Monday, November 29, 2004
Book Notes
So I'm reading The Bonfire of the Vanities right now, and I'm surprised by how much I'm enjoying it. I'd always thought I would hate Tom Wolfe, I think mainly because of the white suit, which I still don't endorse, but I picked it up as part of my continuing effort to read things that it seems like everyone else has read, or at least pretends to have read. (This same crusade led me to Brave New World and the Night trilogy earlier this year, although I think most people cover these along with The Great Gatsby and The Scarlet Letter in the tenth grade.) But anyway, it turns out to be pretty great! It's not as dirty as I generally like my serious literature to be, and some of the meticulousness I could do without (I have a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy when it comes to the details of the bond business), but I find the writing style fairly engaging and I really enjoy what he's doing thematically. The plot chugs along at a pretty good clip, too, which is nice, because I really do like things to happen in the books I read. (Sorry, Proust.) Frankly, I'm finding it pretty hard to put down, even if it does weigh about two thousand pounds.
So I'm reading The Bonfire of the Vanities right now, and I'm surprised by how much I'm enjoying it. I'd always thought I would hate Tom Wolfe, I think mainly because of the white suit, which I still don't endorse, but I picked it up as part of my continuing effort to read things that it seems like everyone else has read, or at least pretends to have read. (This same crusade led me to Brave New World and the Night trilogy earlier this year, although I think most people cover these along with The Great Gatsby and The Scarlet Letter in the tenth grade.) But anyway, it turns out to be pretty great! It's not as dirty as I generally like my serious literature to be, and some of the meticulousness I could do without (I have a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy when it comes to the details of the bond business), but I find the writing style fairly engaging and I really enjoy what he's doing thematically. The plot chugs along at a pretty good clip, too, which is nice, because I really do like things to happen in the books I read. (Sorry, Proust.) Frankly, I'm finding it pretty hard to put down, even if it does weigh about two thousand pounds.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
How I Spent My Thanksgiving Vacation
To begin with, I bought pants at Wal-Mart. This is a sentence I never thought I would utter, but when I arrived in Quincy I discovered I had forgotten my gym shorts, and rather than skip five days of working out (or hit the treadmill in denim) I decided to pick up a new pair. But as luck would have it, there was a major snowstorm, and the Wal-Mart was as far as I could skid. And as luck would further have it, they only had shorts in sizes XXL and above, apparently operating on a theory that only the truly fat should be allowed to excercise in November. So I bought a $8 pair of sweatpants. They're charcoal gray and an absolute delight.
For our Thanksgiving dinner, however, I chose a non-fleece ensemble. We took my grandma to The Ritz restaurant, the sort of local-color-rich, gravy-laden, cranky-service-heavy establishment that was all the rage in the 1940s but has lost some currency with the death of family meat loaf night and the sock hop. We had a delightful corner booth, which allowed me to awkwardly slide across a vinyl seat approximately one thousand times on my way to and from the buffet, which was ample enough to feed an entire third world nation for a year, or Tyne Daly, depending. Then we heard stories about the past. Involving awkwardly obsolete views of race, sex, gender, and just about anything else of importance. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.
The rest of the break was largely uneventful. I bought some Christmas cards at Hobby Lobby, where an elderly checkout lady named Lurleen insisted on counting my purchases twice and tried to sell me a Christ-related impulse item. I met friends for drinks at a local bar frequented by Shriners and monster truck drivers. I saw the new Disney movie with my parents.
It was the best Thanksgiving ever!
To begin with, I bought pants at Wal-Mart. This is a sentence I never thought I would utter, but when I arrived in Quincy I discovered I had forgotten my gym shorts, and rather than skip five days of working out (or hit the treadmill in denim) I decided to pick up a new pair. But as luck would have it, there was a major snowstorm, and the Wal-Mart was as far as I could skid. And as luck would further have it, they only had shorts in sizes XXL and above, apparently operating on a theory that only the truly fat should be allowed to excercise in November. So I bought a $8 pair of sweatpants. They're charcoal gray and an absolute delight.
