I say go see it
What do you say about a movie based on a cancelled TV show that I only watched second-hand on someone else's DVD?
Another season of Firefly might have been better than Serenity, but Serenity might be better than the most recent Star Wars. It was a good movie, not a great one, but the best part to me was being part of the cult. When I walked in the theater I wanted to shout, "Hello fellow nerds." I could feel a familial nerd energy throughout the theater. The laughs were hearty, the clapping sincere. And the post-movie chatter about all things Joss Whedon (you know, the guy that brought you Buffy and various other young girls that kick butt) was hilarious.
Go see it. Me? I'm off to read all of the reviews I've been skipping to keep expectations at a minimum.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Goal-to-guy
Do you have a goal? Do you need assistance in making your goal a reality? Do you not mind amending your goal slightly? Then, I'm your man. I don't set goals of my own, but if you have a pesky goal that you just haven't been able to cross off your list, call, write, or leave a comment and I'll pitch right in.
Disclaimer: I cannot be held responsible if your goal turns out nothing like you had hoped, nor can I be held responsible if your goal is too complicated, too boring, or just too focused for my tastes. In the event that your goal is not met you can expect a full refund of this free service. Time and energy cannot be refunded. Also the statement about goals of my own is now a lie because of her long lists, or maybe it's just about that time. In any event I am struggling to come up with 43 things, but cannot be expected to respond immediately from goal-less to goal-full. That would be unreasonable. This post is not legal tender.
Do you have a goal? Do you need assistance in making your goal a reality? Do you not mind amending your goal slightly? Then, I'm your man. I don't set goals of my own, but if you have a pesky goal that you just haven't been able to cross off your list, call, write, or leave a comment and I'll pitch right in.
Disclaimer: I cannot be held responsible if your goal turns out nothing like you had hoped, nor can I be held responsible if your goal is too complicated, too boring, or just too focused for my tastes. In the event that your goal is not met you can expect a full refund of this free service. Time and energy cannot be refunded. Also the statement about goals of my own is now a lie because of her long lists, or maybe it's just about that time. In any event I am struggling to come up with 43 things, but cannot be expected to respond immediately from goal-less to goal-full. That would be unreasonable. This post is not legal tender.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
It's not anti-perspirant
The deodorant can't find a home. Atop my dresser, it sits too far out of reach. Access denied by growing piles of clothes, bags both plastic and synthetic, and notebooks with my half-written witticisms. Next to the keyboard it crowds me and blocks my view of important but untouched tiny pewter dining chairs, Hobart Smith CDs, Winne-the-Pooh kid-sized playing cards, toaster instructions, and notes, so many notes with scribbles that even I can barely read. 906 Gravois? 113.03? arrive? Leave? 8:30? It's hard to tell. Harder still with that big red square-ish cylinder creeping too close to the keyboard, invading my typing space. The bathroom, home of toothpaste, well-meaning but oft-ignored dental floss, and contact cases seems like a possible solution. Permanent housing in that neighborhood can be scarce. The sink was bare, but slowly toiletries have begun to accumulate in the flanks. Deodorant could fit. It's a logical place, a decent neighborhood, close to good schools and naked flesh. The underarms would not be much of a commute from the sink. Deodorant rests in its new real estate while showers occur. The wetness of cleaned hands, the reach for the deodorant in its new home, the slippery red missile in the hands of man, Mountain Rush turned skydiver, high endurance turned swimmer, *plop*. The deodorant cannot be a houseboat. Not in the shower. NOT in the toilet. Back to the dresser, buddy. Out of reach is better than in the bowl.
The deodorant can't find a home. Atop my dresser, it sits too far out of reach. Access denied by growing piles of clothes, bags both plastic and synthetic, and notebooks with my half-written witticisms. Next to the keyboard it crowds me and blocks my view of important but untouched tiny pewter dining chairs, Hobart Smith CDs, Winne-the-Pooh kid-sized playing cards, toaster instructions, and notes, so many notes with scribbles that even I can barely read. 906 Gravois? 113.03? arrive? Leave? 8:30? It's hard to tell. Harder still with that big red square-ish cylinder creeping too close to the keyboard, invading my typing space. The bathroom, home of toothpaste, well-meaning but oft-ignored dental floss, and contact cases seems like a possible solution. Permanent housing in that neighborhood can be scarce. The sink was bare, but slowly toiletries have begun to accumulate in the flanks. Deodorant could fit. It's a logical place, a decent neighborhood, close to good schools and naked flesh. The underarms would not be much of a commute from the sink. Deodorant rests in its new real estate while showers occur. The wetness of cleaned hands, the reach for the deodorant in its new home, the slippery red missile in the hands of man, Mountain Rush turned skydiver, high endurance turned swimmer, *plop*. The deodorant cannot be a houseboat. Not in the shower. NOT in the toilet. Back to the dresser, buddy. Out of reach is better than in the bowl.
