishness and childishness, I thought.
1. What is something mom always says to you?
Get a job.
2. What makes mom happy?
When I do my chores
3. What makes mom sad?
When I sleep in too late
4. How does your mom make you laugh?
When she's sassy
5. What did your mom like to do when she was a child?
Ride her bike
6. How old is your mom?
59
7. How tall is your mom?
5'8" 5'6" I dunno, 5'10" ... 5'9"!
8. What is her favorite thing to watch on TV?
Biggest Fattest
9. What does your mom do when you’re not around?
take a nap
10. What is your mom really good at?
Spider solitaire
11. What is your mom not very good at?
computers
12. What does your mom do for her job?
Takes care of the family
13. What is your mom favorite food?
Roasted beast
14. What makes you proud of your mom?
Her smarts
15. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
Fiona's mom
16. What do you and your mom do together?
Make dinner and eat dinner
17. How are you and your mom the same?
We're both smart
18. How are you and your mom different?
She has more common sense
19. How do you know your mom loves you?
She helps me with stuff
20. What does your mom like most about your dad?
His hard-workingness, his hard work, his work habits
21. Where is your mom’s favorite place to go?
Michigan
22. What is one thing you wish you could change about your mom?
Her computer-savviness
23. What would your mom do with a million dollars?
Help pay off her kids' student loans
24. What do you wish you could go and do with your mom?
Go shopping
25. What is one thing you hope never changes about your mom?
Her awareness of human nature.
A charming mix of childishness and childishness, I thought.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
My dream
"Wouldn't it be neat if your life had a soundtrack?" That's what people say.
I respond, "yeah, it would be ok. Although I think my soundtrack would consist of Funky Cold Medina on repeat."
I had a dream that I was the featured entertainment at by older sister's graduation party - doing stand-up comedy, which of course I've never done. I remember I got up in front of the twenty-or-so people there, inconveniently gathered in front of my garage, and started into my prepared beginning.
"What's up dudes?" I said, and then closer to the mic so it crackled loud with reverb. "What's up dudes?"
I put my hands on the podium and leaned close, close to the mic. "I'm going to do my best Dane Cook impression... and get saliva ALL OVER this podium," I said. Scattered laughs.
"People told me I was going to be nervous, and they were right. They told me I'd freeze like a deer in the headlights up here. So seriously, all you, and especially the people in the front couple rows... please don't point a car at me."
And that's all I remember of my monologue. But I made that shit up in my sleep. That's the funniest thing I've done while unconscious since I peed in this girl's bed in college. Just kidding, sort of.
But seriously, do you ever remember making up an original joke in a dream? Am I special? Please God, let me be special.
I respond, "yeah, it would be ok. Although I think my soundtrack would consist of Funky Cold Medina on repeat."
I had a dream that I was the featured entertainment at by older sister's graduation party - doing stand-up comedy, which of course I've never done. I remember I got up in front of the twenty-or-so people there, inconveniently gathered in front of my garage, and started into my prepared beginning.
"What's up dudes?" I said, and then closer to the mic so it crackled loud with reverb. "What's up dudes?"
I put my hands on the podium and leaned close, close to the mic. "I'm going to do my best Dane Cook impression... and get saliva ALL OVER this podium," I said. Scattered laughs.
"People told me I was going to be nervous, and they were right. They told me I'd freeze like a deer in the headlights up here. So seriously, all you, and especially the people in the front couple rows... please don't point a car at me."
And that's all I remember of my monologue. But I made that shit up in my sleep. That's the funniest thing I've done while unconscious since I peed in this girl's bed in college. Just kidding, sort of.
But seriously, do you ever remember making up an original joke in a dream? Am I special? Please God, let me be special.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Pregnant Moments
There are moments when everything comes together, and there are moments when everything, it seems, falls apart. And the two develop with such similarity that sometimes you can’t tell which one it is until it has passed. You have a vague feeling that this is important, that what happens next will make a difference, and an image comes to mind of a pot boiling over. There was no way to keep a slow explosion like this from happening, only, maybe, to determine whether this will be a moment when everything comes together or when everything falls apart. But it’s usually too late to make that difference. You just watch it happen. Times like these give new meaning to the word momentous.
The world is a stage, and all men are players on it. In other words, life is very shallow. That shallowness is often captured in the moments that turn worse, the moments when everything falls apart. We had ourselves a play within the play, and it was fun, maybe because we could hide our shallowness by making fun of it, the way junior high kids in the locker room act about modesty. It was a theme party that we had in our room, and the theme was “Thank God I’m not...” Everyone came dressed up as something he was glad not to be. By consensus, the best costume was the girl’s who came dressed up as pregnant. It was a pretty simple costume, just a blanket stuffed under her shirt. We had fun, we played cards, we drank Peroni and Prinz beer from Leon. We listened to music, and sang some, but nobody danced.
Hamlet was there, dressed as Claudius. We all thought that was pretty clever. Claudius was the one who killed his dad. Ha ha. He played cards some of the time, but he didn’t talk much, just sat there with a beer. But he was cool. We were like him. But later on, as we were playing quarters (my team won – I’m pretty good at quarters), I noticed that Hamlet was killing Claudius. I hadn’t even noticed when Claudius came in, dressed up as the older Hamlet. That was pretty clever, too. It looked like a re-enactment of the first murder. And Hamlet was stronger, too; he had Claudius down, pinned with a green chair we had borrowed from another room. He was strangling his step-father. I was shocked, but I couldn’t look away.
And then, he reached up to the shelf above his head and grabbed Jake’s butterfly knife from Athens. I tried to breathe in, but I couldn’t. My stomach felt like I was on a roller coaster, but I couldn’t speak. No one else noticed; they were playing quarters, Then Hamlet stabbed Claudius in the side of the head, right through the ear. Claudius screamed. I have never heard a noise like that, low and long and cracking. And Hamlet cut his throat – I was surprised that the knife didn’t go very deep. But there was so much blood. It leaked out of his old, wrinkled neck, and got all over the floor. At least we had a towel that we used for spilled beer from the drinking games. Hamlet was playing the part he was dressed for, killing Claudius like Claudius had killed his father.
By this time of night (the murder had somehow taken about two hours), the quarters were done (did I mention that I’m good at quarters?). Look at the costumes around me. Fill your eyes. Thank God I’m not pregnant. Thank God I’m not suicidal. Thank God I’m not retarded. Each person is a horrible image, a reminder of sin. Our sin. The whole point is that we’re glad not to be any of these things. It would be a bad thing if we looked like this. So let’s look like this.
She still has a blanket under her shirt. But is the slight imperfection in her makeup intentional? She has just a little too much lipstick on the top left part of her mouth. And her ponytail is not well held together; there are wisps of hair falling around her face. And it strikes me, hard, that she looks tired. There are huge bags under her eyes, and her back slumps, but she is always trying to smile, or at least showing her teeth, trying to please and to look very pleased. She looks like an unwed mother. And she’s wearing a tube top. A smallish tube top. This girl, who has made herself pregnant, either by her lust or by her dressing up, still thinks it’s important to look sexy. Sexy?
“I have a major crush on that guy,” this girl tells me, in honest confidence. You have too much makeup on, you’re wearing a slutty little shirt, and you’re pregnant. I guess that fits. Are these costumes. The suicidal guy is trying to play chess drunk. And it really is an exercise in self-destruction. He loses twice, then quits.
Hamlet killed Claudius. I guess I’ll have to clean that up tomorrow. And I am dressed up as “Thank God I’m not retarded.” But I am. I have too much to drink. Again.
The pregnant girl tries to kiss “that guy” while they’re “wrestling.” It doesn’t happen. She picks a fight with her roommate. I didn’t see it happen, but her roommate, dressed up as “Thank God I don’t give a shit,” is screaming and crying pretty soon. “Thank God I’m not turns into “No, I actually am” one more time.
I meet the pregnant girl on her way out of my room. She is on the verge of tears, and I comfort her. She gives me a hug, which is rather awkward because of her distended belly, and says, “Thank you, Joe.” And I am not revolted by everything about this situation for the same reason I don’t really mind that “Don’t give a shit” is breaking open house hours in my room. Because I’m retarded.
The girl in my room will be led away soon, and offered a place to sleep in another guy’s room. He thanks God he’s not still in high school. I don’t know. Find the poetry in that.
The night is over, and more than over. Over the course of the party, the only people who danced were two girls on their way in from Rome. They were dressed up as themselves, but they weren’t themselves. They were horribly drunk.