For our Thanksgiving dinner, however, I chose a non-fleece ensemble. We took my grandma to The Ritz restaurant, the sort of local-color-rich, gravy-laden, cranky-service-heavy establishment that was all the rage in the 1940s but has lost some currency with the death of family meat loaf night and the sock hop. We had a delightful corner booth, which allowed me to awkwardly slide across a vinyl seat approximately one thousand times on my way to and from the buffet, which was ample enough to feed an entire third world nation for a year, or Tyne Daly, depending. Then we heard stories about the past. Involving awkwardly obsolete views of race, sex, gender, and just about anything else of importance. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.
The rest of the break was largely uneventful. I bought some Christmas cards at Hobby Lobby, where an elderly checkout lady named Lurleen insisted on counting my purchases twice and tried to sell me a Christ-related impulse item. I met friends for drinks at a local bar frequented by Shriners and monster truck drivers. I saw the new Disney movie with my parents.
It was the best Thanksgiving ever!
Friday, November 26, 2004
Thankfulpalooza
You've got to love Thanksgiving, right? Actually, I believe a provision of the Patriot Act now literally requires that every American love Thanksgiving or face incarceration in a tiny dark cell where they continually play John Ashcroft's favorite easy listening hits. To avoid that fate, I have compiled the following list of the many things I am thankful for this year:
-- My parents, even if they do end up rambling on about semiotics for upwards of ten minutes nearly every time I call them.
-- My sister, despite the fact that we once had a screaming fight about visiting the Millennium Dome in a hotel room in London.
-- The OC on FOX, without any reservations whatsoever.
-- My 93-year-old grandmother, who is a constant source of humor, anecdotes about restaurants during the 40s, and information about The Young and the Restless.
-- My roommate, whose kindness is matched only by his enthusiasm for porn. We're talking really dirty, hardcore, didn't-even-know-that-was-possible kind of porn.
-- Our dogs, who are probably too dumb to live, but therefore unabashedly affectionate. They've really spoiled me for human relationships.
-- My friends, who put up with even the "humourous" observations on life that are not deemed fit for the website.
-- My job, which is certainly not as glamorous as being America's Next Top Model, but does at the very least provide reliable Internet access and frequent infusions of cash.
-- Paris Hilton, who is the punchline of the year.
-- The blog, which often fills me with hatred and dread, but always gives me the opporunity to punish others with any random idea that pops into my head.
Happy holidays!
You've got to love Thanksgiving, right? Actually, I believe a provision of the Patriot Act now literally requires that every American love Thanksgiving or face incarceration in a tiny dark cell where they continually play John Ashcroft's favorite easy listening hits. To avoid that fate, I have compiled the following list of the many things I am thankful for this year:
-- My parents, even if they do end up rambling on about semiotics for upwards of ten minutes nearly every time I call them.
-- My sister, despite the fact that we once had a screaming fight about visiting the Millennium Dome in a hotel room in London.
-- The OC on FOX, without any reservations whatsoever.
-- My 93-year-old grandmother, who is a constant source of humor, anecdotes about restaurants during the 40s, and information about The Young and the Restless.
-- My roommate, whose kindness is matched only by his enthusiasm for porn. We're talking really dirty, hardcore, didn't-even-know-that-was-possible kind of porn.
-- Our dogs, who are probably too dumb to live, but therefore unabashedly affectionate. They've really spoiled me for human relationships.
-- My friends, who put up with even the "humourous" observations on life that are not deemed fit for the website.
-- My job, which is certainly not as glamorous as being America's Next Top Model, but does at the very least provide reliable Internet access and frequent infusions of cash.
-- Paris Hilton, who is the punchline of the year.
-- The blog, which often fills me with hatred and dread, but always gives me the opporunity to punish others with any random idea that pops into my head.
Happy holidays!
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Away Message
For the next five days I'll be in Quincy, Illinois, celebrating all the many things I have to be grateful for, probably foremost among them the fact that I will again be leaving Quincy, Illinois. Internet access will be spotty at best; my Luddite parents have scarcely upgraded since the pony express days. If the two tin cans and a piece of string hold up, however, I'll try to post something, since it would be a shame if you all missed out on the thrilling details of our annual restaurant feast with my 93-year-old-grandmother. Here's a preview: someone will loudly whisper a hugely inappropriate comment about race relations or the fatness of the people at the next table. It is bound to be -- you guessed it -- good times.
