"Once I learn how, I'm totahlly gonna have like a ladies poe-ker nahyite." She says it with conviction, but with that obnoxious high-voiced fucking vocal fry thing. You heard it here first: I am prejudiced against your shitty voice.
"No you're not," he says loudly, and runs his fingers through his hair. I feel obligated to call it a lustrous mane.
"Yes I ahm! I totally ahm."
"Really? You're serious?" He flashes impossibly whitened teeth. "What are you guys going to play? Ladies' blackjack?"
"No. Real poker. Like, just, Tehcksaahs Hold 'em..." I decide that she probably has a very, very small nose. I turn and stare. She does.
Laughter. Teeth. He throws back his head and his hair billows. But we are inside. How did he do that? Do rich people know about something we don't? Can you get tiny air vents full of sunshine implanted in your head that make your hair ripple and glow? This wouldn't surprise me. Must do research.
He speaks. "Just Texas Hold 'em? Just like, the hardest poker game ever? Yeah, I'll bet."
"No, wehll, yeah. You know. It'll just be like, light and easy poker, you know, for girls." But she says 'girls' with a multi-syllabic high Kardashian squawk. I cannot believe she is a real person. I cannot believe she is a real person and people can listen to her speaking without smacking her. I cannot believe she missed out on a pun of gold when he finished his last sentence with 'bet.'
He is shuffling through boxes of donations. "Oh right, because, I mean, I was going to say...there is no way you can get a group of girls together that can play Texas Hold 'em." Tape rips. A box is opened. "Oh! Lulu Lemon! Lulu Lemon is like, the female staple. Lulu Lemon is to women like Halo is to men."
...
1) It should be noted that I don't know what the fuck Lulu Lemon is.
2) It should also be noted that this morning I discovered he means Halo the salon, and not the video game. Hair mystery solved.
3) It should subsequently additionally be noted that WHO THE FUCK GETS EXCITED about something called "Lulu Lemon"?
...
Showing posts with label SCIENCE. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SCIENCE. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Air and Water Show
I find a clockmaker online and walk over there on my lunch break. I haven't worn my watch since one of the links broke. Which is odd to begin with, because I never wore a wristwatch at all, really. Not until this year.
But I walk over there and this sign said 'fifteen minutes' which is an asinine thing for a clockmaker's sign to read. Fifteen minutes from when, exactly? For someone who specializes in the precise measurement of time, your vagueness astounds me.
So I buy some Jalapeno Cheetos and decided to watch the Air and Water Show from Daley Plaza. There's a homeless man carrying a gallon of water. If I were homeless, I would save up all year to buy an airhorn and a squirt bottle, and the weekend of the Air and Water show I would run up to tourists and blow the horn and squirt them with water and yell, "I'M THE MOTHERFUCKING AIR AND WATER SHOW, BITCH" and run away laughing and it would be hilarious.
I start laughing to myself, reinforcing the hilarity, and then this woman is plowed down by a car. It drives away.
Now, I've been in situations like this before. There are several things I could do. I could run over there and join the crowd of people surrounding this poor woman, yelling to see if she's okay, this poor woman who is lying face down in the middle of the street with her summer dress hiked up around her waist, and we can all see her Spanx and her varicose veins and her shattered high heel shoe. I could crowd around her with all of those people standing in a slowly growing half circle, and stare at her and ask everyone what to do, what happened, did someone call an ambulance. I could do that.
But there are other people doing that. More and more people are doing that every second.
So I rip open my Jalapeno Cheetos and walk into the middle of the street, blocking her from the cars honking by. She hasn't moved yet, and a woman on the sidewalk yells about being an RN and takes control of the situation. I keep my back to them and start popping Cheetos and look up at the sky. I can hear the planes, but I can't see them at all.
The nurse yells at me. "Excuse me? Excuse me? What are you doing?"
I turn, and look at her, mouthful of Cheetos. "Arm brocking va kers frm hervin her."
"What?"
I swallow. "I'm blocking the cars from hitting her. And trying to keep people from staring."
"Well, you're in the way."
I look at her, and laugh. "Yes I am. That's kind of the idea." There is no way I'm going to explain that I'm trying to prevent this woman from getting scrutinized and oggled to a nurse, who has more important things on her mind. I hold out the bag of Cheetos as a peace offering. "Sorry. I'm just trying to keep the Air and Water sightseeing down to a minimum."
The woman on the ground turns her head towards me. "Thank you," she says.
"You're very welcome. Would you like a Jalapeno Cheeto?"
...
But I walk over there and this sign said 'fifteen minutes' which is an asinine thing for a clockmaker's sign to read. Fifteen minutes from when, exactly? For someone who specializes in the precise measurement of time, your vagueness astounds me.
So I buy some Jalapeno Cheetos and decided to watch the Air and Water Show from Daley Plaza. There's a homeless man carrying a gallon of water. If I were homeless, I would save up all year to buy an airhorn and a squirt bottle, and the weekend of the Air and Water show I would run up to tourists and blow the horn and squirt them with water and yell, "I'M THE MOTHERFUCKING AIR AND WATER SHOW, BITCH" and run away laughing and it would be hilarious.
I start laughing to myself, reinforcing the hilarity, and then this woman is plowed down by a car. It drives away.
Now, I've been in situations like this before. There are several things I could do. I could run over there and join the crowd of people surrounding this poor woman, yelling to see if she's okay, this poor woman who is lying face down in the middle of the street with her summer dress hiked up around her waist, and we can all see her Spanx and her varicose veins and her shattered high heel shoe. I could crowd around her with all of those people standing in a slowly growing half circle, and stare at her and ask everyone what to do, what happened, did someone call an ambulance. I could do that.
But there are other people doing that. More and more people are doing that every second.
So I rip open my Jalapeno Cheetos and walk into the middle of the street, blocking her from the cars honking by. She hasn't moved yet, and a woman on the sidewalk yells about being an RN and takes control of the situation. I keep my back to them and start popping Cheetos and look up at the sky. I can hear the planes, but I can't see them at all.
The nurse yells at me. "Excuse me? Excuse me? What are you doing?"
I turn, and look at her, mouthful of Cheetos. "Arm brocking va kers frm hervin her."
"What?"
I swallow. "I'm blocking the cars from hitting her. And trying to keep people from staring."
"Well, you're in the way."
I look at her, and laugh. "Yes I am. That's kind of the idea." There is no way I'm going to explain that I'm trying to prevent this woman from getting scrutinized and oggled to a nurse, who has more important things on her mind. I hold out the bag of Cheetos as a peace offering. "Sorry. I'm just trying to keep the Air and Water sightseeing down to a minimum."
The woman on the ground turns her head towards me. "Thank you," she says.
"You're very welcome. Would you like a Jalapeno Cheeto?"
...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
In Hopes of a Snow Day, Here is a Blog Post.
I just got finished shoveling the sidewalk in front of my apartment complex because I am (a) selfless and (b) a philanthropist. MoLinder actually gave me the idea when she talked about how she was thinking about being a good samaritan and shoveling tonight, and I reminded her that she's from San Diego and shoveling a foot of snow is like preparing for trench warfare. She still did it, though, which means she's a winner, and then I hauled another round six hours later.
Everyone who knows anything about snow knows that the best way to shovel is frequently and slightly drunk, so I jumped on that shit. Not the drunk part. Don't get me wrong, LOST was on tonight, and it's veritably absurd to watch that show without beer unless there are wagons and twelve-step programs involved. I believe, and I could be wrong, but I believe it's actually a law. Whatever, pre-shoveling involved driving so I didn't get drunk, due to wisdom and responsibility.
Topic at hand: I need a new template, like, yesterday. So I've decided to enlist the help of everyone who bothers to read this.
I want a header image. I'm thinking something like a dirty-ass dive bar, one where they only bother to clean the tapper and pint glasses because really, nothing is more important than the beer. I drew one awhile ago and never bothered to put it up, and now I'm sick of it. I keep on opening the file and growling at myself out of consternation.
You know when you google images of dive bars and there are always pictures of spotless pubs that fucking wish they were shady? I dislike that.
Basically, help. Please. Sugar and stuff. All template ideas are welcome, but actual submissions earn more points and appreciation.
But the most important thing is this: whoever gives me the best concept will win a prize, which could range from a shitty poem to a fucking robot, depending on how much money I get in my next pay check. Granted, your robot would probably be a two-gallon bucket with some hot-glued pipe cleaner googly-eyes jammed on top of a toy remote control monster truck, but still very cool, right? Robot?
(Note: the poem is more likely)
Also, Chris from Letters: your drawing will be up shortly. I apologize for the wait, but work is eating me alive.
...
Everyone who knows anything about snow knows that the best way to shovel is frequently and slightly drunk, so I jumped on that shit. Not the drunk part. Don't get me wrong, LOST was on tonight, and it's veritably absurd to watch that show without beer unless there are wagons and twelve-step programs involved. I believe, and I could be wrong, but I believe it's actually a law. Whatever, pre-shoveling involved driving so I didn't get drunk, due to wisdom and responsibility.
Topic at hand: I need a new template, like, yesterday. So I've decided to enlist the help of everyone who bothers to read this.
I want a header image. I'm thinking something like a dirty-ass dive bar, one where they only bother to clean the tapper and pint glasses because really, nothing is more important than the beer. I drew one awhile ago and never bothered to put it up, and now I'm sick of it. I keep on opening the file and growling at myself out of consternation.
You know when you google images of dive bars and there are always pictures of spotless pubs that fucking wish they were shady? I dislike that.
Basically, help. Please. Sugar and stuff. All template ideas are welcome, but actual submissions earn more points and appreciation.
But the most important thing is this: whoever gives me the best concept will win a prize, which could range from a shitty poem to a fucking robot, depending on how much money I get in my next pay check. Granted, your robot would probably be a two-gallon bucket with some hot-glued pipe cleaner googly-eyes jammed on top of a toy remote control monster truck, but still very cool, right? Robot?
(Note: the poem is more likely)
Also, Chris from Letters: your drawing will be up shortly. I apologize for the wait, but work is eating me alive.
...
Monday, November 9, 2009
Over-Analyzing Trivial Business
"Sister, you are about to become frighteningly jealous of my everyday life," Katsisch sneers.
"Lay it on me."
"So at work a couple of the guys play this game where they make top five movie lists like, favorite sci-fi, favorite westerns, favorite space movies," she drags out the sentence as much as possible, "favorite black and white movies created in the color era."
"I hate you so hard right now."
"I told them that you would be basically infatuated with the game."
"Please tell me you're playing."
"They totally let me play. I'm the only girl that they'll let play. And they think girls are stupid because we don't know movies," and of course my feminist buzzer starts ringing in my head, because those guys sound like a bunch of bullshit sexist fuckheads and I want nothing more than to aggressively prove that I know more shit than they do, and they will be seduced by my knowledge, charm, and natural hilarity, and then everyone falls in love with me because I am The Ideal Woman. "But that's really because no other girls want to play."
"Why would anyone choose to not play this game? Are people crazy? How do you win? Can I play via interweb or something because I like have to?"
"I told them that you would kick their ass at any and all trivial movie-related activities."
"Don't tell people shit like that man, because then when I make a mistake it's a waaaaaaay bigger deal."
"It's not like you're ever going to meet them."
"True, Sister." And then they will never know that they are in love with me. So much for my plan. "So give me one."
"A list?"
"Fuck yeah, give me one."
"Top five sci-fi."
"What kind of sci-fi?"
"Like...?"
"Like time travel? Or like aliens or space or technology or are you looking for all-encompassing science fiction?"
"I have no idea. Aliens."
"In outer space, on Earth, or both?"
"Space is not a requirement. You just gave me like seven more categories for the game."
"We must be specific. I take this shit seriously. Favorites or best?"
"Favorites."
"Flight of the Navigator, Alien..." I pause, for a few seconds, gazing in thought. "I need more time."
"In general we choose the category in the morning and hold court over lunch, so during the actual game you would have four hours."
"Maybe Repo Man."
"How have you not listed Star Wars yet?"