I don’t even know where the girl dressed up as the “baby’s father” went. She took off when all the drama started, and no one’s seen her since.
When I wake up the next morning, Claudius’s body is gone. There is no blood, just a lot of empty bottles, and quarters glued to the table with dried up excess. The two girls remember that they had a fight the night before, but they honestly cannot remember what it was about. I am not retarded any more. Or maybe I am... I don’t know.
Hamlet had one of those turning point moments when he decided to kill Claudius. And his, like ours, was one where everything falls apart. He had a play within the play, like us, and became his enemy... when to create the moments when everything comes together, all you have to do is tell the truth. Because being pregnant, being retarded, are occasions for grace, calls to special sainthood. But not like that.
So the world is a stage, and all men players on it. In other words, drama is very deep. And in the same way that the shallowness of life can be captured in the moments when everything falls apart, the depth of drama can be captured in a moment when everything comes together. Like this moment.
Just like the party, the play, was a moment when everything fell apart, remembering the party was when everything came together, like an examination of conscience. Before the party, it seemed like everything was set up right, like things made sense, but it was the opposite. And before remembering the party, it seemed like all there was to realize was failure. But in one long, slow explosion, all the failure boiled over, to reveal what really was. And that must be encouraging.
The world is a stage, and all men are players on it. In other words, life is very shallow. That shallowness is often captured in the moments that turn worse, the moments when everything falls apart. We had ourselves a play within the play, and it was fun, maybe because we could hide our shallowness by making fun of it, the way junior high kids in the locker room act about modesty. It was a theme party that we had in our room, and the theme was “Thank God I’m not...” Everyone came dressed up as something he was glad not to be. By consensus, the best costume was the girl’s who came dressed up as pregnant. It was a pretty simple costume, just a blanket stuffed under her shirt. We had fun, we played cards, we drank Peroni and Prinz beer from Leon. We listened to music, and sang some, but nobody danced.
Hamlet was there, dressed as Claudius. We all thought that was pretty clever. Claudius was the one who killed his dad. Ha ha. He played cards some of the time, but he didn’t talk much, just sat there with a beer. But he was cool. We were like him. But later on, as we were playing quarters (my team won – I’m pretty good at quarters), I noticed that Hamlet was killing Claudius. I hadn’t even noticed when Claudius came in, dressed up as the older Hamlet. That was pretty clever, too. It looked like a re-enactment of the first murder. And Hamlet was stronger, too; he had Claudius down, pinned with a green chair we had borrowed from another room. He was strangling his step-father. I was shocked, but I couldn’t look away.
And then, he reached up to the shelf above his head and grabbed Jake’s butterfly knife from Athens. I tried to breathe in, but I couldn’t. My stomach felt like I was on a roller coaster, but I couldn’t speak. No one else noticed; they were playing quarters, Then Hamlet stabbed Claudius in the side of the head, right through the ear. Claudius screamed. I have never heard a noise like that, low and long and cracking. And Hamlet cut his throat – I was surprised that the knife didn’t go very deep. But there was so much blood. It leaked out of his old, wrinkled neck, and got all over the floor. At least we had a towel that we used for spilled beer from the drinking games. Hamlet was playing the part he was dressed for, killing Claudius like Claudius had killed his father.
By this time of night (the murder had somehow taken about two hours), the quarters were done (did I mention that I’m good at quarters?). Look at the costumes around me. Fill your eyes. Thank God I’m not pregnant. Thank God I’m not suicidal. Thank God I’m not retarded. Each person is a horrible image, a reminder of sin. Our sin. The whole point is that we’re glad not to be any of these things. It would be a bad thing if we looked like this. So let’s look like this.
She still has a blanket under her shirt. But is the slight imperfection in her makeup intentional? She has just a little too much lipstick on the top left part of her mouth. And her ponytail is not well held together; there are wisps of hair falling around her face. And it strikes me, hard, that she looks tired. There are huge bags under her eyes, and her back slumps, but she is always trying to smile, or at least showing her teeth, trying to please and to look very pleased. She looks like an unwed mother. And she’s wearing a tube top. A smallish tube top. This girl, who has made herself pregnant, either by her lust or by her dressing up, still thinks it’s important to look sexy. Sexy?
“I have a major crush on that guy,” this girl tells me, in honest confidence. You have too much makeup on, you’re wearing a slutty little shirt, and you’re pregnant. I guess that fits. Are these costumes. The suicidal guy is trying to play chess drunk. And it really is an exercise in self-destruction. He loses twice, then quits.
Hamlet killed Claudius. I guess I’ll have to clean that up tomorrow. And I am dressed up as “Thank God I’m not retarded.” But I am. I have too much to drink. Again.
The pregnant girl tries to kiss “that guy” while they’re “wrestling.” It doesn’t happen. She picks a fight with her roommate. I didn’t see it happen, but her roommate, dressed up as “Thank God I don’t give a shit,” is screaming and crying pretty soon. “Thank God I’m not turns into “No, I actually am” one more time.
I meet the pregnant girl on her way out of my room. She is on the verge of tears, and I comfort her. She gives me a hug, which is rather awkward because of her distended belly, and says, “Thank you, Joe.” And I am not revolted by everything about this situation for the same reason I don’t really mind that “Don’t give a shit” is breaking open house hours in my room. Because I’m retarded.
The girl in my room will be led away soon, and offered a place to sleep in another guy’s room. He thanks God he’s not still in high school. I don’t know. Find the poetry in that.
The night is over, and more than over. Over the course of the party, the only people who danced were two girls on their way in from Rome. They were dressed up as themselves, but they weren’t themselves. They were horribly drunk.
I don’t even know where the girl dressed up as the “baby’s father” went. She took off when all the drama started, and no one’s seen her since.
When I wake up the next morning, Claudius’s body is gone. There is no blood, just a lot of empty bottles, and quarters glued to the table with dried up excess. The two girls remember that they had a fight the night before, but they honestly cannot remember what it was about. I am not retarded any more. Or maybe I am... I don’t know.
Hamlet had one of those turning point moments when he decided to kill Claudius. And his, like ours, was one where everything falls apart. He had a play within the play, like us, and became his enemy... when to create the moments when everything comes together, all you have to do is tell the truth. Because being pregnant, being retarded, are occasions for grace, calls to special sainthood. But not like that.
So the world is a stage, and all men players on it. In other words, drama is very deep. And in the same way that the shallowness of life can be captured in the moments when everything falls apart, the depth of drama can be captured in a moment when everything comes together. Like this moment.
Just like the party, the play, was a moment when everything fell apart, remembering the party was when everything came together, like an examination of conscience. Before the party, it seemed like everything was set up right, like things made sense, but it was the opposite. And before remembering the party, it seemed like all there was to realize was failure. But in one long, slow explosion, all the failure boiled over, to reveal what really was. And that must be encouraging.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tolerance?
Today I saw a post by the vibrant and witty Chelsea of Chelsea Talks Smack that really summarized the attitudes of most (or at least many) "twenty-somethings" toward Catholicism. I'd encourage you to read it; it gives a good sense of the overwhelming mindset of our demographic - how we relate to orthodoxy, and what we mean by tolerance.
Liberal-minded young people take great satisfaction in the virtue of their own tolerance: they accept anyone and everyone for who they are, no matter what they do, accept an infinite plurality of separate but equal truths, and in short, strive to annihilate a system of values which could hurt someone's feelings - which could, God forbid, judge someone. Whether this is primarily a self-defense mechanism, to protect themselves from judgment, especially self-judgment, is a good question for another time.
Instead, I'd like to focus on the prevalent attitude among these twenty-something liberals toward those people who disagree, those people who subscribe to (the liberals would say manufacture) the system of absolute values. Like Catholics.
Chelsea mocked the Catholic practice of praying for God's mercy on the soul of the deceased at a funeral.
Now let's forget the question of whether they're right - we'd be here all day. Instead let's just imagine that some people, doddering old fools though they may be, believe in praying for God's mercy - believe all the Catholic hocus-pocus and mumbo jumbo. Let's imagine they believe that God is all-powerful and all-loving, and that one's relationship with him is all that matters. Won't those poor old fools want to pray to him? Want to pray for his mercy, and pray that their recently deceased loved one can enjoy the glory of his presence forever?
And won't an open-minded, tolerant, compassionate soul, even one who knows the old farts are way off-base, allow them the measure of comfort they gain from their silly rituals? Won't the tolerant, fresh-faced, future of America allow them unbegrudgingly the practice of their separate but equal beliefs?
