Segways are the new cell phones
I've known from the very beginning that I don't like Segways. They are little motorized microcosms of all that's wrong with America. Segways are for self-involved, space-hogging, fat bums. They are the SUVs of the sidewalks. Segways are inappropriate, ineffective, and in-my-way. Which is why today I took particular delight in watching a Segway wreck not 5 feet in front of me. It was a Segway tour group, which if I start thinking about could really send me into a frenzy, so I won't. I'll focus on the crash. It was really more of a bump from behind, but it did send one driver? Segwayer? fat bum? off his ride and onto the ground. I tried not to laugh out loud, but then couldn't help shouting as I rode off, "Segways don't kill people. People kill people."
No one was injured. Sometimes exercise makes me lippy. Segway people might understand that if they tried it. Oooh. Burn.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Roads. Where we're going...
My car is like a time machine. Sit inside and be transported to the land of Rock Radio '84, Summer Radio '97, and the greatest mix tape to ever be jammed down in that little area on the door that should have the maps, yes I do mean- I can streak for miles and miles.
I sit in my car, the car in which I took my driver's test, the car in which I took my prom date, the car which canvassed the Midwest on a paintbrush called I-70, and I travel the highways and byways of now. Only with the tapes, and the growing smells, it starts to feel like another time. A moldier, oldier time. A time when the end of high school was closer than the ten year reunion.
My car is a time machine.
Yesterday, I traveled to the future. Despite my best efforts to cling to the moldy and the oldy, I went to the future. I know this because in the future gas prices are $3.19 per gallon.
The future looks grim.
My car is like a time machine. Sit inside and be transported to the land of Rock Radio '84, Summer Radio '97, and the greatest mix tape to ever be jammed down in that little area on the door that should have the maps, yes I do mean- I can streak for miles and miles.
I sit in my car, the car in which I took my driver's test, the car in which I took my prom date, the car which canvassed the Midwest on a paintbrush called I-70, and I travel the highways and byways of now. Only with the tapes, and the growing smells, it starts to feel like another time. A moldier, oldier time. A time when the end of high school was closer than the ten year reunion.
My car is a time machine.
Yesterday, I traveled to the future. Despite my best efforts to cling to the moldy and the oldy, I went to the future. I know this because in the future gas prices are $3.19 per gallon.
The future looks grim.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The punchline is: these are new lights
That's why this joke sucks. The punchline isn't worth crap. I've drooled better punchlines. It's got no zip. It doesn't make any profound social commentary. It doesn't leave anyone slapping a knee saying, "It's funny, because it's true." Mostly they're just saying, "it's true." If any slapping is to be done, it's probably going to be directed at me. Save the knees!
I went into work today in a foul mood. We are talking I burrowed a hole beneath the dumps and when I got there I used a wooden spoon to dig a little further down. I'm pulling up to my cube, sack of dirty clothes and shoes on my back, not even looking around to acknowledge the thirty minutes of lateness trailing behind me. I'm plopping into my seat and firing up the slave-driving screen when I look around and think, "@%$#@$%. Is it just me or do these lights seem really bright?"
I actually felt a little better when I overheard a coworker talking about the eye-saving benefits of our new lights.
That's why this joke sucks. The punchline isn't worth crap. I've drooled better punchlines. It's got no zip. It doesn't make any profound social commentary. It doesn't leave anyone slapping a knee saying, "It's funny, because it's true." Mostly they're just saying, "it's true." If any slapping is to be done, it's probably going to be directed at me. Save the knees!
I went into work today in a foul mood. We are talking I burrowed a hole beneath the dumps and when I got there I used a wooden spoon to dig a little further down. I'm pulling up to my cube, sack of dirty clothes and shoes on my back, not even looking around to acknowledge the thirty minutes of lateness trailing behind me. I'm plopping into my seat and firing up the slave-driving screen when I look around and think, "@%$#@$%. Is it just me or do these lights seem really bright?"
I actually felt a little better when I overheard a coworker talking about the eye-saving benefits of our new lights.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Blame it on the sweet tea
It just slipped out. I didn't mean anything by it. I was on the phone; the first work call I've taken in two days. We were talking. She had that syrupy Southern sweetness and I responded with my uncleaned dipstick of a voice. I made it through a sentence or two, but then with a wipe of the dipstick, a warming familiarity entered my tone and out came "ya'll." I couldn't stop it. She didn't notice, but my eyes grew wide. That's what I get for drinking Milo's sweet tea, bless my heart.