"Dude, I need more time. There are just so many. The Last Starfighter. Star Trek (lady boner). Starship Troopers. Basically anything with 'star' in the title."
"Five and only five."
"Evolution. Muppets In Space."
"Now you're just naming movies for the sake of proving you know the names of a bunch of movies."
"Okay, well maybe not Muppets In Space, but Evolution for sure."
"You're going to write a blog about this, aren't you?"
"Prolly."
"You are such a dork. Nobody cares about your blog."
"It's not like I walk around introducing myself as a Blogging Extraordinaire. I don't even like telling people about it."
"You talk about it all the time."
"You brought it up, you sneaky bastard. Plus sometimes you know, it's like I want to tell a story, but I don't know if the person I'm talking to has already read something I wrote and I'm just repeating myself like a jackass. So I gotta start half of my conversations with, 'Did you read my blog about fucking whatever' and move on from there."
"You just want everyone to read it. I'll bet you tell people about it at bars."
"I sure fucking don't. I'm embarrassed by it. I hate it when strangers find out I have a blog, because then a friend says, 'oh you have to read her blog she's so funny' and then people are like, 'what do you write about' and I'm like 'ummm...things I think are funny.' Because I don't want to talk about my inadequacies, and then I have 'funny' to live up to. So I have to mock myself incessantly until I'm comfortable, which makes other people uncomfortable. So basically my blog is a platform of insecurity and validation and a place for me to over-analyze stuff."
She stares at me. "Why don't you just stop over-analyzing?"
"If you stop breathing, does that make the thought of breath irrelevant?"
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Okay, just because I stop over-analyzing stuff doesn't mean I'm not going to crave over-analyzing stuff, and then I'm going to over-analyze my over-analytical nature. I've been like this for twenty-eight years, it's not like it started yesterday."
"Whatever. Just be clear about this: I was right, and you were wrong."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's Muppets FROM Space, and you said Muppets IN Space. HA! I WIN! I AM SOOOO BETTER THAN YOU!"
"Shut up."
...
"Lay it on me."
"So at work a couple of the guys play this game where they make top five movie lists like, favorite sci-fi, favorite westerns, favorite space movies," she drags out the sentence as much as possible, "favorite black and white movies created in the color era."
"I hate you so hard right now."
"I told them that you would be basically infatuated with the game."
"Please tell me you're playing."
"They totally let me play. I'm the only girl that they'll let play. And they think girls are stupid because we don't know movies," and of course my feminist buzzer starts ringing in my head, because those guys sound like a bunch of bullshit sexist fuckheads and I want nothing more than to aggressively prove that I know more shit than they do, and they will be seduced by my knowledge, charm, and natural hilarity, and then everyone falls in love with me because I am The Ideal Woman. "But that's really because no other girls want to play."
"Why would anyone choose to not play this game? Are people crazy? How do you win? Can I play via interweb or something because I like have to?"
"I told them that you would kick their ass at any and all trivial movie-related activities."
"Don't tell people shit like that man, because then when I make a mistake it's a waaaaaaay bigger deal."
"It's not like you're ever going to meet them."
"True, Sister." And then they will never know that they are in love with me. So much for my plan. "So give me one."
"A list?"
"Fuck yeah, give me one."
"Top five sci-fi."
"What kind of sci-fi?"
"Like...?"
"Like time travel? Or like aliens or space or technology or are you looking for all-encompassing science fiction?"
"I have no idea. Aliens."
"In outer space, on Earth, or both?"
"Space is not a requirement. You just gave me like seven more categories for the game."
"We must be specific. I take this shit seriously. Favorites or best?"
"Favorites."
"Flight of the Navigator, Alien..." I pause, for a few seconds, gazing in thought. "I need more time."
"In general we choose the category in the morning and hold court over lunch, so during the actual game you would have four hours."
"Maybe Repo Man."
"How have you not listed Star Wars yet?"
"Dude, I need more time. There are just so many. The Last Starfighter. Star Trek (lady boner). Starship Troopers. Basically anything with 'star' in the title."
"Five and only five."
"Evolution. Muppets In Space."
"Now you're just naming movies for the sake of proving you know the names of a bunch of movies."
"Okay, well maybe not Muppets In Space, but Evolution for sure."
"You're going to write a blog about this, aren't you?"
"Prolly."
"You are such a dork. Nobody cares about your blog."
"It's not like I walk around introducing myself as a Blogging Extraordinaire. I don't even like telling people about it."
"You talk about it all the time."
"You brought it up, you sneaky bastard. Plus sometimes you know, it's like I want to tell a story, but I don't know if the person I'm talking to has already read something I wrote and I'm just repeating myself like a jackass. So I gotta start half of my conversations with, 'Did you read my blog about fucking whatever' and move on from there."
"You just want everyone to read it. I'll bet you tell people about it at bars."
"I sure fucking don't. I'm embarrassed by it. I hate it when strangers find out I have a blog, because then a friend says, 'oh you have to read her blog she's so funny' and then people are like, 'what do you write about' and I'm like 'ummm...things I think are funny.' Because I don't want to talk about my inadequacies, and then I have 'funny' to live up to. So I have to mock myself incessantly until I'm comfortable, which makes other people uncomfortable. So basically my blog is a platform of insecurity and validation and a place for me to over-analyze stuff."
She stares at me. "Why don't you just stop over-analyzing?"
"If you stop breathing, does that make the thought of breath irrelevant?"
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Okay, just because I stop over-analyzing stuff doesn't mean I'm not going to crave over-analyzing stuff, and then I'm going to over-analyze my over-analytical nature. I've been like this for twenty-eight years, it's not like it started yesterday."
"Whatever. Just be clear about this: I was right, and you were wrong."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's Muppets FROM Space, and you said Muppets IN Space. HA! I WIN! I AM SOOOO BETTER THAN YOU!"
"Shut up."
...
Friday, September 25, 2009
Spontaneous (Something Intelligent and Relevant)
This was inspired by Rachel over at Diary of Why. I was going to leave her a comment, and then I realized that I wasn't talking to her. I was talking to myself. Therefore, it became a blog entry.
I'm going to offer some unsolicited advice. Personally, I hate getting advice, because I feel like people are just telling me shit I already know. The only advice worth hearing, in my head, is the stuff that feels like religion and math and blood, and so few are able to appeal to all three of those things, as much as they might try.
But being me, one who embodies hypocrisy and embraces with zeal, here's my advice, to anyone who wants it. But mostly, I say this to myself:
I don't believe in destiny or karmic retribution, and I sure ain't no precog, so I can't offer reassurance that “things” will get better, although I hope they do.
I don’t see any evidence that your life is so bad, so unsuccessful. Your life, my life, our lives.
You know what’s easy to change, and completely free, and only requires action on your part and no one else? Your mind. Just change your mind about the definition and degree of success.
Because success can't be measured; this isn’t the fucking metric system. There can’t be a standardized scale to grade something so multidimensional.
It’s actually impossible. I promise. Stephen Hawking couldn’t do it. Go ahead and ask him. Call him up and say, "Hello Stephen Hawking, how do we measure success?" and then Stephen Hawking will generate a big "ummmm" with his vocal synthesizer, because let's face it: Stephen Hawking totally doesn't know. And if Stephen Hawking can't measure it, then...okay, you know when people discover dinosaurs and name them after themselves? Stephen Hawking discovered the theoretical collected radiation of subatomic black hole particles and named those fucking things after himself. And he uses that to figure out how to measure the gravitation of one thing to another, which is the only consistent type of interaction between every single thing that exists in the universe. Ever.
To put it another way, for all of you Christians out there: Stephen Hawking is theorizing how to measure the effect of God.
His job is to discover how to measure ridiculous shit. That is all he does.
So if Stephen Hawking can't measure something like success, well...fucking no one can.
Because success isn't theoretical physics. Success unraveled is legacy and happiness, and both of those are built up by time, love, energy, audience, failure, contribution, risk, and most importantly, the reactions to all of those factors that filter through your own brain. So, to be considered a success, here is what you need to do:
Do not listen to me. I make shit up as I go along.
...
I'm going to offer some unsolicited advice. Personally, I hate getting advice, because I feel like people are just telling me shit I already know. The only advice worth hearing, in my head, is the stuff that feels like religion and math and blood, and so few are able to appeal to all three of those things, as much as they might try.
But being me, one who embodies hypocrisy and embraces with zeal, here's my advice, to anyone who wants it. But mostly, I say this to myself:
I don't believe in destiny or karmic retribution, and I sure ain't no precog, so I can't offer reassurance that “things” will get better, although I hope they do.
I don’t see any evidence that your life is so bad, so unsuccessful. Your life, my life, our lives.
You know what’s easy to change, and completely free, and only requires action on your part and no one else? Your mind. Just change your mind about the definition and degree of success.
Because success can't be measured; this isn’t the fucking metric system. There can’t be a standardized scale to grade something so multidimensional.
It’s actually impossible. I promise. Stephen Hawking couldn’t do it. Go ahead and ask him. Call him up and say, "Hello Stephen Hawking, how do we measure success?" and then Stephen Hawking will generate a big "ummmm" with his vocal synthesizer, because let's face it: Stephen Hawking totally doesn't know. And if Stephen Hawking can't measure it, then...okay, you know when people discover dinosaurs and name them after themselves? Stephen Hawking discovered the theoretical collected radiation of subatomic black hole particles and named those fucking things after himself. And he uses that to figure out how to measure the gravitation of one thing to another, which is the only consistent type of interaction between every single thing that exists in the universe. Ever.
To put it another way, for all of you Christians out there: Stephen Hawking is theorizing how to measure the effect of God.
His job is to discover how to measure ridiculous shit. That is all he does.
So if Stephen Hawking can't measure something like success, well...fucking no one can.
Because success isn't theoretical physics. Success unraveled is legacy and happiness, and both of those are built up by time, love, energy, audience, failure, contribution, risk, and most importantly, the reactions to all of those factors that filter through your own brain. So, to be considered a success, here is what you need to do:
Do not listen to me. I make shit up as I go along.
...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Proof That I'm Immature and a Total Nerd
I don't know if you've heard, because this is like, hot off the press business, but last night a new trend hit the streets. Nevermind, of course you haven't heard yet, because I invented it due to my massive Awesome. I start trends and stuff like every day.
So it's not really a trend so much as a stupid fucking nerd game that I'm playing with myself, but whatever. You are going to love it. Or perhaps, this will be a turning point on my blog, where everyone realizes that I am completely and totally full of shit and a waste of space and time, atmospherically, dimensionally, and interwebically.
Whatever. Any statement I put forth must be regarded as fact. This is predicated almost entirely by my infallible insight, obsession with Harry Potter, and a deep, unrivaled understanding of American History. And because I just finished watching the HBO John Adams miniseries which basically makes me a Fucking Expert In Everything.
I've spent the past twelve hours figuratively placing former US presidents in Hogwarts Houses.
It. Is. Way. Fun.
But if you lack that rumbling, volcanic desire the place every single person you meet in personality and social categories, you probably don't give a shit. But I do that. I'm like the human Sorting Hat. I meet you, and within my brain you are immediately assigned a color, an animal personality, a Hogwarts House, a walk song. A smell. Then everyone is filed and cross-referenced. In my brain.
Apparently, I like saying "brain."
For example, let's take Schmee. Violet, sea lion, Hufflepuff, "Rio" by Duran Duran, and giggles. She is also very shiny. Yeah, Schmee, you smell and sound like giggles. Get over it.
Sometimes, people get confused and offended when I talk about how they smell and sound, so I don't do that anymore. Except around M.E., she gets it. Because it's not like, "Hey, you smell like garlic, did you eat spaghetti?" it's like, "You sound blue-ish, but not in a sad way, in a color way" and then I have to explain what blue sounds like, and do you know how hard that is? It looks like how cilantro and secrets smell, and tennis balls and just-about-to-snow. Sometimes people sound like colors that are unscented, and there's nothing I can do about it.
Task at hand: Presidents and Hogwarts Houses. Essentially, this is the most fun my head has had in weeks.