Because if the young liberal refuses such magnanimity, which I find to be the case more often than not, he or she should take a closer look at the mantle of all-inclusive pan-religious tolerant peaceability he or she is wearing. And he or she might find that it's actually a mask and cape of militant atheism.
In which case, the escape from self-judgment has led to self-delusion, and the courage to face down tradition has led to cowardice which perverts good, tolerant intentions against themselves.
Liberal-minded young people take great satisfaction in the virtue of their own tolerance: they accept anyone and everyone for who they are, no matter what they do, accept an infinite plurality of separate but equal truths, and in short, strive to annihilate a system of values which could hurt someone's feelings - which could, God forbid, judge someone. Whether this is primarily a self-defense mechanism, to protect themselves from judgment, especially self-judgment, is a good question for another time.
Instead, I'd like to focus on the prevalent attitude among these twenty-something liberals toward those people who disagree, those people who subscribe to (the liberals would say manufacture) the system of absolute values. Like Catholics.
Chelsea mocked the Catholic practice of praying for God's mercy on the soul of the deceased at a funeral.
Now let's forget the question of whether they're right - we'd be here all day. Instead let's just imagine that some people, doddering old fools though they may be, believe in praying for God's mercy - believe all the Catholic hocus-pocus and mumbo jumbo. Let's imagine they believe that God is all-powerful and all-loving, and that one's relationship with him is all that matters. Won't those poor old fools want to pray to him? Want to pray for his mercy, and pray that their recently deceased loved one can enjoy the glory of his presence forever?
And won't an open-minded, tolerant, compassionate soul, even one who knows the old farts are way off-base, allow them the measure of comfort they gain from their silly rituals? Won't the tolerant, fresh-faced, future of America allow them unbegrudgingly the practice of their separate but equal beliefs?
Because if the young liberal refuses such magnanimity, which I find to be the case more often than not, he or she should take a closer look at the mantle of all-inclusive pan-religious tolerant peaceability he or she is wearing. And he or she might find that it's actually a mask and cape of militant atheism.
In which case, the escape from self-judgment has led to self-delusion, and the courage to face down tradition has led to cowardice which perverts good, tolerant intentions against themselves.
Friday, February 6, 2009
25 Things
1. When this note-writing frenzy started two weeks ago, I thought it was stupid and lame with a capital A. But then no one tagged me. And no one continued to tag me. And I started thinking... "anybody?" It was like sour grapes in reverse.
2. I think chick music can be angry sometimes, like Kelly Clarkson or Alanis Morissette, and it's just kinda cute, like "ooh, you're angry, arentcha? grrrr!" and you kind of pat their head and laugh and then dance your butt off. But when guys sing angry music, it inevitably comes off whiny. Even when they think it's shouty, it's still actually whiny.
3. I used to hate Brussels sprouts, asparagus, wine and spaghetti, but now I love them. I used to hate eggplant too, but I don't know if I like it, because who ever eats eggplant?
4. Studying many diverse subjects in college helped my Trivial Pursuit game.
5. After my baseball coach caught me climbing from balcony to balcony outside the third floor of our hotel rooms in California at 3:00 am in my underwear, he still let me pitch the next day.
6. When I was three years old or so, I sometimes ate sticks of butter, and once, confused, I took a bite of a bar of soap.
7. When I started school, I prided myself on knowing every single swear word. I guess the soap didn't take.
8. Books are good, except Pulitzer prize winners, which suck a surprising amount of the time - like that "Guns, Germs and Steel" book: utter hogwash.
9. I haven't thrown up from the flu since I was five.
10. I was 5'6" as a freshman in high school, and made money by betting several classmates (who were all of 5'10") that I would be taller by graduation. I grew a foot, cashed in, and then tried the same thing in college, except I bet that I would have more chest hair than my opponents by graduation. No one ever tells you this, but chest hair takes a looooong time to grow.
11. When someone tells me, "space and time are the same thing," or "God is three persons in one being," and I say, "oh, ok, yeah I can kinda see how that makes sense," am I faking it? Those things are supposed to be impossible to understand, so I guess I must be. Then again, if someone told me, "the square root of epic poetry is a bologna sandwich," I wouldn't say "yeah, that makes sense to me." Or I would, but I would say it while I was slowly backing away.
12. I think people take themselves too seriously. Like me, when I pester Ed, "should I shave my goatee or keep it? What do you think? Shave it or keep it? Do you think it makes me look older?" What a queer.
13. My mom and sister Cathy still like the show, "The Biggest Loser," but by means of constant subliminal repetition, we have trained them to call it "The Biggest Fattest" like the rest of us.
14. Whenever someone mentions the drink named a "hairy navel," I am quietly amused. And when someone mentions a "buttery nipple," I am quietly uncomfortable.
15. I am glad that the phrase "anal-retentive" can be shortened to "anal," with no loss of meaning, but sometimes it makes me think that "penal" is a dirty word, too. Like "fiduciary," and Uncle Joe's favorite swear, "Shih Tzu."
16. You know how a human being would explode in the vacuum of space because of the body's internal pressure? What if a human just pooped into space? Would it explode? No one can answer this to my satisfaction, and my mom won't let me poop in the vacuum cleaner to test my theory. I guess it's just one of life's mysteries, like why people like Shia LaBeouf.
17. Little Jackie "The Stoop" is my new favorite song. Or something. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpmlDhIDkqA
18. My sister Julie was surprised that I could make gravy, and I was like bitch please, this is child's play and then my dad told me to watch my mouth and that only part of this story was true.
19. I can sympathize with masochism when I'm on the toilet. Anyone? Anyone? No?
20. Call me crazy, but I believe it is possible to love an ugly person. It requires intense concentration, and can only be achieved for brief intervals, but it is possible. But that's just my opinion. You could be right.
21. I think Ryan Seacrest, while a shade on the smarmy side, is vastly underrated and unappreciated. Boy can host a damn show.
22. Always remember that you are unique. Just like everybody else.
23. I could write in cursive when I was four years old. Or at least I used to think that I remembered that. I used to say I remembered being in the womb, too, but so many people have told me that's impossible that I don't know if I really remember it, or if it's a fake memory I've fabricated. They ask me what it was like and I say, "Umm... warm... dark," and I think I must be making it up. But then later, I remember that the most noticeable thing about it was there was no sense of up and down, or any direction, and hardly any sense of space at all. But then I don't know if I just made that up too.
24. I love chocolate milk and I love alcohol, but my attempts at a chocolate milk drink have invariably been disappointing. I guess a White Russian is as close as the human race can come to that particular perfection.
25. I don't know what to put for 25. Something about how I love my family because they're the best and pizza is my favorite food and baseball is the best sport and I get a kick out of you.
2. I think chick music can be angry sometimes, like Kelly Clarkson or Alanis Morissette, and it's just kinda cute, like "ooh, you're angry, arentcha? grrrr!" and you kind of pat their head and laugh and then dance your butt off. But when guys sing angry music, it inevitably comes off whiny. Even when they think it's shouty, it's still actually whiny.
3. I used to hate Brussels sprouts, asparagus, wine and spaghetti, but now I love them. I used to hate eggplant too, but I don't know if I like it, because who ever eats eggplant?
4. Studying many diverse subjects in college helped my Trivial Pursuit game.
5. After my baseball coach caught me climbing from balcony to balcony outside the third floor of our hotel rooms in California at 3:00 am in my underwear, he still let me pitch the next day.
6. When I was three years old or so, I sometimes ate sticks of butter, and once, confused, I took a bite of a bar of soap.
7. When I started school, I prided myself on knowing every single swear word. I guess the soap didn't take.
8. Books are good, except Pulitzer prize winners, which suck a surprising amount of the time - like that "Guns, Germs and Steel" book: utter hogwash.
9. I haven't thrown up from the flu since I was five.
10. I was 5'6" as a freshman in high school, and made money by betting several classmates (who were all of 5'10") that I would be taller by graduation. I grew a foot, cashed in, and then tried the same thing in college, except I bet that I would have more chest hair than my opponents by graduation. No one ever tells you this, but chest hair takes a looooong time to grow.
11. When someone tells me, "space and time are the same thing," or "God is three persons in one being," and I say, "oh, ok, yeah I can kinda see how that makes sense," am I faking it? Those things are supposed to be impossible to understand, so I guess I must be. Then again, if someone told me, "the square root of epic poetry is a bologna sandwich," I wouldn't say "yeah, that makes sense to me." Or I would, but I would say it while I was slowly backing away.
