The memories of my high school years get fuzzy as time continues to grow between then and now, as more drinks are consumed in that growing time, so I cannot remember if it was an ad hoc substitute Chemistry teacher, or Mr. Dempsey, the intrepid Physics teacher who barely let me skate by to graduate, who performed this experiment in class. The idea is that you have this salt water solution that is as packed with salt as it’s going to get and still be liquid. One more piece of salt will literally force all of the solid salt out of the liquid, it will change the physical composition. It’s a nifty parlor trick, it’s the idea of critical mass.
It’s also a great analogy for my work situation.
I can no longer keep up with the demand. I can rarely step away to go to the bathroom without trying make said trip more efficient by also printing up a document, possibly make a copy on the way to the john.
Here’s a funny thing, and when I say funny I actually mean bitterly sad; I’m a completely disposable and interchangeable middle management drone. As such, I’m subject to the whimsy of others. Let’s say that there’s a person I have to answer to that obsesses over details that should be invisible to someone at that height; oh, and is a friggin nutball made up of the worst kind of nuts – Brazil nuts, peanuts that are eight weeks old and found beneath a barstool, the elusive loco brain nut.
Here is a person who has a severe case of crazy eye, a person who I had to talk to when I went to work with a 104 fever and was pretty damn sure I was tripping balls because of the things they were saying, a person who will use this psychotic baby talk voice in business meetings, a person who says “right?” in a sentence roughly 27 times.
After said crazy face pointed out to me that they realized how busy I was at the moment, and even more so now that they were throwing a bunch more crap at me, decided to have me investigate a customer case that had gotten up to them.
Let’s say that I worked for a cookie company, and within the stores of this cookie company, along with cookies, the company also sold brightly colored sugar water. Let’s say a customer writes to this cookie company to let them know that when they went down to the ol’ cookie store, the store was out of their favorite colored sugar water. And this is not the first time this has happened, oh my no.
Now let’s extrapolate this a bit. Let’s say that’s one customer contact out of roughly 3000 that this cookie company gets daily – all contacts more or less playing on that same theme to varying degrees of “poor me”. Now, let’s say that after a couple of weeks this customer realizes that their colored sugar water (let’s say aqua blue, spicy cucumber flavor) is still out when they go to the cookie store. Being a the tricky bastard they are, the customer uses a friend to get a name higher up the food chain to contact. This customer bounces around the executive emails for a couple of weeks, like a .22 slug ricocheting off the inside of a skull and tearing apart the bubble gum upper management brain. Until Captain Baby Babble taps me to answer to why this customer wasn’t escalated correctly.
I feel that I shouldn’t have to explain that in the grand scheme things, there’s no reason that they should even be paying attention to something like this. I feel that I shouldn’t have to explain that sending a report to the store so they can adjust their ordering is the correct way to handle this pig fucker and not to send him on up to an executive (who should have way more important things to do) just because the customer has learned to whine more efficiently. I feel like I shouldn’t have to explain the reason why there’s a floor of disposable and interchangeable folks like me.
This person is Legion, and my job has become like a Captain Beefheart album; disturbing, surreal and in so many ways very wrong. It’s a little thing in the scheme of things, it’s my missing colored sugar water, but it’s enough to realize that a huge majority of my life’s energy is spent on it.
If this isn’t rock bottom, it’s a comin’ soon.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Today Is The Day Of The Day
Because I’m in need of a celebration, and because I did a bunch today but accomplished nothing – I dedicate this post to a variety of “things of the day”.
Song of the Day: “As Sure As The Sun” by The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
Ice Cream Flavor of the Day: Memphis King – Banana with peanut butter and chocolate covered bacon. This was actually the flavor of the day yesterday from my neighborhood ice cream vendor Full Tilt, but was good enough to slosh over into today. Thanks for coming along Mandy.
Everyday Word That Seems Like It Should Be A Dirty One of the Day: Proclivity.
Product That Should Be Ashamed To Be Around (Especially Because of the Commercial) of the Day: Pizza Hut Chocolate Dunkers with Chocolate Dunking Sauce - Some new desert that Pizza Hut is offering that involves a chocolate dipping sauce. The commercial features a delivery girl putting on a fake French accent to trick all these dumb white folks into thinking this Pizza Hut travesty is a French bakery travesty. Word to the wise: The French would never name something a "dunker". Fool me once...
