There are a number of new phases I am entering into. I felt like you should know. I feel like Picasso. Maybe this is my blue period.
...
I am officially entering my Beach Boys phase. I am slowly transferring my obsession from the Beatles to the Beach Boys. While I will never forsake my affections for the Liverpoolians, I am really enjoying Brian Wilson and his antics.
I am officially entering my tea phase. I like tea now. I still like coffee but I do enjoy a spot of tea. Herbal. With lemon.
I am officially entering my spinach phase. I love a good spinach.
I am officially entering my hookah phase. While I attempted before, this time it will take.
I am officially entering my moving phase. I am moving out of my place in a few days. I am moving in with some friends. Then 2 months after that I am moving to Charlotte. Which means that in the past 2 years, I will have moved 4 times.
I am officially entering my social apathy phase. Who cares if you wear sweat pants? They are comfortable. Pajamas too.
I am officially entering my beard phase. Though I tinkered with the facial hair before, it is now my look. It is more me than I am. Therefore the beard will come. And it will stay.
I am officially entering my Sudoku phase. I can't go a day without one.
I am officially entering my official entry to phases phase. I have decided to enter into several phases (officially) now.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
Eye Make Up vs. iMake Up
Upon flipping through a recent Rolling Stone magazine, I couldn't help but notice that several of the new musicians (male, musicians that is) have gone to wearing eye make up. A little eye liner, a little color around the edges and there - now you have a cool, trendy new look. If you combine the eye make up with a shaggy, meant-to-look-unkempt-but-really-is-quite-manicured, sweeping across the face, highlighted hair cut, then you have almost every new musician featured in the magazine. This got me thinking. Fashion, when you think about it, is so silly. Or at least the pursuit to be trendy or "in fashion." To try and keep up is so exhausting. It is so transient. It is ever-morphing.
Go ahead, pop that collar. It will be stupid in 5 months. You'll regret that decision in the pictures. Go ahead and buy those a-little-tighter-than-normal jeans. Baggy will be in style in 8 weeks. Trust me. (I can't wait for "sagging" to come back. Or maybe even the Kris Kross thing). Let your hair grow out and swoop it across your eyes. In a few months that will be as played out as trucker hats and aviators.
So what is one to do? Is there a style that trancends the relentlessly changing trends? Does the simple polo-shirt and khaki combo rise above the ebb and flow? I'm not sure. But it sure is entertaining to watch it happen and to watch people chase this faceless ghost named Style. The strange thing about our culture is this Antithesis of Cool Coolness. We are a culture of cowards who thinks they are rebels. As soon as something is cool, it is now uncool. But the thing that made it "cool" in the first place was that it was original and out of the ordinary and new. Indie music is becoming the new main stream. Forgettable coffee houses are becoming the new Starbucks. Little independent iMacs are becoming the new Gateways. You see, technology is the same way. The iPod I got in the summer of '05 now looks huge and ancient like those enormous Zack Morris cell phones. And by 2007 the iPod Nanos are going to look like old Ataris. You just can't keep up. There is certainly more thinking to do about this and how the ebb and flow of cultural trends accelerates and is affected by postmodernism and the glut of information due to the internet (blogs included).
I just want to know when mustaches will be cool again. What about powdered wigs? Or leather, bicycle jackets? Or wearing pony tails out to the side? Or getting extra large T-shirts and making them into dresses by simply binding a belt around them? Or Discmans? Or Minidiscs? Or CD ROMs? Or Laser Discs?
Go ahead, pop that collar. It will be stupid in 5 months. You'll regret that decision in the pictures. Go ahead and buy those a-little-tighter-than-normal jeans. Baggy will be in style in 8 weeks. Trust me. (I can't wait for "sagging" to come back. Or maybe even the Kris Kross thing). Let your hair grow out and swoop it across your eyes. In a few months that will be as played out as trucker hats and aviators.
So what is one to do? Is there a style that trancends the relentlessly changing trends? Does the simple polo-shirt and khaki combo rise above the ebb and flow? I'm not sure. But it sure is entertaining to watch it happen and to watch people chase this faceless ghost named Style. The strange thing about our culture is this Antithesis of Cool Coolness. We are a culture of cowards who thinks they are rebels. As soon as something is cool, it is now uncool. But the thing that made it "cool" in the first place was that it was original and out of the ordinary and new. Indie music is becoming the new main stream. Forgettable coffee houses are becoming the new Starbucks. Little independent iMacs are becoming the new Gateways. You see, technology is the same way. The iPod I got in the summer of '05 now looks huge and ancient like those enormous Zack Morris cell phones. And by 2007 the iPod Nanos are going to look like old Ataris. You just can't keep up. There is certainly more thinking to do about this and how the ebb and flow of cultural trends accelerates and is affected by postmodernism and the glut of information due to the internet (blogs included).
I just want to know when mustaches will be cool again. What about powdered wigs? Or leather, bicycle jackets? Or wearing pony tails out to the side? Or getting extra large T-shirts and making them into dresses by simply binding a belt around them? Or Discmans? Or Minidiscs? Or CD ROMs? Or Laser Discs?
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Diary Entry of Rudolf Hargrove (5-15-1937)
This hickory-laden coffee house emits the stench of sweat and roasted coffee beans. I smear the sap from its opened pores and waft it closer, only to be surprised by the scent of adhesive and chemical. I'm empty stomached and it's well past afternoon now. My nerves suspend beneath my skin frayed and disrupted, mangled from the coffee and cigarettes. Last night's dark bitter chocolates and dry scotch doesn't feel like such a great idea now, especially mixed with the rattled nerves and nicotine glow. My eyes dart across the smoky coffee house now. Panicked and back and forth and back like wild geese. My skin is now crawling across my stained bones and I itch the crust until it pinkens. I'm unnecessarily nervous and ravenously hungry with an upset stomach that now spills on top of itself in disgust. I'm shaking and the pen I write with seems to be posing great difficulty to clasp. It drops from my clutches and my shaky hand goes to retrieve it, much like a man twice my age who has consumed too much barley. I despise how this old wooden chair squeaks with every shift of my weight. The smells of the coffee beans are too much now. I'm still shaking. Vibrating almost like a cog in some industrial factory. Wait, that's not sap. That's simple glue. Glue that has since been stained into a deep and golden brown. Oakey and smoky. This coffee house is poorly lit. Dim and smoky. Ah I can smell those fresh pastries on Hartington Street. Those crescents and tiny danishes stuffed with fresh cherries. The ones with the flaky crusts and the light sweetness. I really should not have had that chocolate last night. It is a great irony that when one gets to a certain point of hunger that certain foods sound displeasing. I suppose a parched man in the desert would not turn down water or much less be disgusted by the thought of it. I wonder if the sap-glue would be edible. If only I could remove it from this hickory wall. Drat. No luck. Perhaps a cigarette will tide me over until supper. Drat. They really meant business when they put that glue on the wall. It must be holding together the whole coffee house.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Pride + Amnesia = Pridnesia
Going home for the holidays is always interesting. Especially when you run into people you went to high school with. This is the sole cause of anxiety in my life when I go back home. These people are everywhere. Lurking around aisles at the grocery store, waiting in line at Starbucks, the next table over at Chili's. And the worst thing about these people is that I have completely forgotten all of their names. And this is why I get so tense around them. This is why I avoid them at all cost. It's the awkwardness of it all that drives me into hiding.
I see their face and the visual sparks some far off memory, lodged deep in the back of my mind where I rarely ever venture. The memories are so covered in dust that I can faintly recall that I do know them but have no clue where I know them from. And of course trying to retrieve a name to go with the fuzzy and foggy memory is out of the question. If people are not in the context that you knew them, it is very hard to peg them into a familiar hole in your head.
For years whenever I came home, I would awkwardly go with the conversation. "Hey...you," would be my response to them calling out my name and walking towards me with an extended hand. And I'd stand there for the next few minutes shaking and sweating and asking them questions and tip toeing around the conversation for clues as to who they might be. The fear of getting caught not knowing their name drove me insane. I couldn't take it. And so if I saw anyone that I faintly recognized, I would duck and hide and dodge. I'd grab my cell phone and quickly press it against my face to engage in a fake conversation that seemed so important it was understandable that I couldn't talk right then.
But not this trip. Not this time. I graduated in 1999. That is almost 7 years ago. I have come to the point in my life that I am willing to openly acknowledge the fact that I have forgotten people's names. By now, it should be understandable. And if someone actually gets upset that I have forgotten their name, they have major problems. After 7 years of not seeing someone, you have the right to forget. To be upset that your name was not remembered after 7 years exposes the ugliness of pride like lifting a rock and seeing the black, slithery, shiny insect underneath. "What?!?! You don't remember my name??" Give me a break.