I am not Charlotte Simmons
It doesn't take much to make me miss college. I missed it last night when I polished off dining hall meatloaf. I miss it at 7:54 in the evening when I can't pop out of my door and into a hallway where someone will cheerfully greet me. I miss it when I can't wander a few blocks and find various sports under the lights. I miss the connections, the opportunity, and the potential.
As I read Tom Wolfe's latest with its stylish paperback cover, I missed college. And then 700-some-odd pages later, I didn't. The most frustrating thing about Wolfe's story is that he didn't get it. He certainly captured some of the moments and some of the ethos of bits of university life. I am willing to grant Wofle that university life could be different in a fictional Pennsylvania than it is in the middle of the country. His description of the bar scene was almost poetic in what I see as its accuracy. The problem is that Wolfe's work was almost cliche in numerous sections. He said very little that seemed new and he didn't say it in new ways. Then he repeated himself too much. I am Charlotte Simmons wasn't bad. Even with multiple stints in airport terminals, I don't usually plow through 700- page books in four days, Potter notwithstanding.
What I'm really perturbed about is that this monstrous book about college didn't leave me feeling good the way my memories of college do. Wolfe spent the first half of the book in sensational 11-o'clock-news mode practically warning parents and teenage girls about the dangers of college and boys and the unrelenting quest for sex by both genders, every so often departing slightly to remind us of the mockery of the "student"-athlete. It was crude and exciting, that I'll give Wolfe. When he plunged into his chapter after chapter about depression, it very much depressed me, but it was the resolution of the story that made me most depressed. Wolfe has a leading female character, with "it"- smarts, looks, individuality; and her great triumph is what? Some guy and popularity. I worked 700-pages to get there? Why Tom, why? This isn't a book about high school. I can get a girl meets boy story and a cry in a Nicholas Sparks novel. Come on. That attitude cheats college students and it cheats readers. I expected better.
Wolfe will remain on the list of my favorite authors, but he has officially been passed by Ann Patchett.
It doesn't take much to make me miss college. I missed it last night when I polished off dining hall meatloaf. I miss it at 7:54 in the evening when I can't pop out of my door and into a hallway where someone will cheerfully greet me. I miss it when I can't wander a few blocks and find various sports under the lights. I miss the connections, the opportunity, and the potential.
As I read Tom Wolfe's latest with its stylish paperback cover, I missed college. And then 700-some-odd pages later, I didn't. The most frustrating thing about Wolfe's story is that he didn't get it. He certainly captured some of the moments and some of the ethos of bits of university life. I am willing to grant Wofle that university life could be different in a fictional Pennsylvania than it is in the middle of the country. His description of the bar scene was almost poetic in what I see as its accuracy. The problem is that Wolfe's work was almost cliche in numerous sections. He said very little that seemed new and he didn't say it in new ways. Then he repeated himself too much. I am Charlotte Simmons wasn't bad. Even with multiple stints in airport terminals, I don't usually plow through 700- page books in four days, Potter notwithstanding.
What I'm really perturbed about is that this monstrous book about college didn't leave me feeling good the way my memories of college do. Wolfe spent the first half of the book in sensational 11-o'clock-news mode practically warning parents and teenage girls about the dangers of college and boys and the unrelenting quest for sex by both genders, every so often departing slightly to remind us of the mockery of the "student"-athlete. It was crude and exciting, that I'll give Wolfe. When he plunged into his chapter after chapter about depression, it very much depressed me, but it was the resolution of the story that made me most depressed. Wolfe has a leading female character, with "it"- smarts, looks, individuality; and her great triumph is what? Some guy and popularity. I worked 700-pages to get there? Why Tom, why? This isn't a book about high school. I can get a girl meets boy story and a cry in a Nicholas Sparks novel. Come on. That attitude cheats college students and it cheats readers. I expected better.
Wolfe will remain on the list of my favorite authors, but he has officially been passed by Ann Patchett.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Shhhh!
If you listen very closely you can hear my jaw tightening. Remember when I thought I was underworked and overpaid? It looks like the universe is trying to balance itself out.
Keep it down. My head hurts.
Update: NPR reminds me to have a little perspective. There's an evacuation going on. People are running out of gas or stuck in the traffic that comes from 1.1 million people heading north. Government employees are trying to get people out of Rita's way safely. I don't have a clue what overworked and underpaid is. No one lives or dies because of the work that I do. I'm going to go humbly eat my enchiladas and shut my whining trap.
If you listen very closely you can hear my jaw tightening. Remember when I thought I was underworked and overpaid? It looks like the universe is trying to balance itself out.
Keep it down. My head hurts.