So like, Obama, Jefferson? Bush the first? Ravenclaw.
Both Roosevelts? Truman? Andrew Jackson? Gryffindor. (Now, now, I know we don't all like Jackson for that shit he pulled with the Trail of Tears, but if we're going to base all of our presidents' valor and bravery off of how they treated the Native Americans, every single president up until Carter...okay, every. single. president. would be considered evil).
Nixon? McKinley? Clinton? Slytherin.
Reagan? Polk? Ford? Hufflepuff.
Awwwwww yeah. I got shit down. I am one cool motherfucker. Self-high-five.
...
So it's not really a trend so much as a stupid fucking nerd game that I'm playing with myself, but whatever. You are going to love it. Or perhaps, this will be a turning point on my blog, where everyone realizes that I am completely and totally full of shit and a waste of space and time, atmospherically, dimensionally, and interwebically.
Whatever. Any statement I put forth must be regarded as fact. This is predicated almost entirely by my infallible insight, obsession with Harry Potter, and a deep, unrivaled understanding of American History. And because I just finished watching the HBO John Adams miniseries which basically makes me a Fucking Expert In Everything.
I've spent the past twelve hours figuratively placing former US presidents in Hogwarts Houses.
It. Is. Way. Fun.
But if you lack that rumbling, volcanic desire the place every single person you meet in personality and social categories, you probably don't give a shit. But I do that. I'm like the human Sorting Hat. I meet you, and within my brain you are immediately assigned a color, an animal personality, a Hogwarts House, a walk song. A smell. Then everyone is filed and cross-referenced. In my brain.
Apparently, I like saying "brain."
For example, let's take Schmee. Violet, sea lion, Hufflepuff, "Rio" by Duran Duran, and giggles. She is also very shiny. Yeah, Schmee, you smell and sound like giggles. Get over it.
Sometimes, people get confused and offended when I talk about how they smell and sound, so I don't do that anymore. Except around M.E., she gets it. Because it's not like, "Hey, you smell like garlic, did you eat spaghetti?" it's like, "You sound blue-ish, but not in a sad way, in a color way" and then I have to explain what blue sounds like, and do you know how hard that is? It looks like how cilantro and secrets smell, and tennis balls and just-about-to-snow. Sometimes people sound like colors that are unscented, and there's nothing I can do about it.
Task at hand: Presidents and Hogwarts Houses. Essentially, this is the most fun my head has had in weeks.
So like, Obama, Jefferson? Bush the first? Ravenclaw.
Both Roosevelts? Truman? Andrew Jackson? Gryffindor. (Now, now, I know we don't all like Jackson for that shit he pulled with the Trail of Tears, but if we're going to base all of our presidents' valor and bravery off of how they treated the Native Americans, every single president up until Carter...okay, every. single. president. would be considered evil).
Nixon? McKinley? Clinton? Slytherin.
Reagan? Polk? Ford? Hufflepuff.
Awwwwww yeah. I got shit down. I am one cool motherfucker. Self-high-five.
...
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Psychological Warfare
For Fat Tuesday, Gyna finds out about a bar with $3 liters of something that sounds delicious. We leave right after work and take Bowser dze German, who introduces us to his friend Philip, who is also from Germany and visiting Chicago.
"So how did you like the Field Museum?" I ask after a few. I am a Member of the Field Museum, which means I have a fancy tote bag and my name on a bunch of mailing lists.
"It was nothing. It was crap," Philip shrugs.
"What?" I bug out at Gyna.
"I know, I told them to get Mold-A-Rama dinosaurs and everything.”
“The whole thing was a little Discovery Channel," Bowser laughs.
“Exactly. That’s why it’s awesome,” I mutter. Philip looks at me and mouths egzakilty? I nod.
“Ja, egzaktily, with the gift shop and Sue dollies,” he mocks. “Tell us where we find out about dze real American dinosaurs. Wie sagt, ah, intelligent design and wonderful nonsense."
“Oooooo, like the Creation Museum." Gyna raises her eyebrows.
"Egzaktily! There is one?"
"In Kentucky,” I explain. “I went last year, and it is hilarious. They hate Darwin because he’s the devil. And they murder lambs like over and over and they have their own Garden of Eden and the guards have rifles and it’s goddamn wicked ridiculous."
"It is good? Are you a Creation…nista?”
“No, but I also don’t believe in talking mouses, and I—“
“Mice,” Gyna and Bowser correct me, grinning. Simpatico, those two.
“What? What did I say?”
“Mouses. You said mouses.”
“Yeah, well. Mice. Whatever, I would go to Disneyland tomorrow if I had the funds. Oh! And they have hip archangels who wear drug rugs and sunglasses and talk like they’re from California and talk about how science is wack and Jesus is your homeboy.”
"Well, that is what I want to do then." Philip turns to Bowser. "We will go tomorrow?"
"I can't. I have work."
"But it is so...America. Christians...und, and...and guns! Don’t be wack."
"I want to go, but I leave for Houston tomorrow," Gyna whimpers.
There's a slim needle of silence. The last time I went to the Creation Museum I caught a lot of atheistic hell for ‘supporting ignorance and everything that is wrong with America’ and ‘giving them money so they can teach our children mythology instead of science’ and I’m like, yeah, but, you know. Funny. "Fuck it. I got personal days. Let’s go.”
"You'll go? Really? Wickedawesome!"
"Ausgezeichnet!" I say, which is a German word I think I understand but really don’t.
We agree on a five-thirty am departure and slow down the beer before scattering home.
"I made a friend dzis morning when you were late with your car," Philip says at five-fifty-five, coiled with patience while I house my coffee.
"And how is that?”
"A young man came up to me, ja? and he said to draw my portrait. So I gave him ten US dollars."
"Dude. Schmuck."
"Schmuck? Schmuck. And yes, I know, I know, but it was such a nice portrait." He pulls a pencil sketch out of his jacket and shows it to me. It's horrible.
I laugh like a wrecking ball. “He gave you a ponytail.”
He smiles with pride. "Yes, well I now know I need haircut. I think it’s wickedawesome."
"It's on the back of an excel spreadsheet."
"Axel spredshit? Oh I know, I gave him dze, ah, the paper."
"And apparently ten dollars. You could have just given that to me, you know."
"I like to think dhat I pay for a story to relate."
Philip flicks the sentence aside with his odd translational English and admires his shitty portrait. I’m jealous. No young man ever asked to draw my portrait for ten US dollars, and I’m a nubile lady. A friend of mine has a face like a gently carved bolt of lightning, and artists are always trying to catch it on paper and hilariously failing. She isn’t a professional model or anything, just a breathing muse. But you can’t capture the shattering sincerity of lightning bolts without the right lens, yet they keep trying. Now I’m jealous of her too. Dammit.
We drive for a while. Kentucky is far from Chicago and we don’t have any directions, but I don’t think we need them since I read road maps when I’m in the bathroom. Perhaps maps would be more useful in the car. “If we hit Indianapolis, we’re going the right way. All the roads lead to Indianapolis.”
“Similar to Rome. I think that is wickedawesome,” Philip grins. “We will arrive.”
“Good. I don’t stop in Indiana, even for directions. People here keep bodies in their basements.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. Because I have unwarranted prejudice.”
“Why is that?”
“I think it’s the accent. There’s a soft, um, hostile—?” I glance at him and he nods—“pattern to speech here. As if people don’t trust you. It’s probably unintentional.”
“Are we driving between the Bible area of America? Perhaps they know you have so little respect for them."
“I guess. But we aren’t in the Bible Belt. Not right now.”
"Belt? As if for trousers? It supports what covers the sin—that’s intelligent. I wish we were.”
“We will arrive.”
Two hours in and I have to remind myself that I should not speak English like a river, but a light rain. I apologize to Philip about this but he thinks it's hilarious. I complain about Journey for like a bajillion minutes. After five hours and only one false exit all that quality bathroom time with maps proves worthwhile and we turn onto Bullittsburg Church Road where the museum lives.
Families scuttle around the parking lot like beetles, and the Creation Museum thrums dead center with the Garden of Eden dinosaur topiary rolling muddy and green beside it. Philip strolls towards the doors and opens them with flourishing reverence, on the cusp of jest, but only because I realize that doors should always be opened that way. I mean with honesty and zeal, never as a flippant remark on genuine excitement.
I watch him marvel as we walk the path through Genesis. There’s an alien alchemy to the Creation Museum, where bunnies and Velociraptors share honeycombs and drops of morning dew. I touch Philip’s shoulder and point to a red snake in the trees, glittering like a Chinese dragon while Adam and Eve bathe in a pool. I blush at their nakedness. Bearded Philip looks eerily like Naked Adam and I tell him so. Naked Adam is not necessarily a dreamboat, but it makes me picture Philip naked. I glance at his jaw. There is something about jaws, but not Philip’s jaw, which is good. Who needs a crush inspired by anatomically biblical mannequins and frivolous jawlines?
He snaps a picture of the exhibit. “A second portrait,” he explains.
I watch Philip as Adam and Eve slaughter a lamb on an altar for clothing, and study his curious face while Cain shadows over a bloody Abel. He thoughtfully regards the miniature model of Noah’s Ark where giraffes and horses and Brachiosauruseseses board the vessel in pairs.
I drag him to the flood diorama because it’s my favorite: scrappy, quarter-inch figures scramble on scarred rocks, wrestling bears and punting each other into the waxy, jagged sea. They’re determined to survive even after Noah didn’t pick them for his survivor team. I loiter for a while, memorizing their sins. “I just love how they try,” I say, and then turn to smile up at Philip, but he’s across the room.
Philip floats through it all, casual as a sonnet. He is here without a trace of irony, I realize. It makes me jealous again, so I counter these bursts of jealousy by repeatedly calling myself a stupid, jealous bitch and or telling myself to drop it. Like a dog. Drop it. Drop et. Humanity has come so far from the days of sharing honeycombs with Velociraptors. We hear drums in the distance, horror over the death of Christ and mourn for him. It is, after all, the greatest story ever told. In this building, and nowhere else, I want to believe. Only when I am here, I think, because they deserve that much. Science really can be used to verify a predetermined outcome. (No, it can’t.) But the museum is beautiful. We take lots of pictures.
“They don’t do, ah,” Philip makes the sign of the cross on his forehead, “Ash Wednesday.”
“No, Creationists think Catholicism is evil.” Up ahead, an animatronic prophet is writing ancient texts. “Are you Catholic?”
Philip sniffs. “Germany is very Catholic. And yes, we are evil. Remember the Holocaust? And Indiana Jones films?”
We stroll through the garden because that is how one is supposed to walk through gardens, stopping at the petting zoo to admire the zedonks and there’s a terrifying turkey thundering next to a camel. Philip pets a pig. I try to feed a wallaby but it runs away.
We decide to stop in Cincinnati for a bowl of chili and hit up a White Castle instead.
“White Castle,” I explain between bites, “Is the quintessential American food. It’s our entire cultural mindset packed into a square. I always want more White Castle, but in reality I don't need it. Ever. Because the idea of White Castle fundamentally opposes its physical manifestation – what we have is this. And then I have to pay the price for fantasy and indulgence. With my bowels."
“So...America makes you shit?" Philip winks. Why don’t people wink anymore?
I laugh, burning words. "No. No, not at all. But—yes. Because everything we love becomes shit. Because we smash it til it’s unrecognizable and then we mercilessly ridicule that which was once good until all that's left is poorly executed snark.”
"So...White Castle is snark?"
"I guess this has nothing to do with White Castle."
Later on Philip asks if we can stop in Indianapolis for a pair of Vans.
“What are you thinking?” I ask as we browse Shoe Carnival.
“I am thinking today was, ha, wickedawesome. I think when you come to Germany I know where I will take you, egzaktily.”
I've been given so much crap for supporting this museum just by paying to go there. But seriously, it's like Disney World, but with Jesus and dinosaurs and mass slaughter, and dead sheep are just lying all over the place. Completely macabre, like they're trying to scare you into agreement.
