I'm walking out of this here month of April with a big ol' need for a nap, and a deeper more primal desire to leap off of something high. Not like suicide or anything, but like off a high dive, or a really tall rock into a cold and deep river.
And actually, for a long time I've wanted to jump off a high building into one of those inflatable stunt man bags. If I can manage this by crashing through a breakaway window as well, well then two of my dreams will be accomplished in one fell swoop.
And those fake glass bottles that you can smash over people's heads without them being knocked into brain damage or having to be rushed to a medical clinic as they are bleeding uncontrollably, man I want to play with those. If I had a case of them they would be sugar glass powder in like ten minutes, mostly from me just going, "Hey Biffy, look!" and then smashing a bottle against my own head.
And in my front room, I would like a scale model of Los Angeles made out of balsa wood and the afore mentioned sugar glass that I can throw myself onto and destroy all to hell.
Ok, and while we’re just talking here, I would also like a 25 foot, remote controlled robotic shark with foam rubber teeth that I could play with in some body of water, or Olympic sized pool.
Maybe I just settle for that nap.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
Light At The End of the Taco
It's been a weird week folks, sort of weary and melancholy, as is most likely evident by the last few postings. Bad energy, seriously. Days full of volatile air and bruised defense mechanisms.
I miss Hellby who would tell me quite matter-of-factly that the reasoning was some planet or other was in retrograde and that my moon was in Sagittarius, or my sun was in Virgo, or my penis was in Georgia. It certainly brushed away self responsibility from such foul days.
I still sort of feel like I'm treading on newly formed ice, complete with the sound of cracking that makes my stomach hurt, and that I could be plunged under again quite easily, but fuck all that, I'm gonna run for it.
I've realized that I've spent awhile looking for a good mole sauce in a variety of Mexican restaurants, and I had a good tasting one last night, but I'm thinking that I may not really like mole sauce all that much and maybe that's why I find it so difficult to find a good one.
Happy Arbor Day everyone! Go love yourself a tree!
I miss Hellby who would tell me quite matter-of-factly that the reasoning was some planet or other was in retrograde and that my moon was in Sagittarius, or my sun was in Virgo, or my penis was in Georgia. It certainly brushed away self responsibility from such foul days.
I still sort of feel like I'm treading on newly formed ice, complete with the sound of cracking that makes my stomach hurt, and that I could be plunged under again quite easily, but fuck all that, I'm gonna run for it.
I've realized that I've spent awhile looking for a good mole sauce in a variety of Mexican restaurants, and I had a good tasting one last night, but I'm thinking that I may not really like mole sauce all that much and maybe that's why I find it so difficult to find a good one.
Happy Arbor Day everyone! Go love yourself a tree!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Hello Goodbye
I thought I saw the dreaded ex at Trader Joes the other day, her face still red with anger and the embarrassment of just being human. It was highly improbable that she would have made the trip to Seattle, but still my brain likes to seek out familiarity in strangers.
It occurred to me that the DHL woman coming into the building could very well have been Lori, from grade school. Lori was beautiful and kind and I now find it a little bit strange that for spending 8 or so very formative years with her, I never really got to know her. She was quiet and smart and she had this wonderfully shy smile, and the perfectly feathered hair that was all the rage. I don't suppose anyone was surprised when she started dating a popular jock in junior high, but I think, even then, I felt she deserved better. Even now I find it hard to accept that Lori would have become a delivery lady for DHL, not that it's a bad job or anything, but she seemed to have this aura of potential that would not be broken.
Last night I bid farewell to some new friends who are following their own youthful potential, seriously and honestly trying to do some good in the world at large. I went into the evening wondering how you say goodbye to someone that you very well know you may never see again. We sat and talked and had dinner and I thought to myself, I wish we would have done this more while they were here.
There's this proverb of sorts, which I believe is Japanese in origin, which has weighed heavy on my decisions in the last few years. To paraphrase, it is recommended to spend much time considering decisions of small matters and little time considering decisions of large ones.
I felt like this might be the approach to take to say goodbye. I knew that I would never be privy to huge decisions and huge forces that would change these people’s lives, that I wouldn't be witness to how the years would change them. I knew that I would see someone years later in a theater lobby or a restaurant that my mind would insist was them, and I would wonder how they were doing out in the world, and I would remember their beautifully sly smiles and direct East Coast ways that seemed an affront to so many people up here.
And it nearly broke my heart when on saying goodbye she said that it was nice to meet me. It just so seemed like something you say in the beginning...
It occurred to me that the DHL woman coming into the building could very well have been Lori, from grade school. Lori was beautiful and kind and I now find it a little bit strange that for spending 8 or so very formative years with her, I never really got to know her. She was quiet and smart and she had this wonderfully shy smile, and the perfectly feathered hair that was all the rage. I don't suppose anyone was surprised when she started dating a popular jock in junior high, but I think, even then, I felt she deserved better. Even now I find it hard to accept that Lori would have become a delivery lady for DHL, not that it's a bad job or anything, but she seemed to have this aura of potential that would not be broken.
Last night I bid farewell to some new friends who are following their own youthful potential, seriously and honestly trying to do some good in the world at large. I went into the evening wondering how you say goodbye to someone that you very well know you may never see again. We sat and talked and had dinner and I thought to myself, I wish we would have done this more while they were here.
There's this proverb of sorts, which I believe is Japanese in origin, which has weighed heavy on my decisions in the last few years. To paraphrase, it is recommended to spend much time considering decisions of small matters and little time considering decisions of large ones.
I felt like this might be the approach to take to say goodbye. I knew that I would never be privy to huge decisions and huge forces that would change these people’s lives, that I wouldn't be witness to how the years would change them. I knew that I would see someone years later in a theater lobby or a restaurant that my mind would insist was them, and I would wonder how they were doing out in the world, and I would remember their beautifully sly smiles and direct East Coast ways that seemed an affront to so many people up here.
And it nearly broke my heart when on saying goodbye she said that it was nice to meet me. It just so seemed like something you say in the beginning...
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Empty Chair
It became increasingly easy to put embarrassing character traits onto him as he was no longer around to defend himself. And I don't mean those mundane and typical embarrassing traits like masturbating or being socially awkward, but those traits that sort of imply a psychic breakdown somewhere along the rails.
It was he that heard voices from the other side of windows in buildings not yet filled. It was he that became paralyzed by paranoia by the thought of all of those security cameras. It was he that saw faces in every hallucination, hallucinations in faces. It was he that assumed he would be overtaken by bad ideas that may have been foisted onto him, he that feared a virus of madness traveling along copper wires and telephone lines.
And as it was so easy, the placing of these sketchy memories onto him like heavy and plated clothing, it became just as simple to weigh down that specter with excuses and stories.
But with every year that that chair remained empty, it became more and more difficult to tell which story was true anymore, which sparkling seed of truth hadn't replicated and mutated along the way to take on a life of its own. Which story wasn't just a dressmaker's dummy, clothed in excuses and dumb rationalization.