Update: NPR reminds me to have a little perspective. There's an evacuation going on. People are running out of gas or stuck in the traffic that comes from 1.1 million people heading north. Government employees are trying to get people out of Rita's way safely. I don't have a clue what overworked and underpaid is. No one lives or dies because of the work that I do. I'm going to go humbly eat my enchiladas and shut my whining trap.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
There goes another piece of my soul
Sorry Abba, roommate compromise. The cable lady was calling today, so we must've entered the last week of our cable-free existence. I was telling a coworker about my concerns that TV would captivate me and take over my life. She said, "Grow up and have some self-control."
That's a nice theory.
I'm trying to come up with some other methods of encouraging self-control. I've considered designing a method of locking down the screen and giving the Sandwich the key. That way I'd have to ask every time I wanted to watch the tube. That's a little demeaning. I've thought about counting hours, kind of like dieters count calories. I suppose I could graph those hours which might be fun, but not for very long. I've thought about hiding the remote and then brainwashing myself. Ooooh. Does anyone know hypnosis? Maybe I could set up a couch that would shock me after I'd been on it for an hour, but that would probably just get me watching TV from the floor. I could set up some system of rewards. For every hour of writing I did a week that's how many hours of TV I could watch. That sounds noble, but I can see that one deteriorating at ludicrous speed.
I knew this guy once; he had self-control. Nobody liked him.
Sorry Abba, roommate compromise. The cable lady was calling today, so we must've entered the last week of our cable-free existence. I was telling a coworker about my concerns that TV would captivate me and take over my life. She said, "Grow up and have some self-control."
That's a nice theory.
I'm trying to come up with some other methods of encouraging self-control. I've considered designing a method of locking down the screen and giving the Sandwich the key. That way I'd have to ask every time I wanted to watch the tube. That's a little demeaning. I've thought about counting hours, kind of like dieters count calories. I suppose I could graph those hours which might be fun, but not for very long. I've thought about hiding the remote and then brainwashing myself. Ooooh. Does anyone know hypnosis? Maybe I could set up a couch that would shock me after I'd been on it for an hour, but that would probably just get me watching TV from the floor. I could set up some system of rewards. For every hour of writing I did a week that's how many hours of TV I could watch. That sounds noble, but I can see that one deteriorating at ludicrous speed.
I knew this guy once; he had self-control. Nobody liked him.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
They're on to me
Everyday at work I get asked, "How are you?" and everyday I answer something like "fine" "all right" "good" or "fiiine (with a sigh)." Well lately, people have been correcting me.
"You don't look fine." "You don't sound all right." "I know how that 'good' goes." So great, now I'm the only one in the world that can't get away with the pat answer and the scoot scoot scoot, right on out of there? Today I was ready.
So I was asked, "How are you?"
And I answered, "Let me tell you, how I am. I went to a fake park last night. It has this rolling Astroturf grass. And I was sitting between cigarette butts thinking, I wish this park was flat. I wish this was real grass. I wish there was a bench or some privacy. Then I realized. I was relaxing in a busy area. I had a view of the star and the moon. There were clusters of people around me laughing and enjoying themselves. I could people watch. I could lie back and breathe deeply. This was a nice little park framed by street lights. It wasn't the park by my dorm room with the great climbing tree. It wasn't the sports field up the street. It was somewhere completely different and in a way unlike the past, it had its own charms."
All right. So I only answered that way once. Otherwise I'm fine.
Everyday at work I get asked, "How are you?" and everyday I answer something like "fine" "all right" "good" or "fiiine (with a sigh)." Well lately, people have been correcting me.
"You don't look fine." "You don't sound all right." "I know how that 'good' goes." So great, now I'm the only one in the world that can't get away with the pat answer and the scoot scoot scoot, right on out of there? Today I was ready.
So I was asked, "How are you?"
And I answered, "Let me tell you, how I am. I went to a fake park last night. It has this rolling Astroturf grass. And I was sitting between cigarette butts thinking, I wish this park was flat. I wish this was real grass. I wish there was a bench or some privacy. Then I realized. I was relaxing in a busy area. I had a view of the star and the moon. There were clusters of people around me laughing and enjoying themselves. I could people watch. I could lie back and breathe deeply. This was a nice little park framed by street lights. It wasn't the park by my dorm room with the great climbing tree. It wasn't the sports field up the street. It was somewhere completely different and in a way unlike the past, it had its own charms."
All right. So I only answered that way once. Otherwise I'm fine.
Monday, September 19, 2005
another point for the city (all right, so I admit that basically I'm giving variations of the same points over and over.)
Sometimes I have to trick myself into exercise. Saturday was one of those times. I knew that I should go for a bike ride, but I was kind of tired of the same routes. And I wasn't in the mood to just wander around, unless... I decided that I would bike to my friends' place. They live in Virginia and I don't. This meant I would bike in two states and a District. It sounds much more intimidating than it is, except for the part where I had no idea how exactly I was going to get across the river. Well, I assumed there would be a bridge. I just didn't know if I was going to get run over by Hummers.