12. I think people take themselves too seriously. Like me, when I pester Ed, "should I shave my goatee or keep it? What do you think? Shave it or keep it? Do you think it makes me look older?" What a queer.
13. My mom and sister Cathy still like the show, "The Biggest Loser," but by means of constant subliminal repetition, we have trained them to call it "The Biggest Fattest" like the rest of us.
14. Whenever someone mentions the drink named a "hairy navel," I am quietly amused. And when someone mentions a "buttery nipple," I am quietly uncomfortable.
15. I am glad that the phrase "anal-retentive" can be shortened to "anal," with no loss of meaning, but sometimes it makes me think that "penal" is a dirty word, too. Like "fiduciary," and Uncle Joe's favorite swear, "Shih Tzu."
16. You know how a human being would explode in the vacuum of space because of the body's internal pressure? What if a human just pooped into space? Would it explode? No one can answer this to my satisfaction, and my mom won't let me poop in the vacuum cleaner to test my theory. I guess it's just one of life's mysteries, like why people like Shia LaBeouf.
17. Little Jackie "The Stoop" is my new favorite song. Or something. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpmlDhIDkqA
18. My sister Julie was surprised that I could make gravy, and I was like bitch please, this is child's play and then my dad told me to watch my mouth and that only part of this story was true.
19. I can sympathize with masochism when I'm on the toilet. Anyone? Anyone? No?
20. Call me crazy, but I believe it is possible to love an ugly person. It requires intense concentration, and can only be achieved for brief intervals, but it is possible. But that's just my opinion. You could be right.
21. I think Ryan Seacrest, while a shade on the smarmy side, is vastly underrated and unappreciated. Boy can host a damn show.
22. Always remember that you are unique. Just like everybody else.
23. I could write in cursive when I was four years old. Or at least I used to think that I remembered that. I used to say I remembered being in the womb, too, but so many people have told me that's impossible that I don't know if I really remember it, or if it's a fake memory I've fabricated. They ask me what it was like and I say, "Umm... warm... dark," and I think I must be making it up. But then later, I remember that the most noticeable thing about it was there was no sense of up and down, or any direction, and hardly any sense of space at all. But then I don't know if I just made that up too.
24. I love chocolate milk and I love alcohol, but my attempts at a chocolate milk drink have invariably been disappointing. I guess a White Russian is as close as the human race can come to that particular perfection.
25. I don't know what to put for 25. Something about how I love my family because they're the best and pizza is my favorite food and baseball is the best sport and I get a kick out of you.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I believe that the second syllable of "buttock" should rhyme with "luck" not "lock"
"We live in uncertain times," I said to my brother tonight, and I think it's true enough as far as it goes. Barack Obama is our president, which some students of history are calling another step in the slide toward socialism. (As a quick aside, did you know that Obama's tax cut plan calls for more than 50% of the populace to pay no taxes (or less). Do you know what that means? That means that beginning with the advent of graduated income tax (thanks to the Progressive movement of the early 20th Century), and through the governmental gluttony of Wilson, FDR and LBJ, we have now created a voting majority who pay no taxes. Or are on welfare. Guess whether those folks are going to vote for Obama, who pays their bills (with our money), or some Republican. It's easy to say, "stick it to the fat cats," but what we're talking about here is the brink of class warfare, when the many can become a mob and take from the few... and, call me George Orwell, totalitarianism.
Yes, it's years away, certainly. But it's over 200 years closer than when Tocqueville saw the same thing coming.
I'm afraid that was a bit of a tangent, when I promised you a brief aside. These are uncertain times. I'm in a bit of a maelstrom myself, and a few of the people around me are paddling gamely through their own, and sometimes it seems like the Bermuda triangle because it's so marvelous.
How fast can you run?
How well can you spell?
If the meteor hits tomorrow, whose bra will you grab?
Do you know how to dance?
Can you explain how calculus curves define the economic balance of the last thirty years?
Those are the questions that I'm interested in. And none of them are easier to answer than the next.
Yes, it's years away, certainly. But it's over 200 years closer than when Tocqueville saw the same thing coming.
I'm afraid that was a bit of a tangent, when I promised you a brief aside. These are uncertain times. I'm in a bit of a maelstrom myself, and a few of the people around me are paddling gamely through their own, and sometimes it seems like the Bermuda triangle because it's so marvelous.
How fast can you run?
How well can you spell?
If the meteor hits tomorrow, whose bra will you grab?
Do you know how to dance?
Can you explain how calculus curves define the economic balance of the last thirty years?
Those are the questions that I'm interested in. And none of them are easier to answer than the next.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
30-second video spot
If you've got the time, I'd love to hear what you think of this. Love it? Hate it? Disrespectful? Ingenious? Misleading?
Don't be afraid to ruffle feathers.
Don't be afraid to ruffle feathers.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
A post about OpenOffice in which I devolve into griping, as usual these days
I'm writing this post in OpenOffice.org Writer instead of Word. I switched recently, partly because my free trial version of Microsoft Word was expiring, but also because I think the idea of OpenOffice is just so cool. “Open source programming”? Where anyone who wants just chips in like Wikipedia to write a program, and it works just as well? That's such a cool idea to me that when I heard it, I knew I had to have it. I'm like that sometimes: anyone who has a cool idea, a product I think is “neat” or an innovative sales pitch, I fall in love with immediately. Multiple times before I've bought something I didn't need just because I thought the salesman really did a heck of a job. It's not a good philosophy, it's poor business sense, but I just can't shake the habit.
I'm also compelled to respect OpenOffice because I don't understand it. I thought I did, of course, but then my mom asked me to explain it, and I found myself completely unable to do so. The same thing happened with the whole idea of social networking (and blogging, for that matter), which I was at a loss to explain to my mom too. But the most ingenious solution is usually the easiest, isn't it? So I just did what I always do when someone older than I am doesn't understand anything remotely technological: I laughed a little and then shook my head as if to say, “oh, you'll never get it – you're so cute and fuddy-duddy.”
That approach always made me feel much better about myself until the other day when my high-school-age cousin tried unsuccessfully to explain to me why he couldn't go with Hayden and Alice and Fiona all together to the Christmas dance as a double date, and then gave me the exact same look after he finished explaining and I said “huh?” At that exact moment, I realized that my parents probably think I'm a jackass and that their feelings toward me lean less toward envy of my tech savvy than toward simple, mild contempt.
It's snowing like balls outside right now. Started at noon or so and supposed to last all night. Winter is depressing, but snow makes it a lot better. It's awful pretty. But emphasis on the awful there.
But at least Obama's our President-elect, right? Oh wait, that guy sucks. Since the election, he has backed off his “out-of-Iraq-now” pose, deferring to “the judgment of commanders on the ground,” and has in fact promised to deploy active military within the United States – 20,000 by 2009 (wtf?). He's ramped up the bailout package too, now tossing in bones for the Big Three (which should just go bankrupt already) and pushing the total to over a trillion dollars. And he's announced a gigantic public works program. Oh yeah, and he's promised that his first act as president will be to sign FOCA, which aside from its murderous character, is also a decimation of states' rights. With the shit he's announced, bigger military than he promised, huge government intervention everywhere else across the board, forget about calling him as bad as FDR; the closest twentieth century leader to Barack Obama is Joseph Stalin. I'm so not even kidding. But we elected him fair and square, and all I can say is we got what we deserved. It's going to be a godawful ride.
Umm, so, cheers! Have a great day anyway, what the hell.
I'm also compelled to respect OpenOffice because I don't understand it. I thought I did, of course, but then my mom asked me to explain it, and I found myself completely unable to do so. The same thing happened with the whole idea of social networking (and blogging, for that matter), which I was at a loss to explain to my mom too. But the most ingenious solution is usually the easiest, isn't it? So I just did what I always do when someone older than I am doesn't understand anything remotely technological: I laughed a little and then shook my head as if to say, “oh, you'll never get it – you're so cute and fuddy-duddy.”
That approach always made me feel much better about myself until the other day when my high-school-age cousin tried unsuccessfully to explain to me why he couldn't go with Hayden and Alice and Fiona all together to the Christmas dance as a double date, and then gave me the exact same look after he finished explaining and I said “huh?” At that exact moment, I realized that my parents probably think I'm a jackass and that their feelings toward me lean less toward envy of my tech savvy than toward simple, mild contempt.
It's snowing like balls outside right now. Started at noon or so and supposed to last all night. Winter is depressing, but snow makes it a lot better. It's awful pretty. But emphasis on the awful there.