Word To The Wise of the Day: If someone who is 8 kinds of high says to you, "seriously man, really think about Sesame Street for a minute" walk the fuck away without looking back.
Someone With A Case of the S'pose To's of the Day: Mark Spitz, former mustachioed Olympic swimmer, sounds like a friggin' child while talking about not being invited to the Olympics in these (admittedly out of context) quotes:
Douchebag Who Could Still Kick My Ass of the Day: Mark Spitz.
Weekend Celebrity Death That Seems Like A Real Drag of the Day: While Isaac Hayes is a bummer, I’m goin’ Bernie Mac. The man seemed like a funny guy and pneumonia is no way to go.
Song of the Day: “As Sure As The Sun” by The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
Ice Cream Flavor of the Day: Memphis King – Banana with peanut butter and chocolate covered bacon. This was actually the flavor of the day yesterday from my neighborhood ice cream vendor Full Tilt, but was good enough to slosh over into today. Thanks for coming along Mandy.
Everyday Word That Seems Like It Should Be A Dirty One of the Day: Proclivity.
Product That Should Be Ashamed To Be Around (Especially Because of the Commercial) of the Day: Pizza Hut Chocolate Dunkers with Chocolate Dunking Sauce - Some new desert that Pizza Hut is offering that involves a chocolate dipping sauce. The commercial features a delivery girl putting on a fake French accent to trick all these dumb white folks into thinking this Pizza Hut travesty is a French bakery travesty. Word to the wise: The French would never name something a "dunker". Fool me once...
Word To The Wise of the Day: If someone who is 8 kinds of high says to you, "seriously man, really think about Sesame Street for a minute" walk the fuck away without looking back.
Someone With A Case of the S'pose To's of the Day: Mark Spitz, former mustachioed Olympic swimmer, sounds like a friggin' child while talking about not being invited to the Olympics in these (admittedly out of context) quotes:
- "They voted me one of the top five Olympians in all time. Some of them are dead. But they invited the other ones to go to the Olympics, but not me. Yes, I am a bit upset about it."
- "I won seven events. If they had the 50m freestyle back then, which they do now, I probably would have won that too"
- Speaking of visiting the Olympics in Athens – "They did not once put my face on television”
- Speaking of Michael Phelps – "He's almost identical to me. He's a world-record holder in all these events, so he is dominating the events just like I did. He reminds me of myself."
Douchebag Who Could Still Kick My Ass of the Day: Mark Spitz.
Weekend Celebrity Death That Seems Like A Real Drag of the Day: While Isaac Hayes is a bummer, I’m goin’ Bernie Mac. The man seemed like a funny guy and pneumonia is no way to go.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
The Voids Of Summer
Today I felt another piece of my soul slide away for some chump change due to me on Friday. Whining about a job is a pretty ugly form of self-pity, duly noted. There are worse jobs out there to be sure, I’ve had some of them.
There’s just this cyclical destruction of the inner wall that I’m able to put up, that psychic masonry that doesn’t let me forget how this job is slowly making me into something I hate, but at least lets me ignore it for awhile. The wall cracked a bit today.
I didn’t flood out in a wash of anger as is typical, there was just this quiet and sad moment that I realized that our breaths are numbered, and I’m spending a good chunk of mine fighting pathetic battles against enemies that could care less in a war that means nothing.
So yeah, there’s a bit of an existential funk brewing; no sexy bass line, but I can hear some vibraphones trying to get through back there somewhere…
And this is precisely the mood one should be in to hear the two bits of news I did when I got home, both revolving around the baseball stadium downtown.
First, the city is planning on spending something like 5 mil to build an over-street walkway over the train tracks that run near the stadium, this will take the place of the typical sidewalk with traffic lights and those easily ignored crossing arms with flashing red lights and bells that you can hear two towns away. And I definitely see the need, as a handful of people – strike that – a handful of drunk dumbasses, have tried to beat the train getting back to their cars after a game. I gotta say, point blank and without clever, if you’re dumb enough to try to run across the tracks as the above mentioned arms of obvious are warning you not to, than you deserve to be someone’s sick fuck fodder on youtube.