I set off on my adventure, reluctant to give friends advanced warning in case I got lost, run over, or lazy. I got a little lost, but then suddenly very un-lost as the trail I was on spit me out just a block away from my destination. Sweet. Friends were glad to see me, they'd just called. They served me dinner and then we went out and saw/heard some rollickin' bands. I left my bike at their home and if it hadn't been for the ill-advised cab ride, returned to my home without ever getting in a car. (The cab ride shouldn't count because it was dumb. And we all know dumb doesn't count. The Metro would have done the same job for 12 bucks less.)
Today, I was at work. My bike was on their balcony. And still no cars. (The cab doesn't count!) Then in grand Mr. Rogers style, I switched shoes and shed my belt at work. Not that Mr. Rogers, another one. So, when I arrived to pick up my bike I made a clothing change, rolled up my pants and polo shirt bedroll style and attached it to my CamelBak by way of bungee thingys. I then proceeded to ride home. I again got lost and was unable to make two trails that I really think connect somewhere connect, but I found my way and revisited those same two states and a District. Two magical days of exercise, one really weird itch, and no car later, I'm trying to figure out what my next trick will be.
Sometimes I have to trick myself into exercise. Saturday was one of those times. I knew that I should go for a bike ride, but I was kind of tired of the same routes. And I wasn't in the mood to just wander around, unless... I decided that I would bike to my friends' place. They live in Virginia and I don't. This meant I would bike in two states and a District. It sounds much more intimidating than it is, except for the part where I had no idea how exactly I was going to get across the river. Well, I assumed there would be a bridge. I just didn't know if I was going to get run over by Hummers.
I set off on my adventure, reluctant to give friends advanced warning in case I got lost, run over, or lazy. I got a little lost, but then suddenly very un-lost as the trail I was on spit me out just a block away from my destination. Sweet. Friends were glad to see me, they'd just called. They served me dinner and then we went out and saw/heard some rollickin' bands. I left my bike at their home and if it hadn't been for the ill-advised cab ride, returned to my home without ever getting in a car. (The cab ride shouldn't count because it was dumb. And we all know dumb doesn't count. The Metro would have done the same job for 12 bucks less.)
Today, I was at work. My bike was on their balcony. And still no cars. (The cab doesn't count!) Then in grand Mr. Rogers style, I switched shoes and shed my belt at work. Not that Mr. Rogers, another one. So, when I arrived to pick up my bike I made a clothing change, rolled up my pants and polo shirt bedroll style and attached it to my CamelBak by way of bungee thingys. I then proceeded to ride home. I again got lost and was unable to make two trails that I really think connect somewhere connect, but I found my way and revisited those same two states and a District. Two magical days of exercise, one really weird itch, and no car later, I'm trying to figure out what my next trick will be.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
In unrelated "media" news
I don't know why, but I think I would like it if I could get graphs from iTunes. I would like both bar graphs and line graphs of play counts, genres, dates, possibly even song graphing capabilities. I'm not at all sure what conclusions I would draw from my listening habits graphed, but I sense that it would be fascinating.
I would also like for Safeway to provide me with my buying history. I know that some marketing ogre has all of my information on her computer and she can tell anyone that asks exactly how many Twinkies I have purchased in the last 36 months. I think it would be fun to see graphs of my grocery buying habits too. We could compare meat purchases to dessert purchases to fruit and vegetable purchases and use that information to continue to ignore good dietary sense. We could compare my Colorado buying habits with my current buying habits. It could be fun and informative. It could.
Speaking of educational information, I have just been informed that television is on the brink of returning to my living room. My living room is too small for cable. However, I no longer have the willpower to fight it off. I fear this could be the end of an era. I have gone almost two years without TV in the home. In those two years I've watched hours and hours of movies and TV shows on DVD, so other than commercials I'm not sure how much "me time" I've really saved, but I do know that the lack of TV has helped me control some urges. Without TV, I don't want and need the way I did before. Products are less likely to compel me to action. When I waste hours in front of a screen, it's not spent on flipping channels, it's usually spent on clicking to people's blogs, but that at least requires reading. PLUS, plus with TV, there's always a chance that I might accidentally end up watching TV news. We all know that TV news burns retinas and dulls the brain, just as it tries to whip up a frenzied panic on the dangers of the likes of Mayonnaise.