For the next five days I'll be in Quincy, Illinois, celebrating all the many things I have to be grateful for, probably foremost among them the fact that I will again be leaving Quincy, Illinois. Internet access will be spotty at best; my Luddite parents have scarcely upgraded since the pony express days. If the two tin cans and a piece of string hold up, however, I'll try to post something, since it would be a shame if you all missed out on the thrilling details of our annual restaurant feast with my 93-year-old-grandmother. Here's a preview: someone will loudly whisper a hugely inappropriate comment about race relations or the fatness of the people at the next table. It is bound to be -- you guessed it -- good times.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Seeing the Light
In case you’ve ever wondered how many slightly addled 26-year-olds it takes to change a light bulb, I now know the answer. After a week of stumbling around in the dark, my roommate and I finally decided to change the ceiling fixture over our bar yesterday. Unfortunately, the ceilings in our apartment are ten feet high, and we are not. So after several abortive attempts involving unstable arrangements of flimsy IKEA chairs and non-cheerleading-association-recognized human pyramids, we finally realized that one of us could just stand on top of the bar (How Coyote Ugly!) and twist the damn thing open. Except for the fact that it was stuck in place, apparently only a clever illusion of a functioning light fixture designed by M.C. Escher. So I, brilliantly, decided to tap it lightly to loosen it up. At which point it shattered into roughly three million pieces, each with a special evil ability to avoid vacuums and stick directly into my foot. Needless to say, I spent tonight limping up and down the aisles of Home Depot looking for a suitably sociopathic lighting replacement. My landlord and I are going to be like very best friends.
In case you’ve ever wondered how many slightly addled 26-year-olds it takes to change a light bulb, I now know the answer. After a week of stumbling around in the dark, my roommate and I finally decided to change the ceiling fixture over our bar yesterday. Unfortunately, the ceilings in our apartment are ten feet high, and we are not. So after several abortive attempts involving unstable arrangements of flimsy IKEA chairs and non-cheerleading-association-recognized human pyramids, we finally realized that one of us could just stand on top of the bar (How Coyote Ugly!) and twist the damn thing open. Except for the fact that it was stuck in place, apparently only a clever illusion of a functioning light fixture designed by M.C. Escher. So I, brilliantly, decided to tap it lightly to loosen it up. At which point it shattered into roughly three million pieces, each with a special evil ability to avoid vacuums and stick directly into my foot. Needless to say, I spent tonight limping up and down the aisles of Home Depot looking for a suitably sociopathic lighting replacement. My landlord and I are going to be like very best friends.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Arts and Crafts
Last night I became a patron of the fine arts, which was delightful in many ways. First, I got to wait for about seven hours to transfer over to the red line and go farther north in the city than I had previously believed existed. Secondly, I had the rare opportunity to stand in a ticket line full of people with "fun" hairstyles making "outrageous" statements in non-indoor voices clearly intended to be perceived by the entire room. Finally, I participated in a unique psychological experiment studying the effects of having a ritalin-deficient teenager kick the back of my chair for the entire duration of a two-and-a-half-hour play about child molestation. (Preliminary results indicate the development of a strong urge to kill.) It was actually really well done (the play, not the chair kicking, although I do have to sort of admire the kid's endurance), but all things considered I might have been happier at home with my flannel pants and The OC.
Do you like how so many of my paragraphs have strong theses followed by several enumerated supporting reasons? It's like I'm permanently in 8th grade English class.
In other news, there's big mandatory office fun to come this weekend! Saturday night is our annual office Thanksgiving potluck. I'm supposed to bring pigs in a blanket, and I have little to no idea how to make them, so that should be fun. There's also the awesome tradition of watching at least one co-worker become way too intoxicated for a work function and suddenly start sharing his or her real feelings about everyone. Aren't the holidays the best?