It just slipped out. I didn't mean anything by it. I was on the phone; the first work call I've taken in two days. We were talking. She had that syrupy Southern sweetness and I responded with my uncleaned dipstick of a voice. I made it through a sentence or two, but then with a wipe of the dipstick, a warming familiarity entered my tone and out came "ya'll." I couldn't stop it. She didn't notice, but my eyes grew wide. That's what I get for drinking Milo's sweet tea, bless my heart.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Breath mint binge
David checked into the clinic today after an apparent breath mint overdose. A source close to David reports that he had shown restraint in previous breath mint encounters, but lost control in his cubicle today. After finishing an entire package of mints, David was found sobbing next to the trash can. His breath and his tears both smelled minty fresh. David's publicist refused further comment.
Inflation hits. Three Musketeers snicker
A trip to the vending machine today revealed a shocking 15% increase in candy bar and nut prices. Amateur economists theorize that the prices are tied directly to the recent hike in gas prices, while conspiracy theorists cite anti-dime sentiment for the increase. The reason for the rise is unclear, but waist lines and wallets will not go unaffected.
"Salty cashews for $.75" snarled Carl. "Why, I remember when I could get more nuts than I could handle for half that." Patting his tummy, Carl claimed that Easter Monday was as good a day as any to start his new diet.
Others did not take the news with such optimism. Nancy, a self-proclaimed vending machine junkie, took to pounding on the glass and mumbling about her cost of living increase being only 2.7% this year. "They're trying to bleed me dry," she said.
Vending machine spokespeople said, "We will continue to provide coils full of morale-boosting goodness at the lowest possible prices."
Healthy eaters and snack bringers did not appreciate the plight of their starving coworkers. "I just bring some carrot sticks every day to work. I don't understand the fuss," said Mary.
An unidentified source in Mary's department said that no one really likes Mary.
Incomplete reflections on paper Ninja stars
Ninja stars were second grade boys' answer to the multi-fold notes of second grade girls. In theory they were deadly accurate weapons of the dark army. Their destruction potential was as beautiful as their intricate designs. When I made ninja stars, they were slightly pointed pieces of trash with so many colors that it looked like Crayola had a fight and everybody lost. I think that's why I stopped making ninja stars. What were girls writing about in second grade anyway?
David checked into the clinic today after an apparent breath mint overdose. A source close to David reports that he had shown restraint in previous breath mint encounters, but lost control in his cubicle today. After finishing an entire package of mints, David was found sobbing next to the trash can. His breath and his tears both smelled minty fresh. David's publicist refused further comment.
Inflation hits. Three Musketeers snicker
A trip to the vending machine today revealed a shocking 15% increase in candy bar and nut prices. Amateur economists theorize that the prices are tied directly to the recent hike in gas prices, while conspiracy theorists cite anti-dime sentiment for the increase. The reason for the rise is unclear, but waist lines and wallets will not go unaffected.
"Salty cashews for $.75" snarled Carl. "Why, I remember when I could get more nuts than I could handle for half that." Patting his tummy, Carl claimed that Easter Monday was as good a day as any to start his new diet.
Others did not take the news with such optimism. Nancy, a self-proclaimed vending machine junkie, took to pounding on the glass and mumbling about her cost of living increase being only 2.7% this year. "They're trying to bleed me dry," she said.
Vending machine spokespeople said, "We will continue to provide coils full of morale-boosting goodness at the lowest possible prices."
Healthy eaters and snack bringers did not appreciate the plight of their starving coworkers. "I just bring some carrot sticks every day to work. I don't understand the fuss," said Mary.
An unidentified source in Mary's department said that no one really likes Mary.
Incomplete reflections on paper Ninja stars
Ninja stars were second grade boys' answer to the multi-fold notes of second grade girls. In theory they were deadly accurate weapons of the dark army. Their destruction potential was as beautiful as their intricate designs. When I made ninja stars, they were slightly pointed pieces of trash with so many colors that it looked like Crayola had a fight and everybody lost. I think that's why I stopped making ninja stars. What were girls writing about in second grade anyway?