The propaganda tactics employed throughout the place are genius. Sometimes very, very subtle, and sometimes outright obvious. Every exhibit is designed with the distinct purpose of making non-believers feel guilty and the believers feel righteous. Perfectly constructed psychological warfare.
Although I believe that Creationism is firmly rooted in mythology, I believe even more strongly that people reserve the right to believe in what they want. So, I will support the Creation Museum, because no matter what, different mindsets are worth noting. In the end, it's just exciting and fun, like a Voodoo or Scientology museum, or watching Ghost Adventures.
...
"So how did you like the Field Museum?" I ask after a few. I am a Member of the Field Museum, which means I have a fancy tote bag and my name on a bunch of mailing lists.
"It was nothing. It was crap," Philip shrugs.
"What?" I bug out at Gyna.
"I know, I told them to get Mold-A-Rama dinosaurs and everything.”
“The whole thing was a little Discovery Channel," Bowser laughs.
“Exactly. That’s why it’s awesome,” I mutter. Philip looks at me and mouths egzakilty? I nod.
“Ja, egzaktily, with the gift shop and Sue dollies,” he mocks. “Tell us where we find out about dze real American dinosaurs. Wie sagt, ah, intelligent design and wonderful nonsense."
“Oooooo, like the Creation Museum." Gyna raises her eyebrows.
"Egzaktily! There is one?"
"In Kentucky,” I explain. “I went last year, and it is hilarious. They hate Darwin because he’s the devil. And they murder lambs like over and over and they have their own Garden of Eden and the guards have rifles and it’s goddamn wicked ridiculous."
"It is good? Are you a Creation…nista?”
“No, but I also don’t believe in talking mouses, and I—“
“Mice,” Gyna and Bowser correct me, grinning. Simpatico, those two.
“What? What did I say?”
“Mouses. You said mouses.”
“Yeah, well. Mice. Whatever, I would go to Disneyland tomorrow if I had the funds. Oh! And they have hip archangels who wear drug rugs and sunglasses and talk like they’re from California and talk about how science is wack and Jesus is your homeboy.”
"Well, that is what I want to do then." Philip turns to Bowser. "We will go tomorrow?"
"I can't. I have work."
"But it is so...America. Christians...und, and...and guns! Don’t be wack."
"I want to go, but I leave for Houston tomorrow," Gyna whimpers.
There's a slim needle of silence. The last time I went to the Creation Museum I caught a lot of atheistic hell for ‘supporting ignorance and everything that is wrong with America’ and ‘giving them money so they can teach our children mythology instead of science’ and I’m like, yeah, but, you know. Funny. "Fuck it. I got personal days. Let’s go.”
"You'll go? Really? Wickedawesome!"
"Ausgezeichnet!" I say, which is a German word I think I understand but really don’t.
We agree on a five-thirty am departure and slow down the beer before scattering home.
"I made a friend dzis morning when you were late with your car," Philip says at five-fifty-five, coiled with patience while I house my coffee.
"And how is that?”
"A young man came up to me, ja? and he said to draw my portrait. So I gave him ten US dollars."
"Dude. Schmuck."
"Schmuck? Schmuck. And yes, I know, I know, but it was such a nice portrait." He pulls a pencil sketch out of his jacket and shows it to me. It's horrible.
I laugh like a wrecking ball. “He gave you a ponytail.”
He smiles with pride. "Yes, well I now know I need haircut. I think it’s wickedawesome."
"It's on the back of an excel spreadsheet."
"Axel spredshit? Oh I know, I gave him dze, ah, the paper."
"And apparently ten dollars. You could have just given that to me, you know."
"I like to think dhat I pay for a story to relate."
Philip flicks the sentence aside with his odd translational English and admires his shitty portrait. I’m jealous. No young man ever asked to draw my portrait for ten US dollars, and I’m a nubile lady. A friend of mine has a face like a gently carved bolt of lightning, and artists are always trying to catch it on paper and hilariously failing. She isn’t a professional model or anything, just a breathing muse. But you can’t capture the shattering sincerity of lightning bolts without the right lens, yet they keep trying. Now I’m jealous of her too. Dammit.
We drive for a while. Kentucky is far from Chicago and we don’t have any directions, but I don’t think we need them since I read road maps when I’m in the bathroom. Perhaps maps would be more useful in the car. “If we hit Indianapolis, we’re going the right way. All the roads lead to Indianapolis.”
“Similar to Rome. I think that is wickedawesome,” Philip grins. “We will arrive.”
“Good. I don’t stop in Indiana, even for directions. People here keep bodies in their basements.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. Because I have unwarranted prejudice.”
“Why is that?”
“I think it’s the accent. There’s a soft, um, hostile—?” I glance at him and he nods—“pattern to speech here. As if people don’t trust you. It’s probably unintentional.”
“Are we driving between the Bible area of America? Perhaps they know you have so little respect for them."
“I guess. But we aren’t in the Bible Belt. Not right now.”
"Belt? As if for trousers? It supports what covers the sin—that’s intelligent. I wish we were.”
“We will arrive.”
Two hours in and I have to remind myself that I should not speak English like a river, but a light rain. I apologize to Philip about this but he thinks it's hilarious. I complain about Journey for like a bajillion minutes. After five hours and only one false exit all that quality bathroom time with maps proves worthwhile and we turn onto Bullittsburg Church Road where the museum lives.
Families scuttle around the parking lot like beetles, and the Creation Museum thrums dead center with the Garden of Eden dinosaur topiary rolling muddy and green beside it. Philip strolls towards the doors and opens them with flourishing reverence, on the cusp of jest, but only because I realize that doors should always be opened that way. I mean with honesty and zeal, never as a flippant remark on genuine excitement.
I watch him marvel as we walk the path through Genesis. There’s an alien alchemy to the Creation Museum, where bunnies and Velociraptors share honeycombs and drops of morning dew. I touch Philip’s shoulder and point to a red snake in the trees, glittering like a Chinese dragon while Adam and Eve bathe in a pool. I blush at their nakedness. Bearded Philip looks eerily like Naked Adam and I tell him so. Naked Adam is not necessarily a dreamboat, but it makes me picture Philip naked. I glance at his jaw. There is something about jaws, but not Philip’s jaw, which is good. Who needs a crush inspired by anatomically biblical mannequins and frivolous jawlines?
He snaps a picture of the exhibit. “A second portrait,” he explains.
I watch Philip as Adam and Eve slaughter a lamb on an altar for clothing, and study his curious face while Cain shadows over a bloody Abel. He thoughtfully regards the miniature model of Noah’s Ark where giraffes and horses and Brachiosauruseseses board the vessel in pairs.
I drag him to the flood diorama because it’s my favorite: scrappy, quarter-inch figures scramble on scarred rocks, wrestling bears and punting each other into the waxy, jagged sea. They’re determined to survive even after Noah didn’t pick them for his survivor team. I loiter for a while, memorizing their sins. “I just love how they try,” I say, and then turn to smile up at Philip, but he’s across the room.
Philip floats through it all, casual as a sonnet. He is here without a trace of irony, I realize. It makes me jealous again, so I counter these bursts of jealousy by repeatedly calling myself a stupid, jealous bitch and or telling myself to drop it. Like a dog. Drop it. Drop et. Humanity has come so far from the days of sharing honeycombs with Velociraptors. We hear drums in the distance, horror over the death of Christ and mourn for him. It is, after all, the greatest story ever told. In this building, and nowhere else, I want to believe. Only when I am here, I think, because they deserve that much. Science really can be used to verify a predetermined outcome. (No, it can’t.) But the museum is beautiful. We take lots of pictures.
“They don’t do, ah,” Philip makes the sign of the cross on his forehead, “Ash Wednesday.”
“No, Creationists think Catholicism is evil.” Up ahead, an animatronic prophet is writing ancient texts. “Are you Catholic?”
Philip sniffs. “Germany is very Catholic. And yes, we are evil. Remember the Holocaust? And Indiana Jones films?”
We stroll through the garden because that is how one is supposed to walk through gardens, stopping at the petting zoo to admire the zedonks and there’s a terrifying turkey thundering next to a camel. Philip pets a pig. I try to feed a wallaby but it runs away.
We decide to stop in Cincinnati for a bowl of chili and hit up a White Castle instead.
“White Castle,” I explain between bites, “Is the quintessential American food. It’s our entire cultural mindset packed into a square. I always want more White Castle, but in reality I don't need it. Ever. Because the idea of White Castle fundamentally opposes its physical manifestation – what we have is this. And then I have to pay the price for fantasy and indulgence. With my bowels."
“So...America makes you shit?" Philip winks. Why don’t people wink anymore?
I laugh, burning words. "No. No, not at all. But—yes. Because everything we love becomes shit. Because we smash it til it’s unrecognizable and then we mercilessly ridicule that which was once good until all that's left is poorly executed snark.”
"So...White Castle is snark?"
"I guess this has nothing to do with White Castle."
Later on Philip asks if we can stop in Indianapolis for a pair of Vans.
“What are you thinking?” I ask as we browse Shoe Carnival.
“I am thinking today was, ha, wickedawesome. I think when you come to Germany I know where I will take you, egzaktily.”
I've been given so much crap for supporting this museum just by paying to go there. But seriously, it's like Disney World, but with Jesus and dinosaurs and mass slaughter, and dead sheep are just lying all over the place. Completely macabre, like they're trying to scare you into agreement.
The propaganda tactics employed throughout the place are genius. Sometimes very, very subtle, and sometimes outright obvious. Every exhibit is designed with the distinct purpose of making non-believers feel guilty and the believers feel righteous. Perfectly constructed psychological warfare.
Although I believe that Creationism is firmly rooted in mythology, I believe even more strongly that people reserve the right to believe in what they want. So, I will support the Creation Museum, because no matter what, different mindsets are worth noting. In the end, it's just exciting and fun, like a Voodoo or Scientology museum, or watching Ghost Adventures.
...
Thursday, February 12, 2009
February 12th. 1809.
Today is an incredible day.
Not because yesterday sucked, and not because I totally called it, and my predictions of yesterday came soaring through within the past ten hours. Not because I'm really drunk right now, because I am, and luckily my penchant for backspace is now an official blogger enabler. I don't even fucking know right now.
But because, after yesterday and the threatening of the shank, and the awful week that The Captaihn had (as an aside, I'm blogging about this, because it's what I do, and I apologize for flashing your tits all over the blogosphere. Metaphorically. But you are naked all of the time because you are a model, and a good one, and fucking whate ver. Someday I will show off your work so I can soak your hotness by osmosis)
I might delete this tomorrow if I calculate it's unnecessary. And I might leave it up, because in the end I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
Right now I'm considerably impressed at my ability to type at all.
So yeah. I was right, and I am officially psychic.
But this is about (crap. I deon't remember anymore.) No. I remember.
Today is an incredible day because it's not only the 200th birthday of both Charles Darwin and Abrahm Lincoln, but because...
No.
Wait.
That's it. It's because it's the birthday of the both of them.
And I know this for two reasons.
One: am obsessed with Darwin. If anyone is all about this, read Darwin's Dangerous Idea, which is similar to taking the history of belief, the history of doubt, and the history of science, and smashing them together in this glorious bundle of yummy logic and calling it a book. There are diagrams and love.
Two: If you watch Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, they arrest Abe Lincoln and take him to San Dimas Jail or something, and when they ask his birthday Lincoln leans forward and says, as gravely as he is able, "February 12th. 1809."
I will never forget it.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll do this way better. But I'm drunk right now.
...
Not because yesterday sucked, and not because I totally called it, and my predictions of yesterday came soaring through within the past ten hours. Not because I'm really drunk right now, because I am, and luckily my penchant for backspace is now an official blogger enabler. I don't even fucking know right now.
But because, after yesterday and the threatening of the shank, and the awful week that The Captaihn had (as an aside, I'm blogging about this, because it's what I do, and I apologize for flashing your tits all over the blogosphere. Metaphorically. But you are naked all of the time because you are a model, and a good one, and fucking whate ver. Someday I will show off your work so I can soak your hotness by osmosis)
I might delete this tomorrow if I calculate it's unnecessary. And I might leave it up, because in the end I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
Right now I'm considerably impressed at my ability to type at all.