Last night I became a patron of the fine arts, which was delightful in many ways. First, I got to wait for about seven hours to transfer over to the red line and go farther north in the city than I had previously believed existed. Secondly, I had the rare opportunity to stand in a ticket line full of people with "fun" hairstyles making "outrageous" statements in non-indoor voices clearly intended to be perceived by the entire room. Finally, I participated in a unique psychological experiment studying the effects of having a ritalin-deficient teenager kick the back of my chair for the entire duration of a two-and-a-half-hour play about child molestation. (Preliminary results indicate the development of a strong urge to kill.) It was actually really well done (the play, not the chair kicking, although I do have to sort of admire the kid's endurance), but all things considered I might have been happier at home with my flannel pants and The OC.
Do you like how so many of my paragraphs have strong theses followed by several enumerated supporting reasons? It's like I'm permanently in 8th grade English class.
In other news, there's big mandatory office fun to come this weekend! Saturday night is our annual office Thanksgiving potluck. I'm supposed to bring pigs in a blanket, and I have little to no idea how to make them, so that should be fun. There's also the awesome tradition of watching at least one co-worker become way too intoxicated for a work function and suddenly start sharing his or her real feelings about everyone. Aren't the holidays the best?
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
A Few Points of Clarification
My friend sent me this article from the New York Times about a woman who got fired because of some stuff she posted on her blog. Now I probably shouldn't be too concerned, given that my posts are generally less "sexy pictures of myself" than "extended meditation on the difficulties of having an intestinal parasite," but there are probably a few things I ought to clear up with regard to my own employment. First of all, my supervisors are seriously the most amazing people in the history of time. Really. Like the other day I caught my boss turning water into wine. Just casually, because she thought a little Boone's Farm would be nice with lunch. And one of my editors sketched out a little bit of a cure for cancer the other day while he was waiting in line at the Dunkin Donuts. Secondly, I love my job, and any negative utterances on my part have been either A) intended ironically or B) chemically induced. Also, I would like to state for the record that I work very hard and that my work product speaks for itself. Damn work product. Don't be surprised if something mysteriously "happens" that that loose-lipped work product some day.
And while we're disclaiming things, I want to make the following points so as to avoid the wrath of litigious celebrities. Luckily I've steered clear of any Catherine Zeta-Jones or Michael Douglas comments, or my ass would be all over Celebrity Justice already. But, unambiguously and for the record, I want to make clear that Tara Reid is not an alcoholic or a skank. She simply appreciates the finer things in life, repeatedly. And a number of the less fine things, including J.C. Chasez. I also must clarify that Ben Affleck is not untalented and scary. It may appear that way, but the lack of talent is computer generated. Further, Jennifer Lopez has not been married 4012 times. And Tom Cruise is not, not, not gay.
I hope this clears things up.
My friend sent me this article from the New York Times about a woman who got fired because of some stuff she posted on her blog. Now I probably shouldn't be too concerned, given that my posts are generally less "sexy pictures of myself" than "extended meditation on the difficulties of having an intestinal parasite," but there are probably a few things I ought to clear up with regard to my own employment. First of all, my supervisors are seriously the most amazing people in the history of time. Really. Like the other day I caught my boss turning water into wine. Just casually, because she thought a little Boone's Farm would be nice with lunch. And one of my editors sketched out a little bit of a cure for cancer the other day while he was waiting in line at the Dunkin Donuts. Secondly, I love my job, and any negative utterances on my part have been either A) intended ironically or B) chemically induced. Also, I would like to state for the record that I work very hard and that my work product speaks for itself. Damn work product. Don't be surprised if something mysteriously "happens" that that loose-lipped work product some day.
And while we're disclaiming things, I want to make the following points so as to avoid the wrath of litigious celebrities. Luckily I've steered clear of any Catherine Zeta-Jones or Michael Douglas comments, or my ass would be all over Celebrity Justice already. But, unambiguously and for the record, I want to make clear that Tara Reid is not an alcoholic or a skank. She simply appreciates the finer things in life, repeatedly. And a number of the less fine things, including J.C. Chasez. I also must clarify that Ben Affleck is not untalented and scary. It may appear that way, but the lack of talent is computer generated. Further, Jennifer Lopez has not been married 4012 times. And Tom Cruise is not, not, not gay.