But at least Obama's our President-elect, right? Oh wait, that guy sucks. Since the election, he has backed off his “out-of-Iraq-now” pose, deferring to “the judgment of commanders on the ground,” and has in fact promised to deploy active military within the United States – 20,000 by 2009 (wtf?). He's ramped up the bailout package too, now tossing in bones for the Big Three (which should just go bankrupt already) and pushing the total to over a trillion dollars. And he's announced a gigantic public works program. Oh yeah, and he's promised that his first act as president will be to sign FOCA, which aside from its murderous character, is also a decimation of states' rights. With the shit he's announced, bigger military than he promised, huge government intervention everywhere else across the board, forget about calling him as bad as FDR; the closest twentieth century leader to Barack Obama is Joseph Stalin. I'm so not even kidding. But we elected him fair and square, and all I can say is we got what we deserved. It's going to be a godawful ride.
Umm, so, cheers! Have a great day anyway, what the hell.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Part Three - Chapter One
It all started so innocuously, the way the worst things always do, when Jenny fed too many scallion tails down the disposal drain. When you chop scallions, Jenny said, you clip off the squidian roots with the long green tails and only use the middle. The ends, short and white or long and green, you toss aside into the garbage. Or the disposal – which of course is anything but.
Another labor-saving device, the disposal never lived up to the spirit of the automatic bread-slicer in purely literal terms. A bread slicer sliced bread like the best thing since... whenever – and the disposal only disposed of mushy leftovers and baby food... maybe every once in a while something as strong as a carrot, but certainly never anything as strong as these scallion tails.
Once Jenny had heard of using a food processor to chop the most stubborn leftovers and then flipping them to the disposal. Saves your disposal, saves your garbage-hauling costs, saves everything. Except that twenty seconds of sanity that you save by chucking the damn things into the garbage can, and sometimes that's worth a lot more to you than a green world forever. If it came to going green, sometimes Jenny felt fine to peppering the garbage can with scallions.
Except this one time, she decided not to decorate the Glad bag with a garnish of green; she put her environmentalist hat on and threw the long strands down the drain. The environmentalist hat, Jenny always said, was too small for her, so small that it cramped her brain. An environmentalist hat would stop anyone from thinking, Jenny said.
I never understood that about her, her heartless conservatism, but there was a lot about her that I didn't understand, starting with everything. Starting with everything, culminating in something, and coming to a head with scallion tails dropped down the disposal.
Like a shot I was over there when she called me, because that's what good boyfriends do, right?
It was 8:30 in the morning. Who cooks scallions at 8:30 in the morning? I wondered. So I asked her when I arrived at her apartment, “who cooks scallions at 8:30 in the morning?”
“I was making an omelette,” she growled at me. She pointed to a tin bowl full of eggs, mixed, next to neat piles of shredded cheddar cheese, crumbled sausage, green pepper and yes, green onions.
Her hair wasn’t done for the day, and she was wearing big gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Her face was flushed with anger, the pink settling high on her cheeks, near her cheekbones. Her eyes, that opaque blue, tried to flash with fury, but only twinkled. She looked gorgeous.
I’ve heard a lot of people say it before, that some girl or other looks her best when she’s steaming mad. But for Jenny it was really true. I just wanted to smile and hold her as close as I could and make her laugh or love me. The only time she looked as good as when she was mad was when she was sharing an inside joke, across the table or across the room, when anyone else might see it but no one did.
Suddenly I realized that I was just standing there in front of her sink with a half-smile on my face, thinking about her while she was three feet away, staring at me and waiting. So I stuck my hand into the drain and started groping around.
I’d never fixed a disposal before; I’d never even tried. So I just made exploratory humming noises for a while, hoping to feel something inside the sink’s throat, or better yet, hoping the thing might magically fix itself. After about a minute and a half, almost enough time for her to realize that I was clueless, I pulled out my hand, rinsed it and shook tiny water droplets that spattered into the sink. “Feels jammed,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, with surprising patience. “Can you unjam it?”
I indicated her chair and white-formica-topped table next to the window. “Why don’t you sit down,” I said, “and tell me where I can find a screwdriver. Or maybe a pair of tongs.”
She reached up over my shoulder and grabbed tongs from where they hung on the wall above the stove. I took them with nodded thanks and ushered her out of the kitchen, the full twenty-five feet to the opposite end of her apartment to have a seat so I could concentrate on my work... or at least on figuring out what the hell my work was.
The apartment was almost as wide as it was long, almost twenty feet by twenty-five, but still, obviously, a very small place. The kitchen occupied one half of one of the short walls, separated by a wall from the entryway that took up the other half of the short wall. On the other short wall were her bed, opposite the kitchen, and her table, opposite the front door.
The front door, Jenny always called it the front door, although there was no back door or side door anywhere in the apartment. But she had a habit of domesticizing; her aparment was her home, and that door was the front door. I loved it about her – the habit of making things comfortable, not the door; there was nothing really special about the door. Not that it was a bad door or anything, I’d just never–
I saw her still staring at me from the table, so I hefted the tongs in a silent toast to her and poked them into the drain. For all her tendency to make things comfortable, she could still make people uncomfortable with almost no effort. It was funny when she did it to someone else.
After a minute or so of wiggling, I said, “Aha!” and removed the tongs from the drain. There was a smallish piece of scallion-tail clutched between the fingers. I raised my eyebrows in what I estimated to be a confident glance, paused for a dramatic moment, and then reached for what I thought was the disposal power switch. The light above the sink went on, then off again. Then on.
I cleared my throat. “Can see better now,” I said, and peered into the sink. I couldn’t see shit. Jenny reached over to the shelf at her shoulder, pulled out a book, and opened to the first page.
Another labor-saving device, the disposal never lived up to the spirit of the automatic bread-slicer in purely literal terms. A bread slicer sliced bread like the best thing since... whenever – and the disposal only disposed of mushy leftovers and baby food... maybe every once in a while something as strong as a carrot, but certainly never anything as strong as these scallion tails.
Once Jenny had heard of using a food processor to chop the most stubborn leftovers and then flipping them to the disposal. Saves your disposal, saves your garbage-hauling costs, saves everything. Except that twenty seconds of sanity that you save by chucking the damn things into the garbage can, and sometimes that's worth a lot more to you than a green world forever. If it came to going green, sometimes Jenny felt fine to peppering the garbage can with scallions.
Except this one time, she decided not to decorate the Glad bag with a garnish of green; she put her environmentalist hat on and threw the long strands down the drain. The environmentalist hat, Jenny always said, was too small for her, so small that it cramped her brain. An environmentalist hat would stop anyone from thinking, Jenny said.
I never understood that about her, her heartless conservatism, but there was a lot about her that I didn't understand, starting with everything. Starting with everything, culminating in something, and coming to a head with scallion tails dropped down the disposal.
Like a shot I was over there when she called me, because that's what good boyfriends do, right?
It was 8:30 in the morning. Who cooks scallions at 8:30 in the morning? I wondered. So I asked her when I arrived at her apartment, “who cooks scallions at 8:30 in the morning?”
“I was making an omelette,” she growled at me. She pointed to a tin bowl full of eggs, mixed, next to neat piles of shredded cheddar cheese, crumbled sausage, green pepper and yes, green onions.
Her hair wasn’t done for the day, and she was wearing big gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Her face was flushed with anger, the pink settling high on her cheeks, near her cheekbones. Her eyes, that opaque blue, tried to flash with fury, but only twinkled. She looked gorgeous.
I’ve heard a lot of people say it before, that some girl or other looks her best when she’s steaming mad. But for Jenny it was really true. I just wanted to smile and hold her as close as I could and make her laugh or love me. The only time she looked as good as when she was mad was when she was sharing an inside joke, across the table or across the room, when anyone else might see it but no one did.
Suddenly I realized that I was just standing there in front of her sink with a half-smile on my face, thinking about her while she was three feet away, staring at me and waiting. So I stuck my hand into the drain and started groping around.
I’d never fixed a disposal before; I’d never even tried. So I just made exploratory humming noises for a while, hoping to feel something inside the sink’s throat, or better yet, hoping the thing might magically fix itself. After about a minute and a half, almost enough time for her to realize that I was clueless, I pulled out my hand, rinsed it and shook tiny water droplets that spattered into the sink. “Feels jammed,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, with surprising patience. “Can you unjam it?”