It became more difficult to blind yourself to the fact that those character traits didn't stick anymore - that they were windows inside of mirrors.
It was he that heard voices from the other side of windows in buildings not yet filled. It was he that became paralyzed by paranoia by the thought of all of those security cameras. It was he that saw faces in every hallucination, hallucinations in faces. It was he that assumed he would be overtaken by bad ideas that may have been foisted onto him, he that feared a virus of madness traveling along copper wires and telephone lines.
And as it was so easy, the placing of these sketchy memories onto him like heavy and plated clothing, it became just as simple to weigh down that specter with excuses and stories.
But with every year that that chair remained empty, it became more and more difficult to tell which story was true anymore, which sparkling seed of truth hadn't replicated and mutated along the way to take on a life of its own. Which story wasn't just a dressmaker's dummy, clothed in excuses and dumb rationalization.
It became more difficult to blind yourself to the fact that those character traits didn't stick anymore - that they were windows inside of mirrors.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Sing Me To Sleep
I woke up at 2AM without a warning barrier of soft sleepiness out to the cold world of late night city sounds. I was just sleeping one moment and then I wasn't. I went into the bathroom and did my business, and then half-heartedly searched the mirror for facial blemishes.
It was about that point that I realized I was awake awake. I wasn't feeling that sort of holding on to sleepiness and stumbling around the bathroom, there was a finality to feeling tired, like sleep was done.
I thought about just staying awake until I had to go to work; maybe heading over to the table to read a book while the rest of the apartment, the rest of the building, most of the city slept. I get this comfortable, almost nostalgic, feeling when I think about sitting at a table with a hot cup of coffee and a book during those dark, early hours.
And then I thought about getting in the car and driving around the city. Another of my favorite pastimes is cruising around a cityscape in the dark; or the dark just beginning to be bruised by gray light. I like the illusion of being alone in an urban setting, cruising past enormous and darkened buildings as if they were slumbering giants. I like getting into the smaller and industrial parts of town, seeing the buildings shaped by a light that I don't tend to see them in, the glaring mercury and neon light sculpting metal shadows. And all the while, there’s that perfect night driving music all around me.
I began thinking about driving a child around in the wee early hours, showing them those near dark sights that move me for whatever personal reasons; the glowing red sign that says "LIGHTING" up on Jackson and 2nd that just sings in that pre-dawn dark, all that old and dark brick in Pioneer Square, the mountains seeming to spark the sky alight when you see them from the top of Capitol Hill.
And I thought about them telling me what was making their eyes go wide on our way to pick up some breakfast...
I went back to bed and lay there taking in the random neighborhood noise that never seems to fully go away and I followed my fractal thoughts down into that tunnel of sleep, the whole time a little wary at the lack of frustration of being awake.
It was about that point that I realized I was awake awake. I wasn't feeling that sort of holding on to sleepiness and stumbling around the bathroom, there was a finality to feeling tired, like sleep was done.
I thought about just staying awake until I had to go to work; maybe heading over to the table to read a book while the rest of the apartment, the rest of the building, most of the city slept. I get this comfortable, almost nostalgic, feeling when I think about sitting at a table with a hot cup of coffee and a book during those dark, early hours.
And then I thought about getting in the car and driving around the city. Another of my favorite pastimes is cruising around a cityscape in the dark; or the dark just beginning to be bruised by gray light. I like the illusion of being alone in an urban setting, cruising past enormous and darkened buildings as if they were slumbering giants. I like getting into the smaller and industrial parts of town, seeing the buildings shaped by a light that I don't tend to see them in, the glaring mercury and neon light sculpting metal shadows. And all the while, there’s that perfect night driving music all around me.
I began thinking about driving a child around in the wee early hours, showing them those near dark sights that move me for whatever personal reasons; the glowing red sign that says "LIGHTING" up on Jackson and 2nd that just sings in that pre-dawn dark, all that old and dark brick in Pioneer Square, the mountains seeming to spark the sky alight when you see them from the top of Capitol Hill.
And I thought about them telling me what was making their eyes go wide on our way to pick up some breakfast...
I went back to bed and lay there taking in the random neighborhood noise that never seems to fully go away and I followed my fractal thoughts down into that tunnel of sleep, the whole time a little wary at the lack of frustration of being awake.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Fear Of An Apple Pie Planet
Now, in the vending machine at work, is an apple pie; it comes in a box, it’s made by the midget wood nymphs at Li’l Debbie. Li’l Debbie, by the way, needs her teeth kicked in by an inner city bar bouncer. Whore.
I cannot explain exactly why, but this apple pie scares the living hell out of me.
I know that there is a whole metal and plexiglass box full of shit that is not good for you there – even if the Baked Lays have that little green leaf, heart healthy icon next to the jacked up price tag – but the apple pie just seems like bad news; serious bad news.
Yes, I know, the preservative count in the Chex Mix has gotta be crazy, but to be able to keep an apple pie, in a box, in a non-refrigerated vending machine… It seems beyond my ability to just ignore.
At first it’s the sheer amount of unholy chemicals that must be pumped into an item that should essentially be apples, flour, shortening and sugar. But then a darker, more paranoid fear starts knocking on that door.
I begin to imagine this apple pie, in its green and white box, obtaining sentient abilities and overtaking the other snack items – even the gum and the breath mints at the bottom of the machine. The Corn Nuts wouldn’t stand a chance. And the Oreos? Fucking forget it.
That pie in there is the only thing that comes close to having organic materials, materials that can grow and mutate. And when it’s finally taken over the Frito Lay/Nabisco universe inside there, will that glass be strong enough to hold it in?
Will it?
I cannot explain exactly why, but this apple pie scares the living hell out of me.
I know that there is a whole metal and plexiglass box full of shit that is not good for you there – even if the Baked Lays have that little green leaf, heart healthy icon next to the jacked up price tag – but the apple pie just seems like bad news; serious bad news.
Yes, I know, the preservative count in the Chex Mix has gotta be crazy, but to be able to keep an apple pie, in a box, in a non-refrigerated vending machine… It seems beyond my ability to just ignore.
At first it’s the sheer amount of unholy chemicals that must be pumped into an item that should essentially be apples, flour, shortening and sugar. But then a darker, more paranoid fear starts knocking on that door.
I begin to imagine this apple pie, in its green and white box, obtaining sentient abilities and overtaking the other snack items – even the gum and the breath mints at the bottom of the machine. The Corn Nuts wouldn’t stand a chance. And the Oreos? Fucking forget it.
That pie in there is the only thing that comes close to having organic materials, materials that can grow and mutate. And when it’s finally taken over the Frito Lay/Nabisco universe inside there, will that glass be strong enough to hold it in?
Will it?