I hope this clears things up.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
My Readership Defined
I think it's really funny the different ways people end up reading this site. The primary method is still by knowing me, which apparently is not punishment enough in and of itself, but a surprising number of net-savvy hackers are directed here after searching for phrases like "Lindsay Lohan boob job" or " Ashlee Simpson hairstyles." They are probably severely disappointed. Similarly, I feel kind of bad for all the preteens and tweens who click on my link after googling "Degrassi Junior High," because I am simply unable to provide the in-depth Craig and Manny spoilers and emoticon-strewn chat they are undoubtedly expecting. All of this might, of course, make it seem as though the blog has the mentality of a 12-year-old girl, which is not entirely inaccurate, but I do wish to point out that I discuss slightly more adult topics (by which I do not mean dirty) as well. It's just that, oddly enough, "The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton" is not exactly tearing up the msn search engine quite yet. Not enough boob jobs, I'm guessing.
I think it's really funny the different ways people end up reading this site. The primary method is still by knowing me, which apparently is not punishment enough in and of itself, but a surprising number of net-savvy hackers are directed here after searching for phrases like "Lindsay Lohan boob job" or " Ashlee Simpson hairstyles." They are probably severely disappointed. Similarly, I feel kind of bad for all the preteens and tweens who click on my link after googling "Degrassi Junior High," because I am simply unable to provide the in-depth Craig and Manny spoilers and emoticon-strewn chat they are undoubtedly expecting. All of this might, of course, make it seem as though the blog has the mentality of a 12-year-old girl, which is not entirely inaccurate, but I do wish to point out that I discuss slightly more adult topics (by which I do not mean dirty) as well. It's just that, oddly enough, "The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton" is not exactly tearing up the msn search engine quite yet. Not enough boob jobs, I'm guessing.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Decline and Fall
Today was, I think, the first fall day of the year cold and gray enough to send Chicago into a stupor. My roommate spent most of the day sleeping through football games in our living room, and I accidentally woke more than one friend with a typically unnecessary phone call. Even the streets seemed slightly more laconic than usual, as I was able to jaywalk across North Avenue without my usual comic dodging, weaving, and screaming. For my part, I made a valiant effort to read a little, do some pre-cleaning so I'm not utterly embarrassed when the cleaning lady comes tomorrow, and launder the stiffness out of my gym clothes, but I ended up napping at my desk in a genuinely uncomfortable position of the type generally reserved for Rodin sculptures and victims of the Pompeii eruption. Narcolepsy, it appears, is alive and well.
I can't help, at this point, but reflect a little on the long Winter to come and how I will possibly keep myself from committing murder-suicide during it. In the past I have heard people (crazy people, I assume, although they were controlling their invisible-person-seeing and random-obscenity-spewing tendencies nicely) extol the "virtues" of the dreaded season, which apparently include drinking boiling beverages and wearing kicky hats. I am not buying it. For me, Winter means that every wait for the train becomes a scenario right out of To Build A Fire, that weekend days become extravaganzas of house-bound boredom, and that bars make an undeserved killing on coat checks. And I don't buy that crap about no two snowflakes being exactly alike for a second. Maybe I should just go to bed and leave instructions to wake me when May hits.
Today was, I think, the first fall day of the year cold and gray enough to send Chicago into a stupor. My roommate spent most of the day sleeping through football games in our living room, and I accidentally woke more than one friend with a typically unnecessary phone call. Even the streets seemed slightly more laconic than usual, as I was able to jaywalk across North Avenue without my usual comic dodging, weaving, and screaming. For my part, I made a valiant effort to read a little, do some pre-cleaning so I'm not utterly embarrassed when the cleaning lady comes tomorrow, and launder the stiffness out of my gym clothes, but I ended up napping at my desk in a genuinely uncomfortable position of the type generally reserved for Rodin sculptures and victims of the Pompeii eruption. Narcolepsy, it appears, is alive and well.