And that's what I did. And nobody got upset. And it was wonderful to be freed from the self-imposed social chains. So from here on out, I'm asking. If I have forgotten (and I most likely have), don't be offended. You are not as important as you think.
By the way, I am writing this in a coffee shop back in Baton Rouge. And there is a grown, Indian woman a table over from me with a "Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen" bookbag at her feet. Ah, it's good to be back home.
I see their face and the visual sparks some far off memory, lodged deep in the back of my mind where I rarely ever venture. The memories are so covered in dust that I can faintly recall that I do know them but have no clue where I know them from. And of course trying to retrieve a name to go with the fuzzy and foggy memory is out of the question. If people are not in the context that you knew them, it is very hard to peg them into a familiar hole in your head.
For years whenever I came home, I would awkwardly go with the conversation. "Hey...you," would be my response to them calling out my name and walking towards me with an extended hand. And I'd stand there for the next few minutes shaking and sweating and asking them questions and tip toeing around the conversation for clues as to who they might be. The fear of getting caught not knowing their name drove me insane. I couldn't take it. And so if I saw anyone that I faintly recognized, I would duck and hide and dodge. I'd grab my cell phone and quickly press it against my face to engage in a fake conversation that seemed so important it was understandable that I couldn't talk right then.
But not this trip. Not this time. I graduated in 1999. That is almost 7 years ago. I have come to the point in my life that I am willing to openly acknowledge the fact that I have forgotten people's names. By now, it should be understandable. And if someone actually gets upset that I have forgotten their name, they have major problems. After 7 years of not seeing someone, you have the right to forget. To be upset that your name was not remembered after 7 years exposes the ugliness of pride like lifting a rock and seeing the black, slithery, shiny insect underneath. "What?!?! You don't remember my name??" Give me a break.
And that's what I did. And nobody got upset. And it was wonderful to be freed from the self-imposed social chains. So from here on out, I'm asking. If I have forgotten (and I most likely have), don't be offended. You are not as important as you think.
By the way, I am writing this in a coffee shop back in Baton Rouge. And there is a grown, Indian woman a table over from me with a "Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen" bookbag at her feet. Ah, it's good to be back home.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Tip of the Day
One aspect of our society that has always perplexed me has been the idea of tipping. Here we have a person who has been hired by an establishment to perform some sort of service and when they actually perform that service, not only do they get a paycheck, but they get a little bit extra. From me. Simply for doing what they are supposed to do. The age old question remains - should we tip?
I waver on the issue, personally. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. Sometimes there is no question - your lunch bill may have an added 18% gratuity in it. This is obligated tipping (which I am not a fan of). Or maybe your waiter was exceptional and it actually gave you pleasure to put down a few bills for him on the table. But sometimes it is not so black and white. There are a few situations that hang out in the gray zone. For example - Sonic. Do you tip the people that bring out your food to you from the little hut thing? What did they do that warrants something extra? They really only did what they were supposed to do, and that wasn't that much. They hang out inside the hut thing, when the food is finished cooking (which they play no part in cooking the food) they grab it, and walk it out to my parked car...15 feet away. In my opinion, that doesn't warrant a tip but yet there is this whole tipping climate at Sonic. You feel bad if you don't tip them. And I frankly don't know why.
Or what about that extra line on credit card print outs? There is a sandwich shop in town that I always go to. The procedure is this - you walk up to the cashier, place your order, he writes it down and hands it to a couple of "sandwich chefs" who assemble your requested sandwich. I hand him my credit card. The little receipt spits out and there it is - that glaring, blank line assigned for a tip. This one really puzzles me. Who I am I tipping - the cashier, the sandwich chefs, all of them? Where does that money go? And what extra service have they provided me that would warrant me to give them more money than their offered service that I already payed for? I don't get it. The dude is standing behind a cash register and punching numbers. He doesn't even have to know how to do math because the computer tells him how much change to give back. He takes my card, swipes it, gives me a receipt and a pen and...that's it. And that's what he is payed to do. I see absolutely no reason why I should tip him. And I don't. But for some mysterious reason, I always feel like he is upset with me when I hand him back the receipt with a line drawn through the spot for his would-be tip.
I really appreciated the tipping policy of Europe when I was there a few summers ago. There was none of this "obligatory" tipping like we have in the States. You sit there, the staff does their job...you know, they serve you food, and you pay for what you ordered. That's that. They will wish you well if you don't tip them. They will be glad you stopped in their restaurant. Now if they did an exceptional job, or if you were feeling a bit generous, you could gladly put a little extra on the top. This was their reward for great service. And this makes sense to me. In America, this function is removed. People everywhere are obligated to tip. It's like Christmas every time you go out to eat - you are obliged to give. And this, it seems to me, strips the heart out of what it means to give. To give means you give freely. You are motivated by generosity. You desire to expend your resources when someone has masterfully performed their duty.
If you were to roll out to Chili's or On the Border or wherever and had your meal and left no tip, the staff would hate you. You would not be welcome back. The manager would want to know what was wrong with the service. I hate this awful obligated tip-giving. If I want to reward someone's service, I should have that freedom and it should be an act of generosity. If I decide not to, I shouldn't get dirty looks and feel bad about myself and walk out with my head ducked down to avoid eye contact.
But as it were we live in a culture where you must tip. So tip I will. Only not at Sonic.
I waver on the issue, personally. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. Sometimes there is no question - your lunch bill may have an added 18% gratuity in it. This is obligated tipping (which I am not a fan of). Or maybe your waiter was exceptional and it actually gave you pleasure to put down a few bills for him on the table. But sometimes it is not so black and white. There are a few situations that hang out in the gray zone. For example - Sonic. Do you tip the people that bring out your food to you from the little hut thing? What did they do that warrants something extra? They really only did what they were supposed to do, and that wasn't that much. They hang out inside the hut thing, when the food is finished cooking (which they play no part in cooking the food) they grab it, and walk it out to my parked car...15 feet away. In my opinion, that doesn't warrant a tip but yet there is this whole tipping climate at Sonic. You feel bad if you don't tip them. And I frankly don't know why.
Or what about that extra line on credit card print outs? There is a sandwich shop in town that I always go to. The procedure is this - you walk up to the cashier, place your order, he writes it down and hands it to a couple of "sandwich chefs" who assemble your requested sandwich. I hand him my credit card. The little receipt spits out and there it is - that glaring, blank line assigned for a tip. This one really puzzles me. Who I am I tipping - the cashier, the sandwich chefs, all of them? Where does that money go? And what extra service have they provided me that would warrant me to give them more money than their offered service that I already payed for? I don't get it. The dude is standing behind a cash register and punching numbers. He doesn't even have to know how to do math because the computer tells him how much change to give back. He takes my card, swipes it, gives me a receipt and a pen and...that's it. And that's what he is payed to do. I see absolutely no reason why I should tip him. And I don't. But for some mysterious reason, I always feel like he is upset with me when I hand him back the receipt with a line drawn through the spot for his would-be tip.
I really appreciated the tipping policy of Europe when I was there a few summers ago. There was none of this "obligatory" tipping like we have in the States. You sit there, the staff does their job...you know, they serve you food, and you pay for what you ordered. That's that. They will wish you well if you don't tip them. They will be glad you stopped in their restaurant. Now if they did an exceptional job, or if you were feeling a bit generous, you could gladly put a little extra on the top. This was their reward for great service. And this makes sense to me. In America, this function is removed. People everywhere are obligated to tip. It's like Christmas every time you go out to eat - you are obliged to give. And this, it seems to me, strips the heart out of what it means to give. To give means you give freely. You are motivated by generosity. You desire to expend your resources when someone has masterfully performed their duty.
If you were to roll out to Chili's or On the Border or wherever and had your meal and left no tip, the staff would hate you. You would not be welcome back. The manager would want to know what was wrong with the service. I hate this awful obligated tip-giving. If I want to reward someone's service, I should have that freedom and it should be an act of generosity. If I decide not to, I shouldn't get dirty looks and feel bad about myself and walk out with my head ducked down to avoid eye contact.
But as it were we live in a culture where you must tip. So tip I will. Only not at Sonic.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Egg Nog Blog
What in the world is egg nog? I've asked a great number people recently. No one really knows. Sure, everyone can identify what an egg is. But it is the nog that trips everyone up.
I'm used to drinks and foods to follow the normal, simple English concept of adjective and noun. Take Grape Juice for example. The "juice" is the noun that gets clarified with the adjective "grape." Simple. Or Vegtable Soup. Again, "soup" is the noun and "vegtable" is the adjective. If you apply that formula to egg nog, you find yourself in a world of confusion. No one knows what nog is.