So yeah. I was right, and I am officially psychic.
But this is about (crap. I deon't remember anymore.) No. I remember.
Today is an incredible day because it's not only the 200th birthday of both Charles Darwin and Abrahm Lincoln, but because...
No.
Wait.
That's it. It's because it's the birthday of the both of them.
And I know this for two reasons.
One: am obsessed with Darwin. If anyone is all about this, read Darwin's Dangerous Idea, which is similar to taking the history of belief, the history of doubt, and the history of science, and smashing them together in this glorious bundle of yummy logic and calling it a book. There are diagrams and love.
Two: If you watch Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, they arrest Abe Lincoln and take him to San Dimas Jail or something, and when they ask his birthday Lincoln leans forward and says, as gravely as he is able, "February 12th. 1809."
I will never forget it.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll do this way better. But I'm drunk right now.
...
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Horology
There are certain fundamental units that I naturally take issue with, because although they're supposed to be natural physical constants, I can't seem to adhere to their rules. I know they're there, always. I pay attention. But for some reason, these quantifiable physical laws just crumble when I'm around, despite how much I pay attention.
I mean, Time? Energy? Fuck that. And don't even get me started on torque and momentum, because sometimes I have this like, crazy super strength, and sometimes I can't lift my coffee without help. They change around me, they don't work congruently with their natural affairs, because I'm there. It would be way cooler if they could be manipulated, like with my hands or my brain, but that's just not happening.
It's because I'm not good at things.
For example:
I've never had many clocks. This is odd, because one of my goals in life is to make a clock. From scratch. Not that I want to you know, mold my own rack and pinion. I just want to put it together. Chances are I'll wind it to suit whatever measurement of time I see fit. Fuck minutes and seconds.
But I don't think I've ever purchased a timepiece in my entire life. All of the clocks in my apartment are on gadgets which require some form of space measurement to function: my phone, the DVD player. Cable. I don't have a microwave, so no clock there, and the old balls oven is timerless.
But MoLinder's got some clocks, so I don't always have to look out the window and guess if the Daily Show is about to start by stargazing. And Xtine left one clock after she moved out. That works for me.
But Xtine, your old clock, you know the one above the entryway? That one? I've ruined it. Officially.
That clock transcends the space-time continuum.
On Black Wednesday, it was 9:14 all day long. By Friday it was 9:17, and then on Saturday it jumped ahead to ten-ish.
But this past Tuesday, the damn thing accelerated to impossible speeds, doubling the velocity of how we, as humans, measure the quantity of fourth-dimensional space between occurrences. During the span of one hour of human time, that clock said, fuck it. Two hours. Take that, Time. It's 11:07 when I say it is.
I will never change the batteries on that thing. Studying it has to be the first step towards my future as a horologist.
And that's not the study of whores.
Stop laughing, Schmee.
...
I mean, Time? Energy? Fuck that. And don't even get me started on torque and momentum, because sometimes I have this like, crazy super strength, and sometimes I can't lift my coffee without help. They change around me, they don't work congruently with their natural affairs, because I'm there. It would be way cooler if they could be manipulated, like with my hands or my brain, but that's just not happening.
It's because I'm not good at things.
For example:
I've never had many clocks. This is odd, because one of my goals in life is to make a clock. From scratch. Not that I want to you know, mold my own rack and pinion. I just want to put it together. Chances are I'll wind it to suit whatever measurement of time I see fit. Fuck minutes and seconds.
But I don't think I've ever purchased a timepiece in my entire life. All of the clocks in my apartment are on gadgets which require some form of space measurement to function: my phone, the DVD player. Cable. I don't have a microwave, so no clock there, and the old balls oven is timerless.
But MoLinder's got some clocks, so I don't always have to look out the window and guess if the Daily Show is about to start by stargazing. And Xtine left one clock after she moved out. That works for me.
But Xtine, your old clock, you know the one above the entryway? That one? I've ruined it. Officially.
That clock transcends the space-time continuum.
On Black Wednesday, it was 9:14 all day long. By Friday it was 9:17, and then on Saturday it jumped ahead to ten-ish.
But this past Tuesday, the damn thing accelerated to impossible speeds, doubling the velocity of how we, as humans, measure the quantity of fourth-dimensional space between occurrences. During the span of one hour of human time, that clock said, fuck it. Two hours. Take that, Time. It's 11:07 when I say it is.
I will never change the batteries on that thing. Studying it has to be the first step towards my future as a horologist.
And that's not the study of whores.
Stop laughing, Schmee.
...
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
My Dowry Is A Doozy
I've been getting phone calls every damn day from my dad to make sure I'm heading over to the parents for tree decorating on Sunday.
He also did that thing where he makes me feel guilty for being picky about shit I own. He wants a Christmas list from me. Don't you understand, Dad, that I want everything in my possession to completely represent me? As an individual? To show off my unique and original taste in objects and decor?
And that's why I want this very exclusive Moorish tile rug (in Espresso) from Pottery Barn.
Obviously, this will legitimize my roots as a moor from Morocco and simultaneously lower my heating bill, and I can feel that thing rise every time I turn the heat up a degree. Me and MoLinder went as high as sixty-two degrees the other day. I know because we designed a Galilean thermometer out of a two-liter, cracked ping pong balls, old saint pendants and bent beer bottle tops to track our heater. I told you I was like MacGuyver.
Basically, every single day, me and my dad have a variation of the conversation I had with him ten minutes ago:
"So you're coming home this weekend, right? It's your sister's birthday."
"Dad, you know Katsisch doesn't give a crap if I'm there or not."
He laughs. Dad laughs at everything. "What about your dear old Dad? Don't you think I want to spend time with my worthless daughter?"
"Well, Dad. Shameful tolerance of my abusive father would add to my worth."
"It's a good thing your dad makes the big bucks. Your dowry is a doozy."
"What's it up do these days?"
Sighing deeply, he pauses. "My entire comic book collection. And like, seven goats."
"Even the mint Watchmen? I totally had dibbs."
"Well, honey, I mean...how do expect us to marry you off to some guy if he doesn't get anything good? What about my grandchildren?"
"Dad, it's gonna take more than goats and comic books to get someone to breed quality kids with me." I pause, for a fraction. "Maybe we could throw in, like, the family cookbook."
Big laugh from the big dad who makes the big bucks, and he huffs, "Our food sucks."
Damn. Got me there. "I guess I'm just as worthless as we thought."
"It's because your dad's a dork."
"Yeah, thanks a lot."
"You're not as bad as your sister. I'm gonna have to give someone the Wii to get her out of the house."
"You don't have a Wii."
"Well...Wii'll see after Christmas." He cracks himself up. "Seriously, for real now, you have to come home this weekend to decorate the goddamn tree."
...
He also did that thing where he makes me feel guilty for being picky about shit I own. He wants a Christmas list from me. Don't you understand, Dad, that I want everything in my possession to completely represent me? As an individual? To show off my unique and original taste in objects and decor?
And that's why I want this very exclusive Moorish tile rug (in Espresso) from Pottery Barn.
Obviously, this will legitimize my roots as a moor from Morocco and simultaneously lower my heating bill, and I can feel that thing rise every time I turn the heat up a degree. Me and MoLinder went as high as sixty-two degrees the other day. I know because we designed a Galilean thermometer out of a two-liter, cracked ping pong balls, old saint pendants and bent beer bottle tops to track our heater. I told you I was like MacGuyver.
Basically, every single day, me and my dad have a variation of the conversation I had with him ten minutes ago:
"So you're coming home this weekend, right? It's your sister's birthday."
"Dad, you know Katsisch doesn't give a crap if I'm there or not."
He laughs. Dad laughs at everything. "What about your dear old Dad? Don't you think I want to spend time with my worthless daughter?"
"Well, Dad. Shameful tolerance of my abusive father would add to my worth."
"It's a good thing your dad makes the big bucks. Your dowry is a doozy."
"What's it up do these days?"
Sighing deeply, he pauses. "My entire comic book collection. And like, seven goats."
"Even the mint Watchmen? I totally had dibbs."
"Well, honey, I mean...how do expect us to marry you off to some guy if he doesn't get anything good? What about my grandchildren?"
"Dad, it's gonna take more than goats and comic books to get someone to breed quality kids with me." I pause, for a fraction. "Maybe we could throw in, like, the family cookbook."
Big laugh from the big dad who makes the big bucks, and he huffs, "Our food sucks."
Damn. Got me there. "I guess I'm just as worthless as we thought."
"It's because your dad's a dork."
"Yeah, thanks a lot."
"You're not as bad as your sister. I'm gonna have to give someone the Wii to get her out of the house."
"You don't have a Wii."
"Well...Wii'll see after Christmas." He cracks himself up. "Seriously, for real now, you have to come home this weekend to decorate the goddamn tree."
...
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Infamy
If I were Jessica Yellin, and I had the opportunity to be represented holographically on the CNN battlestage, I would feel obligated to make, at the very least, four hundred and seventy-two Star Wars references.
That was bullshit.
Holograms, dude. HOLOGRAMS.
Drinking today.
...
That was bullshit.
Holograms, dude. HOLOGRAMS.
Drinking today.
...
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
It's Best When Mom Plays Too
*Later Edit* Okay, so after various text messages saying things like, "What the hell was your blog about?" I've decided to set the stage. It's a cold October Tuesday morning. I am at work. I read an article, and immediately go to my mom's office to request one. The following is the resulted conversation.
"But Moh-ohm. I want a subatomic PARTICLE COLLIDER."
She's laughing at me. This is serious. "Like the one in France?" she says, with disbelief.
"No."
"There's another one? Is it smaller? Say, can it fit in a breadbox?"
I look down. "No."
She's shaking her head now. "Honey."
"It's in Switzerland."
"Mmm-hmmm," she lilts, "and where would you put it?"
"I dunno. In the basement. Doug The Landlord won't care. There's room by the washing machines."
"And who will pay for this...particle collider?"
Now I'm drawing lines on the carpet with my foot. "Well, you know, some jackass stole my wallet, so...can you spot me?"
She shakes her head and raises her eyebrows from behind her desk. "What's a down payment on a particle collider gonna cost me?"
"I dunno. Couple grand."
Damn. She doesn't believe me. "You sure it's not, like, a couple trillion?"
"Maybe. But I totally want one, and I promise I won't break it, and the second I find the God particle I'll tell you first thing."
She's laughing. "Okay, that's enough of this. Get back to work."
Puppy dog eyes. Pleading.
"Now, don't go doing that. Life is hard."
"But everyone in Switzerland has one."
"Well, then they all obviously have better moms than you."
"Please? I'll be your best friend. I just wanna show those bastards at CERN who's running the show."
"And who's that?"
"Well, you of course." Winning smile. Sell it.
She sighs, puffs out her cheeks, and darts her eyes around the room before she leans forward and whispers, "Would you care if I just skimmed some cash from the endowment fund?"
"But Mom," I am shocked at her suggestion. "What about serving inner-city students and creating more effective educational opportunities for the neediest children in Chicago? Like in Dangerous Minds and Sister Act II?"
"Well, I think your particle collider is more important than their education, honey."
"Thanks mom. You're the best ever."
"Here. Don't forget to take a Butterfinger."
"Yes sir, Madam Controller."
...
*EDIT* I think, as an afterthought, it's imperative to add that I work with my mother. There is no way I could have gotten a credible job on my own. Employers, like teachers, are immediately guarded once I walk in a room. Interviews never go well.
You can feel it when you make people tense.
Come to think of it, that's a pattern I have with nearly everyone I meet.
Oh well. Fuck 'em.
...
"But Moh-ohm. I want a subatomic PARTICLE COLLIDER."
She's laughing at me. This is serious. "Like the one in France?" she says, with disbelief.
"No."
"There's another one? Is it smaller? Say, can it fit in a breadbox?"
I look down. "No."