Friday, April 21, 2006
421
As kc! pointed out, yesterday was 4/20. Did I celebrate this wondrous date by going home to poke smot? Smoke some trees? Imbibe in the herb? No, I made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I sort of half watched an episode of CSI I had already seen and played guitar with my echo peddle on. This made me feel a little stoned.
I have been told in the past that the number 420 comes from the number of chemical properties in weed. I was also told that it was a highway that went through Humboldt, CA. Apparently, the beginnings of 420 as a drug reference began in 1971 by high school students in San Mateo, CA to denote a time to meet and smoke. Frankly, I think this is bullshit answer as well. It was my wet dream in high school to get some new word or phrase into the general language - and I achieved this with, "talk to the hand".
I quit smoking pot quite awhile ago. However, I have helped in the trimming of plants during harvest fairly recently. What did I learn from this experience? I leaned that resin is very difficult to get off of your hands but that you can roll up resin balls to smoke. I learned that just handling a massive amount of buds can get you a little stony. I learned that when trimming, I could probably go a little shorter. I learned that even when Fleetwood Mac was a blues band, they still sucked.
The experience reinforced the thought for me that the romanticism of the drug culture just seems like more advertised rebellion sold to those eager for something to identify themselves with, eager for something to fight for without having to put much thought into it.
I enjoyed my halcyon drug days, had me some heavy good times, but I've seen too many casualties, too many addicts, too many users oblivious to their own addiction for the drug thing to be as charming or light as I had once thought of it. Then again, I drink enough whiskey to kill a lesser man...
I have been told in the past that the number 420 comes from the number of chemical properties in weed. I was also told that it was a highway that went through Humboldt, CA. Apparently, the beginnings of 420 as a drug reference began in 1971 by high school students in San Mateo, CA to denote a time to meet and smoke. Frankly, I think this is bullshit answer as well. It was my wet dream in high school to get some new word or phrase into the general language - and I achieved this with, "talk to the hand".
I quit smoking pot quite awhile ago. However, I have helped in the trimming of plants during harvest fairly recently. What did I learn from this experience? I leaned that resin is very difficult to get off of your hands but that you can roll up resin balls to smoke. I learned that just handling a massive amount of buds can get you a little stony. I learned that when trimming, I could probably go a little shorter. I learned that even when Fleetwood Mac was a blues band, they still sucked.
The experience reinforced the thought for me that the romanticism of the drug culture just seems like more advertised rebellion sold to those eager for something to identify themselves with, eager for something to fight for without having to put much thought into it.
I enjoyed my halcyon drug days, had me some heavy good times, but I've seen too many casualties, too many addicts, too many users oblivious to their own addiction for the drug thing to be as charming or light as I had once thought of it. Then again, I drink enough whiskey to kill a lesser man...
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Ask This...
Do not Ask Jeeves the following question:
If you fill up a swimming pool with tortilla chips, would you be able to walk across it?
You will not get an answer that you like. You will not get an answer that remotely addresses the question you asked.
Secretly, I hold in my brain the idea that there's some outlandish question that, when posed to the Ask Jeeves website, acts as a key to a world of information that has been hidden from all of us. It's like some Masonic or Opus Dei type conspiracy; a large room of web monkeys just waiting for the right question to pass on the knowledge.
If it's below freezing outside and you fart, can someone see a steam cloud come out of your ass, like your breath?
This is also not the question that opens this magical door.
Hold on, I'm making a tight tangent turn here. Can you hear the cyberspace tires squealing? (Again, not the question)
While this not only shows that I have seen The Lost World: Jurassic Park more times than is healthy, but it also has nothing to do with what I have already written today. In The Lost World, Dr. Ian Malcolm (played with ultimate Jeff Goldblum-ity by Jeff Goldblum) once again meets the children that were with him during the first amusement park tragedy. The kids, excited to see him, run down the stairs calling, "Dr. Malcolm!" Okay, these people have been through a major ordeal together where cloned dinosaurs have tried to eat them - EAT THEM. If nothing else is gonna do it, you would think that this little adventure would put these people on a first name basis with each other.
You all be safe out there today, I worry.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: **** (Jungle Law) by Love & Rockets
If you fill up a swimming pool with tortilla chips, would you be able to walk across it?
You will not get an answer that you like. You will not get an answer that remotely addresses the question you asked.
Secretly, I hold in my brain the idea that there's some outlandish question that, when posed to the Ask Jeeves website, acts as a key to a world of information that has been hidden from all of us. It's like some Masonic or Opus Dei type conspiracy; a large room of web monkeys just waiting for the right question to pass on the knowledge.
If it's below freezing outside and you fart, can someone see a steam cloud come out of your ass, like your breath?
This is also not the question that opens this magical door.
Hold on, I'm making a tight tangent turn here. Can you hear the cyberspace tires squealing? (Again, not the question)
While this not only shows that I have seen The Lost World: Jurassic Park more times than is healthy, but it also has nothing to do with what I have already written today. In The Lost World, Dr. Ian Malcolm (played with ultimate Jeff Goldblum-ity by Jeff Goldblum) once again meets the children that were with him during the first amusement park tragedy. The kids, excited to see him, run down the stairs calling, "Dr. Malcolm!" Okay, these people have been through a major ordeal together where cloned dinosaurs have tried to eat them - EAT THEM. If nothing else is gonna do it, you would think that this little adventure would put these people on a first name basis with each other.
You all be safe out there today, I worry.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: **** (Jungle Law) by Love & Rockets
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Hats Off
We were talking about younger-ish guys who wear hats all the time to cover a balding spot. It's interesting too to note that the type of hat chosen to hide their thinning hair says a lot about said guy (other than they're embarrassed by their betraying hair):
Baseball cap: Sporty, everyguy-guy. Possibly frat, but may just have that attitude.
Knit cap: skater/feels they're indy ‘cause they don't wear the same type of hat as everyone else, when they actually wear the same sort of hat as a lot of people.
Fedora: Hopelessly out of date, possibly came in a time machine from the 30's.
Guys have the same stupid and vain misconceptions about their self worth that women do. When they begin losing their hair, or gain weight, or show any signs of aging (and yeah, this can be a change in attitude about something) they feel they are falling out of favor in society, falling further away from that GQ perfect male, and some younger dude with more muscles and hair is gonna swoop in and take away all of those women that should rightfully be theirs.
It reminds me of a discussion that quickly turned into a near fight where a young lady was bemoaning the societal expectations of the perfect woman's body that is constantly on display on magazines and movies and television. I acknowledged that this is a tremendous pressure on women, particularly impressionable young women, but if you don't eventually come to terms with yourself on your own, then blaming society's obsession with young and thin and pretty is just as pointless and full of self-serving brattiness as blaming your parents for your problems when you’re adult enough to deal with your problems on your own. And P.S., why didn’t this aggravation stop her from buying those magazines, buying those beauty products, watching those TV shows...