Could there be Carrot Nog out there and we just don't know about it? Or Vegtable Nog? (Veg Nog). Or Shrimp Nog? Or Bacon Nog?
So I looked it up on ole trusty dictionary.com. The first definition was helpful - A wooden block built into a masonry wall to hold nails that support joinery structures. Most of the other definitions centered around that idea. Wooden blocks. Nails. Yeah, yeah.
Then I went to an Acronyn finder in hopes that mabye N.O.G. stood for something. I found out that in fact it does. The first on the list was National Orchid Garden. Then Net Operating Goal. Not Our Goods. Notice of Gaurantee. Nuclear Operations Group. Number One Gun. Beyond that, there was nothing to help unlock the puzzle.
Nowhere on the internet do we discover what Nog is. It remains a mystery, a perplexing conundrum to be unraveled only in glory. For on this side of heaven, let us all add it to the collected files of unsolved mysteries.
I'm used to drinks and foods to follow the normal, simple English concept of adjective and noun. Take Grape Juice for example. The "juice" is the noun that gets clarified with the adjective "grape." Simple. Or Vegtable Soup. Again, "soup" is the noun and "vegtable" is the adjective. If you apply that formula to egg nog, you find yourself in a world of confusion. No one knows what nog is.
Could there be Carrot Nog out there and we just don't know about it? Or Vegtable Nog? (Veg Nog). Or Shrimp Nog? Or Bacon Nog?
So I looked it up on ole trusty dictionary.com. The first definition was helpful - A wooden block built into a masonry wall to hold nails that support joinery structures. Most of the other definitions centered around that idea. Wooden blocks. Nails. Yeah, yeah.
Then I went to an Acronyn finder in hopes that mabye N.O.G. stood for something. I found out that in fact it does. The first on the list was National Orchid Garden. Then Net Operating Goal. Not Our Goods. Notice of Gaurantee. Nuclear Operations Group. Number One Gun. Beyond that, there was nothing to help unlock the puzzle.
Nowhere on the internet do we discover what Nog is. It remains a mystery, a perplexing conundrum to be unraveled only in glory. For on this side of heaven, let us all add it to the collected files of unsolved mysteries.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The Question of '05
Yesterday I was at a local coffee shop and after having ordered my cup of coffee, I walked over to the little "fixin' station," you know, the counter designated to the sugar, creamer, etc. I did my usual thing - a bit of sugar, a splash of cream - and something for the first time struck me as very odd. There on the shelf was a glass counter next to sugar. The contents of this container looked almost identical to the sugar - grainy, powdery like white stuff. Only the label on this container read "Creamer." And this got me thinking.
How can powder be creamer? Shouldn't creamer, by definition, be...you know...creamy? I don't understand how you put powder in your coffee and you get creaminess in the end. This makes no sense to me. Powder is one thing. Cream is quite another.
So there I stood in deep reflection at the fixin' station, pondering the metaphysical possibility of powder-based cream. And it reminded me of the astronauts and the freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, stiff blocks of cardboard they would eat that was supposed to "ice cream." You remember this? Colorful cardboard can't be ice cream. And in the same way, white powder that dissolves in hot coffee can't be creamy. Call me crazy, but that is what I think.
How can powder be creamer? Shouldn't creamer, by definition, be...you know...creamy? I don't understand how you put powder in your coffee and you get creaminess in the end. This makes no sense to me. Powder is one thing. Cream is quite another.
So there I stood in deep reflection at the fixin' station, pondering the metaphysical possibility of powder-based cream. And it reminded me of the astronauts and the freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, stiff blocks of cardboard they would eat that was supposed to "ice cream." You remember this? Colorful cardboard can't be ice cream. And in the same way, white powder that dissolves in hot coffee can't be creamy. Call me crazy, but that is what I think.
Friday, December 02, 2005
More Musings on the Homeless
Yesterday I got approached by a 'homeless' man who was smoking a cigarette and looking for any spare change I had. Here's my question - should I give money to someone who has more jewelry on than me?
On another note - when I was in Memphis for Thanksgiving, Kathryn and I got approached by a large, large man who said he was looking for spare change to catch a train back to Phoenix. He was large. And this is how he began his request - "You're a Christian, right?" Very sneaky Mr. Large Homeless Man. I love it when they immediately manipulate you by tinkering with your conscience. Then he went on to say that he hasn't 1) eaten in 10 days; 2) just had heart surgery; 3) can't walk good because of a busted foot (he pointed to his shoe at this point); 4) he needed to go back to Phoenix to help people out there; 5) he has walked across town through the blistering cold; and my personal favorite, 6) I'm not on drugs.
Having just heard that the man hasn't eaten in 10 days, I kindly offered if he wanted to go across the street to get some food at a restaurant. He said, "No, they want me to have cash." I asked, "Who are 'they'?" He replied that 'they' were the Greyhound people. They wanted him to have money so that he could eat for the next few days. Hmmm. Does this story even make sense.
Again I offered, "Hey, if you haven't eaten in 10 days, I will gladly buy you some food, but I am not going to give you money." He didn't like this. He accused me of not "believing him" and not "listening to what he was saying." I said, "Hey man, I hear what you are saying. I am offering you food. I am offering to meet one of your needs. You know...food, the stuff you haven't had any of in 10 days." He walked away frustrated. I walked away frustrated.
My feelings toward the homeless fluxuate each day. Sometimes I walk away heart broken and eager to help, eager to give, eager to bring them into my home and prepare them dinner and have them sit at my table. And other times I feel so scandalized, so manipulated by their petty, transparent lies that I leave my encounters with them hardened and irritated. Can someone help me sort out these feelings?
On another note - when I was in Memphis for Thanksgiving, Kathryn and I got approached by a large, large man who said he was looking for spare change to catch a train back to Phoenix. He was large. And this is how he began his request - "You're a Christian, right?" Very sneaky Mr. Large Homeless Man. I love it when they immediately manipulate you by tinkering with your conscience. Then he went on to say that he hasn't 1) eaten in 10 days; 2) just had heart surgery; 3) can't walk good because of a busted foot (he pointed to his shoe at this point); 4) he needed to go back to Phoenix to help people out there; 5) he has walked across town through the blistering cold; and my personal favorite, 6) I'm not on drugs.
Having just heard that the man hasn't eaten in 10 days, I kindly offered if he wanted to go across the street to get some food at a restaurant. He said, "No, they want me to have cash." I asked, "Who are 'they'?" He replied that 'they' were the Greyhound people. They wanted him to have money so that he could eat for the next few days. Hmmm. Does this story even make sense.
Again I offered, "Hey, if you haven't eaten in 10 days, I will gladly buy you some food, but I am not going to give you money." He didn't like this. He accused me of not "believing him" and not "listening to what he was saying." I said, "Hey man, I hear what you are saying. I am offering you food. I am offering to meet one of your needs. You know...food, the stuff you haven't had any of in 10 days." He walked away frustrated. I walked away frustrated.
My feelings toward the homeless fluxuate each day. Sometimes I walk away heart broken and eager to help, eager to give, eager to bring them into my home and prepare them dinner and have them sit at my table. And other times I feel so scandalized, so manipulated by their petty, transparent lies that I leave my encounters with them hardened and irritated. Can someone help me sort out these feelings?
Monday, November 28, 2005
The Single Man's Diet
Cheap and easy. This is the banner behind every single man's decision making process when it comes to cooking at home. We have no problem cooking a pot of macaroni and cheese and taking the whole pot to the couch to eat directly out of. This would be a good meal for us. No side items. No salad. Just the mac and cheese. Because when you are a man and having to cook for yourself, you think linearly. You make one thing. You eat one thing. Very rarely, very, very rarely will a man make two things. And it is only a myth that a man would make three.
For example - I came home one day from work, searched the kitchen over and found that I had no groceries. Well, all except for a pound of frozen ground chuck in the freezer. Good, now I don't have to go to the store. I had just found dinner. I thawed the meat, browned it, drained it, and then...ate it. By itself. A pound of ground beef. Straight.
Tonight (I kid you not), I ate beans. I opened up a can of baked beans, heated them on the stove and ate them straight from the pot. There was nothing else. No meat to eat with it. No bread to dip in it. Just the beans.
This is the single man's diet. We cook one thing (we usually don't even do that) and we eat it. We don't chop vegetables for salads. We don't have one pot of rice cooking and one pot of green beans cooking and a brisket in the oven simultaneously. We like to take it one dish at a time. One meal at a time.
That's not to say we can't combine items we might find around the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese and tuna? Great idea. Bread and cheese? You got yourself a sandwich. Chili and baked Lays? Healthy Frito pie. Biscuits and hotdogs? You've got yourself a biscuity hotdog.