She's shaking her head now. "Honey."
"It's in Switzerland."
"Mmm-hmmm," she lilts, "and where would you put it?"
"I dunno. In the basement. Doug The Landlord won't care. There's room by the washing machines."
"And who will pay for this...particle collider?"
Now I'm drawing lines on the carpet with my foot. "Well, you know, some jackass stole my wallet, so...can you spot me?"
She shakes her head and raises her eyebrows from behind her desk. "What's a down payment on a particle collider gonna cost me?"
"I dunno. Couple grand."
Damn. She doesn't believe me. "You sure it's not, like, a couple trillion?"
"Maybe. But I totally want one, and I promise I won't break it, and the second I find the God particle I'll tell you first thing."
She's laughing. "Okay, that's enough of this. Get back to work."
Puppy dog eyes. Pleading.
"Now, don't go doing that. Life is hard."
"But everyone in Switzerland has one."
"Well, then they all obviously have better moms than you."
"Please? I'll be your best friend. I just wanna show those bastards at CERN who's running the show."
"And who's that?"
"Well, you of course." Winning smile. Sell it.
She sighs, puffs out her cheeks, and darts her eyes around the room before she leans forward and whispers, "Would you care if I just skimmed some cash from the endowment fund?"
"But Mom," I am shocked at her suggestion. "What about serving inner-city students and creating more effective educational opportunities for the neediest children in Chicago? Like in Dangerous Minds and Sister Act II?"
"Well, I think your particle collider is more important than their education, honey."
"Thanks mom. You're the best ever."
"Here. Don't forget to take a Butterfinger."
"Yes sir, Madam Controller."
...
*EDIT* I think, as an afterthought, it's imperative to add that I work with my mother. There is no way I could have gotten a credible job on my own. Employers, like teachers, are immediately guarded once I walk in a room. Interviews never go well.
You can feel it when you make people tense.
Come to think of it, that's a pattern I have with nearly everyone I meet.
Oh well. Fuck 'em.
...
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Why I Am Not A Veterinarian: Part III
Don't worry, I'm getting to the point.
So all throughout high school, my plan was to be a veterinarian. I took the appropriate classes, AP Bio and chemistry, all that shit.
Went to a college with an excellent biology program. I even worked at a zoo for awhile as an assistant keeper. People would take their children there and point to us while we cleaned up after camels and wallabies and cougars and such and say, "Now son, this is what you'll do if you don't go to college." All I could think of was, "Bitch, the only reason I'm here is because my professor gave me a recommendation, and I'm a volunteer." Most of us were.
So science in high school is completely different from college. In high school, you know, you're distilling water and pouring shit in cylinders and making moles out of floss and felt.
But in college, it occurred to me: I wanted to be a doctor. Not just an animal doctor, I mean, I will be giving dogs drugs and creating medicine and researching shit and cutting things open.
For me, the act of dissection was depressing, but never gross, and it's not like I'd never skinned a rabbit before (feeding time at the zoo was always a party). When you make sure the lives of animals are a part of your life, their deaths are a part as well. It's inevitable. After watching old schoolhorses get euthanized and newborn fawns freeze to death (deer and elk from South America have a reversed gestation period, so fawns are born in November and some can't handle the cold)...I mean, there's only so many carcasses you can throw on the back of a truck before you get desensitized.
The problem is this: I am not good with knives. "Steady" and "accurate" are two words that lie in constant opposition to my everyday behavior, so I'll just add them to the list of shit that we know I am not. I wasn't allowed to cut my own birthday cake. Ever. Ask my family, go ahead.
Balancing equations was never a problem (not that it was easy, but I could learn those things without directy injuring someone). I had a grasp on the theories and how they needed to be proved, and I can memorize shit pretty well.
But the practical application of what I'd learned in class? I fucked up every single time. Constantly staying late, redoing labs, having pissed off partners. Accidentally slicing open pigeon veins, dropping kidneys and kickin 'em across the floor. My hands were never steady, my flask always boiled over, nothing ever properly oxidized. Even when everything in the experiment went smoothly, I inevitabley skipped a critical step, and instead of white powder I'd have Silly Putty.
Oh, and I am horrible at writing up lab reports, because I'm incapable of professional writing. This goes along with my inability to follow directions.
I can't even bake cookies, or pancakes. Not if measuring is involved. Once things become exact, I become fucked.
The biggest issue, I think, is that I've never been good at playing the game. Teachers want things to be done this way: well, fuck that. I'm better at doing it this way. And then the teacher says, you did very well, but that wasn't really the assignment. Well, fuck you, Teach. Directions erections shmirections, is what I say. My way is more fun and you know it. It wasn't about rebellion, either. Maybe a little. That was just a pleasant side effect.
It's like that at work too, co-workers can attest to that. I'm pretty sure I drive them nuts, because I am not good at professional behavior (but then again, that depends on your definition of professional. I find my behavior more professional then theirs, so it's all fucking relative, now isn't it? Go stamp your own damn envelopes, because that sign I made is fascecious, and there's no way I'm doing it for you, since I'm not your assistant. Fuckwads.)
This is when my uncle says, "You think you can just run around doing things however you want. That's not how the world works. I don't understand your head. Why can't you just be normal? There is a way for people to behave. You can't just live in the sky." Shut up, Uncle Dick, I'll live there out of spite.
And that is why I am not a veterinarian.
...
So all throughout high school, my plan was to be a veterinarian. I took the appropriate classes, AP Bio and chemistry, all that shit.
Went to a college with an excellent biology program. I even worked at a zoo for awhile as an assistant keeper. People would take their children there and point to us while we cleaned up after camels and wallabies and cougars and such and say, "Now son, this is what you'll do if you don't go to college." All I could think of was, "Bitch, the only reason I'm here is because my professor gave me a recommendation, and I'm a volunteer." Most of us were.
So science in high school is completely different from college. In high school, you know, you're distilling water and pouring shit in cylinders and making moles out of floss and felt.
But in college, it occurred to me: I wanted to be a doctor. Not just an animal doctor, I mean, I will be giving dogs drugs and creating medicine and researching shit and cutting things open.
For me, the act of dissection was depressing, but never gross, and it's not like I'd never skinned a rabbit before (feeding time at the zoo was always a party). When you make sure the lives of animals are a part of your life, their deaths are a part as well. It's inevitable. After watching old schoolhorses get euthanized and newborn fawns freeze to death (deer and elk from South America have a reversed gestation period, so fawns are born in November and some can't handle the cold)...I mean, there's only so many carcasses you can throw on the back of a truck before you get desensitized.
The problem is this: I am not good with knives. "Steady" and "accurate" are two words that lie in constant opposition to my everyday behavior, so I'll just add them to the list of shit that we know I am not. I wasn't allowed to cut my own birthday cake. Ever. Ask my family, go ahead.
Balancing equations was never a problem (not that it was easy, but I could learn those things without directy injuring someone). I had a grasp on the theories and how they needed to be proved, and I can memorize shit pretty well.
But the practical application of what I'd learned in class? I fucked up every single time. Constantly staying late, redoing labs, having pissed off partners. Accidentally slicing open pigeon veins, dropping kidneys and kickin 'em across the floor. My hands were never steady, my flask always boiled over, nothing ever properly oxidized. Even when everything in the experiment went smoothly, I inevitabley skipped a critical step, and instead of white powder I'd have Silly Putty.
Oh, and I am horrible at writing up lab reports, because I'm incapable of professional writing. This goes along with my inability to follow directions.
I can't even bake cookies, or pancakes. Not if measuring is involved. Once things become exact, I become fucked.
The biggest issue, I think, is that I've never been good at playing the game. Teachers want things to be done this way: well, fuck that. I'm better at doing it this way. And then the teacher says, you did very well, but that wasn't really the assignment. Well, fuck you, Teach. Directions erections shmirections, is what I say. My way is more fun and you know it. It wasn't about rebellion, either. Maybe a little. That was just a pleasant side effect.
It's like that at work too, co-workers can attest to that. I'm pretty sure I drive them nuts, because I am not good at professional behavior (but then again, that depends on your definition of professional. I find my behavior more professional then theirs, so it's all fucking relative, now isn't it? Go stamp your own damn envelopes, because that sign I made is fascecious, and there's no way I'm doing it for you, since I'm not your assistant. Fuckwads.)
This is when my uncle says, "You think you can just run around doing things however you want. That's not how the world works. I don't understand your head. Why can't you just be normal? There is a way for people to behave. You can't just live in the sky." Shut up, Uncle Dick, I'll live there out of spite.
And that is why I am not a veterinarian.
...
Monday, July 28, 2008
I Am So Not Allowed To Do Weddings
Had yet another wedding this weekend, and I am so not allowed to do weddings anymore.
In my drunken stupor, I had the audacity to compare myself to Pagliaccio, which is just fucking stupid because I'm not a clown who loves his cheating wife, and in fact have never been in love, cheated on, or married, so I can totally relate to his heartache. I just felt his operatic fictional unhappiness was relevant to my nonfictional unhappiness.
Weddings are lame, because there are hook-ups abound, and I inevitably will wake up alone in my car in the hotel parking lot with tears on my face and a sweltering can of PBR in the cup holder.
Somehow.
And The Dude Who Blows My Mind With His Face was there, laughing, hanging out, being all honest, "Rossi, you are hilarious, let's dance, and later I will sleep with your friend. Har har." And then I say something like, "Shut up Dude, you are so unfair and delight in my misery," except with much less finesse and more swear words and giggles, and he smiles, winks, spins me and says, "I know." I hate/love ambivalence.
The Circus makes my life difficult. It's hard to stay sane around them, because by nature the Circus is aggressive, hilarious, completely bipolar and ultimately the greatest show on earth. Around us, the most rational of humans require high doses of Lithium.
For example, before the wedding, the groom sat down his parents and warned them about the kind of riff-raff his future wife ran wild with in college. He was honestly afraid his mom would have a heart attack.
It's not that we party like rock stars, get all coked out and have group orgies, because we're not like that, not even remotely.
I think it's just that we're all so fucking in love with each other that our pheromones magnetize and go crashing into each other in mushroom blasts. The tension immediately rises, and strangers can see it hovering in front of them, and they're either automatically infected and drawn to us or they run away scared, incapable of comprehending all the laughing and living going on around them.
It's like constantly rubbing your feet on the carpet and giving everyone little joy zaps, and some of them taste it and know it's delicious and vital, while others get pissed at you for being so electric.
And the Boyfriend Squad is doing well, being the mates of the Circus. They're all gay for each other too, and should prolly take camping trips together where they make out and give each other purple nurples and talk about belt buckles, Jager, Nascar, and their crazy Circus girlfriends. But even though they went off and did their secret Boyfriend Squad shots without me, they always grabbed me to head outside for a smoke, thank god, before going back to their girlfriends. As much as I love being drugged by the estrogen of the Circus, I can't handle it for too long.
Then I watched my single friends pair off with other singles and the taken friends couple up, and as always, I was left alone. I don't pair off, ever. So I cry. This was a much more difficult cry than at the last wedding, because last time I was crying for others, but this time...this time I was crying for me. It was fueled completely by jealousy and amplified by the manic first eighty percent of the night. But because of the damn wonder of the Circus, it crashed like internal World War Three.
Being emotional in public is becoming a habit of mine, so it's time to suppress it. I have to shove it deeper inside until it never shows, because I've already spent years establishing myself as someone who laughs at the sentimental and cries at nothing.
That's not very healthy, is it? I embarrass myself.
So I will take out my aggression this week on SHARK WEEK.
...
In my drunken stupor, I had the audacity to compare myself to Pagliaccio, which is just fucking stupid because I'm not a clown who loves his cheating wife, and in fact have never been in love, cheated on, or married, so I can totally relate to his heartache. I just felt his operatic fictional unhappiness was relevant to my nonfictional unhappiness.
Weddings are lame, because there are hook-ups abound, and I inevitably will wake up alone in my car in the hotel parking lot with tears on my face and a sweltering can of PBR in the cup holder.
Somehow.