Moving on….
There will now also be a “no peanut” zone at this stadium so people with peanut allergies can go catch a game. This will surely increase those flagging ticket sales. I know there are folks out there with life threatening allergies, and a drag that is, but having dealt with a number of allergy claims at the above mentioned job, and after listening to a middle aged woman the other night go on and on to a number of wait staff about how she was allergic to coconut which was apparently in the Pan Asian soup that she ordered (go figure), I feel like about 85% of people with food allergies just talk about them so that they can, in some sick way, show how “special” they are. It’s like vegetarians who can’t wait to tell you all about how they’re vegetarians. Shut up and eat already. I might need a special zone at work as I think I’m deathly allergic to my job.
Isn’t this where we came in?
There’s just this cyclical destruction of the inner wall that I’m able to put up, that psychic masonry that doesn’t let me forget how this job is slowly making me into something I hate, but at least lets me ignore it for awhile. The wall cracked a bit today.
I didn’t flood out in a wash of anger as is typical, there was just this quiet and sad moment that I realized that our breaths are numbered, and I’m spending a good chunk of mine fighting pathetic battles against enemies that could care less in a war that means nothing.
So yeah, there’s a bit of an existential funk brewing; no sexy bass line, but I can hear some vibraphones trying to get through back there somewhere…
And this is precisely the mood one should be in to hear the two bits of news I did when I got home, both revolving around the baseball stadium downtown.
First, the city is planning on spending something like 5 mil to build an over-street walkway over the train tracks that run near the stadium, this will take the place of the typical sidewalk with traffic lights and those easily ignored crossing arms with flashing red lights and bells that you can hear two towns away. And I definitely see the need, as a handful of people – strike that – a handful of drunk dumbasses, have tried to beat the train getting back to their cars after a game. I gotta say, point blank and without clever, if you’re dumb enough to try to run across the tracks as the above mentioned arms of obvious are warning you not to, than you deserve to be someone’s sick fuck fodder on youtube.
Moving on….
There will now also be a “no peanut” zone at this stadium so people with peanut allergies can go catch a game. This will surely increase those flagging ticket sales. I know there are folks out there with life threatening allergies, and a drag that is, but having dealt with a number of allergy claims at the above mentioned job, and after listening to a middle aged woman the other night go on and on to a number of wait staff about how she was allergic to coconut which was apparently in the Pan Asian soup that she ordered (go figure), I feel like about 85% of people with food allergies just talk about them so that they can, in some sick way, show how “special” they are. It’s like vegetarians who can’t wait to tell you all about how they’re vegetarians. Shut up and eat already. I might need a special zone at work as I think I’m deathly allergic to my job.
Isn’t this where we came in?
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
One Flu Over The Low Budget Sci-Fi Movie
I want you to think of a man sized sandwich.
Did you go Manwich? Did you go sloppy joe in a can - an idea that seems more dangerous than a methed out whore with a gun – a gun with a real loose trigger? I’m thinking 6 foot turkey and swiss on whole wheat, with arms and legs, but that’s me.
Moving on, seriously…
Since last I wrote, a flu invaded the house and ripped through it like the above mentioned tweaker looking for hidden cash. Riley fell victim, and while I was busy feeling sorry for him and freaking out about a crazy high fever (enough so that I had a shrieking, sick baby in a cold bath trying to break this fever) that it didn’t dawn on me that I would probably be fighting this off as well.
Two numbered points of interest about bodily functions that you might want to skip over (which is why I’m numbering them – for your convenience) if you’re easily bothered by that sort of thing, or eating over your computer.
1) Diarrhea is not fun - period. Add to that the idea of changing diapers full of it. No, yeah, I totally almost threw up too. Which brings me to number
2) Watching a baby throw up for real for the first time is both horrifying and humorous – much like the idea of Paris Hilton (i.e. methed out whore from above). While there is this unbelievable amount of juice and water plummeting from the baby’s mouth, there’s also this wide-eyed look of, “what the fuck is happening right now” that almost made it worth mopping up the living room floor.
Anywho, things are back to relative normalness. I remember thinking as I was coming down off my fever high, that I’m glad that flu hit when it did and not when I had the audition set up.