I indicated her chair and white-formica-topped table next to the window. “Why don’t you sit down,” I said, “and tell me where I can find a screwdriver. Or maybe a pair of tongs.”
She reached up over my shoulder and grabbed tongs from where they hung on the wall above the stove. I took them with nodded thanks and ushered her out of the kitchen, the full twenty-five feet to the opposite end of her apartment to have a seat so I could concentrate on my work... or at least on figuring out what the hell my work was.
The apartment was almost as wide as it was long, almost twenty feet by twenty-five, but still, obviously, a very small place. The kitchen occupied one half of one of the short walls, separated by a wall from the entryway that took up the other half of the short wall. On the other short wall were her bed, opposite the kitchen, and her table, opposite the front door.
The front door, Jenny always called it the front door, although there was no back door or side door anywhere in the apartment. But she had a habit of domesticizing; her aparment was her home, and that door was the front door. I loved it about her – the habit of making things comfortable, not the door; there was nothing really special about the door. Not that it was a bad door or anything, I’d just never–
I saw her still staring at me from the table, so I hefted the tongs in a silent toast to her and poked them into the drain. For all her tendency to make things comfortable, she could still make people uncomfortable with almost no effort. It was funny when she did it to someone else.
After a minute or so of wiggling, I said, “Aha!” and removed the tongs from the drain. There was a smallish piece of scallion-tail clutched between the fingers. I raised my eyebrows in what I estimated to be a confident glance, paused for a dramatic moment, and then reached for what I thought was the disposal power switch. The light above the sink went on, then off again. Then on.
I cleared my throat. “Can see better now,” I said, and peered into the sink. I couldn’t see shit. Jenny reached over to the shelf at her shoulder, pulled out a book, and opened to the first page.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Well
Hi. I guess it's been a while. I have no idea how many Google Readers this is going to show up in. Maybe what we had wasn't as great as I thought it was... then again - what do we have to lose, you and I.
My name is Joe White.
Hi.
My name is Joe White.
Hi.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Here am I
Almost a year ago now, I decided to sign up for NaBloPoMo, which some of you may remember, a blogging group dedicated to posting every single day during the month of November. The inspiration for NaBloPoMo was NaNoWriMo, a group dedicated to writing an entire 50,000 word novel in the month of November.
Bloggers, as is their wont, saw a good idea and tried to find a way to make it easier. Naturally, I was right there with the rest of them. The truth is, I had heard of NaNoWriMo before I even knew what a blog was, and the idea fascinated me. I've continued to fancy myself an excellent writer of fiction even though I haven't finished a single story since high school summer writing assignments, when I would pound out fantastical stylized pieces like this little gem from my sophomore year.
Since then, I've finished nothing, not a single story (at least nothing over 1,000 words), but I've always supposed that if I really wanted to, I could jump up at the drop of a hat and produce a passable, above-average novel. I don't really know if that's true. I'm afraid it's not.
But after trying my hand at NaBloPoMo last year, and finding out that I couldn't even keep up with that easy a task, it was only natural for me to decide that this year, I would take a stab at the big kahuna. So bring on NaNoWriMo, I thought. That was about three weeks ago.
My plan was to bring myself gradually back up to speed by finishing the series of stories I had started in high school. The one I posted here, you see, was only the first installment. The next year I had written “Nature Calls” for the high school summer writing assignment, and sometime shortly afterwards, I'd begun working on the third story, tentatively entitled “The Milk of Love.” Each story corresponded to one season - “Winning Atalanta” to summer, “Nature Calls” to fall, and the third and fourth to winter and spring, respectively. Three weeks ago, I had the idea that if I finished the third story during September and wrote the complete fourth story in October, I'd be warmed up enough to write a whole real book in November.
Well, I added enough to “The Milk of Love” to bring it to a grand total of fifteen pages, about ten less than I planned, and that was all. Apparently, it just doesn't come back to you like riding a bike. Perhaps also, I was underwhelmed with the quality of my stories from high school when I went back for a second look... and maybe, I have to say, disillusioned.
It's depressing to find out that at least in some ways, you aren't as exceptional as you always half-believed you were, and coming down from that feeling into the choking quiet of reality in a slow hollow thud can leave a bruise. It did for me.
So for now anyway, I'm going to try to finish that third story, and then if it's in me, write the fourth story, just to finish something, to be done. If that's done by November 1st, I may see about taking Roy and Emi out for a spin. I've already got 6,000 words or so on it, so it's technically cheating, but I'm not worried about that. In the meantime, I think I'm going to post the stories that I'm writing online as a way to keep myself honest. Anyone who cares to know can know exactly how much I've gotten done and when I've done it. We'll see if that helps. So that will include moving “Winning Atalanta” off of this page, where it doesn't really belong in the first place.
And I think that does it for housekeeping – plenty enough for me anyhow.
So I'd like to throw one more thing out there. I'm Catholic and I'm American, and I'm very proud of both. And projects like this one, which is run by my brother-in-law and is starting to get national attention, including mention in this past Sunday's New York Times, are genuinely exciting to me.
God bless America.
Bloggers, as is their wont, saw a good idea and tried to find a way to make it easier. Naturally, I was right there with the rest of them. The truth is, I had heard of NaNoWriMo before I even knew what a blog was, and the idea fascinated me. I've continued to fancy myself an excellent writer of fiction even though I haven't finished a single story since high school summer writing assignments, when I would pound out fantastical stylized pieces like this little gem from my sophomore year.
Since then, I've finished nothing, not a single story (at least nothing over 1,000 words), but I've always supposed that if I really wanted to, I could jump up at the drop of a hat and produce a passable, above-average novel. I don't really know if that's true. I'm afraid it's not.
But after trying my hand at NaBloPoMo last year, and finding out that I couldn't even keep up with that easy a task, it was only natural for me to decide that this year, I would take a stab at the big kahuna. So bring on NaNoWriMo, I thought. That was about three weeks ago.
My plan was to bring myself gradually back up to speed by finishing the series of stories I had started in high school. The one I posted here, you see, was only the first installment. The next year I had written “Nature Calls” for the high school summer writing assignment, and sometime shortly afterwards, I'd begun working on the third story, tentatively entitled “The Milk of Love.” Each story corresponded to one season - “Winning Atalanta” to summer, “Nature Calls” to fall, and the third and fourth to winter and spring, respectively. Three weeks ago, I had the idea that if I finished the third story during September and wrote the complete fourth story in October, I'd be warmed up enough to write a whole real book in November.
Well, I added enough to “The Milk of Love” to bring it to a grand total of fifteen pages, about ten less than I planned, and that was all. Apparently, it just doesn't come back to you like riding a bike. Perhaps also, I was underwhelmed with the quality of my stories from high school when I went back for a second look... and maybe, I have to say, disillusioned.
It's depressing to find out that at least in some ways, you aren't as exceptional as you always half-believed you were, and coming down from that feeling into the choking quiet of reality in a slow hollow thud can leave a bruise. It did for me.
So for now anyway, I'm going to try to finish that third story, and then if it's in me, write the fourth story, just to finish something, to be done. If that's done by November 1st, I may see about taking Roy and Emi out for a spin. I've already got 6,000 words or so on it, so it's technically cheating, but I'm not worried about that. In the meantime, I think I'm going to post the stories that I'm writing online as a way to keep myself honest. Anyone who cares to know can know exactly how much I've gotten done and when I've done it. We'll see if that helps. So that will include moving “Winning Atalanta” off of this page, where it doesn't really belong in the first place.
And I think that does it for housekeeping – plenty enough for me anyhow.
So I'd like to throw one more thing out there. I'm Catholic and I'm American, and I'm very proud of both. And projects like this one, which is run by my brother-in-law and is starting to get national attention, including mention in this past Sunday's New York Times, are genuinely exciting to me.
God bless America.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
McCain-style Straight Talk... As in "heterosexual"
Today I’d like to talk about Sarah Palin. You may have heard of her – John McCain picked her to be his running mate. Well, I don’t know about the running, but I would have no problem picking her as a mate. We’d hole up in a den under Denali and she’d nurse my cubs while I foraged for berries, arctic hare and the occasional stray caribou.
Can’t you just picture her, lounging in a dark cave, covered in a bearskin with just her feet and face peeking out. You can see her glasses shining bat-like in the ambient light, but other than that, who knows if she’s wearing anything? Whew, I need to go take a cold shower.