The possibilities are endless. We will continue to eat and we will continue to survive. We are poor and we are single. And this is what we do.
For example - I came home one day from work, searched the kitchen over and found that I had no groceries. Well, all except for a pound of frozen ground chuck in the freezer. Good, now I don't have to go to the store. I had just found dinner. I thawed the meat, browned it, drained it, and then...ate it. By itself. A pound of ground beef. Straight.
Tonight (I kid you not), I ate beans. I opened up a can of baked beans, heated them on the stove and ate them straight from the pot. There was nothing else. No meat to eat with it. No bread to dip in it. Just the beans.
This is the single man's diet. We cook one thing (we usually don't even do that) and we eat it. We don't chop vegetables for salads. We don't have one pot of rice cooking and one pot of green beans cooking and a brisket in the oven simultaneously. We like to take it one dish at a time. One meal at a time.
That's not to say we can't combine items we might find around the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese and tuna? Great idea. Bread and cheese? You got yourself a sandwich. Chili and baked Lays? Healthy Frito pie. Biscuits and hotdogs? You've got yourself a biscuity hotdog.
The possibilities are endless. We will continue to eat and we will continue to survive. We are poor and we are single. And this is what we do.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
A Letter
Dear Downstairs Neighbor,
You are probably wondering why I am writing you a letter at 4 in the morning. Let me remind you. Oh yeah, it is because your music is still vibrating through my ribs even after I walked down stairs and asked you to turn it down. It seems that you have enjoyed providing me with mid morning wake up calls. I especially liked the one last night when I woke up to the sound of glass breaking, only to look outside to see your girlfriend smashing out your windows in a drunken frenzy. My favorite part was when you got home and engaged in a primal shouting match for another 30 minutes.
You should know that I have been fantasizing for the past 20 minutes on what I would like to do to you and your noisy friends. I first thought of lobbing water balloons from the other side of the street, disrupting your outdoor latenight get-together. Then I thought of going downstairs and flipping the power breaker. That would stop the music at least. You know those holes in your windows from where your girlfriend smashed them? I have thought about tossing in stink bombs or live rats or things of that nature. I'm not beyond calling the police, too you know. You see, the thing is, I am struggaling not to hate you right now. That is a struggle that I am losing. I hate you. And I am dreaming of inflicting bodily harm on you.
I will tell you this - I love your raw unconsiderateness. You don't seem to remember that you have people living all around you, separated by paper-thin walls. That is admirable. You also know how to enjoy yourself. At 4 in the morning. Several nights a week. I have grown used to waking up to your late night shindigs. You just fail to remember that other people exist besides yourself. That is pure virtue.
So please cut back on the mid morning wake up calls. Otherwise, I might carry out some of my threats. I would burn your place down, but mine would go up in flames with it. So you are at least safe from that. But whatever else I can do to send you to your demise, I will certainly do if the noise continues.
Thanks for understanding.
Matt
You are probably wondering why I am writing you a letter at 4 in the morning. Let me remind you. Oh yeah, it is because your music is still vibrating through my ribs even after I walked down stairs and asked you to turn it down. It seems that you have enjoyed providing me with mid morning wake up calls. I especially liked the one last night when I woke up to the sound of glass breaking, only to look outside to see your girlfriend smashing out your windows in a drunken frenzy. My favorite part was when you got home and engaged in a primal shouting match for another 30 minutes.
You should know that I have been fantasizing for the past 20 minutes on what I would like to do to you and your noisy friends. I first thought of lobbing water balloons from the other side of the street, disrupting your outdoor latenight get-together. Then I thought of going downstairs and flipping the power breaker. That would stop the music at least. You know those holes in your windows from where your girlfriend smashed them? I have thought about tossing in stink bombs or live rats or things of that nature. I'm not beyond calling the police, too you know. You see, the thing is, I am struggaling not to hate you right now. That is a struggle that I am losing. I hate you. And I am dreaming of inflicting bodily harm on you.
I will tell you this - I love your raw unconsiderateness. You don't seem to remember that you have people living all around you, separated by paper-thin walls. That is admirable. You also know how to enjoy yourself. At 4 in the morning. Several nights a week. I have grown used to waking up to your late night shindigs. You just fail to remember that other people exist besides yourself. That is pure virtue.
So please cut back on the mid morning wake up calls. Otherwise, I might carry out some of my threats. I would burn your place down, but mine would go up in flames with it. So you are at least safe from that. But whatever else I can do to send you to your demise, I will certainly do if the noise continues.
Thanks for understanding.
Matt
Thursday, November 17, 2005
O Day of Rest and Gladness (Happiness)
Yesterday was my birthday. And it was happy. It was happy simply because everyone I knew wished it to be so. They wished it and it came true. What a powerful word my friends have, that they would wish something upon me and it come to pass. Thankfully they didn't wish me an ear infection birthday or a diarrhea birthday or a poison ivy birthday. That would have been miserable.
I'll be honest, I don't understand the point behind the happy birthday wish. Well, ok, sure I do. You want the person who had the birthday to be happy. How sweetly simple. There's nothing to it. You want the person to be happy so you simply say to them "happy" and the expectation is for them to be so. That is why I think we should wish our hopes for happiness on the birthday person the day before their birthday. To say 'happy birthday' half-way into their day is to basically say, "well, whatever remains of this day, I hope that part is happy." If we said 'happy birthday' the day before the actual birthday, we would be wishing them the maximum 24 hours of happiness. None of this, part of the day happiness wish. And that would be the best gift of all - 24 hours of solid, unbreakable happiness.
Why do we only wish happiness on people once a year? Well, I guess that's not quite accurate. We do wish them a happy new year. We wish them happy Valentine's day. Happy Hanukkah and Thanksgiving. (Do people say 'happy Easter'?) And once a year, we strangely enough wish people to be "merry." Beyond a few exceptions, your birthday is a day where you will be guaranteed a wish of happiness. Something finally dawned on me after all these years of receiving happy birthdays - I have been selfishly hogging all the happiness on my special day. People should be able to share in the happiness of my birthday with me. It is much too greedy of me to horde it all. So throughout my special day I wished people a happy Matt's birthday. I just figured others should partake in the happiness. If the day is that special to grant me happiness, there should be enough happiness to go round. But of course, if I am consistent (and I am) then I should wish you a happy Matt's birthday the day before my actual birthday. So get ready people. Next year on November 15th, I am going to wish happiness upon you for a full 24 hours - the day we celebrate because on that day I came to exist, the day of rest and gladness, the day of my birth.
I'll be honest, I don't understand the point behind the happy birthday wish. Well, ok, sure I do. You want the person who had the birthday to be happy. How sweetly simple. There's nothing to it. You want the person to be happy so you simply say to them "happy" and the expectation is for them to be so. That is why I think we should wish our hopes for happiness on the birthday person the day before their birthday. To say 'happy birthday' half-way into their day is to basically say, "well, whatever remains of this day, I hope that part is happy." If we said 'happy birthday' the day before the actual birthday, we would be wishing them the maximum 24 hours of happiness. None of this, part of the day happiness wish. And that would be the best gift of all - 24 hours of solid, unbreakable happiness.
Why do we only wish happiness on people once a year? Well, I guess that's not quite accurate. We do wish them a happy new year. We wish them happy Valentine's day. Happy Hanukkah and Thanksgiving. (Do people say 'happy Easter'?) And once a year, we strangely enough wish people to be "merry." Beyond a few exceptions, your birthday is a day where you will be guaranteed a wish of happiness. Something finally dawned on me after all these years of receiving happy birthdays - I have been selfishly hogging all the happiness on my special day. People should be able to share in the happiness of my birthday with me. It is much too greedy of me to horde it all. So throughout my special day I wished people a happy Matt's birthday. I just figured others should partake in the happiness. If the day is that special to grant me happiness, there should be enough happiness to go round. But of course, if I am consistent (and I am) then I should wish you a happy Matt's birthday the day before my actual birthday. So get ready people. Next year on November 15th, I am going to wish happiness upon you for a full 24 hours - the day we celebrate because on that day I came to exist, the day of rest and gladness, the day of my birth.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Star Whores
I live in a toilet. Seriously. This place is a dump. My entire place is caving in at the middle, making a nice slant-like decline in my room. I am afraid that it will collapse soon. Raccoons scurry about. Poison Ivy crawls up the back side of the house. The foundation is so bad that doors are getting harder to close. The bathtub is caked in brown mold. The electricity is unbelievably unpredictable. There is absolutely no insulation so if it is hot outside, it is an oven inside and if it is cold outside, it is a freezer inside. There are patches of wood on the floor that are so torn up and squeeky, I avoid stepping on them out of fear that I will fall through to the floor below. My mailbox is nailed to the dilapitated wood ouside, dangling precariously by a single nail. Because of the rotten foundation, there are actually holes in the house where the windows are bent downwards, letting in all kinds of fun uninvited insects (mosquitos and wasps mostly).