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Transitions are dead
I have 25 minutes to tell you the things you came here to find out. Well, let me tell you. I'm contemplating a return to tchoukball. It's not that I feel like tchoukball has really been missing in my life, but it seems like a better choice than golf. It's cheaper and more accessible and easier to give up. It's played by fewer people and so it has novelty going for it. Plus, it's less frustrating. And more active. I suppose I could try to find ways to occupy my time that didn't involve sport, but I could also learn to belly dance. Couldn't I?
I played a game of Ultimate the other night. I don't want to talk about the things that hurt. I want to talk about the dirty look I got from one woman. I realize I shouldn't take it personally, but that's not helping. A hammer went up and I was trying to help out on defense, so I made tracks to get to the disc. My chase was fruitless because gravity was bringing the disc down faster than I could move. I realized this at about the time this woman was dropping the disc and so instead of diving for the disc, I tried to dodge her. As I splayed to her left, parts of my body contacted parts of her. I stood up and apologized, but she glared. She glared the "you have no right to run into a me glare." She'd already dropped the disc by the time we bumped. I didn't mean to do it. These things happen. I'm trying to let it go. I'm trying to figure out if I'd get the same glare from a man.
It's not like the first impression I have of my friend LL. A bunch of the dorm kids were playing Ultimate on the big green Astroturf. It was the usual gun and run, 11 v. 11, college-age kindergarteners chasing the flying plastic wherever it might fly kind of game. I was chasing a disc. LL was chasing a disc. It was coming down. She was out of position. I jumped up. She reared both elbows back, thrust her palms forward, and jammed them right into my chest. She pushed me. I was shocked. I was also knocked down. She got a glare from me, believe it. I didn't think much of her then. I don't like cheaters much, but I guess I forgave her because we're friends now. As horrible and obvious as that push was, I think I had to admire the fight in her. She was going to go down swinging. I can't reconcile that at the moment. I can't reconcile it with Spirit of the game either.
Please don't tell me that belly dancing is a sport.
In 45 minutes of play, I fell to the ground at least 3 times. Once I slipped. Once I "dove," although I was basically out of control and couldn't get where I needed to go without flying forward a bit. We've already discussed the splaying. 45 minutes. I wasn't even playing that well. And I was on cloud 9. I need more things in my life that do that. 3 minutes to go. When this comes out right, it's pretty close. Cloud 7, 7.5 at least. It just doesn't come easy. And it's fraught with so much risk of injury to R.
I have 25 minutes to tell you the things you came here to find out. Well, let me tell you. I'm contemplating a return to tchoukball. It's not that I feel like tchoukball has really been missing in my life, but it seems like a better choice than golf. It's cheaper and more accessible and easier to give up. It's played by fewer people and so it has novelty going for it. Plus, it's less frustrating. And more active. I suppose I could try to find ways to occupy my time that didn't involve sport, but I could also learn to belly dance. Couldn't I?
I played a game of Ultimate the other night. I don't want to talk about the things that hurt. I want to talk about the dirty look I got from one woman. I realize I shouldn't take it personally, but that's not helping. A hammer went up and I was trying to help out on defense, so I made tracks to get to the disc. My chase was fruitless because gravity was bringing the disc down faster than I could move. I realized this at about the time this woman was dropping the disc and so instead of diving for the disc, I tried to dodge her. As I splayed to her left, parts of my body contacted parts of her. I stood up and apologized, but she glared. She glared the "you have no right to run into a me glare." She'd already dropped the disc by the time we bumped. I didn't mean to do it. These things happen. I'm trying to let it go. I'm trying to figure out if I'd get the same glare from a man.
It's not like the first impression I have of my friend LL. A bunch of the dorm kids were playing Ultimate on the big green Astroturf. It was the usual gun and run, 11 v. 11, college-age kindergarteners chasing the flying plastic wherever it might fly kind of game. I was chasing a disc. LL was chasing a disc. It was coming down. She was out of position. I jumped up. She reared both elbows back, thrust her palms forward, and jammed them right into my chest. She pushed me. I was shocked. I was also knocked down. She got a glare from me, believe it. I didn't think much of her then. I don't like cheaters much, but I guess I forgave her because we're friends now. As horrible and obvious as that push was, I think I had to admire the fight in her. She was going to go down swinging. I can't reconcile that at the moment. I can't reconcile it with Spirit of the game either.