And The Dude Who Blows My Mind With His Face was there, laughing, hanging out, being all honest, "Rossi, you are hilarious, let's dance, and later I will sleep with your friend. Har har." And then I say something like, "Shut up Dude, you are so unfair and delight in my misery," except with much less finesse and more swear words and giggles, and he smiles, winks, spins me and says, "I know." I hate/love ambivalence.
The Circus makes my life difficult. It's hard to stay sane around them, because by nature the Circus is aggressive, hilarious, completely bipolar and ultimately the greatest show on earth. Around us, the most rational of humans require high doses of Lithium.
For example, before the wedding, the groom sat down his parents and warned them about the kind of riff-raff his future wife ran wild with in college. He was honestly afraid his mom would have a heart attack.
It's not that we party like rock stars, get all coked out and have group orgies, because we're not like that, not even remotely.
I think it's just that we're all so fucking in love with each other that our pheromones magnetize and go crashing into each other in mushroom blasts. The tension immediately rises, and strangers can see it hovering in front of them, and they're either automatically infected and drawn to us or they run away scared, incapable of comprehending all the laughing and living going on around them.
It's like constantly rubbing your feet on the carpet and giving everyone little joy zaps, and some of them taste it and know it's delicious and vital, while others get pissed at you for being so electric.
And the Boyfriend Squad is doing well, being the mates of the Circus. They're all gay for each other too, and should prolly take camping trips together where they make out and give each other purple nurples and talk about belt buckles, Jager, Nascar, and their crazy Circus girlfriends. But even though they went off and did their secret Boyfriend Squad shots without me, they always grabbed me to head outside for a smoke, thank god, before going back to their girlfriends. As much as I love being drugged by the estrogen of the Circus, I can't handle it for too long.
Then I watched my single friends pair off with other singles and the taken friends couple up, and as always, I was left alone. I don't pair off, ever. So I cry. This was a much more difficult cry than at the last wedding, because last time I was crying for others, but this time...this time I was crying for me. It was fueled completely by jealousy and amplified by the manic first eighty percent of the night. But because of the damn wonder of the Circus, it crashed like internal World War Three.
Being emotional in public is becoming a habit of mine, so it's time to suppress it. I have to shove it deeper inside until it never shows, because I've already spent years establishing myself as someone who laughs at the sentimental and cries at nothing.
That's not very healthy, is it? I embarrass myself.
So I will take out my aggression this week on SHARK WEEK.
...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The evils of Q-tippery.
So I'm sitting at my desk ransacking my ear with my pinky finger because I ran out of Q-tips four days ago.
Claire, the desk neighbor, quietly told me (she could have been yelling for all I know, because I can't hear a damn thing) that I should kick the habit. It's bad for your wealth, she says. I was like, no dude, Q-Tips are surprisingly inexpensive.
No, health.
Ah. Claire-ification.
I was pretty sure she was full of crap, because I mean, Q-tips are extremely handy. And how else am I supposed to get this shit out of my ear? She mumbled something about "shoving it in deeper" and I glanced at her very wickedly and she rolled her eyes and said, "no, when you use that Q-tip you're just shoving the wax in deeper."
She has to be wrong. What if she's right? What if, for my whole life, I have been slowly layering wax over my ear drum with Q-tip masonry? What if it's a Q-tip conspiracy, and the Q-tip manufactering CEO's are wringing their hands in glory at the evil cotton-swabbed illusion they've conjured over the ears of the planet?
What if the absolute tip of each Q is implanted with a wispy microchip that latches onto our ear drum? And the further we push in that wax every morning, the further the chip travels into our sensorimotor cortex...oh my god. What if...what if...
What if the only reason I was able to uncover this truth was because I ran out of Q-tips and they no longer have control of my brain?
Every other Q-tip user should be warned of the industry's efforts to control our thoughts and motions. Think: the microchips must have a life-limit, which is why they're replaced every day when Q-tip users clean their ears. And then their micropower runs out and they become a part of the ear gunk, and the vicious, evil evil evil cycle continues.
That can't be true. Q-tips are white and fluffy, like clouds and maltese puppies. They have to be good, because puppies are good. Besides, I need Q-tips. I need them. My ears demand it. But maybe, I mean, what if all of my actions are not my own because of the corporate giants of the Q-tip industry? What about yours? What if Tribe Called Quest is in on it? Time for some serious sleuthing. ...
Claire, the desk neighbor, quietly told me (she could have been yelling for all I know, because I can't hear a damn thing) that I should kick the habit. It's bad for your wealth, she says. I was like, no dude, Q-Tips are surprisingly inexpensive.
No, health.
Ah. Claire-ification.
I was pretty sure she was full of crap, because I mean, Q-tips are extremely handy. And how else am I supposed to get this shit out of my ear? She mumbled something about "shoving it in deeper" and I glanced at her very wickedly and she rolled her eyes and said, "no, when you use that Q-tip you're just shoving the wax in deeper."
She has to be wrong. What if she's right? What if, for my whole life, I have been slowly layering wax over my ear drum with Q-tip masonry? What if it's a Q-tip conspiracy, and the Q-tip manufactering CEO's are wringing their hands in glory at the evil cotton-swabbed illusion they've conjured over the ears of the planet?
What if the absolute tip of each Q is implanted with a wispy microchip that latches onto our ear drum? And the further we push in that wax every morning, the further the chip travels into our sensorimotor cortex...oh my god. What if...what if...
What if the only reason I was able to uncover this truth was because I ran out of Q-tips and they no longer have control of my brain?
Every other Q-tip user should be warned of the industry's efforts to control our thoughts and motions. Think: the microchips must have a life-limit, which is why they're replaced every day when Q-tip users clean their ears. And then their micropower runs out and they become a part of the ear gunk, and the vicious, evil evil evil cycle continues.
That can't be true. Q-tips are white and fluffy, like clouds and maltese puppies. They have to be good, because puppies are good. Besides, I need Q-tips. I need them. My ears demand it. But maybe, I mean, what if all of my actions are not my own because of the corporate giants of the Q-tip industry? What about yours? What if Tribe Called Quest is in on it? Time for some serious sleuthing. ...
Friday, January 25, 2008
Dragons are real.
Wearing a knowing smirk much like the Archangelic Mike and Gabe, I would like to picture Heath as looking at us from heaven saying, "Is no one going to comment on the size of my massive man-parts? I'm the fucking Joker, that's me naked—right there—and that's my giant dick. Even in death, I fucking rule." And then River Phoenix glances sideways at him and says, "Shut the hell up, Heath, at least your last movie wasn't Silent Tongue, you've got goddamn Batman. I'd even take Ned Kelly over Silent Tongue, jackass."
But isn't it kind of odd that Heath and Brad Renfro died a week apart? I'm not saying it's murder, or that they're even connected…but if I were Joshua Jackson, Tobey Maguire, or Hayden Christensen right now I'd watch my back and start reading pill labels in grave, painful detail.
Of course, speaking of Archangels, went to Kentucky on Tuesday so I could check out the Creation Museum, which I've only been talking about for several months.
Everything I ever dreamed about and more. The Men in White (Mike and Gabe—like if Michael and Gabriel were superChristian alterna-hippies circa 1992 who talked like surfer dudes) told me about how Darwin was a douchebag and that the world is only 6,000 years old instead of 4.2 billion years old. How did they pick 6,000? Well, they counted back the generations in the line of Jesus all the way to Adam, and realized the world was created in 4,000 BC. So, the dinosaurs are that old. And lived in Eden.
Ah, but do they have scientific proof? Of course - Helium leakage in zircon, of course. And then Mike and Gabe further prove their point by sitting in the back of a classroom wearing skullcaps and drugrugs, making fun of their square science teacher for teaching about isotopes and Darwin, who is nothing compared to the big JC.
The Creation Museum is basically about the fall of man and how Darwin is evil. See, Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden with the toucans and the lambs and the cougars and the dinosaurs and the dragons (what? No unicorns? I call slander) and everyone ate pineapples and carrots and Adam and Eve would walk hand in hand beneath a silvery moon on a path lit by the firebreath of the lamb-gentle Eden-dragons.
Then the treacherous snake peer pressures them into eating the Fruit of Death, and then they realize they're naked and start slaughtering sheep so they can wear their skin per Buffalo Bill and Eddie Gein.
All of this, by the way, is exhibited using morbid and painfully detailed mannequins all around the museum.
So they get locked out of Eden and the begatting begins. They make some babies and some of their babies' babies kill each other very evilly, and dinosaurs start eating meat instead of pineapples and dragons kill people and everyone is just constantly fucking with the lambs. Sin enters the world.
And then eventually Noah builds an ark to avoid the upcoming worldwide flood, which totally happened, and we know this because of vertically floating logs. The ark is a boat that is, according to the Creationists, 510 feet long, which is enough space to house two of every species INCLUDING the 50 or so types of dinosaurs and dragons, all of which behaved themselves like little sacrificial sheep. There was an entire exhibit on how Noah fit the dinosaurs in the ark.
Then, see, after the waters dry up, the plants that the vegetarian dinosaurs eat don't grow as frequently, and it starts getting really cold and muddy. And the dinosaurs die.
Dragons, however, may still be around today, hiding up in the Scottish Highlands or Tibet or something.
I guess I just can't respect a belief system that bends the rules of science and treats theories as opinions to justify their own means. On top of it they built an entire museum which functions solely on a poorly constructed mockery of beliefs that differ from theirs.
If they ignored the concept of science and focused on Creation, their museum would be much more credible. You can believe what you want, but if you have to promote it by putting down others, who in their right mind should believe it?
So obviously, Creationists are not in their right minds. And they were all about over exclaiming things.
Imagine giant wall posters that say: WORLD VIEW - WRONG! GOD'S VIEW - RIGHT! They believe we were monkeys! Monkeys, I tell you! They are idiots and we are smart, because we know the truth about the Lord! Hahahahaha! Down with evolution!
At least museums that are dedicated to science show respect for Christianity, instead of laughing and beating it to a bloody mass. Science don't give a shit, Jesus. It has nothing to do with you.
Oh, that's why you don't like science. Because you're not in charge of it.
Because it's the atheist scientists, likeDarwin
It's a world-wide century-spanning Godless scientific conspiracy.
And according to the Creationists, why does everyone in the world listen toCharles Darwin
Yeah. Why would anyone base a major belief system off the teachings of one man?
They also have their facts all twisted and fucked. The theory of evolution did not originate with Darwin. He just gave proof. In fact, the theory itself has been around far longer than Christianity. Robert Chambers was far more controversial. He's the one who said we were monkeys. Lamarck came up with species transmutation. And that one Taoist Chinese guy who is not Lao Tse. He talked about it too. But his book is like, impossible to work through if you don't speak Chinese, and the translations are a little jarring. But still, that guy talked about it. Fucking Aristotle talked about it. Don't blame evolution on Darwin, crazy creationists.
It's so hard to take them seriously when they aren't taking themselves seriously.
But, sit on this: Dragons are real.
Living hidden dragons seemed like the most plausible of all the Creationist dogma.
But isn't it kind of odd that Heath and Brad Renfro died a week apart? I'm not saying it's murder, or that they're even connected…but if I were Joshua Jackson, Tobey Maguire, or Hayden Christensen right now I'd watch my back and start reading pill labels in grave, painful detail.
Of course, speaking of Archangels, went to Kentucky on Tuesday so I could check out the Creation Museum, which I've only been talking about for several months.
Everything I ever dreamed about and more. The Men in White (Mike and Gabe—like if Michael and Gabriel were superChristian alterna-hippies circa 1992 who talked like surfer dudes) told me about how Darwin was a douchebag and that the world is only 6,000 years old instead of 4.2 billion years old. How did they pick 6,000? Well, they counted back the generations in the line of Jesus all the way to Adam, and realized the world was created in 4,000 BC. So, the dinosaurs are that old. And lived in Eden.
Ah, but do they have scientific proof? Of course - Helium leakage in zircon, of course. And then Mike and Gabe further prove their point by sitting in the back of a classroom wearing skullcaps and drugrugs, making fun of their square science teacher for teaching about isotopes and Darwin, who is nothing compared to the big JC.