But don't get me wrong, I love it here. Well, love is a bit strong. Maybe strongly like. No, that's a bit too strong too. Let's just say that I like it here. Now, come to think of it, it is more like hate. Hate is the most appropriate term. I hate it here. Let's be honest, people, living in a toilet can have ramifications on your welfare. If you are not happy at home, you are not happy. If a man's home is in disarray, so is his heart, so I've heard. And I believe the rumors. That is why I am hoping to be out of here in December when my roommate gets married.
Oh wait, I almost forgot, Yeah, there is no real estate in Baton Rouge because of Katrina. Hmm, that poses a problem doesn't it? And it's not like people want to move into a new place with me because after all, I'm moving out in April. No one likes a roomie to split three months into a new lease. And so my options are this: move in with somebody and pay rent for a few months (which poses a whole new set of concerns) or stay here. Here, in the toilet.
Conundrum? Oh yes. Sort of like the title to this post.
But don't get me wrong, I love it here. Well, love is a bit strong. Maybe strongly like. No, that's a bit too strong too. Let's just say that I like it here. Now, come to think of it, it is more like hate. Hate is the most appropriate term. I hate it here. Let's be honest, people, living in a toilet can have ramifications on your welfare. If you are not happy at home, you are not happy. If a man's home is in disarray, so is his heart, so I've heard. And I believe the rumors. That is why I am hoping to be out of here in December when my roommate gets married.
Oh wait, I almost forgot, Yeah, there is no real estate in Baton Rouge because of Katrina. Hmm, that poses a problem doesn't it? And it's not like people want to move into a new place with me because after all, I'm moving out in April. No one likes a roomie to split three months into a new lease. And so my options are this: move in with somebody and pay rent for a few months (which poses a whole new set of concerns) or stay here. Here, in the toilet.
Conundrum? Oh yes. Sort of like the title to this post.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Tanning and Masculinity
I'm not going to lie. I went tanning. I actually paid $7 to lie/lay (?) for 20 minutes in this glowing, body-length pod, subjecting my skin to the perils of burning and cancer. And I did it willingly. I was not compelled. I was not forced. I choose to.
My reason: I have developed these "sun spots" on my shoulders and back, a bacteria that naturally lives in your skin but can emerge to the surface in tropical climates. The pigment is not working or something and the only way to restore a unified color of skin is to burn the top layer altogether. Hence the tanning bed. There.
I walked into the lobby and there sat the receptionist, a college-aged, blonde who was carelessly smacking away on some gum. The room was fortunately empty, except the several displays of lotions and oils, all identified with such names like "Edge" and "Sexified." I was already emasculated. I approached the counter and she asked, "Have you tanned with us before?" She had her hands in position on the keyboard, ready to type in my information. "Uhh, no. This is my first time. And I only want to go once."
"But that is so expensive. You can get the $20 package that allows you to go five times."
"Yeah, I only want to go once."
"Fine. Fill out your information." I picked up the pen and took the clipboard, seriously considering making up an entire fake identity. I looked at the names on the list above me. Surprisingly, some of them were guys. One was named Rodney. I felt that that name sounded fake. I didn't want people coming in after me and reading the list and seeing my name. Now I know that sounds a bit arrogant of me, like the entire city of Baton Rouge is going to know my name. But what if someone comes in that does know me? And the one time in my life where it would have been justifiable to lie and to forge an identity, I didn't. I wrote down the truth. I think I even gave my address and phone number.
So I'm escorted to this little room with this space pod in it. There was a fan and a chair. That was it. "Since this is your first time, only go 10 minutes."
"How high does it go up to?"
"20."
But I wanted to get burned. Surely 20 minutes wasn't going to do it. She left, I closed and locked the door, and got...naked. Well, almost. I kept my boxers on. There are some areas of my life that I don't want to get burned. I set the dial for 20 and climbed in to the glowing, xerox-looking-glow, body pod. I drapped a towel over my face and laid/lied (?) there. Kelly Clarkson was playing over the internal speakers. And I was given the next 20 minutes to be alone inside of my head and reflect and evaluate on what I was honestly doing. It was truly miserable. They shouldn't give you that much time to be aware of the fact that you are actually tanning. Insecurities run wild.
After a while, the lights shut off and I climbed out, searching my body for signs of red only to find the usual pale hue that was there before. I dressed, left and waited for the burn to emerge. And it did. Remember that towel I put over my face? Well, that left a nice awkward, sideways burn stretched across the front of my neck. The rest of my body turned into a nice reddish-pink by that evening, all except for where my boxers were and...my shoulders. Yes, that's right. The one spot I wanted to get burned didn't. I couldn't figure it out. I think it is because of how those machines are shaped, it tends to only tan your front and back and neglect your sides and your shoulders.
So, yes, I am planning on going back. Only this time I am going to lay on my side and let the shoulders get in on some of the action. 7 more bucks down the drain. 20 more minutes alone to evaluate how pathetic I am. And all for the expense of my sunspots and masculinity.
My reason: I have developed these "sun spots" on my shoulders and back, a bacteria that naturally lives in your skin but can emerge to the surface in tropical climates. The pigment is not working or something and the only way to restore a unified color of skin is to burn the top layer altogether. Hence the tanning bed. There.
I walked into the lobby and there sat the receptionist, a college-aged, blonde who was carelessly smacking away on some gum. The room was fortunately empty, except the several displays of lotions and oils, all identified with such names like "Edge" and "Sexified." I was already emasculated. I approached the counter and she asked, "Have you tanned with us before?" She had her hands in position on the keyboard, ready to type in my information. "Uhh, no. This is my first time. And I only want to go once."
"But that is so expensive. You can get the $20 package that allows you to go five times."
"Yeah, I only want to go once."
"Fine. Fill out your information." I picked up the pen and took the clipboard, seriously considering making up an entire fake identity. I looked at the names on the list above me. Surprisingly, some of them were guys. One was named Rodney. I felt that that name sounded fake. I didn't want people coming in after me and reading the list and seeing my name. Now I know that sounds a bit arrogant of me, like the entire city of Baton Rouge is going to know my name. But what if someone comes in that does know me? And the one time in my life where it would have been justifiable to lie and to forge an identity, I didn't. I wrote down the truth. I think I even gave my address and phone number.
So I'm escorted to this little room with this space pod in it. There was a fan and a chair. That was it. "Since this is your first time, only go 10 minutes."
"How high does it go up to?"
"20."
But I wanted to get burned. Surely 20 minutes wasn't going to do it. She left, I closed and locked the door, and got...naked. Well, almost. I kept my boxers on. There are some areas of my life that I don't want to get burned. I set the dial for 20 and climbed in to the glowing, xerox-looking-glow, body pod. I drapped a towel over my face and laid/lied (?) there. Kelly Clarkson was playing over the internal speakers. And I was given the next 20 minutes to be alone inside of my head and reflect and evaluate on what I was honestly doing. It was truly miserable. They shouldn't give you that much time to be aware of the fact that you are actually tanning. Insecurities run wild.
After a while, the lights shut off and I climbed out, searching my body for signs of red only to find the usual pale hue that was there before. I dressed, left and waited for the burn to emerge. And it did. Remember that towel I put over my face? Well, that left a nice awkward, sideways burn stretched across the front of my neck. The rest of my body turned into a nice reddish-pink by that evening, all except for where my boxers were and...my shoulders. Yes, that's right. The one spot I wanted to get burned didn't. I couldn't figure it out. I think it is because of how those machines are shaped, it tends to only tan your front and back and neglect your sides and your shoulders.
So, yes, I am planning on going back. Only this time I am going to lay on my side and let the shoulders get in on some of the action. 7 more bucks down the drain. 20 more minutes alone to evaluate how pathetic I am. And all for the expense of my sunspots and masculinity.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Credited Credit
A month or so back I applied for a credit card. I don't have one. I need one. And so I applied for one. This makes sense right? They send you those things in the mail - "Hey!! Sign up for this credit card!!! It's the greatest thing ever!! Come on everybody!! Sign up!!" So I did. I filled out the little application. I sent it in. And then I waited.
Their reply came back with a tactful denial. Their reason - insufficient credit history and not enough "established revolving credit accounts." Hmmm. That's funny. That's the whole reason that I applied for one in the first place. You know, because I don't really have credit history or "established revolving credit accounts."