Yup, I'm losing my hair, have been since I was about 19. And yeah, it can be a fucking drag sometimes, especially when I covet that moppy, indy boy hair that I see at shows all the time. But as there's not a lot I can do about it, I've really pretty much made my peace with it; even when others see it as a weak spot and try to launch insults using that.
So I guess that while there are more role models for balding and/or older men out there in the world of inane magazines and media than there are for heavier ladies, sometimes we forget that some men fall for that perfect image bullshit that is sold to them just as hard.
As Kelly Bean was mentioning that no one mentions her in a blog, I would like to acknowledge her for having accidentally kicked me in the balls last night.
Also, a great, big Billy Cleans His Plate congratulations to Jen Jen the Panda Girl on her engagement. I’m ridiculously happy for you guys, so much smoochy love out to you.
Baseball cap: Sporty, everyguy-guy. Possibly frat, but may just have that attitude.
Knit cap: skater/feels they're indy ‘cause they don't wear the same type of hat as everyone else, when they actually wear the same sort of hat as a lot of people.
Fedora: Hopelessly out of date, possibly came in a time machine from the 30's.
Guys have the same stupid and vain misconceptions about their self worth that women do. When they begin losing their hair, or gain weight, or show any signs of aging (and yeah, this can be a change in attitude about something) they feel they are falling out of favor in society, falling further away from that GQ perfect male, and some younger dude with more muscles and hair is gonna swoop in and take away all of those women that should rightfully be theirs.
It reminds me of a discussion that quickly turned into a near fight where a young lady was bemoaning the societal expectations of the perfect woman's body that is constantly on display on magazines and movies and television. I acknowledged that this is a tremendous pressure on women, particularly impressionable young women, but if you don't eventually come to terms with yourself on your own, then blaming society's obsession with young and thin and pretty is just as pointless and full of self-serving brattiness as blaming your parents for your problems when you’re adult enough to deal with your problems on your own. And P.S., why didn’t this aggravation stop her from buying those magazines, buying those beauty products, watching those TV shows...
Yup, I'm losing my hair, have been since I was about 19. And yeah, it can be a fucking drag sometimes, especially when I covet that moppy, indy boy hair that I see at shows all the time. But as there's not a lot I can do about it, I've really pretty much made my peace with it; even when others see it as a weak spot and try to launch insults using that.
So I guess that while there are more role models for balding and/or older men out there in the world of inane magazines and media than there are for heavier ladies, sometimes we forget that some men fall for that perfect image bullshit that is sold to them just as hard.
As Kelly Bean was mentioning that no one mentions her in a blog, I would like to acknowledge her for having accidentally kicked me in the balls last night.
Also, a great, big Billy Cleans His Plate congratulations to Jen Jen the Panda Girl on her engagement. I’m ridiculously happy for you guys, so much smoochy love out to you.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Gerald Hides His Eggs
Gerald, the slow rotting Easter bunny, was stumbling around some suburban backyard, stashing Easter eggs so some spoiled little shit could find them in a couple of hours. He knocked his shin against a garden gnome that he didn't see and tossed his gaily colored basket to the ground.
"Mother... Piece of..."
He was trying to keep the language kid friendly today, he was already in deep water with the Easter Bunny Union, but the gin and carrot juice bonanza from the night before was creeping up on him. He ripped off his sunglasses and glared at the little porcelain gnome with eyes so red that they put a Maui sunset to shame.
"What's so funny?" He asked the gnome, who only continued to stare with a quizzical smile.
Gerald hauled off and kicked the statue, enjoying the sound of porcelain shards thumping against the soft and wet ground. He put his shades back on and picked up the basket. He poked thoughtfully at an ingrown hair on his chin.
Gerald's basket contained hollow, plastic eggs that he had begun filling with candy. At some point last night he had run out of candy and started filling them with those little airplane bottles of booze. At least two of the eggs in his basket had a couple of Percodan in them.
He had started diligently hiding the eggs, behind flower pots, atop fence posts, inside of gopher wholes, but now the constant bending and standing were making him feel a little nauseous. Gerald grabbed three eggs in his matted paw and flung them over towards the fence.
“It’s the Easter Bunny!” some shrill devil voice of a four year old rang across the yard.
Gerald spun around just as some tousle-haired midget ran into him full bore and gave him a hug. The kid bounced back fairly quickly with a look as though he had opened a box of meat that had been left in the desert for a week and a half.
“Look kid,” Gerald started. “Jesus died so that I could be here stashing candy for you. Yeah, I don’t get it either, but you’re not supposed to see me. So unless you want Jesus to be mad at you, forget ya saw me, capiche?”
Gerald was gonna really impress the kid by leaping over the back yard fence, but his paw got caught on the top on he took a five foot tumble on the other side that knocked the wind out of him. He lay there for a second, mumbling profanities, and then stood up, brushed himself off and broke into one of the opiate eggs.
“Worst day of the year,” he mumbled before hopping on along down the road.
"Mother... Piece of..."
He was trying to keep the language kid friendly today, he was already in deep water with the Easter Bunny Union, but the gin and carrot juice bonanza from the night before was creeping up on him. He ripped off his sunglasses and glared at the little porcelain gnome with eyes so red that they put a Maui sunset to shame.
"What's so funny?" He asked the gnome, who only continued to stare with a quizzical smile.
Gerald hauled off and kicked the statue, enjoying the sound of porcelain shards thumping against the soft and wet ground. He put his shades back on and picked up the basket. He poked thoughtfully at an ingrown hair on his chin.
Gerald's basket contained hollow, plastic eggs that he had begun filling with candy. At some point last night he had run out of candy and started filling them with those little airplane bottles of booze. At least two of the eggs in his basket had a couple of Percodan in them.
He had started diligently hiding the eggs, behind flower pots, atop fence posts, inside of gopher wholes, but now the constant bending and standing were making him feel a little nauseous. Gerald grabbed three eggs in his matted paw and flung them over towards the fence.
“It’s the Easter Bunny!” some shrill devil voice of a four year old rang across the yard.
Gerald spun around just as some tousle-haired midget ran into him full bore and gave him a hug. The kid bounced back fairly quickly with a look as though he had opened a box of meat that had been left in the desert for a week and a half.
“Look kid,” Gerald started. “Jesus died so that I could be here stashing candy for you. Yeah, I don’t get it either, but you’re not supposed to see me. So unless you want Jesus to be mad at you, forget ya saw me, capiche?”
Gerald was gonna really impress the kid by leaping over the back yard fence, but his paw got caught on the top on he took a five foot tumble on the other side that knocked the wind out of him. He lay there for a second, mumbling profanities, and then stood up, brushed himself off and broke into one of the opiate eggs.
“Worst day of the year,” he mumbled before hopping on along down the road.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Willy Freakin' Wonka
One of my absolute favorite books when I was a kid was Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I read it a number of times. So when the day came that I got to meet Willy Wonka, it was banner day, a red letter day.