Yeah, that would have been a drag.
Some people overcome great hardships to attempt to do things they love, I overcome ridiculously mundane ones that pile up and become more annoyances than the sort of things people make movies about.
Here are some things that were trying to stop me from getting to Capital Hill for a film audition: I couldn’t find my shoes, I couldn’t find the resume I printed out, when I found said resume and tried to staple it to my headshot I realized the stapler was out of staples, couldn’t find staples, got on the freeway to find it was completely backed for no good reason, the Capital Hill Block Party attempted to thwart my secret squirrel back way in…
I persevered, I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through. I did not however get the part. And aside from the massive layoffs at work, that pretty much catches you up.
Who needs a drink?
Did you go Manwich? Did you go sloppy joe in a can - an idea that seems more dangerous than a methed out whore with a gun – a gun with a real loose trigger? I’m thinking 6 foot turkey and swiss on whole wheat, with arms and legs, but that’s me.
Moving on, seriously…
Since last I wrote, a flu invaded the house and ripped through it like the above mentioned tweaker looking for hidden cash. Riley fell victim, and while I was busy feeling sorry for him and freaking out about a crazy high fever (enough so that I had a shrieking, sick baby in a cold bath trying to break this fever) that it didn’t dawn on me that I would probably be fighting this off as well.
Two numbered points of interest about bodily functions that you might want to skip over (which is why I’m numbering them – for your convenience) if you’re easily bothered by that sort of thing, or eating over your computer.
1) Diarrhea is not fun - period. Add to that the idea of changing diapers full of it. No, yeah, I totally almost threw up too. Which brings me to number
2) Watching a baby throw up for real for the first time is both horrifying and humorous – much like the idea of Paris Hilton (i.e. methed out whore from above). While there is this unbelievable amount of juice and water plummeting from the baby’s mouth, there’s also this wide-eyed look of, “what the fuck is happening right now” that almost made it worth mopping up the living room floor.
Anywho, things are back to relative normalness. I remember thinking as I was coming down off my fever high, that I’m glad that flu hit when it did and not when I had the audition set up.
Yeah, that would have been a drag.
Some people overcome great hardships to attempt to do things they love, I overcome ridiculously mundane ones that pile up and become more annoyances than the sort of things people make movies about.
Here are some things that were trying to stop me from getting to Capital Hill for a film audition: I couldn’t find my shoes, I couldn’t find the resume I printed out, when I found said resume and tried to staple it to my headshot I realized the stapler was out of staples, couldn’t find staples, got on the freeway to find it was completely backed for no good reason, the Capital Hill Block Party attempted to thwart my secret squirrel back way in…
I persevered, I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through. I did not however get the part. And aside from the massive layoffs at work, that pretty much catches you up.
Who needs a drink?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Wild Ride
Again, am I creating my own reality?
I walked to the bus stop this morning only to find that the empty field that sits serenely behind a chain link fence that the 22 line drives along, a field that is typically shrouded in early morning mists and visited a inquiring crow or two, is now filled with carnival rides. I saw The Octopus, The Scrambler, The Tilt-A-Whirl… The oft locked away emotional memories of childhood ran rampant for half a second. And then the logistics of getting down to this carnival fair shenanigan with a child at home not yet old enough to suffer possible soft tissue damage at the hands of traveling machines set in.
And that’s about as exciting as that story gets. There’s also the story of my panic when I discovered Kickers had a high fever last night and I was stuck at home with no phone, car, or sense at where the Baby Tylenol might be hiding. It ends fine, with a cold bath that was very much unwanted, the triumphant discovery of the Baby Tylenol hiding place, and the breaking of a fever. Honestly though, I can’t imagine the details being all that interesting to many outside of the house. Consider yourself spared for once.
What else do I got? I got Dick.
Speaking of feverish and wild rides, it appears Andy Dick was busted for being inebriated and mauling a minor. There are times when I think that Andy Dick is playing the role of Andy Dick. Sometimes I think he’s unaware of any social boundaries of good taste – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing unless you’re the minor being mauled. Now I don’t know Andy Dick, and I’m not sure that I want to necessarily, but that being said – I’m voting for bat shit crazy.