And so I recently applied for another one. This time I knew I could get it. This is a company that I have my savings with. They sent out one of those "Hey!! We've got a sweet credit card with sweet benefits!! Apply today!!" things in the mail. I figured I couldn't lose. They were already working for me. They already have my money. Oh, but no. I was wrong. I got the letter of denial in the mail today for, oh, guess what, the same reasons as before - "insufficient credit history and insufficient established revolving credit accounts."
Ok. Help me out here people. How in the world do people get credit cards if they grant you a credit card on the basis of credit which presupposes you have a credit card?? How do I break into this cycle of credit? How do I establish a revolving credit account? What in the hell is a revolving credit account?
Am I the only one to whom this makes no sense? I see people with credit cards out there. I know they have them. How do they get them though? How do they get all this "credit?" And what in the world is credit anyway? Is this the government's economic brownie point system? Yes. It is. You do enough good things (transactions) and you get extra points (credit). If you get enough points, you can turn them in to get a point card (credit card). The only snag is, you have to use the credit card to get the points.
This reminds me of going to the arcade and pumping in handfulls of quarters into those machines so that it would pump out 5 pink, paper tickets. I would horde and gather and save my tickets and then take them up to the desk and trade them in for a black, plastic spider ring you could slide on your finger only to get it stuck at the knuckle. But apparently in the "real world" you trade all your tickets in for...more quarters.
Their reply came back with a tactful denial. Their reason - insufficient credit history and not enough "established revolving credit accounts." Hmmm. That's funny. That's the whole reason that I applied for one in the first place. You know, because I don't really have credit history or "established revolving credit accounts."
And so I recently applied for another one. This time I knew I could get it. This is a company that I have my savings with. They sent out one of those "Hey!! We've got a sweet credit card with sweet benefits!! Apply today!!" things in the mail. I figured I couldn't lose. They were already working for me. They already have my money. Oh, but no. I was wrong. I got the letter of denial in the mail today for, oh, guess what, the same reasons as before - "insufficient credit history and insufficient established revolving credit accounts."
Ok. Help me out here people. How in the world do people get credit cards if they grant you a credit card on the basis of credit which presupposes you have a credit card?? How do I break into this cycle of credit? How do I establish a revolving credit account? What in the hell is a revolving credit account?
Am I the only one to whom this makes no sense? I see people with credit cards out there. I know they have them. How do they get them though? How do they get all this "credit?" And what in the world is credit anyway? Is this the government's economic brownie point system? Yes. It is. You do enough good things (transactions) and you get extra points (credit). If you get enough points, you can turn them in to get a point card (credit card). The only snag is, you have to use the credit card to get the points.
This reminds me of going to the arcade and pumping in handfulls of quarters into those machines so that it would pump out 5 pink, paper tickets. I would horde and gather and save my tickets and then take them up to the desk and trade them in for a black, plastic spider ring you could slide on your finger only to get it stuck at the knuckle. But apparently in the "real world" you trade all your tickets in for...more quarters.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Sin, Tax, and Syntax
"Writing is a disorderly and unnerving enterprise."
I am applying to seminary, a process I have greatly enjoyed. Well, that is, until I got to question number 37 on the application form. It reads as such, "On a separate page, please type a comprehensive account of your conversion, your relationship to the Lord Jesus Christ, and your ministry experience in or outside the church (1 to 4 pages, double spaced)."
And so I began writing. This can't be hard. It's autobiography. This is a subject I feel well versed in. It's me. I can fill up 1 to 4 pages. And very quickly I did. So quickly that I filled up 4 pages and had barely only answered the first section of the question - "a comprehensive account of your conversion." I thought they wanted a "comprehensive" account. I can't do that and all the other stuff in under four pages. Double spaced.
So I went back through and tried to find sections that could be cut. Oh here's one - how about the whole first 2 pages of unorganized rambling of my pretentious attempt to be philosophical in understanding the principles imbedded in me growing up and how they worked both for my advantage and peril. Ok, I can rewrite that. After all, I was only trying to be "comprehensive." I have to explain the back story to get to the real story right? You can't just start with Episode 4 like Lucas did and not expect everybody to want to know what happened in 1 through 3. After all, isn't that being "comprehensive."
So I gave it another shot. I truncated and simplified the first section. I included a few "yada yadas" to fill in gaps. On the second section, you know, the one about my "relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ," I simply wrote, "Yes, I have one." They didn't designate me to be "comprehensive" on that one. And for the third section, I just skipped it. It didn't seem to important.
So 1 to 4 pages later, I had my application finished. You know, trying to write for a seminary is very strange. You want to sound smart but not overly pretentious, like you are transparently trying to impress them with your writing ability. You want to be humble, but not overly humble, as if you have absolutely no confidence in your intellectual capacity. It is a strange tension to write in. And oh yes, I get to write in the middle of that tension for the next three years (if they decide to overlook my rediculous application essay and accept me. No, that was too humble. I meant, "my unbelievably brilliant essay and accept me." There. Better.)
I am applying to seminary, a process I have greatly enjoyed. Well, that is, until I got to question number 37 on the application form. It reads as such, "On a separate page, please type a comprehensive account of your conversion, your relationship to the Lord Jesus Christ, and your ministry experience in or outside the church (1 to 4 pages, double spaced)."
And so I began writing. This can't be hard. It's autobiography. This is a subject I feel well versed in. It's me. I can fill up 1 to 4 pages. And very quickly I did. So quickly that I filled up 4 pages and had barely only answered the first section of the question - "a comprehensive account of your conversion." I thought they wanted a "comprehensive" account. I can't do that and all the other stuff in under four pages. Double spaced.
So I went back through and tried to find sections that could be cut. Oh here's one - how about the whole first 2 pages of unorganized rambling of my pretentious attempt to be philosophical in understanding the principles imbedded in me growing up and how they worked both for my advantage and peril. Ok, I can rewrite that. After all, I was only trying to be "comprehensive." I have to explain the back story to get to the real story right? You can't just start with Episode 4 like Lucas did and not expect everybody to want to know what happened in 1 through 3. After all, isn't that being "comprehensive."
So I gave it another shot. I truncated and simplified the first section. I included a few "yada yadas" to fill in gaps. On the second section, you know, the one about my "relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ," I simply wrote, "Yes, I have one." They didn't designate me to be "comprehensive" on that one. And for the third section, I just skipped it. It didn't seem to important.
So 1 to 4 pages later, I had my application finished. You know, trying to write for a seminary is very strange. You want to sound smart but not overly pretentious, like you are transparently trying to impress them with your writing ability. You want to be humble, but not overly humble, as if you have absolutely no confidence in your intellectual capacity. It is a strange tension to write in. And oh yes, I get to write in the middle of that tension for the next three years (if they decide to overlook my rediculous application essay and accept me. No, that was too humble. I meant, "my unbelievably brilliant essay and accept me." There. Better.)
Monday, October 17, 2005
Discoveries of Yesteryear
I just found out that the word "wheel barrel" does not exist. It is in fact "wheelbarrow." This is a complete shock to me. I always thought it was barrel, not barrow. I have spent 24 plus years on this planet thinking it was barrel. And all along it was barrow.
I looked up barrow on dictionary dot com. Sure enough, the first definition is simply "a handbarrow," which doesn't help you out much if you didn't already know what a barrow was. The second definition is equally as unhelpful - "a wheelbarrow."
But then I scrolled down to the jackpot. Definition number four. It reads as such, "a pig that has been castrated before reaching sexual maturity." Wow. That can't be. A barrow is a castrated pig that has never hit puberty. Check it out for yourself. I kid you not.
Then I googled (which by the way, I hate that term) it for pictures. And sure enough, I found me a pic of a barrow. A real barrow. Here she is boys http://www.gerlachshowpig.com/champs.htm. This is a picture of a Prize winning barrow who is noted as having "screamin semen from Indiana." That's a bit scary, I'll be honest.
I wonder if I've ever eaten barrow bacon? Or barrow chops? Or barrow loin? I wonder if the meat is better, sort of like veal is in the cow realm.
I looked up barrow on dictionary dot com. Sure enough, the first definition is simply "a handbarrow," which doesn't help you out much if you didn't already know what a barrow was. The second definition is equally as unhelpful - "a wheelbarrow."
But then I scrolled down to the jackpot. Definition number four. It reads as such, "a pig that has been castrated before reaching sexual maturity." Wow. That can't be. A barrow is a castrated pig that has never hit puberty. Check it out for yourself. I kid you not.
Then I googled (which by the way, I hate that term) it for pictures. And sure enough, I found me a pic of a barrow. A real barrow. Here she is boys http://www.gerlachshowpig.com/champs.htm. This is a picture of a Prize winning barrow who is noted as having "screamin semen from Indiana." That's a bit scary, I'll be honest.