I want to say that as an adult, I'll be able to handle TV. That I'll be able to get up and walk away when I'm finished. I'll watch the Gilmore Girls and I'll shut it off, but that's not the reality. For the first month or so, that might work. Girls. zap. off. Then it'll be Girls, channel flipping for 15 minutes, half a sitcom, some other show that I don't care about. Pretty soon, I'm flipping between VH1 and MTV and it's 3 in the morning, the couch is sagging under the weight of my now enormous stomach, as drool leaks out of the side of my mouth and collects in my beard along with the Cheetos that missed my pie hole on the first go. Oh sure, the Sandwich will try and control me, but one day I'll be screaming, "HAVE YOU SEEN THE FALL LINEUP FOR FX. IT'S F-ING BRILLIANT! GET OFF MY BACK!" and he'll have no choice but to slink back to his room as I belch good riddance.
Don't worry though. I've saved a seat on the couch next to me especially for you.
I don't know why, but I think I would like it if I could get graphs from iTunes. I would like both bar graphs and line graphs of play counts, genres, dates, possibly even song graphing capabilities. I'm not at all sure what conclusions I would draw from my listening habits graphed, but I sense that it would be fascinating.
I would also like for Safeway to provide me with my buying history. I know that some marketing ogre has all of my information on her computer and she can tell anyone that asks exactly how many Twinkies I have purchased in the last 36 months. I think it would be fun to see graphs of my grocery buying habits too. We could compare meat purchases to dessert purchases to fruit and vegetable purchases and use that information to continue to ignore good dietary sense. We could compare my Colorado buying habits with my current buying habits. It could be fun and informative. It could.
Speaking of educational information, I have just been informed that television is on the brink of returning to my living room. My living room is too small for cable. However, I no longer have the willpower to fight it off. I fear this could be the end of an era. I have gone almost two years without TV in the home. In those two years I've watched hours and hours of movies and TV shows on DVD, so other than commercials I'm not sure how much "me time" I've really saved, but I do know that the lack of TV has helped me control some urges. Without TV, I don't want and need the way I did before. Products are less likely to compel me to action. When I waste hours in front of a screen, it's not spent on flipping channels, it's usually spent on clicking to people's blogs, but that at least requires reading. PLUS, plus with TV, there's always a chance that I might accidentally end up watching TV news. We all know that TV news burns retinas and dulls the brain, just as it tries to whip up a frenzied panic on the dangers of the likes of Mayonnaise.
I want to say that as an adult, I'll be able to handle TV. That I'll be able to get up and walk away when I'm finished. I'll watch the Gilmore Girls and I'll shut it off, but that's not the reality. For the first month or so, that might work. Girls. zap. off. Then it'll be Girls, channel flipping for 15 minutes, half a sitcom, some other show that I don't care about. Pretty soon, I'm flipping between VH1 and MTV and it's 3 in the morning, the couch is sagging under the weight of my now enormous stomach, as drool leaks out of the side of my mouth and collects in my beard along with the Cheetos that missed my pie hole on the first go. Oh sure, the Sandwich will try and control me, but one day I'll be screaming, "HAVE YOU SEEN THE FALL LINEUP FOR FX. IT'S F-ING BRILLIANT! GET OFF MY BACK!" and he'll have no choice but to slink back to his room as I belch good riddance.
Don't worry though. I've saved a seat on the couch next to me especially for you.
Is this 4 AM paranoia?
The whole blog google search thing has me near freaking out. I know I'm a lucky one with a fairly common name (who knew that would pay off?), but still. This just narrows the search. They will hunt us down. They will find us.
They highly recommend the book Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. No, wait. I do that.
See how confused it's all becoming?
The whole blog google search thing has me near freaking out. I know I'm a lucky one with a fairly common name (who knew that would pay off?), but still. This just narrows the search. They will hunt us down. They will find us.
They highly recommend the book Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. No, wait. I do that.
See how confused it's all becoming?
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Wisdom from the cupboard
It occurs to me that a coffee-flavored drink might just have some caffeine in it. It follows then that a generally non-caffeinated fellow such as myself might not want to throw back such a drink after 11 PM. Unless, say I was hoping to catch up on some displaced music, have another go with the frickin' banjo strings, read some beautiful Anne Patchett work, troll the Internets, and fight off the thoughts that I would've sworn had already been dealt with.
It occurs to me that a coffee-flavored drink might just have some caffeine in it. It follows then that a generally non-caffeinated fellow such as myself might not want to throw back such a drink after 11 PM. Unless, say I was hoping to catch up on some displaced music, have another go with the frickin' banjo strings, read some beautiful Anne Patchett work, troll the Internets, and fight off the thoughts that I would've sworn had already been dealt with.
Friday, September 16, 2005
So this is the night
I'm this close to just saying "Fine. Let's get cable." I'd be throwing almost two solid years and what I know somewhere deep down is good sense right out the window so that I could get my fill of those Gilmore Girls and this mysterious O.C. Instead, I get the No See and some game called Razamatan. No. That wasn't it. Where is Adrian to explain the rules when I need him?