I was reminded of a fine time in the past with Mercedes and Buddy in New Orleans. There was drunkenness to be sure, but also a couple minutes of viewing the “Tom Green Show”. On this episode, Tom Green began impersonating Andy Dick and Andy Dick began impersonating Tom Green. All this involved was the two of them walking into unsuspecting offices, crawling all over desks and file cabinets, and saying in loud, nasally voices, “I’m Andy Dick, I’m Andy Dick” (or “I’m Tom Green” if it was Andy Dick) over and over again.
I laughed and laughed... I can’t remember if that was the same trip as the shoelace story; never mind, really boring and uneccesary.
Anyway, here the mighty have fallen (again):
Don’t look too hard, this picture is trying to steal your soul.
I walked to the bus stop this morning only to find that the empty field that sits serenely behind a chain link fence that the 22 line drives along, a field that is typically shrouded in early morning mists and visited a inquiring crow or two, is now filled with carnival rides. I saw The Octopus, The Scrambler, The Tilt-A-Whirl… The oft locked away emotional memories of childhood ran rampant for half a second. And then the logistics of getting down to this carnival fair shenanigan with a child at home not yet old enough to suffer possible soft tissue damage at the hands of traveling machines set in.
And that’s about as exciting as that story gets. There’s also the story of my panic when I discovered Kickers had a high fever last night and I was stuck at home with no phone, car, or sense at where the Baby Tylenol might be hiding. It ends fine, with a cold bath that was very much unwanted, the triumphant discovery of the Baby Tylenol hiding place, and the breaking of a fever. Honestly though, I can’t imagine the details being all that interesting to many outside of the house. Consider yourself spared for once.
What else do I got? I got Dick.
Speaking of feverish and wild rides, it appears Andy Dick was busted for being inebriated and mauling a minor. There are times when I think that Andy Dick is playing the role of Andy Dick. Sometimes I think he’s unaware of any social boundaries of good taste – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing unless you’re the minor being mauled. Now I don’t know Andy Dick, and I’m not sure that I want to necessarily, but that being said – I’m voting for bat shit crazy.
I was reminded of a fine time in the past with Mercedes and Buddy in New Orleans. There was drunkenness to be sure, but also a couple minutes of viewing the “Tom Green Show”. On this episode, Tom Green began impersonating Andy Dick and Andy Dick began impersonating Tom Green. All this involved was the two of them walking into unsuspecting offices, crawling all over desks and file cabinets, and saying in loud, nasally voices, “I’m Andy Dick, I’m Andy Dick” (or “I’m Tom Green” if it was Andy Dick) over and over again.
I laughed and laughed... I can’t remember if that was the same trip as the shoelace story; never mind, really boring and uneccesary.
Anyway, here the mighty have fallen (again):
Don’t look too hard, this picture is trying to steal your soul.
Monday, July 14, 2008
You Wanna Go For A Ride
The computer died this weekend and with it went my sense of place within the world. That’s not at all true, it actually took away any sort of guilt I had at the lack of attention I have paid to the blog, or emailing friends. I was absolved, Macbook died for my sins.
My brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their two young daughters were staying with us this weekend. It was great to see Rog and Reena again (it had literally been years) and to finally meet my beautiful nieces and watch my son manhandle said nieces. There was a lot of talk about Southern California life over beers and bourbon and a chilled bottle of limoncello. And while none of this talk revolved around amusement parks, that is what had come out after I let thoughts and conversations steep in a steaming cup of sleep deprivation sweaty summer evenings.
So that’s what you get…
Also, side note, side bar, hush hush side to side… I am remembering at this very moment an idea for a short novel about an amusement park. I should really get on that. Moving on…
Knott’s Berry Farm filled my mind this morning. Knott’s Berry Farm is an Orange County institution. Knott’s Berry Farm is like the malformed and socially inept younger sibling to Disneyland that should be locked away in a basement room, but is instead let out into the general public by well meaning parents. If the world were right, there would be a made for TV movie where Knott’s Berry Farm escaped from its home prison cell to murder the pretty amusement parks like Disneyland and Magic Mountain; maybe the cops would arrive to some dingy torture pit just in time to save a shapely water park…
Knott’s Berry Farm is, as I remember it, much like a county fair that never packs up. There is an infestation of gaming booths where you can win stuffed Snoopy dolls, there are shops to buy jellies and jams, and there was one major ride; Montezooma’s Revenge! Montezooma’s Revenge was a roller coaster that shot you through one (count it, one) loop before sending you back through said loop backwards. It was probably king shit of roller coasters back in the day, but pretty lame when you take a minute to compare the mild amusement to the hour plus in line.