I was about 5 or 6 years old when my mom told me that Willy Wonka was going to be at the local grocery store. While I was young, I certainly understood that Willy Wonka was a fictional character and therefore could not really be at a rundown QFC in the middle of freakin' nowhere. Was this where mom took me into the woods and let me go like an unwanted pet, luring me in with promises of seeing my hero? "C'mon Billy, we're gonna go see Willy Wonka. He's gonna take you on a tour of his factory, feed you all the chocolate river chocolate you can ingest!"
No, she only took me down to the grocery store. There were about 10 or 12 other kids sitting around in a semi circle where they normally kept the shopping carts, waiting for the entrance of the man. Kristen from my kindergarten class was there. Kristen, who I had cut a big chunk of my own hair off for in order to make her laugh. Then he came out to us, Willy Wonka, resplendent in his purple coat and top hat.
Mr. Wonka was just some cat, probably in his early 20's who stood in front of us and did magic tricks. I got to stand up there with him and help out with cutting a rope in half while he magically put it back together. As lame as it seems now, particularly knowing that I knew this guy was a fake, I remember enjoying myself.
Thinking about it nearly 30 years later, I find it odd that they would send some poor, flailing actor out to a grocery store in BFE to entertain kids with card tricks. I don't think it's a gig I would take, but then I don't know any magic tricks that don't involve parts of my body that are inappropriate for kids that age.
Then I realized the insidious truth, these corporate bastards were whoring out my pleasant childhood memories to get us hooked on their candy. Did we get free Laughy Taffy after the show was over? Yes we did.
Bastards! I'll never trust a major corporation again.
I was about 5 or 6 years old when my mom told me that Willy Wonka was going to be at the local grocery store. While I was young, I certainly understood that Willy Wonka was a fictional character and therefore could not really be at a rundown QFC in the middle of freakin' nowhere. Was this where mom took me into the woods and let me go like an unwanted pet, luring me in with promises of seeing my hero? "C'mon Billy, we're gonna go see Willy Wonka. He's gonna take you on a tour of his factory, feed you all the chocolate river chocolate you can ingest!"
No, she only took me down to the grocery store. There were about 10 or 12 other kids sitting around in a semi circle where they normally kept the shopping carts, waiting for the entrance of the man. Kristen from my kindergarten class was there. Kristen, who I had cut a big chunk of my own hair off for in order to make her laugh. Then he came out to us, Willy Wonka, resplendent in his purple coat and top hat.
Mr. Wonka was just some cat, probably in his early 20's who stood in front of us and did magic tricks. I got to stand up there with him and help out with cutting a rope in half while he magically put it back together. As lame as it seems now, particularly knowing that I knew this guy was a fake, I remember enjoying myself.
Thinking about it nearly 30 years later, I find it odd that they would send some poor, flailing actor out to a grocery store in BFE to entertain kids with card tricks. I don't think it's a gig I would take, but then I don't know any magic tricks that don't involve parts of my body that are inappropriate for kids that age.
Then I realized the insidious truth, these corporate bastards were whoring out my pleasant childhood memories to get us hooked on their candy. Did we get free Laughy Taffy after the show was over? Yes we did.
Bastards! I'll never trust a major corporation again.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Sound and Fury, Part Deux
I didn't intend to run another tirade, I'm in a pretty decent mood despite oversleeping so that I had no time to walk to work this morning. I've got me a new Built To Spill album, life ain't bad. But...
In the last week we have received two college business class papers that have been done about our company. I guess these business students just wanted to let us know how much they love us. The first one was a page and two lines (double spaced, large-ish font) that contained atrocious spelling and grammar errors. I had a mind to bust out a red pen, correct the pile of crap, and send it back.
The paper that came in today made me bemoan the educational system in this country. Was there random and uncalled for use of "quotes" around words or phrases for no reason at all? Sure, you bet there was. Were there large and ill-fitting words that hinted at the writer simply looking up larger words in the Microsoft Thesaurus? Uh-Huh. A bulk of this paper discussed the writers’ personal history with the product as well as how he and his wife have an agreement to never run out of said product.
Again this is a paper for a COLLEGE BUSINESS CLASS.
Oh, oh, said writer also inserted the word Plato where I can only assume he meant to type plateau. It's as if this was the closest Spellcheck could get to how he spelled the word and he just hit "Okay". While he is at least using Spellcheck, computers are not at the point where they can just think for you bright guy, I mean Plato is even capitalized there in the middle of the sentence.
I really should let it go, I mean I'm sure they're well meaning college students, and I certainly make my share of mistakes, but it depresses me to no end. I doubt that a college business professor is going to take the time to correct the English in a business paper, to sit the student down and assist them in writing something that doesn't make them look like a five year old drunkard. And why should this professor teach students something they should have learned years ago. I mean have things changed? Don't you have to write an essay with your entrance application?
It makes me feel like a friggin’ moron by proximity since I also went to college. I mean if these people without a basic knowledge of the language they speak can get into a university it doesn't make me feel like such hot shit. Am I wrong to think that universities should only admit students that put a little effort into the work they do? Am I so naive to think that colleges and universities take pride in education, in the sharing of knowledge and fostering of ideas, and that they're not just money hungry companies that take overblown tuition fees so that a person can put a degree on their resume and hopefully get a better job?
Okay, sorry, need to vent fulfilled. Tomorrow I will write about something happy…
In the last week we have received two college business class papers that have been done about our company. I guess these business students just wanted to let us know how much they love us. The first one was a page and two lines (double spaced, large-ish font) that contained atrocious spelling and grammar errors. I had a mind to bust out a red pen, correct the pile of crap, and send it back.
The paper that came in today made me bemoan the educational system in this country. Was there random and uncalled for use of "quotes" around words or phrases for no reason at all? Sure, you bet there was. Were there large and ill-fitting words that hinted at the writer simply looking up larger words in the Microsoft Thesaurus? Uh-Huh. A bulk of this paper discussed the writers’ personal history with the product as well as how he and his wife have an agreement to never run out of said product.
Again this is a paper for a COLLEGE BUSINESS CLASS.
Oh, oh, said writer also inserted the word Plato where I can only assume he meant to type plateau. It's as if this was the closest Spellcheck could get to how he spelled the word and he just hit "Okay". While he is at least using Spellcheck, computers are not at the point where they can just think for you bright guy, I mean Plato is even capitalized there in the middle of the sentence.
I really should let it go, I mean I'm sure they're well meaning college students, and I certainly make my share of mistakes, but it depresses me to no end. I doubt that a college business professor is going to take the time to correct the English in a business paper, to sit the student down and assist them in writing something that doesn't make them look like a five year old drunkard. And why should this professor teach students something they should have learned years ago. I mean have things changed? Don't you have to write an essay with your entrance application?