This game is really pretty good. Word on the street is that other famous Chicagoans play too. It's a cross between Monopoly, Risk, and some other game that isn't Ultimate. Settlers of Catan, that's it! was quite enjoyable. I recommend an assistant and as much vulgarity and thinly-veiled sexual references as possible. Oh yea, the kiddies will eat this one up. You can make wheat jokes- "Wheat is sweet." You can make brick jokes- "A ton of bricks." You can make wood jokes. I'll let you make wood jokes on your own. And you can make sheep jokes. Pirate. Sheep. Jokes. Ore combine them all. It's funny. I swear it.
Speaking of games, I've decided to pass on the crazy travel plans and deal with some DC sights for now. I had considered just showing up at the train station and going on whatever train was leaving. I'd also considered making every decision this weekend based on a coin flip. I haven't entirely ruled that one out. Either way, I'm feeling toast for breakfast. Oh yea! I'm an adventurer.
I'm this close to just saying "Fine. Let's get cable." I'd be throwing almost two solid years and what I know somewhere deep down is good sense right out the window so that I could get my fill of those Gilmore Girls and this mysterious O.C. Instead, I get the No See and some game called Razamatan. No. That wasn't it. Where is Adrian to explain the rules when I need him?
This game is really pretty good. Word on the street is that other famous Chicagoans play too. It's a cross between Monopoly, Risk, and some other game that isn't Ultimate. Settlers of Catan, that's it! was quite enjoyable. I recommend an assistant and as much vulgarity and thinly-veiled sexual references as possible. Oh yea, the kiddies will eat this one up. You can make wheat jokes- "Wheat is sweet." You can make brick jokes- "A ton of bricks." You can make wood jokes. I'll let you make wood jokes on your own. And you can make sheep jokes. Pirate. Sheep. Jokes. Ore combine them all. It's funny. I swear it.
Speaking of games, I've decided to pass on the crazy travel plans and deal with some DC sights for now. I had considered just showing up at the train station and going on whatever train was leaving. I'd also considered making every decision this weekend based on a coin flip. I haven't entirely ruled that one out. Either way, I'm feeling toast for breakfast. Oh yea! I'm an adventurer.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
More politics?!?
I found myself cheering on this Post Op-ed on keeping gas prices high. I don't like getting gouged at the pump any more than the next guy, but I would greatly appreciate if the next guy would park his Hummer, or better yet not buy a disgusting vehicle like that at all. And maybe if the next guy and the next gal started making smart decisions, car companies would make some smart decisions. And then, heaven forbid while cars aren't guzzling so much gas, maybe city planners can start making some sensible decisions too and we'll actually have places to live that don't require so much driving.
I'm tired of wars over oil. I'm tired of the environmental battles with so little progress. It's the 21st century. It's time for some 21st century solutions. We should be arguing about the problems of time travel and flying cars, not about gas mileage rates that look just as bad as they did 30 years ago.
I found myself cheering on this Post Op-ed on keeping gas prices high. I don't like getting gouged at the pump any more than the next guy, but I would greatly appreciate if the next guy would park his Hummer, or better yet not buy a disgusting vehicle like that at all. And maybe if the next guy and the next gal started making smart decisions, car companies would make some smart decisions. And then, heaven forbid while cars aren't guzzling so much gas, maybe city planners can start making some sensible decisions too and we'll actually have places to live that don't require so much driving.
I'm tired of wars over oil. I'm tired of the environmental battles with so little progress. It's the 21st century. It's time for some 21st century solutions. We should be arguing about the problems of time travel and flying cars, not about gas mileage rates that look just as bad as they did 30 years ago.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
It's fun for everyone
I've been reading a lot about the "blame game" these last couple of weeks. It seems like a really good game. From what I can tell, it takes two people to play. It starts when the blamer makes accusations specifically or generally against the other player. The accusations can be baseless and off-the-wall or they can be backed by facts. It doesn't seem to matter which, so long as they are loud. Volume and quantity of blame is key. Later on in the game the veracity of the blame may come into play, but in the early stages of this game it's important to get off to a fast start so that the opponent doesn't have a chance to recover. By the time the truth comes out, a good blamer will already be cruising to apparent victory.
The best part about the blame game is that there is no limit to the number of players that can join in. This is a game for every race, class, sexual orientation, or government position. The blame game doesn't discriminate. It's fun for everyone. The only down-side to this all inclusive game is that there is not a clear-cut winner. Oh sure, it always looks like someone is winning and generally that someone blusters intensely as he/she looks to bury opponents, but there are no blue-ribbon blames. The flag doesn't fly for a championship blamer. As a matter of fact, as best I can tell the blame game tends to give us a whole lot of losers. Most of the losers didn't even want to play the game in the first place. Just a thought here: maybe we need to find some more constructive ways to play.