I think it’d be best if I broke this down into sections here, otherwise I’m just going to waste my time and yours by talking about how I get lost in her eyes. So let’s start with
1. The reaction to her selection. When McCain’s choice of Palin was announced, the reaction was intense, from the most positive end of the spectrum to the dumbest. Liberal feminists everywhere realized that in one swift stroke, McCain had illegitimized the entirety of their movement. The history of feminism, from Cady Stanton and Dorothea Dix to Jackie O and Oprah, from Sharon Stone to Tina Fey to most bloggers, was immediately rendered meaningless. Suddenly it was clear that women don’t have to wear pants and kill their unborn children to have a meaningful life. Just look at Sarah Palin. She hardly ever wears pants, especially in my imagination, and she’s super successful.
This catalyzed intense jealousy, which found a surprising mouthpiece in Matt Damon. Like countless dumb others, Damon tried to pawn off his jealous rage as a critique of her credentials, but the façade was transparent. And when, for heaven’s sake, will actors realize that no one cares what they think? Even if you’re a good actor, odds are you’re still retarded. Just look at Alec Baldwin. Remember those voicemails he left his daughter? Great actor… just retarded.
There was another crucial reaction that Palin garnered. All of a sudden, men across the country were entranced with the presidential race, reading up and watching videos in every spare moment. Women have always outnumbered men at the polls, but the Foxy Factor could change that. It’s a well-known statistic that extremely horny men are the #1 untapped demographic nationwide, especially in the plains states, which are renowned for the ugliness of their women.
And finally, there was the hardcore conservative reaction. Somewhat unimpressed with McCain’s conservatism, the large right-wing block was energized by a woman who is as conservative as they come. She even sold the governor’s plane, or something! Immediately, the red states got even redder with the flush of sexual arousal.
2. Todd Palin. Sarah Palin’s wife, I mean husband, Todd, is affectionately dubbed the “first dude” by the admittedly redneck Alaskan populace. Todd is a man’s man who works on the oil pipeline, allegedly working security to keep the other workers safe. Some skeptical democrats wondered who he might be protecting against, since there are no people in the wild hinterlands of Alaska, but it turns out that mostly he fights fucking bears. A representative of McCain’s campaign provided this video as evidence.
Bill Clinton is also a fan of Todd, which, let’s be honest, is probably just some backhanded attempt to get in Sarah’s snowpants. I mean, let’s look at the choices here: which would you rather?
Yeah, me too.
3. Bristol Palin is pregnant. I just don’t understand why this was in the news. We’ve all been pregnant before, some of us worse than others. This is a private matter, to be settled between Bristol, her family, that hick she was dating, and me. Seriously, Bristol, I could make you so much happier than the hockey player. I have a beard and two rifles, even though the beard is a little homo-looking. Be with me! You and your halfsquatch baby can move in with me right after the inauguration (propriety, naturally).
There was a lot of confusion, with some liberals calling the Palins hypocrites for not using birth control, or not living chastely or something, and then conservatives said the liberals were hypocrites for judging her use of her body or something, and it all got a little convoluted and confusing. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the clear glimmer of the Northern Lights I see when I look in her eyes. And think of her mom.
And here are a few resources on the great lady I think we should all take advantage of:
Sarah Palin facts – great for researching the background and experience of the candidate.
Sarah Palin baby name generator – predict the name of her next child... Sell the story on exclusive to Us Weekly... Use the money to buy a lobbyist’s spot in the Oval Orifice – Office, sorry.
Sarah Palin naked portrait – This is kind of creepy, especially because I hang out in this bar at least once a month, and now it’s going to be awkward. I’ll have to stand right up against the bar the whole time, pressing my stomach against it.
And finally, if that hasn’t convinced you to vote Republican, I offer this shocking video of Senator Barack Obama visiting a McDonalds with his family when his daughter Malia asks if she can get a parfait AND an apple pie. Is this the man you want beating your children? McCain could never move that fast. Vote Sexy, vote Sarah.
Can’t you just picture her, lounging in a dark cave, covered in a bearskin with just her feet and face peeking out. You can see her glasses shining bat-like in the ambient light, but other than that, who knows if she’s wearing anything? Whew, I need to go take a cold shower.
I think it’d be best if I broke this down into sections here, otherwise I’m just going to waste my time and yours by talking about how I get lost in her eyes. So let’s start with
1. The reaction to her selection. When McCain’s choice of Palin was announced, the reaction was intense, from the most positive end of the spectrum to the dumbest. Liberal feminists everywhere realized that in one swift stroke, McCain had illegitimized the entirety of their movement. The history of feminism, from Cady Stanton and Dorothea Dix to Jackie O and Oprah, from Sharon Stone to Tina Fey to most bloggers, was immediately rendered meaningless. Suddenly it was clear that women don’t have to wear pants and kill their unborn children to have a meaningful life. Just look at Sarah Palin. She hardly ever wears pants, especially in my imagination, and she’s super successful.
This catalyzed intense jealousy, which found a surprising mouthpiece in Matt Damon. Like countless dumb others, Damon tried to pawn off his jealous rage as a critique of her credentials, but the façade was transparent. And when, for heaven’s sake, will actors realize that no one cares what they think? Even if you’re a good actor, odds are you’re still retarded. Just look at Alec Baldwin. Remember those voicemails he left his daughter? Great actor… just retarded.
There was another crucial reaction that Palin garnered. All of a sudden, men across the country were entranced with the presidential race, reading up and watching videos in every spare moment. Women have always outnumbered men at the polls, but the Foxy Factor could change that. It’s a well-known statistic that extremely horny men are the #1 untapped demographic nationwide, especially in the plains states, which are renowned for the ugliness of their women.
And finally, there was the hardcore conservative reaction. Somewhat unimpressed with McCain’s conservatism, the large right-wing block was energized by a woman who is as conservative as they come. She even sold the governor’s plane, or something! Immediately, the red states got even redder with the flush of sexual arousal.
2. Todd Palin. Sarah Palin’s wife, I mean husband, Todd, is affectionately dubbed the “first dude” by the admittedly redneck Alaskan populace. Todd is a man’s man who works on the oil pipeline, allegedly working security to keep the other workers safe. Some skeptical democrats wondered who he might be protecting against, since there are no people in the wild hinterlands of Alaska, but it turns out that mostly he fights fucking bears. A representative of McCain’s campaign provided this video as evidence.
Bill Clinton is also a fan of Todd, which, let’s be honest, is probably just some backhanded attempt to get in Sarah’s snowpants. I mean, let’s look at the choices here: which would you rather?
Yeah, me too.
3. Bristol Palin is pregnant. I just don’t understand why this was in the news. We’ve all been pregnant before, some of us worse than others. This is a private matter, to be settled between Bristol, her family, that hick she was dating, and me. Seriously, Bristol, I could make you so much happier than the hockey player. I have a beard and two rifles, even though the beard is a little homo-looking. Be with me! You and your halfsquatch baby can move in with me right after the inauguration (propriety, naturally).
There was a lot of confusion, with some liberals calling the Palins hypocrites for not using birth control, or not living chastely or something, and then conservatives said the liberals were hypocrites for judging her use of her body or something, and it all got a little convoluted and confusing. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the clear glimmer of the Northern Lights I see when I look in her eyes. And think of her mom.
And here are a few resources on the great lady I think we should all take advantage of:
Sarah Palin facts – great for researching the background and experience of the candidate.
Sarah Palin baby name generator – predict the name of her next child... Sell the story on exclusive to Us Weekly... Use the money to buy a lobbyist’s spot in the Oval Orifice – Office, sorry.
Sarah Palin naked portrait – This is kind of creepy, especially because I hang out in this bar at least once a month, and now it’s going to be awkward. I’ll have to stand right up against the bar the whole time, pressing my stomach against it.
And finally, if that hasn’t convinced you to vote Republican, I offer this shocking video of Senator Barack Obama visiting a McDonalds with his family when his daughter Malia asks if she can get a parfait AND an apple pie. Is this the man you want beating your children? McCain could never move that fast. Vote Sexy, vote Sarah.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Waking up in a park on a Saturday afternoon with literally no idea of where you are or how you got there is not as glamorous as it sounds. It’s not even grungy-glamorous, like your life is the next poppy production of the National Lampoon.
And it’s not because it’s trashy, or because it’s dangerous, or because it’s immoral – even though it is all those things – the reason that waking up in a park with no memory is not all it’s cracked up to be is that you don’t remember anything. It might have been fun, it might have been awful, but you have no idea.