It makes me feel like a friggin’ moron by proximity since I also went to college. I mean if these people without a basic knowledge of the language they speak can get into a university it doesn't make me feel like such hot shit. Am I wrong to think that universities should only admit students that put a little effort into the work they do? Am I so naive to think that colleges and universities take pride in education, in the sharing of knowledge and fostering of ideas, and that they're not just money hungry companies that take overblown tuition fees so that a person can put a degree on their resume and hopefully get a better job?
Okay, sorry, need to vent fulfilled. Tomorrow I will write about something happy…
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Sound and Fury
I'm trying to feel the love here people, but human beings keep getting in the way. I'm frustrated today and I don't know exactly why. What I do know, is that other people besides me are prying into that frustration with hot and infectious tools and that makes me want to do bad and violent things.
Feeling like
I'm sort of reminded of the days when I was on a lot of cortisone, days where I would snap if someone pulled the stop request on the bus too hard.
I had to put head phones on while I worked this morning because the sound of other peoples voices were making me want to punch a baby seal right in the face. And no magic combination of ipod choices would calm my happy ass down. All of the involuntary throat clearing and sighs of frustration... Too much, like shards of glass being forcefully rubbed into my flesh.
And then customers had to get involved. Seriously, say I'm at a bar and get a drink that I'm less than happy with, do I write a letter to the corporate headquarters of TGI McFuckFace? No I do not. Why? Because I'm a fucking adult and realize that there are bigger problems in the world. Just drink your overpriced coffee you brand-addled sheep! And while we're on the subject, if you do decide to send written communication to a company's headquarters, for the love of all that is sacred and holy, USE SPELLCHECK AND PROOFREAD. Do you expect someone to take you seriously if you cannot spell a two syllable word correctly? And the word 'whom', use it and you seem a little pretentious to me, use it incorrectly and you look like a friggin' hillbilly gettin' high and mighty on his there writin' machine. And for fuck's sake people - A LOT? TWO WORDS!
Okay, The Replacements are making me feel a little better.
Yeah, I'm gonna have me some Tots and PBR tonight - for sure y'all.
Feeling like
I'm sort of reminded of the days when I was on a lot of cortisone, days where I would snap if someone pulled the stop request on the bus too hard.
I had to put head phones on while I worked this morning because the sound of other peoples voices were making me want to punch a baby seal right in the face. And no magic combination of ipod choices would calm my happy ass down. All of the involuntary throat clearing and sighs of frustration... Too much, like shards of glass being forcefully rubbed into my flesh.
And then customers had to get involved. Seriously, say I'm at a bar and get a drink that I'm less than happy with, do I write a letter to the corporate headquarters of TGI McFuckFace? No I do not. Why? Because I'm a fucking adult and realize that there are bigger problems in the world. Just drink your overpriced coffee you brand-addled sheep! And while we're on the subject, if you do decide to send written communication to a company's headquarters, for the love of all that is sacred and holy, USE SPELLCHECK AND PROOFREAD. Do you expect someone to take you seriously if you cannot spell a two syllable word correctly? And the word 'whom', use it and you seem a little pretentious to me, use it incorrectly and you look like a friggin' hillbilly gettin' high and mighty on his there writin' machine. And for fuck's sake people - A LOT? TWO WORDS!
Okay, The Replacements are making me feel a little better.
Yeah, I'm gonna have me some Tots and PBR tonight - for sure y'all.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Seriously, Came Out Like Old Faithful
When I was a young one, my parents took my brother and me on a road trip to Yellowstone. My uncle lived in West Yellowstone, managing a pizza parlor, so it was combination see a park/visit relatives trip. I think that personally I was mostly excited about a claim to a number of states that I was going to see; Oregon, Idaho, Montana and Wyoming. At one point, I remember my Dad saying we could make a slight detour and hit Utah as well, but my mom shot it down. I think my love of the road trip comes from Dad.
I learned that Ore-Ida (the company that makes some outstanding Tater Tots) stands for Oregon and Idaho as it stands right on the state lines. This felt like one of the riddles of the ages had been solved for me. I remember thinking that I couldn't wait to get back to school to tell the kids.
While walking down the sidewalk in West Yellowstone, doing a little souvenir shopping (I got a postcard of a Jackalope - part jack rabbit, part antelope; essentially a rabbit with antlers), Tom came walking out of a store.
Tom was my best friend at this point in grade school. Neither of us had any idea that the other was going to be in Yellowstone and this seemed like a miracle on par with learning the meaning behind Ore-Ida.
Tom and I used to do a thing in class called "Buck Bucks". We would sing a song using only chicken noises. This was a big hit with the 3rd grade audience and we were often tapped for requests. One memory that I have of Tom is him chasing us around at a birthday party, all sugared up, with this toy that had a thumb trigger and a twirling face that had what looked like sparks in little red windows when it was twirling. He was shrieking, "Dr. Shocker!" After about his 15th "Dr. Shocker", Tom threw up birthday cake all over the floor.
Years later we would have a severe falling out after a Heart concert and I would never see him again.
Well, there was that one time at the water park, but that's another story.
The good part of this story is that right now I have a bag of Ore-Ida Tots in the freezer. I’m gonna get a six pack of PBR and have me a Wednesday night.
I learned that Ore-Ida (the company that makes some outstanding Tater Tots) stands for Oregon and Idaho as it stands right on the state lines. This felt like one of the riddles of the ages had been solved for me. I remember thinking that I couldn't wait to get back to school to tell the kids.
While walking down the sidewalk in West Yellowstone, doing a little souvenir shopping (I got a postcard of a Jackalope - part jack rabbit, part antelope; essentially a rabbit with antlers), Tom came walking out of a store.
Tom was my best friend at this point in grade school. Neither of us had any idea that the other was going to be in Yellowstone and this seemed like a miracle on par with learning the meaning behind Ore-Ida.
Tom and I used to do a thing in class called "Buck Bucks". We would sing a song using only chicken noises. This was a big hit with the 3rd grade audience and we were often tapped for requests. One memory that I have of Tom is him chasing us around at a birthday party, all sugared up, with this toy that had a thumb trigger and a twirling face that had what looked like sparks in little red windows when it was twirling. He was shrieking, "Dr. Shocker!" After about his 15th "Dr. Shocker", Tom threw up birthday cake all over the floor.
Years later we would have a severe falling out after a Heart concert and I would never see him again.
Well, there was that one time at the water park, but that's another story.
The good part of this story is that right now I have a bag of Ore-Ida Tots in the freezer. I’m gonna get a six pack of PBR and have me a Wednesday night.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Told You Once...
So we opened the show last night. A few people have asked how it went and I honestly am finding it difficult to know. It's been a busy two weeks of long work hours followed by long rehearsal hours. We have made constant little changes to the show (including last night, an hour before we opened) throughout. On one hand I admire and fully stand behind that drive towards a perfect show, but I have been a little on edge feeling like the final product has not been rehearsed enough for me to just step into it and live.