I've been reading a lot about the "blame game" these last couple of weeks. It seems like a really good game. From what I can tell, it takes two people to play. It starts when the blamer makes accusations specifically or generally against the other player. The accusations can be baseless and off-the-wall or they can be backed by facts. It doesn't seem to matter which, so long as they are loud. Volume and quantity of blame is key. Later on in the game the veracity of the blame may come into play, but in the early stages of this game it's important to get off to a fast start so that the opponent doesn't have a chance to recover. By the time the truth comes out, a good blamer will already be cruising to apparent victory.
The best part about the blame game is that there is no limit to the number of players that can join in. This is a game for every race, class, sexual orientation, or government position. The blame game doesn't discriminate. It's fun for everyone. The only down-side to this all inclusive game is that there is not a clear-cut winner. Oh sure, it always looks like someone is winning and generally that someone blusters intensely as he/she looks to bury opponents, but there are no blue-ribbon blames. The flag doesn't fly for a championship blamer. As a matter of fact, as best I can tell the blame game tends to give us a whole lot of losers. Most of the losers didn't even want to play the game in the first place. Just a thought here: maybe we need to find some more constructive ways to play.
The problem
-with slouching and eating Pringles is that you end up with crumbs in your belly button.
-with hanging out at a college that you never attended is that eventually someone is going to call you creepy and you're going to start to wonder if they're right.
-with buying new banjo strings is that then you have to figure out how to attach them to your banjo.
-with not having TV is that you don't get to see The Gilmore Girls unless you're in a hotel.
-with reading all of this garbage is that it doesn't really get you anywhere.
-with slouching and eating Pringles is that you end up with crumbs in your belly button.
-with hanging out at a college that you never attended is that eventually someone is going to call you creepy and you're going to start to wonder if they're right.
-with buying new banjo strings is that then you have to figure out how to attach them to your banjo.
-with not having TV is that you don't get to see The Gilmore Girls unless you're in a hotel.
-with reading all of this garbage is that it doesn't really get you anywhere.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Sleek and black and toaster of bread
My toaster will rock your face off. It's not that it does anything particularly different from any other toaster, but it does it with so much style. It's like the tuxedo of toasters. It is the James Bond of small appliances. Blenders literally (and by literally I, like the majority of English-speakers these days, mean nothing to do with literally at all) swoon when my toaster gets plugged in. I've heard them screaming when that little blue "toast" light comes on. It's a Toaster Invansion. Veg-o-matics look like chopped beets compared to my toaster. If my toaster could procreate and find a suitable toaster mate, it would make the hottest little toaster babies of all time. (Hmm. I wonder if anyone is selling toaster babies. I bet they'd be huge in Canada.)
As hot and sexy and incredible as my sleek, little, black toaster may be, it still gets jealous of the Kitchenaid mixer. Now that's a small appliance that's flippin' sweet.
Did I mention that I had some toast last night that really hit the spot? And also that I have no idea what I'd do with a mixer. I'm in a kitchen comfort zone when it comes to the toast.
My toaster will rock your face off. It's not that it does anything particularly different from any other toaster, but it does it with so much style. It's like the tuxedo of toasters. It is the James Bond of small appliances. Blenders literally (and by literally I, like the majority of English-speakers these days, mean nothing to do with literally at all) swoon when my toaster gets plugged in. I've heard them screaming when that little blue "toast" light comes on. It's a Toaster Invansion. Veg-o-matics look like chopped beets compared to my toaster. If my toaster could procreate and find a suitable toaster mate, it would make the hottest little toaster babies of all time. (Hmm. I wonder if anyone is selling toaster babies. I bet they'd be huge in Canada.)
As hot and sexy and incredible as my sleek, little, black toaster may be, it still gets jealous of the Kitchenaid mixer. Now that's a small appliance that's flippin' sweet.
Did I mention that I had some toast last night that really hit the spot? And also that I have no idea what I'd do with a mixer. I'm in a kitchen comfort zone when it comes to the toast.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Continued pilfering of other sources
This one from Amber Hollibaugh, my dangerous desires (or so I'm told.)
"The memory of our histories is often constructed to work as our
conscience as well as to configure our secret desires. We wander through
our own minds endlessly, figuring and reconfiguring our stories, our
memories, our realities, so that they will line up with the choices we are
making, the dreams we are desperately fashioning, the stories we hope to
explain us, the lovers we desire, the world as we wish it to be."
Does that explain some of those thoughts that just seem to *pop* out of nowhere? Or the ones I can't escape?
This one from Amber Hollibaugh, my dangerous desires (or so I'm told.)
"The memory of our histories is often constructed to work as our
conscience as well as to configure our secret desires. We wander through
our own minds endlessly, figuring and reconfiguring our stories, our
memories, our realities, so that they will line up with the choices we are
making, the dreams we are desperately fashioning, the stories we hope to
explain us, the lovers we desire, the world as we wish it to be."