Then you have to try to gauge the time of day and the directions from where the sun is in the sky, and then try to hail a cab while you remember bits and pieces of where you’d been and what you’d done in the last 24 hours since the party started. Images of a bouncer telling you that you can’t come into a bar, of hiding a full bottle of vodka in the tank of a tavern toilet.
I suppose that this is what alcoholics are referring to when they say rock-bottom – the strange feeling that you don’t even know who you are any more, that you can’t even tell whether you’re awake or dreaming. It’s not glamorous, it’s not romantic, it’s not nice.
Three weeks ago tonight, I was sitting on my back porch with my younger brother Ed after a softball game, drinking beers and shooting the shit until about three in the morning, when we decided to go to Nashville. So we left, got into South Bend around 6AM, stayed to eat with our cousin Jack, and then left heading South. I called in sick to work that day and the next, and we wandered up and down Broadway in the rain in Music City, USA. We saw the Country Music Hall of Fame, and the Grand Ole Opry, and we saw Second Avenue and Jack’s BBQ and the famous Wildhorse Saloon.
When I got back home on Sunday, I had an email waiting from my boss. I was being transferred to another department. So I’ve been a little busy since then, which is too bad. But I’m tired of talking about it, so don’t ask. I’ll be right back.
And it’s not because it’s trashy, or because it’s dangerous, or because it’s immoral – even though it is all those things – the reason that waking up in a park with no memory is not all it’s cracked up to be is that you don’t remember anything. It might have been fun, it might have been awful, but you have no idea.
Then you have to try to gauge the time of day and the directions from where the sun is in the sky, and then try to hail a cab while you remember bits and pieces of where you’d been and what you’d done in the last 24 hours since the party started. Images of a bouncer telling you that you can’t come into a bar, of hiding a full bottle of vodka in the tank of a tavern toilet.
I suppose that this is what alcoholics are referring to when they say rock-bottom – the strange feeling that you don’t even know who you are any more, that you can’t even tell whether you’re awake or dreaming. It’s not glamorous, it’s not romantic, it’s not nice.
Three weeks ago tonight, I was sitting on my back porch with my younger brother Ed after a softball game, drinking beers and shooting the shit until about three in the morning, when we decided to go to Nashville. So we left, got into South Bend around 6AM, stayed to eat with our cousin Jack, and then left heading South. I called in sick to work that day and the next, and we wandered up and down Broadway in the rain in Music City, USA. We saw the Country Music Hall of Fame, and the Grand Ole Opry, and we saw Second Avenue and Jack’s BBQ and the famous Wildhorse Saloon.
When I got back home on Sunday, I had an email waiting from my boss. I was being transferred to another department. So I’ve been a little busy since then, which is too bad. But I’m tired of talking about it, so don’t ask. I’ll be right back.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
I don't care if New Orleans floods
Politics are all over the news these days, what with McCain’s choosing a woman as his running mate to pander to feminist Democrats and Obama’s choosing a crusty old man to appeal to crusty old Republican men. Neither strategy seems to make much sense to me. Feminist Democrats are crazy bitches who would rather wear a skirt than vote for John McCain (maybe that’s a bit of a stretch), and all the old Republican men are going to vote for the old Republican man no matter what. “A black president?!” they’ll exclaim. “Pshaw!”
But I don’t want to spend too much time with politics for now. Also in the news the past few days has been the anticlimactic onslaught of Hurricane Gustav.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I was hoping for the drama and excitement of another Katrina-scale disaster. I mean, the stories of heroism, the heartbreak, Kanye West making an ass out himself… that’s just compelling television.
But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted Gustav to slam into New Orleans and flood it again. I also felt that New Orleans kind of deserved it. All everyone ever talks about is how hard it was and how sad and yada yada, who gives a crap?
The Lower Ninth Ward is constructed almost entirely below sea level. You know what happens to places that are below sea level? The sea flows into them, and they get wet. I don’t care how much quick-dry cement you dump into those levees; sooner or later, that shit is going to collapse and your stupid town is going to flood. So live there if you want, but don’t come crying to me when your retarded plan blows up in your face. Suck it up and move to Nebraska, bitch.
My dad has a theory that people build out below sea level just so they can have a great story about a boy who heroically stuck his finger in a dike, and I’m all, “Rosie O’Donnell sorta looks like a boy.”
But we don’t need to literally stick our fingers into sandbags or lesbians here in America just to make a point. If that’s your thing, that’s your thing, I guess, but I would disagree with your dirty doings.
Instead of sticking a finger somewhere inappropriate, we can stick our whole hands.
Let me explain. On Monday night, the long weekend wound down with a barbecue at the home with the whole family. After dinner, as usual, the men went out to the porch to smoke cigarettes and pass gas, and it was a few minutes after this stage, as I was sitting in the kitchen, sipping the last of my Bookers when I heard a cracking sound and a loud grunt.
I looked over to see my brother Ed straining with all his might against the giant rack of cupboards that sit above the stove, which had somehow suddenly decided to fall off the wall. Most inappropriate behavior for a four hundred pound cupboard. I helped him hold it up and we awkwardly scrambled to empty the shelves enough that Ed could hold it up while I ran to get help.
My parents were watching tv and drifting off in the front hall, and I could clearly picture Ed, holding out for as long as need be, the boy with his finger in the dike.
I tried to be calm. “The cupboards above the stove are falling,” I said.
My mom looked up from the tv. “Like falling, falling?”
“Yes.”
The two of them immediately whirred from their seats like rocketing pheasants and we bustled back to the kitchen.
It took a while for us to empty the rest of the cupboards, turn off the requisite circuit breakers, unscrew the hood of the stove and lift the giant piece of furniture to the ground, but that’s not the image I want to leave you with. I want you to picture Ed, alone, straining to hold on. He might not have had his finger in a dike, but that cupboard must have weighed almost as much as Rosie O’Donnell, and that’s good enough for me.
In conclusion, this is why I don’t care if New Orleans drowns once and for all.
But I don’t want to spend too much time with politics for now. Also in the news the past few days has been the anticlimactic onslaught of Hurricane Gustav.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I was hoping for the drama and excitement of another Katrina-scale disaster. I mean, the stories of heroism, the heartbreak, Kanye West making an ass out himself… that’s just compelling television.
But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted Gustav to slam into New Orleans and flood it again. I also felt that New Orleans kind of deserved it. All everyone ever talks about is how hard it was and how sad and yada yada, who gives a crap?
The Lower Ninth Ward is constructed almost entirely below sea level. You know what happens to places that are below sea level? The sea flows into them, and they get wet. I don’t care how much quick-dry cement you dump into those levees; sooner or later, that shit is going to collapse and your stupid town is going to flood. So live there if you want, but don’t come crying to me when your retarded plan blows up in your face. Suck it up and move to Nebraska, bitch.
My dad has a theory that people build out below sea level just so they can have a great story about a boy who heroically stuck his finger in a dike, and I’m all, “Rosie O’Donnell sorta looks like a boy.”
But we don’t need to literally stick our fingers into sandbags or lesbians here in America just to make a point. If that’s your thing, that’s your thing, I guess, but I would disagree with your dirty doings.
Instead of sticking a finger somewhere inappropriate, we can stick our whole hands.
Let me explain. On Monday night, the long weekend wound down with a barbecue at the home with the whole family. After dinner, as usual, the men went out to the porch to smoke cigarettes and pass gas, and it was a few minutes after this stage, as I was sitting in the kitchen, sipping the last of my Bookers when I heard a cracking sound and a loud grunt.
I looked over to see my brother Ed straining with all his might against the giant rack of cupboards that sit above the stove, which had somehow suddenly decided to fall off the wall. Most inappropriate behavior for a four hundred pound cupboard. I helped him hold it up and we awkwardly scrambled to empty the shelves enough that Ed could hold it up while I ran to get help.
My parents were watching tv and drifting off in the front hall, and I could clearly picture Ed, holding out for as long as need be, the boy with his finger in the dike.
I tried to be calm. “The cupboards above the stove are falling,” I said.
My mom looked up from the tv. “Like falling, falling?”
“Yes.”
The two of them immediately whirred from their seats like rocketing pheasants and we bustled back to the kitchen.
It took a while for us to empty the rest of the cupboards, turn off the requisite circuit breakers, unscrew the hood of the stove and lift the giant piece of furniture to the ground, but that’s not the image I want to leave you with. I want you to picture Ed, alone, straining to hold on. He might not have had his finger in a dike, but that cupboard must have weighed almost as much as Rosie O’Donnell, and that’s good enough for me.
In conclusion, this is why I don’t care if New Orleans drowns once and for all.
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