Please don't tell me that belly dancing is a sport.
In 45 minutes of play, I fell to the ground at least 3 times. Once I slipped. Once I "dove," although I was basically out of control and couldn't get where I needed to go without flying forward a bit. We've already discussed the splaying. 45 minutes. I wasn't even playing that well. And I was on cloud 9. I need more things in my life that do that. 3 minutes to go. When this comes out right, it's pretty close. Cloud 7, 7.5 at least. It just doesn't come easy. And it's fraught with so much risk of injury to R.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
What did emo ever do to you?
Someone in my 'hood is unhappy with emo. I know this because a number of stop signs are now "STOP emo" signs. I didn't realize that emo was such a problem. Sometimes it's kind of depressing, but it seems to be a music genre that deserves to continue as much as any of the alternatives. Not only that, but I'm not sure altering street signs is the most effective method for altering people's opinions. There was a stop sign not too far from here that said, "STOP DRIVING" for a while. I kept watch and it doesn't seem that anybody abandoned cars. I think rather than whipping out the spray can every time this person or persons feels like maybe emo is cutting a little too close to reality, he/she/they should consider turning off the mp3/cd/tape player and just walking away. Unless, maybe they are talking about emo as an attitude rather than just a music genre. In which case, this campaign still makes no sense because the emo attitude really doesn't ooze through the streets of my suburbia.
Oh, and another thing, "Bump emo" makes no sense at all.
Someone in my 'hood is unhappy with emo. I know this because a number of stop signs are now "STOP emo" signs. I didn't realize that emo was such a problem. Sometimes it's kind of depressing, but it seems to be a music genre that deserves to continue as much as any of the alternatives. Not only that, but I'm not sure altering street signs is the most effective method for altering people's opinions. There was a stop sign not too far from here that said, "STOP DRIVING" for a while. I kept watch and it doesn't seem that anybody abandoned cars. I think rather than whipping out the spray can every time this person or persons feels like maybe emo is cutting a little too close to reality, he/she/they should consider turning off the mp3/cd/tape player and just walking away. Unless, maybe they are talking about emo as an attitude rather than just a music genre. In which case, this campaign still makes no sense because the emo attitude really doesn't ooze through the streets of my suburbia.
Oh, and another thing, "Bump emo" makes no sense at all.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Autumn has me thinking
or Man I hope this isn't plagiarism
I've mostly given up bursting into the living room to announce that some aspect of blogging, "BLOWS MY MIND." Generally, I've stopped thinking in those terms. I don't track who is reading except by comment, anecdote, and the conversational misstep where I'm told, "I know. I read that already."
I pretend that people visit here don't/can't/won't pin me down because I'm vague. I don't have a list of links or an about page. They don't really know me. My vagueness, my borderline incoherence has turned a few potential readers off. When I think of my blog as a writing tool, I find that discouraging. Not terribly discouraging, because as a writing tool, it's given me confidence to write in other venues, for nanowrimo, for my family, for me. To sit down and write is no longer such a battle. To sit down and write coherently... another story.
Obviously, my blog is not just a writing tool. When Anne first encouraged me and I responded directly to that encouragement, it became at least in part about the readers. It became about reaching out to people I had lost touch with. I was taking some of my cues from the more experienced bloggers in those circles. These were not just any readers, but the people I knew or wanted to know because they interested me, or at least interested people I knew, or they updated enough to make my blog addiction feel justified. Very quickly this blog became about community. I think it came just in time too, because as everyone "grows up" and gets busier my email traffic has plummeted. So I keep in touch or just meet and hang out with this online presence. Is it a little creepy and voyeuristic? Sometimes, yes.
So as a reader, it's a little creepy and as a writer it's invasive. I'm sharing my thoughts with the general online public. That's a little weird, and not at all like the paranoid person I thought I would be. I mean I blog, but I don't have a SmartTrip card because I don't want "them" to know I'm on the Metro (I don't want to pay the fee either, but these are issues for another post.) How can I worry about Big Brother watching and then serve him breakfast every day?