This also got me thinking about other misguided uses for the misguided term “amusement park”. Up in this neck of the woods, where fairly inclement weather keeps most Disney knock offs at bay, there was and is the Enchanted Village. The Enchanted Village is now connected to a waterslide park to make for a fun summer day jaunt, but when my brother and I were children it was as if someone had set up carnival rides and giant plywood figurines in their sizable backyard, started charging admission. The whole thing revolved around a big fiberglass slide that you rode while sitting on burlap bags. Not at all trailer trashy in the slightest…
I looked at the website to see how things had changed at the ol’ EV as the kids are calling it (they’re not). It looks like they have added some “exciting” new rides, and have written into their website exciting new description of said rides. I got the impression that EV’s web guru got sick of wading through delusion when describing The Scrambler.
The Scrambler by the way is one of those rides that you can find at most county fair/carnivals. It looks like:
The description of the ride on the EV website asks us to:
Enjoy the exciting thrills on this circular motion, back-and-forth journey.
Back and forth journey… There’s a “your mom” joke in there dying to get out.
I have to get back to work, and as I don’t have a good or clever way to end this, I want to share a quick thought about the Zipper ride.
I have never actually been on this ride, and not for any sort of fear for life or limb, but because this thing is apparently a vomit manufacturer. Anytime that I have been to a county fair or carnival and there is one of these, invariably, some irritated attendant is hosing down one of the cars and ridding it of the pungent combination of cotton candy and bile.
Long live carnival rides! And thanks for stopping by R&R, I miss you guys. It was good seeing you!
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: Happy Birthday, you’re 8 kinds of sexy – mostly because you were eight when I saw Depeche Mode live at the Rose Bowl.
My brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their two young daughters were staying with us this weekend. It was great to see Rog and Reena again (it had literally been years) and to finally meet my beautiful nieces and watch my son manhandle said nieces. There was a lot of talk about Southern California life over beers and bourbon and a chilled bottle of limoncello. And while none of this talk revolved around amusement parks, that is what had come out after I let thoughts and conversations steep in a steaming cup of sleep deprivation sweaty summer evenings.
So that’s what you get…
Also, side note, side bar, hush hush side to side… I am remembering at this very moment an idea for a short novel about an amusement park. I should really get on that. Moving on…
Knott’s Berry Farm filled my mind this morning. Knott’s Berry Farm is an Orange County institution. Knott’s Berry Farm is like the malformed and socially inept younger sibling to Disneyland that should be locked away in a basement room, but is instead let out into the general public by well meaning parents. If the world were right, there would be a made for TV movie where Knott’s Berry Farm escaped from its home prison cell to murder the pretty amusement parks like Disneyland and Magic Mountain; maybe the cops would arrive to some dingy torture pit just in time to save a shapely water park…
Knott’s Berry Farm is, as I remember it, much like a county fair that never packs up. There is an infestation of gaming booths where you can win stuffed Snoopy dolls, there are shops to buy jellies and jams, and there was one major ride; Montezooma’s Revenge! Montezooma’s Revenge was a roller coaster that shot you through one (count it, one) loop before sending you back through said loop backwards. It was probably king shit of roller coasters back in the day, but pretty lame when you take a minute to compare the mild amusement to the hour plus in line.
This also got me thinking about other misguided uses for the misguided term “amusement park”. Up in this neck of the woods, where fairly inclement weather keeps most Disney knock offs at bay, there was and is the Enchanted Village. The Enchanted Village is now connected to a waterslide park to make for a fun summer day jaunt, but when my brother and I were children it was as if someone had set up carnival rides and giant plywood figurines in their sizable backyard, started charging admission. The whole thing revolved around a big fiberglass slide that you rode while sitting on burlap bags. Not at all trailer trashy in the slightest…
I looked at the website to see how things had changed at the ol’ EV as the kids are calling it (they’re not). It looks like they have added some “exciting” new rides, and have written into their website exciting new description of said rides. I got the impression that EV’s web guru got sick of wading through delusion when describing The Scrambler.