The Creation Museum is basically about the fall of man and how Darwin is evil. See, Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden with the toucans and the lambs and the cougars and the dinosaurs and the dragons (what? No unicorns? I call slander) and everyone ate pineapples and carrots and Adam and Eve would walk hand in hand beneath a silvery moon on a path lit by the firebreath of the lamb-gentle Eden-dragons.
Then the treacherous snake peer pressures them into eating the Fruit of Death, and then they realize they're naked and start slaughtering sheep so they can wear their skin per Buffalo Bill and Eddie Gein.
All of this, by the way, is exhibited using morbid and painfully detailed mannequins all around the museum.
So they get locked out of Eden and the begatting begins. They make some babies and some of their babies' babies kill each other very evilly, and dinosaurs start eating meat instead of pineapples and dragons kill people and everyone is just constantly fucking with the lambs. Sin enters the world.
And then eventually Noah builds an ark to avoid the upcoming worldwide flood, which totally happened, and we know this because of vertically floating logs. The ark is a boat that is, according to the Creationists, 510 feet long, which is enough space to house two of every species INCLUDING the 50 or so types of dinosaurs and dragons, all of which behaved themselves like little sacrificial sheep. There was an entire exhibit on how Noah fit the dinosaurs in the ark.
Then, see, after the waters dry up, the plants that the vegetarian dinosaurs eat don't grow as frequently, and it starts getting really cold and muddy. And the dinosaurs die.
Dragons, however, may still be around today, hiding up in the Scottish Highlands or Tibet or something.
I guess I just can't respect a belief system that bends the rules of science and treats theories as opinions to justify their own means. On top of it they built an entire museum which functions solely on a poorly constructed mockery of beliefs that differ from theirs.
If they ignored the concept of science and focused on Creation, their museum would be much more credible. You can believe what you want, but if you have to promote it by putting down others, who in their right mind should believe it?
So obviously, Creationists are not in their right minds. And they were all about over exclaiming things.
Imagine giant wall posters that say: WORLD VIEW - WRONG! GOD'S VIEW - RIGHT! They believe we were monkeys! Monkeys, I tell you! They are idiots and we are smart, because we know the truth about the Lord! Hahahahaha! Down with evolution!
At least museums that are dedicated to science show respect for Christianity, instead of laughing and beating it to a bloody mass. Science don't give a shit, Jesus. It has nothing to do with you.
Oh, that's why you don't like science. Because you're not in charge of it.
Because it's the atheist scientists, like
It's a world-wide century-spanning Godless scientific conspiracy.
And according to the Creationists, why does everyone in the world listen to
Yeah. Why would anyone base a major belief system off the teachings of one man?
They also have their facts all twisted and fucked. The theory of evolution did not originate with Darwin. He just gave proof. In fact, the theory itself has been around far longer than Christianity. Robert Chambers was far more controversial. He's the one who said we were monkeys. Lamarck came up with species transmutation. And that one Taoist Chinese guy who is not Lao Tse. He talked about it too. But his book is like, impossible to work through if you don't speak Chinese, and the translations are a little jarring. But still, that guy talked about it. Fucking Aristotle talked about it. Don't blame evolution on Darwin, crazy creationists.
It's so hard to take them seriously when they aren't taking themselves seriously.
But, sit on this: Dragons are real.
Living hidden dragons seemed like the most plausible of all the Creationist dogma.
...
Thursday, July 5, 2007
My finger is gonna fall off, I swear to god.
So the ring finger of my right hand is dry and cracked and all kinds of fucked up.
I'm pretty sure I have what's called contact dermatitis.
Which, specifically, means my skin is violently reacting to something with which it came in contact.
Suprise suprise.
Fucking idiots.
How do I treat it?
Avoid further contact with the original irritant.
No doi.
Lame.
I'm pretty sure I have what's called contact dermatitis.
Which, specifically, means my skin is violently reacting to something with which it came in contact.
Suprise suprise.
Fucking idiots.
How do I treat it?
Avoid further contact with the original irritant.
No doi.
Lame.
...
Thursday, March 2, 2006
Ten Step Solution
PROBLEM:
Want to go out tomorrow night, but do not want to stay out late because of money, tiredness, lack of singing voice, and drippy nose overload.
TEN STEP SOLUTION:
In case anyone is confused, a night at LBK usually ends at around 0600.
I was going to make this a lab report, complete with hypothesis, experiment, observation, conclusion, chemical formulas dealing with bombs and alcohol consumption and all that, but I forgot a lot of the lab mumbo jumbo and decided against it. Perhaps I will try at a later date.
Want to go out tomorrow night, but do not want to stay out late because of money, tiredness, lack of singing voice, and drippy nose overload.
TEN STEP SOLUTION:
- Purchase time bomb.
- Place bomb in the parent's basement.
- Set timer for 0300 hours, March 3, 2006.
- Remove all credit cards and/or monetary plastic from wallet.
- Make sure total amount of cash on hand does not exceed $25 (beer, parking.)
- Go to Live Band Karaoke
- Support Live Banders, perhaps sing a little.
- Leave Mother's at 0200, March 3, 2006.
- Arrive back at the parent's at 0245, March 3, 2006.
- Defuse bomb.
In case anyone is confused, a night at LBK usually ends at around 0600.
I was going to make this a lab report, complete with hypothesis, experiment, observation, conclusion, chemical formulas dealing with bombs and alcohol consumption and all that, but I forgot a lot of the lab mumbo jumbo and decided against it. Perhaps I will try at a later date.
...
Wednesday, February 1, 2006
Why I can't hit on guys: a memory.
True story:
So let's say I'm in junior high, and it's the first day of school. Let's pretend that I am biologically crazy. Hormones are so abundant you can actually see them crawling all over students. People start dating and kissing and participating in things I wouldn't even dream about trying until I was at least fifteen.
Three elementary schools have merged into Lincoln Junior High, and there are new faces everywhere. One new face is in my English class. I immediately know that he is going to be my newest crush, because he's all brown and golden with very big, clean teeth. In the past I just would meander around the Boy of My Dreams until we became friends. Which was stupid, because they all liked me, but they never liked me liked me, and in the end I was left heartbroken, never to love again.
So the Golden Boy is in my class, and I sit next to him, loving him with all my heart, more than any boy I loved previously, shamelessly soaking in his glow, because he is glowing. Glowing with my love for him.
My past loves are nothing in retrospect, all the feelings I had ever had towards any boy could not be added or multiplied or made big enough in any way to even compare to the universe-sized adulation I have towards Him. Obviously, my eleventh year of existence was going to be the first year of the rest of my life...the rest of my life with the Golden Boy.
Six and a half minutes into our relationship and we have not yet spoken, but I sit next to him as Mr. Nelson is going over the syllabus and I know we're in love, and I can feel that he knows too, because he keeps making sideways glances in my direction. I deduce that he's finally met his Eternal Soulmate, as have I. The fact that his last name comes directly before mine in the alphabet and that Mr. Nelson has the clairvoyance to seat us adjacent to one another can only be explained with one magical word: destiny.
Mr. Nelson must know that he is making romantic history. He will give a speech at our wedding, because he will be invited, given the fact that he designed such a perfect, love-cultivating seating chart for his third period English class.
I sniff because I have a cold, in real eleven-year-old life, and my fantasy continues.
We are meant to be Boyfriendgirlfriend. We will have that Title. People will ask me in the sixth grade hallway, "Are you guys, like, Boyfriendgirlfriend?" and I will answer, with gusto, "Of course we are Boyfriendgirlfriend." I'll secretly think to myself, "and we always will be."
Here is how it will happen, I imagine. He is going to turn and face me, and I am going to smile shyly. Then he'll ask to see my pen, because he will notice that I have a pen that is seven colors in one depending on which tab you press down at the top, and he'll tell me it's really cool, because most people need seven different pens if they want blue, black, red, green, orange, purple, and yellow, and yellow pens are very hard to find.
Then he'll ask me if I ever use the yellow pen for homework, and I will explain that I don't because teachers don't like yellow pen in junior high, but sometimes I use it to take notes.
Then I'll hand him the pen, and our outstretched fingertips will touch lightly, and at the exact moment of contact time will stop. We won't be able to break the touch, and a pale luminescence will form around our connected fingers like in ET except more romantically, and that luminescence will eventually spread to encircle our entire bodies. We'll stare into each others eyes, and then he'll know and I'll know that we both know that the other knows and everyone'll know that our love for one another is Infinite and True even though we are only in sixth grade and then I sneeze very loudly mid-vision.
Golden Boy turns towards me and says with no regard for decent volume, "Uggh, that was disgusting. And stop looking at me, it's weird." Quiet giggles are heard around the room.
Nearly every encounter I've had with a boy has mirrored that exact moment of my life.
...
So let's say I'm in junior high, and it's the first day of school. Let's pretend that I am biologically crazy. Hormones are so abundant you can actually see them crawling all over students. People start dating and kissing and participating in things I wouldn't even dream about trying until I was at least fifteen.
Three elementary schools have merged into Lincoln Junior High, and there are new faces everywhere. One new face is in my English class. I immediately know that he is going to be my newest crush, because he's all brown and golden with very big, clean teeth. In the past I just would meander around the Boy of My Dreams until we became friends. Which was stupid, because they all liked me, but they never liked me liked me, and in the end I was left heartbroken, never to love again.
So the Golden Boy is in my class, and I sit next to him, loving him with all my heart, more than any boy I loved previously, shamelessly soaking in his glow, because he is glowing. Glowing with my love for him.
My past loves are nothing in retrospect, all the feelings I had ever had towards any boy could not be added or multiplied or made big enough in any way to even compare to the universe-sized adulation I have towards Him. Obviously, my eleventh year of existence was going to be the first year of the rest of my life...the rest of my life with the Golden Boy.
Six and a half minutes into our relationship and we have not yet spoken, but I sit next to him as Mr. Nelson is going over the syllabus and I know we're in love, and I can feel that he knows too, because he keeps making sideways glances in my direction. I deduce that he's finally met his Eternal Soulmate, as have I. The fact that his last name comes directly before mine in the alphabet and that Mr. Nelson has the clairvoyance to seat us adjacent to one another can only be explained with one magical word: destiny.
Mr. Nelson must know that he is making romantic history. He will give a speech at our wedding, because he will be invited, given the fact that he designed such a perfect, love-cultivating seating chart for his third period English class.
I sniff because I have a cold, in real eleven-year-old life, and my fantasy continues.
We are meant to be Boyfriendgirlfriend. We will have that Title. People will ask me in the sixth grade hallway, "Are you guys, like, Boyfriendgirlfriend?" and I will answer, with gusto, "Of course we are Boyfriendgirlfriend." I'll secretly think to myself, "and we always will be."
Here is how it will happen, I imagine. He is going to turn and face me, and I am going to smile shyly. Then he'll ask to see my pen, because he will notice that I have a pen that is seven colors in one depending on which tab you press down at the top, and he'll tell me it's really cool, because most people need seven different pens if they want blue, black, red, green, orange, purple, and yellow, and yellow pens are very hard to find.
Then he'll ask me if I ever use the yellow pen for homework, and I will explain that I don't because teachers don't like yellow pen in junior high, but sometimes I use it to take notes.
Then I'll hand him the pen, and our outstretched fingertips will touch lightly, and at the exact moment of contact time will stop. We won't be able to break the touch, and a pale luminescence will form around our connected fingers like in ET except more romantically, and that luminescence will eventually spread to encircle our entire bodies. We'll stare into each others eyes, and then he'll know and I'll know that we both know that the other knows and everyone'll know that our love for one another is Infinite and True even though we are only in sixth grade and then I sneeze very loudly mid-vision.
Golden Boy turns towards me and says with no regard for decent volume, "Uggh, that was disgusting. And stop looking at me, it's weird." Quiet giggles are heard around the room.
Nearly every encounter I've had with a boy has mirrored that exact moment of my life.
...
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