I wonder if I've ever eaten barrow bacon? Or barrow chops? Or barrow loin? I wonder if the meat is better, sort of like veal is in the cow realm.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Bloods and Crips and Other Big Words
You don't hear that much about gang banging any more. Do people even use that term? Gang banging? It already sounds so antiquated. Maybe it was just a term from the 90s. I always heard of the gang bangers, you know, the people who ride in old townscars, who sit low, who listen to rap music, who wear bandanas on their head, who most likely have hydraulics (16 switches), who participate in organized crime and/or violence, who are black, and who run around in groups whose membership necessitated initiation. These were the gang bangers. And now I never hear of them.
The Bloods and Crips of course were the most famous. You know all the rumors. If there is a car driving down the street at night with its lights off, don't blink your brights. It is a gang banger. They will shoot you. They show no discretion for virtuous acts of public safety awareness. In fact, if you try to better society by notifying people that they are driving without their lights on, they not only discourage this, they hate this. They kill over this no no. This is in the gang banger handbook.
And you don't want to be caught in the wrong part of town wearing the wrong color. You may expose who you actually "rep." So all through Junior High, I never wore red or blue. I didn't want the Crips to mistake me as a Blood. And I surely didn't want the Bloods to mistake me as a Crip. I was positive that if I was wearing a red Mossimo T-shirt, the Crips would no doubt think I was repping Blood. White, blonde, middle class, public school Blood repper. It is highly possible.
And you remember the hand signs. The Bloods threw up that notorious "b" in the air. The Crips followed suit with the "c." If the opposite gang bangers didn't already identify you by your primary colors, they surely wouldn't have room for doubt when you threw up the first letter of the gang you represented. Remember the kids that could contort both hands to spell out "b-l-o-o-d"? I always felt bad for the Crips that they had nothing like this. They just had that isolated "c." Maybe for them that was enough.
Come to think of it, gang banging looks an awful lot like fraternities. There is a big, organized, pre-existing group that newcomers have to be initiated into. Once initiated, there is organized crime and/or violence. Both gang bangers and frats consume tons of cheap alcohol. Both have secret hand signs and hand shakes. Both have identifying colors and rich heritages. This makes me wonder whether there exists all female gangs. If so, would they organize the equivalent of a Date Party with the male gang bangers? Would they have silly names for them like frats do? How about - "Drive By Destination." Or "Liquor Store Loot."
I think the gang bangers should adopt Greek letters. The Bloods could be the Beta Lamda Omicron Omicron Deltas. The Crips could be the Kappa Gamma Iota Rhos. They should also have mascots. The Bloods could be a Vein. The Crips could be a Camel.
Gang banging needs to be brought back into the public spotlight. I need to hear about some innocent old man who got shot for trying to notify a stranger that their lights were off. I need to hear about somebody being beat up in the bathroom at school for wearing bluejeans (the Bloods have to have hated this invention). Bring it back gang bangers. Here I am wearing all blue throwing up a big "c." You best rep where you from.
The Bloods and Crips of course were the most famous. You know all the rumors. If there is a car driving down the street at night with its lights off, don't blink your brights. It is a gang banger. They will shoot you. They show no discretion for virtuous acts of public safety awareness. In fact, if you try to better society by notifying people that they are driving without their lights on, they not only discourage this, they hate this. They kill over this no no. This is in the gang banger handbook.
And you don't want to be caught in the wrong part of town wearing the wrong color. You may expose who you actually "rep." So all through Junior High, I never wore red or blue. I didn't want the Crips to mistake me as a Blood. And I surely didn't want the Bloods to mistake me as a Crip. I was positive that if I was wearing a red Mossimo T-shirt, the Crips would no doubt think I was repping Blood. White, blonde, middle class, public school Blood repper. It is highly possible.
And you remember the hand signs. The Bloods threw up that notorious "b" in the air. The Crips followed suit with the "c." If the opposite gang bangers didn't already identify you by your primary colors, they surely wouldn't have room for doubt when you threw up the first letter of the gang you represented. Remember the kids that could contort both hands to spell out "b-l-o-o-d"? I always felt bad for the Crips that they had nothing like this. They just had that isolated "c." Maybe for them that was enough.
Come to think of it, gang banging looks an awful lot like fraternities. There is a big, organized, pre-existing group that newcomers have to be initiated into. Once initiated, there is organized crime and/or violence. Both gang bangers and frats consume tons of cheap alcohol. Both have secret hand signs and hand shakes. Both have identifying colors and rich heritages. This makes me wonder whether there exists all female gangs. If so, would they organize the equivalent of a Date Party with the male gang bangers? Would they have silly names for them like frats do? How about - "Drive By Destination." Or "Liquor Store Loot."
I think the gang bangers should adopt Greek letters. The Bloods could be the Beta Lamda Omicron Omicron Deltas. The Crips could be the Kappa Gamma Iota Rhos. They should also have mascots. The Bloods could be a Vein. The Crips could be a Camel.
Gang banging needs to be brought back into the public spotlight. I need to hear about some innocent old man who got shot for trying to notify a stranger that their lights were off. I need to hear about somebody being beat up in the bathroom at school for wearing bluejeans (the Bloods have to have hated this invention). Bring it back gang bangers. Here I am wearing all blue throwing up a big "c." You best rep where you from.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Attack Obesity
My yahoo email account gives me two inboxes, as I'm sure most of yours do too. One is the normal one, where my trashy friends send me emails. One is the "bulk" one, where people I don't know send me trash. These bulk emails pile up quick as I have been known to come home from a long day at work and check my email only to have accumulated 15 of them. Sometimes I open the box up just to see what is in there, only to be disappointed. Nothing is ever good in there.
Until today.
The subject was, "Attack Obesity." Curiousity drove me to open it. I have never heard of the strategy against obesity to be an "attack." I had to read more. It turns out that the email was written by a doctor. Imagine that. Dr. Adrienne Washburn. Now Dr. Washburn has come up with a new thing called Hoodia and she expects it to be quite the success, as her email said that it will soon be "tripping off my tongue." I'm not quite sure what that means. Shouldn't it be "dripping?" At any rate, I felt that to have me just explain the email didn't do it justice. So I included it. Here it is folks, the way to attack obesity. The following is the exact email I received from Dr. Adrienne Washburn in my bulk inbox. The only difference is, any thing is parenthesis is my personal commentary. Oh and by the way, I googled for Dr. Adrienne Washburn and found nothing. Try it yourself. That makes this all the more fishy.
-Attack Obesity-
Each year, people spend more than $40 billion on products designed to help them slim down. None of them seem to be working very well.
Now along comes hoodia. Never heard of it? Soon it'll be tripping off your tongue (again, very strange that hoodia will be tripping off my tongue), because hoodia is a natural substance that literally takes your appetite away. It's very different from diet stimulants like Ephedra and Phenfen that are now banned because of dangerous side effects. Hoodia doesn't stimulate at all. Scientists (who are these nameless, faceless "scientists?") say it fools the brain by making you think you’re full, even if you've eaten just a morsel (who says "morsel' anymore?).
http://atuoswoan.info/
Suppress your appetite and feel full and satisfied all day long
Increase your energy levels
Lose excess weight
Increase your metabolism (someone explain how this works when you have no food in your stomach)
Burn body fat
Burn calories
Attack obesity
And more.. (Oooh, if only I knew what more there was...)
http://atuoswoan.info/
Regards,
Dr. Adrienne Washburn
There you have it - the perfect strategy on how to attack obesity. And oh yeah, also die from malnourishment.
Until today.
The subject was, "Attack Obesity." Curiousity drove me to open it. I have never heard of the strategy against obesity to be an "attack." I had to read more. It turns out that the email was written by a doctor. Imagine that. Dr. Adrienne Washburn. Now Dr. Washburn has come up with a new thing called Hoodia and she expects it to be quite the success, as her email said that it will soon be "tripping off my tongue." I'm not quite sure what that means. Shouldn't it be "dripping?" At any rate, I felt that to have me just explain the email didn't do it justice. So I included it. Here it is folks, the way to attack obesity. The following is the exact email I received from Dr. Adrienne Washburn in my bulk inbox. The only difference is, any thing is parenthesis is my personal commentary. Oh and by the way, I googled for Dr. Adrienne Washburn and found nothing. Try it yourself. That makes this all the more fishy.
-Attack Obesity-
Each year, people spend more than $40 billion on products designed to help them slim down. None of them seem to be working very well.