The Scrambler by the way is one of those rides that you can find at most county fair/carnivals. It looks like:
The description of the ride on the EV website asks us to:
Enjoy the exciting thrills on this circular motion, back-and-forth journey.
Back and forth journey… There’s a “your mom” joke in there dying to get out.
I have to get back to work, and as I don’t have a good or clever way to end this, I want to share a quick thought about the Zipper ride.
I have never actually been on this ride, and not for any sort of fear for life or limb, but because this thing is apparently a vomit manufacturer. Anytime that I have been to a county fair or carnival and there is one of these, invariably, some irritated attendant is hosing down one of the cars and ridding it of the pungent combination of cotton candy and bile.
Long live carnival rides! And thanks for stopping by R&R, I miss you guys. It was good seeing you!
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: Happy Birthday, you’re 8 kinds of sexy – mostly because you were eight when I saw Depeche Mode live at the Rose Bowl.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Childish Questions
I had other ideas to write about; the battle at work with a coworker, camping, the nonstop barrage of illegal Chinese fireworks outside my house on Friday night… There’s even this Kenneth Anger piece I’m tossing around for kc!. But…
Round abouts 11 on Saturday night, Kickers woke up screaming his face off. This one wasn’t that sort of exploratory, “hey I’m crying – sorta” sound that he will occasionally make before dropping off again, something was not working out well for him. I went in his room, and on entering he quieted down a bit. I put my hand on his back and he seemed to drop off, but as soon as I started to leave he would kick up his screaming fit again.
I finally picked him up and took him out to the dark living room to lie on the couch together. He immediately poked his head up to check the street for passing busses, but I whispered for him to lay down and he did. He whispered “dada”, grabbed gently at my face and slowly sank back into sleep.
I laid there with him, listening to him mumble his musical language as he faded, feeling those impossibly little fingers stroke my face slower and slower, and suddenly the lack of importance in most anything else shone like a neon X-Ray.
How do you hold onto that feeling of peace, that clarity of calm? How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it? How is there still this unending drive for power, for destruction of ANYONE? How does the president sleep? How is it that the only interaction I’ve heard with the neighbor woman and her beautiful little girls is through yelling?
How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it?
Sure, words are easy and clumsy and dangerous. How is it that sitting here at my desk I’m 8 kinds of wrapped up in work bullshit? How is it that I have to close my eyes and block out the sounds around me to even have a slight impression of those fingers on my face, the sound of his language of the universe, the smell of his hair? It’s because everything beautiful and magical is fragile.
I want to lock it inside of myself like some biological compass, some blinding legend. I wonder if my father remembers this…
Round abouts 11 on Saturday night, Kickers woke up screaming his face off. This one wasn’t that sort of exploratory, “hey I’m crying – sorta” sound that he will occasionally make before dropping off again, something was not working out well for him. I went in his room, and on entering he quieted down a bit. I put my hand on his back and he seemed to drop off, but as soon as I started to leave he would kick up his screaming fit again.
I finally picked him up and took him out to the dark living room to lie on the couch together. He immediately poked his head up to check the street for passing busses, but I whispered for him to lay down and he did. He whispered “dada”, grabbed gently at my face and slowly sank back into sleep.
I laid there with him, listening to him mumble his musical language as he faded, feeling those impossibly little fingers stroke my face slower and slower, and suddenly the lack of importance in most anything else shone like a neon X-Ray.
How do you hold onto that feeling of peace, that clarity of calm? How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it? How is there still this unending drive for power, for destruction of ANYONE? How does the president sleep? How is it that the only interaction I’ve heard with the neighbor woman and her beautiful little girls is through yelling?
How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it?
Sure, words are easy and clumsy and dangerous. How is it that sitting here at my desk I’m 8 kinds of wrapped up in work bullshit? How is it that I have to close my eyes and block out the sounds around me to even have a slight impression of those fingers on my face, the sound of his language of the universe, the smell of his hair? It’s because everything beautiful and magical is fragile.
I want to lock it inside of myself like some biological compass, some blinding legend. I wonder if my father remembers this…
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