But, the show went well. There were no major mistakes, it is filled with some fine performances by very talented actors and the audience seemed to enjoy it. It's a sort of surreal and layered show which messes with the idea of narration, story structure and story telling, but the audience (or at least the one guy who approached me after the show) seems to be able to hang with it and laugh.
I honestly think I just need a little separation from the show for a few days, a little rest, such much needed sleep. I do feel good about it though, I'm proud of this show.
P.S. Congratulations to Chuck and Rachel on the wedding! I'm sorry we couldn't be out there in Hawaii with y'all.
P.P.S. The gray and drizzly day today feels so right for some reason.
P.P.P.S. Mark wants to know if he asked you to go with him, would you say yes?
P.P.P.P.S. Write back soon! BFF
Friday, April 07, 2006
Nostalgia Factory
I've been reading this history of San Francisco. It's interesting trying to imagine the city as it must have been 100 to 150 years ago. Something about imagining most of the Financial District as part of the bay was something that intrigued me the whole time that I lived there. Now I also think about those crowded tops of Nob Hill, Russian Hill and Telegraph as only being dotted by a few lonely homes. I think about everything west out to that beach as a mass of sand dunes.
It's also interesting to read about these wild, early characters that would be immortalized by street names. These were streets by the way that I never bothered to even think about who they were named after; O'Farrell, Geary, Brannan, 6th Street...
The thing that really caught my attention though was the introduction of the Victorian houses to the city. These are houses that have come to represent San Francisco to a lot of people (particularly in my old hood The Haight), and even sort of spark this romantic notion in me for a time that I have never known. Apparently though, at the time they were being built in the city, a lot of people considered them to be ugly, cookie cutter houses - they all looked the same.
I'm having the same sort of experience now. There are a plethora of new condos being built throughout Seattle and they all have the same sort of tacky design that I loathe. It makes my sphincter cringe to know that there is a possibility that one day these will be looked on with the same sort of romanticism for a time that once was.
So okay, why do we attach this nostalgic importance to things? I've heard the tired reasoning of wishing away for a simpler time, but that's bullshit. One, I never experienced this "simpler time" to pine away for. And two, I don't think these times were any simpler, I think things have always been complicated and dangerous and weird, just in different ways; I don't think that we humans will ever allow ourselves to escape that. Is it manufactured nostalgia? Do we long for these times because we've been told to? Do we just long for romantic notions of a time, that were probably lies to begin with, because it may be easier than accepting the romanticism that exists now in this logic driven society?
It may be that, but I also think there may be people who are programmed (or program themselves) into a desire for individuality in their purchasing choices. When there is no individuality available, we turn to older things that are now different from the mass produced.
No, stop me, I don’t what the hell I’m talking about. I will say this in closing though… I have what may be an unnatural love right now for the song Bam Thwok by the Pixies.
It's also interesting to read about these wild, early characters that would be immortalized by street names. These were streets by the way that I never bothered to even think about who they were named after; O'Farrell, Geary, Brannan, 6th Street...
The thing that really caught my attention though was the introduction of the Victorian houses to the city. These are houses that have come to represent San Francisco to a lot of people (particularly in my old hood The Haight), and even sort of spark this romantic notion in me for a time that I have never known. Apparently though, at the time they were being built in the city, a lot of people considered them to be ugly, cookie cutter houses - they all looked the same.
I'm having the same sort of experience now. There are a plethora of new condos being built throughout Seattle and they all have the same sort of tacky design that I loathe. It makes my sphincter cringe to know that there is a possibility that one day these will be looked on with the same sort of romanticism for a time that once was.
So okay, why do we attach this nostalgic importance to things? I've heard the tired reasoning of wishing away for a simpler time, but that's bullshit. One, I never experienced this "simpler time" to pine away for. And two, I don't think these times were any simpler, I think things have always been complicated and dangerous and weird, just in different ways; I don't think that we humans will ever allow ourselves to escape that. Is it manufactured nostalgia? Do we long for these times because we've been told to? Do we just long for romantic notions of a time, that were probably lies to begin with, because it may be easier than accepting the romanticism that exists now in this logic driven society?
It may be that, but I also think there may be people who are programmed (or program themselves) into a desire for individuality in their purchasing choices. When there is no individuality available, we turn to older things that are now different from the mass produced.
No, stop me, I don’t what the hell I’m talking about. I will say this in closing though… I have what may be an unnatural love right now for the song Bam Thwok by the Pixies.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Question Answered
What’s better than changing a tire at 6AM? Going out to the car the following day to find another one flat and that ridiculous donut spare still sitting where you left it on the rear driver side.
While still sucking pretty hard, it wouldn’t that big a deal if I didn’t have to drive straight from work to dress rehearsals all week. In normal, non-hectic week schedules, I could have left the car sitting where it was and walked to and from work. But this involves figuring out how to move a car with 2 flats like it is some kind of grade school brain teaser. This involves a pretty lame call to work saying, “Hey, I’m not gonna make it on time for the second day in a row. Yeah… A flat… Again…”
On the silver lining side of things, I did get to sit down and have some breakfast with Biffy while we waited on the car, something I always love doing. And somehow going out for breakfast on a weekday makes it seem like that much more of a treat.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Massif Central by Frank Black and the Catholics
While still sucking pretty hard, it wouldn’t that big a deal if I didn’t have to drive straight from work to dress rehearsals all week. In normal, non-hectic week schedules, I could have left the car sitting where it was and walked to and from work. But this involves figuring out how to move a car with 2 flats like it is some kind of grade school brain teaser. This involves a pretty lame call to work saying, “Hey, I’m not gonna make it on time for the second day in a row. Yeah… A flat… Again…”
On the silver lining side of things, I did get to sit down and have some breakfast with Biffy while we waited on the car, something I always love doing. And somehow going out for breakfast on a weekday makes it seem like that much more of a treat.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Massif Central by Frank Black and the Catholics
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Donuts For The Man
I am not mechanically inclined. But I think that is sort of like people who say that they're not good at math - I think that if I actually put a little work into it I could do a thing or two. If a car breaks down, I can take a look to see if the battery cables are connected or if there is smoke pouring out from under the hood, but that's about it. Well no, I can ably check fluid levels and I can change a tire.
The ability to change a tire comes in handy when you discover your car has a flat, say at 5 minutes to six am when you're heading to work, say like this morning.
What's better than changing a tire at 6am? Oh, I don't know, a rectal exam? Being beaten unconscious by a psycho with a Zima bottle? Being forced to watch a Hilary Duff film festival?
It actually made me happy about my misspent youth though. When I started driving a car, I was either never taught or never bothered to learn how to do things to a car that it might be helpful to know; things like changing your oil, changing a tire. One fine, sunny, Saturday afternoon, Damon and I were doing donuts (or as Dougie Wagner calls them, Brodies. He in turn calls our cat Brody, Donuts. He's funny that way) in the school parking lot. I guess the heat generated by doing roughly 812 circles at speed finally made the front passenger tire blow like a... tire.