Does that explain some of those thoughts that just seem to *pop* out of nowhere? Or the ones I can't escape?
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Some things need to be preserved
The wisdom that the Sandwich and I came up with tonight may be one of those things.
"The good thing about simple is... it's not complicated."
Or not so much with the preserving. Or the wisdom. Heck, the Sandwich and I probably had nothing to do with that quote. I don't even know why you keep pestering me with your eyes. It's driving me batty. You. Always with the looking. I'll let you know when I have something important to say, you don't always have to be checking up on me. You're really rather nosey. It's kind of rude. If you were a houseguest and I was having a dinner party I might just ask you to leave. Or I might offer you some Scotch.
Yep. It's a topsy-turvy world.
Late breaking news: I was just informed that the quote was actually, "When things aren't simple, they're complicated. And complicated is bothersome."
Preserve that.
The wisdom that the Sandwich and I came up with tonight may be one of those things.
"The good thing about simple is... it's not complicated."
Or not so much with the preserving. Or the wisdom. Heck, the Sandwich and I probably had nothing to do with that quote. I don't even know why you keep pestering me with your eyes. It's driving me batty. You. Always with the looking. I'll let you know when I have something important to say, you don't always have to be checking up on me. You're really rather nosey. It's kind of rude. If you were a houseguest and I was having a dinner party I might just ask you to leave. Or I might offer you some Scotch.
Yep. It's a topsy-turvy world.
Late breaking news: I was just informed that the quote was actually, "When things aren't simple, they're complicated. And complicated is bothersome."
Preserve that.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
What goes down, must come up
I was all set to compare myself to a loose tooth. The world was going to be this big tongue just pushing and pulling and agitating from every which way. At moments the rocking, pulling, agitating world was going to cause pain and then an odd soothing sensation, and, the important part, as any loose tooth and/or 6 year-old will tell you, the tongue was going to knock that tooth right out of there and there was going to be bleeding. It was the weekend that didn't go as planned and it was the job that has taken a turn from the kooshy and it was hunger all getting to me. Having already exhausted the sarcastic remarks to a coworker and the turning up of the iPod to dangerous decibels to diffuse the situation, I was in the midst of Operation: Walk Home. During the aforementioned operation, the Iron and Wine song "The Sea and The Rhythm" pulsed into my ears and a smile that bordered on a giggle crossed my lips. Maybe it was that Iron and Wine thing working its magic again, or maybe Operation: Walk Home had finally taken effect. Either way, I couldn't help but look up at the big blue sky and think, I just finished a three day weekend. I just worked hard for my money. And now, I've got this whole beautiful evening to myself.
Tonight, we're the sea
and the rhythm there
the waves and the wind and the night is black
I was all set to compare myself to a loose tooth. The world was going to be this big tongue just pushing and pulling and agitating from every which way. At moments the rocking, pulling, agitating world was going to cause pain and then an odd soothing sensation, and, the important part, as any loose tooth and/or 6 year-old will tell you, the tongue was going to knock that tooth right out of there and there was going to be bleeding. It was the weekend that didn't go as planned and it was the job that has taken a turn from the kooshy and it was hunger all getting to me. Having already exhausted the sarcastic remarks to a coworker and the turning up of the iPod to dangerous decibels to diffuse the situation, I was in the midst of Operation: Walk Home. During the aforementioned operation, the Iron and Wine song "The Sea and The Rhythm" pulsed into my ears and a smile that bordered on a giggle crossed my lips. Maybe it was that Iron and Wine thing working its magic again, or maybe Operation: Walk Home had finally taken effect. Either way, I couldn't help but look up at the big blue sky and think, I just finished a three day weekend. I just worked hard for my money. And now, I've got this whole beautiful evening to myself.
Tonight, we're the sea
and the rhythm there
the waves and the wind and the night is black
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Summer is nearly gone. Was it ever here?
I'm still sweating more liquid than some states get rain, but without the big break or the big trip or the glorious return to a new school year, it feels a lot like a hot version of winter.
"How was your summer?" I am asked by my returning Ultimate friends. I look up into the bright blue sky and squint but the answer isn't up there. "I'm not sure it started. Check back later." But they don't. And neither do I.
Without the refreshing return to fall, that rebirth that used to come with the first days of September, the sameness wraps around a little tighter like a very slow moving boa constrictor.
I'm still sweating more liquid than some states get rain, but without the big break or the big trip or the glorious return to a new school year, it feels a lot like a hot version of winter.
"How was your summer?" I am asked by my returning Ultimate friends. I look up into the bright blue sky and squint but the answer isn't up there. "I'm not sure it started. Check back later." But they don't. And neither do I.
Without the refreshing return to fall, that rebirth that used to come with the first days of September, the sameness wraps around a little tighter like a very slow moving boa constrictor.
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