Creepy, voyeuristic, invasive and Autumn brings to light yet another drawback- privacy. I don't live my life in a vacuum. ('Cause that would suck, of course.) I interact with people. They're part of the story. Recently, my aunt threatened to avoid me when I went to visit my family because she didn't want to end up as blog fodder. That didn't work so well, but what should I do with people? Do I leave them out? Give them aliases? How much is their privacy worth? What if they have a blog? Should I wait until they mention something, before I do? So many questions.
Then. Finally, it boils down to just one question- Is blogging worth it?
So far, the answer is yes. It gets me to write. It gets me to look, listen, feel, think more than I otherwise might. It keeps me in contact with wonderful people and allows me to build and grow relationships with them, even from afar. Heck, it provides an outlet for my incoherence. As long as I can answer yes to that one question, I'm going to keep at it. Hopefully, nobody will get seriously injured in the process.
or Man I hope this isn't plagiarism
I've mostly given up bursting into the living room to announce that some aspect of blogging, "BLOWS MY MIND." Generally, I've stopped thinking in those terms. I don't track who is reading except by comment, anecdote, and the conversational misstep where I'm told, "I know. I read that already."
I pretend that people visit here don't/can't/won't pin me down because I'm vague. I don't have a list of links or an about page. They don't really know me. My vagueness, my borderline incoherence has turned a few potential readers off. When I think of my blog as a writing tool, I find that discouraging. Not terribly discouraging, because as a writing tool, it's given me confidence to write in other venues, for nanowrimo, for my family, for me. To sit down and write is no longer such a battle. To sit down and write coherently... another story.
Obviously, my blog is not just a writing tool. When Anne first encouraged me and I responded directly to that encouragement, it became at least in part about the readers. It became about reaching out to people I had lost touch with. I was taking some of my cues from the more experienced bloggers in those circles. These were not just any readers, but the people I knew or wanted to know because they interested me, or at least interested people I knew, or they updated enough to make my blog addiction feel justified. Very quickly this blog became about community. I think it came just in time too, because as everyone "grows up" and gets busier my email traffic has plummeted. So I keep in touch or just meet and hang out with this online presence. Is it a little creepy and voyeuristic? Sometimes, yes.
So as a reader, it's a little creepy and as a writer it's invasive. I'm sharing my thoughts with the general online public. That's a little weird, and not at all like the paranoid person I thought I would be. I mean I blog, but I don't have a SmartTrip card because I don't want "them" to know I'm on the Metro (I don't want to pay the fee either, but these are issues for another post.) How can I worry about Big Brother watching and then serve him breakfast every day?
Creepy, voyeuristic, invasive and Autumn brings to light yet another drawback- privacy. I don't live my life in a vacuum. ('Cause that would suck, of course.) I interact with people. They're part of the story. Recently, my aunt threatened to avoid me when I went to visit my family because she didn't want to end up as blog fodder. That didn't work so well, but what should I do with people? Do I leave them out? Give them aliases? How much is their privacy worth? What if they have a blog? Should I wait until they mention something, before I do? So many questions.
Then. Finally, it boils down to just one question- Is blogging worth it?
So far, the answer is yes. It gets me to write. It gets me to look, listen, feel, think more than I otherwise might. It keeps me in contact with wonderful people and allows me to build and grow relationships with them, even from afar. Heck, it provides an outlet for my incoherence. As long as I can answer yes to that one question, I'm going to keep at it. Hopefully, nobody will get seriously injured in the process.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
$!%$@!#$%
I shrunk my favorite stocking cap. I was on this cleaning kick and that involved the last of the winter garments in the washer and the dryer. I'm sad. I'm mad. I just put it on, pulled it tight down over my ears and screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as I looked skyward. Dang it. That hat had years of wear left. Years! It had the pom-pom and the work memories. It was green and purple and fuzzy and warm. I washed it in cold water and dried it on the low setting. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I shrunk my favorite stocking cap. I was on this cleaning kick and that involved the last of the winter garments in the washer and the dryer. I'm sad. I'm mad. I just put it on, pulled it tight down over my ears and screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as I looked skyward. Dang it. That hat had years of wear left. Years! It had the pom-pom and the work memories. It was green and purple and fuzzy and warm. I washed it in cold water and dried it on the low setting. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
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