Make up your own fellatio joke, I'm tired.
But see, Damon had been taught to change a tire, he knew how to work a friggin' jack, and he taught me. If I had never learned how to do this, via dangerous and juvenile behavior, I probably would have stared at that flat tire and wanted to cry in defeat.
But no, I changed it and I feel like a man, like a real man! I want to go kill something and then cook it over a fire and eat it. I want to watch some sort of sporting event and get drunk on overpriced beer. I want to step up and help rule the world by treating women and minorities like second class citizens.
The ability to change a tire comes in handy when you discover your car has a flat, say at 5 minutes to six am when you're heading to work, say like this morning.
What's better than changing a tire at 6am? Oh, I don't know, a rectal exam? Being beaten unconscious by a psycho with a Zima bottle? Being forced to watch a Hilary Duff film festival?
It actually made me happy about my misspent youth though. When I started driving a car, I was either never taught or never bothered to learn how to do things to a car that it might be helpful to know; things like changing your oil, changing a tire. One fine, sunny, Saturday afternoon, Damon and I were doing donuts (or as Dougie Wagner calls them, Brodies. He in turn calls our cat Brody, Donuts. He's funny that way) in the school parking lot. I guess the heat generated by doing roughly 812 circles at speed finally made the front passenger tire blow like a... tire.
Make up your own fellatio joke, I'm tired.
But see, Damon had been taught to change a tire, he knew how to work a friggin' jack, and he taught me. If I had never learned how to do this, via dangerous and juvenile behavior, I probably would have stared at that flat tire and wanted to cry in defeat.
But no, I changed it and I feel like a man, like a real man! I want to go kill something and then cook it over a fire and eat it. I want to watch some sort of sporting event and get drunk on overpriced beer. I want to step up and help rule the world by treating women and minorities like second class citizens.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Spring Forward
So we switched our clocks this weekend, and spring rolls in on an hour of missed sleep. C'mon y'all, grab a bottle of Boon's and let's get effing nutty!
Yeah, that's right, I'm gonna write about the time change, shut up! Ironically, I'm also going to mention how tired I am of people talking about the time change; ironic, or jumping on the bandwagon of my own annoyance? Post modern, or masochist? You decide.
I had recently overheard someone complaining about the time change, blaming the farmers for the woes that this clock adjustment has caused them. Their friend said, with one of those pompous and faux-cultured tones, "Actually, the time change originated with the railroads..." I didn't get to hear the end of this as my mind's ear was being ripped apart by my own internal rage voice screaming, "Who the fuck cares!"
Twice a year we have to change the clocks, twice a year, every year. If this causes you a ton of heartache, then you're a whiny bitch and you need to grow the fuck up. The biggest heartache this causes me is trying to remember the magic combination of buttons needed to adjust the time on the stereo. Hour of lost sleep? I've lost more time reading emails telling some story so sweet I nearly fall into a diabetic coma which then asks me to email on to at least seven friends and all my wishes will come true and apparently some little animation doohickey may get emailed back to me. Woo-hoo!
If you forgot to change your clock and then end up late because you never heard the coming warnings, or you don't watch television, or own a calendar, then I bet that's an embarrassment that might get you to be on the ball next year Captain Oblivious.
Finally, the news had an upcoming blurb about "hilarious stories about forgetting the time change". That is hilarious, not mention not remotely newsworthy! I laughed until passed out in a puddle of my own vomit.
Sorry, missing that hour of sleep has really made me a little cranky...
Yeah, that's right, I'm gonna write about the time change, shut up! Ironically, I'm also going to mention how tired I am of people talking about the time change; ironic, or jumping on the bandwagon of my own annoyance? Post modern, or masochist? You decide.
I had recently overheard someone complaining about the time change, blaming the farmers for the woes that this clock adjustment has caused them. Their friend said, with one of those pompous and faux-cultured tones, "Actually, the time change originated with the railroads..." I didn't get to hear the end of this as my mind's ear was being ripped apart by my own internal rage voice screaming, "Who the fuck cares!"
Twice a year we have to change the clocks, twice a year, every year. If this causes you a ton of heartache, then you're a whiny bitch and you need to grow the fuck up. The biggest heartache this causes me is trying to remember the magic combination of buttons needed to adjust the time on the stereo. Hour of lost sleep? I've lost more time reading emails telling some story so sweet I nearly fall into a diabetic coma which then asks me to email on to at least seven friends and all my wishes will come true and apparently some little animation doohickey may get emailed back to me. Woo-hoo!
If you forgot to change your clock and then end up late because you never heard the coming warnings, or you don't watch television, or own a calendar, then I bet that's an embarrassment that might get you to be on the ball next year Captain Oblivious.
Finally, the news had an upcoming blurb about "hilarious stories about forgetting the time change". That is hilarious, not mention not remotely newsworthy! I laughed until passed out in a puddle of my own vomit.
Sorry, missing that hour of sleep has really made me a little cranky...
Saturday, April 01, 2006
To Do It, Or Not To Do It
The director for the show that I am currently in wants me to come do a Shakespeare in the park show she's directing this summer. I try to have this philosophy that if a part is gimme, I take it; it's not often that someone just hands a part over to you. But the thing is, I'm not a big Shakespeare fan.
A lot of this anti-Bard attitude comes from my one and only experience doing Shakespeare in the basement of a pizza parlor. There was the awful, the-louder-and-more-overly-dramatic-I-perform-everything-the-more-Shakespearean-it-becomes acting. There was the "Shakespeare queens", I mean actors can be really annoying at times, but some Shakespeare actors make you want to do your best at slitting your own throat with prop knives. There was the director without a firm grasp of the English language. There was the lead actor who never bothered to memorize his lines completely...
I was of the mind that if I really fear doing something so badly, I should fucking do it then. But then I looked at the schedule which would take up over two months. That's a lot of dedication to doing something I'm not crazy about, and doing it in a park.
Sort of the fence, but sliding one way...
A lot of this anti-Bard attitude comes from my one and only experience doing Shakespeare in the basement of a pizza parlor. There was the awful, the-louder-and-more-overly-dramatic-I-perform-everything-the-more-Shakespearean-it-becomes acting. There was the "Shakespeare queens", I mean actors can be really annoying at times, but some Shakespeare actors make you want to do your best at slitting your own throat with prop knives. There was the director without a firm grasp of the English language. There was the lead actor who never bothered to memorize his lines completely...
I was of the mind that if I really fear doing something so badly, I should fucking do it then. But then I looked at the schedule which would take up over two months. That's a lot of dedication to doing something I'm not crazy about, and doing it in a park.
Sort of the fence, but sliding one way...
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