Now along comes hoodia. Never heard of it? Soon it'll be tripping off your tongue (again, very strange that hoodia will be tripping off my tongue), because hoodia is a natural substance that literally takes your appetite away. It's very different from diet stimulants like Ephedra and Phenfen that are now banned because of dangerous side effects. Hoodia doesn't stimulate at all. Scientists (who are these nameless, faceless "scientists?") say it fools the brain by making you think you’re full, even if you've eaten just a morsel (who says "morsel' anymore?).
http://atuoswoan.info/
Suppress your appetite and feel full and satisfied all day long
Increase your energy levels
Lose excess weight
Increase your metabolism (someone explain how this works when you have no food in your stomach)
Burn body fat
Burn calories
Attack obesity
And more.. (Oooh, if only I knew what more there was...)
http://atuoswoan.info/
Regards,
Dr. Adrienne Washburn
There you have it - the perfect strategy on how to attack obesity. And oh yeah, also die from malnourishment.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Have You No Shame?
I love attention. Plain and simple. Always have. Always will. I hate that I love it, but I love it. I love a good stage and spotlight. I love a good mic turned up on high. I love a good crowd. And furthermore, I love a good comment on a blog. I am sure you are guilty of it too. You check your blog and see what new comments have been placed. Ooh, sometimes you ruffle some feathers. Those are good comments. Sometimes somebody truly identifies with what you wrote. Good comments too. Sometimes a sweet girl just wants to let you know that she read it. Always good. I have discovered the not so good comments.
And those are the advertisements.
Come on blogger dot com. Have you no shame? Must you sell us out to where we now get ads on our comments? And ad people - have you no shame that you would sink so low as to paste your worthless ads on a blog comment? Is that the epitome of desperate? And don't you love how sneaky they are when they write it. They sign it as anonymous and get you hooked from the start, "Hey, I was searching around and I came across your blog. It is totally awesome. And I agree 100%." You are thinking, hey some chick out there really likes me stuff. And then their cards are shown, "You should totally check out this website www.bla bla bla.com." We see through your stupid little ploys advertisers. You can't fool us. And you can't pay me enough to click that blue link.
Advertisements have taken over the world. Everything is a freaking commercial now. MTV (back when it played music videos) was a never ending commercial. You are either watching the promotion of Aerosmith or Zest. And what about sports arenas? Ads fill every square inch. Home Depot, Old Spice, Alpo, etc. And for goodness sake, the Nascar people. Is there anyroom left on your outfit to sell yourself out? Your only restriction is space. I bet the Nascar corporate folk want fatter drivers. They have more spots to put more ads. You just wait. That will be the new face of Nascar - fat drivers.
Frankly, I'm sick of it. And now you advertising bastards are invading my little piece of cyberspace, my little blog. But you know, now that I think about it, aren't blogs advertisements too? For what am I sellling other than myself and my stories and my thoughts. Perhaps I am the biggest sell out. I have sold out my soul. The only difference is, what I sell is free. It only costs you some time. And it only costs me some dignity.
Perhaps I have sold out, and I have, but please advertisers, let this be MY shameful plea for attention. Don't interfere.
And those are the advertisements.
Come on blogger dot com. Have you no shame? Must you sell us out to where we now get ads on our comments? And ad people - have you no shame that you would sink so low as to paste your worthless ads on a blog comment? Is that the epitome of desperate? And don't you love how sneaky they are when they write it. They sign it as anonymous and get you hooked from the start, "Hey, I was searching around and I came across your blog. It is totally awesome. And I agree 100%." You are thinking, hey some chick out there really likes me stuff. And then their cards are shown, "You should totally check out this website www.bla bla bla.com." We see through your stupid little ploys advertisers. You can't fool us. And you can't pay me enough to click that blue link.
Advertisements have taken over the world. Everything is a freaking commercial now. MTV (back when it played music videos) was a never ending commercial. You are either watching the promotion of Aerosmith or Zest. And what about sports arenas? Ads fill every square inch. Home Depot, Old Spice, Alpo, etc. And for goodness sake, the Nascar people. Is there anyroom left on your outfit to sell yourself out? Your only restriction is space. I bet the Nascar corporate folk want fatter drivers. They have more spots to put more ads. You just wait. That will be the new face of Nascar - fat drivers.
Frankly, I'm sick of it. And now you advertising bastards are invading my little piece of cyberspace, my little blog. But you know, now that I think about it, aren't blogs advertisements too? For what am I sellling other than myself and my stories and my thoughts. Perhaps I am the biggest sell out. I have sold out my soul. The only difference is, what I sell is free. It only costs you some time. And it only costs me some dignity.
Perhaps I have sold out, and I have, but please advertisers, let this be MY shameful plea for attention. Don't interfere.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Memoirs and Memories
In lieu of saying phrases like "in lieu" and attempting to think a bit more adult-like these days, I thought it would be worth spending some time and reflection on the days of yesteryear. This idea hit me this morning as I stood in my disgusting bathtub taking a shower. The water doesn't run directly down the drain. It gathers and stagnates, making an ankle-deep bath as well as a shower. I like the thought of that. It is like two in one. Shower and bath. If you take a long enough shower, you really could lie down in it and the water would keep flowing from above.
So as I turn off the faucets and reach for a nearby towel, I notice the little tornado forming as the draining water made its way out of the tub. That little cyclone used to fascinate me. I used to think that if the drain was big enough, it would be this huge whirl pool and you could get sucked down it. And so there I stood, naked and captivated by the swirling water this morning. And it brought me back to my youth. The memories began to flood.
I remembered sleep overs and taking advantage of that first victim who actually fell asleep first. I remembered submerging his fingers in hot and cold water to make him wet himself. For some reason the biggest thrill was simply tickling his nose. In his sleep he would reach up and clumsily scratch and wipe while we would be on the ground, cupping our hands with our mouth trying not to lose it. The older I got, the more extreme the punishments. We'd pour freezing water on them. We'd violently push them out of the bed. We'd sprinkle things on them that we shouldn't have. Ask Corbin.
And as I watched that water drain, I remembered catching frogs and sticking fireworks up their, well...you know. Nothing thrilled us more than watching a frog get dismembered into pieces by a carefully inserted explosive. I remembered hunting snakes and beheading them with nearby rocks. It makes you wonder why more boys don't grow up to become more violent. Or at least, it makes you wonder why I didn't.
I remembered starting fires in my neighborhood. I actually went into my neighbor's yard, lit a zippo lighter, and placed it to the bark. When the impending fire engine got loud enough to hear, we would scatter. And we would hide behind our houses until our parents found us and forced us to talk with the authorities. Why weren't we arrested? Good night.
I remembered stealing people's filled plastic trash bags, taking them to the railroad tracks and lighting them on fire. I remembered stealing paint cans out of people's garages, busting the tops off, and running through the streets letting the paint fall where it would. I remembered the prank calls. You know, the awful ones that were possible before caller id. Back before *69 was a threat too.
And so there I stood, naked and fixated on the little water cyclone. And it made me wonder how in the world I got there. And why in the world I would be getting married.
Please begin praying for Kathryn now.
So as I turn off the faucets and reach for a nearby towel, I notice the little tornado forming as the draining water made its way out of the tub. That little cyclone used to fascinate me. I used to think that if the drain was big enough, it would be this huge whirl pool and you could get sucked down it. And so there I stood, naked and captivated by the swirling water this morning. And it brought me back to my youth. The memories began to flood.
I remembered sleep overs and taking advantage of that first victim who actually fell asleep first. I remembered submerging his fingers in hot and cold water to make him wet himself. For some reason the biggest thrill was simply tickling his nose. In his sleep he would reach up and clumsily scratch and wipe while we would be on the ground, cupping our hands with our mouth trying not to lose it. The older I got, the more extreme the punishments. We'd pour freezing water on them. We'd violently push them out of the bed. We'd sprinkle things on them that we shouldn't have. Ask Corbin.
And as I watched that water drain, I remembered catching frogs and sticking fireworks up their, well...you know. Nothing thrilled us more than watching a frog get dismembered into pieces by a carefully inserted explosive. I remembered hunting snakes and beheading them with nearby rocks. It makes you wonder why more boys don't grow up to become more violent. Or at least, it makes you wonder why I didn't.
I remembered starting fires in my neighborhood. I actually went into my neighbor's yard, lit a zippo lighter, and placed it to the bark. When the impending fire engine got loud enough to hear, we would scatter. And we would hide behind our houses until our parents found us and forced us to talk with the authorities. Why weren't we arrested? Good night.
I remembered stealing people's filled plastic trash bags, taking them to the railroad tracks and lighting them on fire. I remembered stealing paint cans out of people's garages, busting the tops off, and running through the streets letting the paint fall where it would. I remembered the prank calls. You know, the awful ones that were possible before caller id. Back before *69 was a threat too.
And so there I stood, naked and fixated on the little water cyclone. And it made me wonder how in the world I got there. And why in the world I would be getting married.
Please begin praying for Kathryn now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