I can't help, at this point, but reflect a little on the long Winter to come and how I will possibly keep myself from committing murder-suicide during it. In the past I have heard people (crazy people, I assume, although they were controlling their invisible-person-seeing and random-obscenity-spewing tendencies nicely) extol the "virtues" of the dreaded season, which apparently include drinking boiling beverages and wearing kicky hats. I am not buying it. For me, Winter means that every wait for the train becomes a scenario right out of To Build A Fire, that weekend days become extravaganzas of house-bound boredom, and that bars make an undeserved killing on coat checks. And I don't buy that crap about no two snowflakes being exactly alike for a second. Maybe I should just go to bed and leave instructions to wake me when May hits.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Honoring Veterans, One Pair of Chinos at a Time
One of the nicest things about my current employment is the overabundance of days off instigated by federal holidays of which most people are largely unaware. Sleeping until noon is that much more pleasant when you know that practically everyone else in the world is typing largely made-up numbers into spreadsheets or attending meetings about qualitizing the mission statement. And somehow your trip to J.Crew seems that much more sweet when there's no wait for dressing rooms or a larger size on your khakis because most of the population is still cubicle-bound. Secretly I think everyone believes the world would be a much better place if they were the only person in it, and seeing a month-old movie at 2 PM on a workday is probably about as close that experience as a person can get. It definitely has its charms.
Yesterday, therefore, my Veteran's Day holiday was spent entirely foolishly and yet with a sense of smug self satisfaction. I bought some new pants. I watched an old Dawson's Creek. I played The Legend of Zelda for a few hours. I returned a bunch of phone calls, mostly to people who couldn't answer because they were working. I made and ate a sandwich. Nothing was accomplished, really. Which, if you think about it, is more or less The American Way. So hooray for veterans, and hooray for having days off. Now if I can only get the legislature to understand the need to have every other Friday off in honor of me . . .
One of the nicest things about my current employment is the overabundance of days off instigated by federal holidays of which most people are largely unaware. Sleeping until noon is that much more pleasant when you know that practically everyone else in the world is typing largely made-up numbers into spreadsheets or attending meetings about qualitizing the mission statement. And somehow your trip to J.Crew seems that much more sweet when there's no wait for dressing rooms or a larger size on your khakis because most of the population is still cubicle-bound. Secretly I think everyone believes the world would be a much better place if they were the only person in it, and seeing a month-old movie at 2 PM on a workday is probably about as close that experience as a person can get. It definitely has its charms.
Yesterday, therefore, my Veteran's Day holiday was spent entirely foolishly and yet with a sense of smug self satisfaction. I bought some new pants. I watched an old Dawson's Creek. I played The Legend of Zelda for a few hours. I returned a bunch of phone calls, mostly to people who couldn't answer because they were working. I made and ate a sandwich. Nothing was accomplished, really. Which, if you think about it, is more or less The American Way. So hooray for veterans, and hooray for having days off. Now if I can only get the legislature to understand the need to have every other Friday off in honor of me . . .
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
People I’d Like to Punch
– The entire staff and crew of E! News. And not just because that Giuliana woman looks like an alien. Also because after a certain point sucking up to the cast of TV’s Joey just becomes really disturbing.
– Anyone who regularly executes an Austin Powers impersonation. It is no longer 1997.
– That guy on the train yesterday who kept lecturing everyone about how they needed to move in and make room because there were a lot of people waiting on the platform. Thanks, bud, riding the train was really confusing for me there until you explained to me how it should be done.
– Al Roker.
– Every morning radio DJ in the history of time. I’m not exactly sure what gave them the idea that people would rather hear their Leno-lite musings than the latest hot chart from Xtina Xguilera, but they are sadly mistaken.
– People declare things to be "all that," "not all that," or worst of all "all that and a bag of chips."
– The management and staff of the Sports McDonald’s near my office, home of the half-hour wait and the nonsensical exhortatory sign created with a Commodore 64.
– Whoever came up with those awful cellular commercials where Joan Cusack bitches about how difficult it is to operate a phone.
– The creators of Us Weekly’s "stars . . . they’re just like us!" feature. Yeah, until I found out that Julia Roberts also sometimes shops for groceries I really worried that we might not be able to relate on a human level.
– The entire staff and crew of E! News. And not just because that Giuliana woman looks like an alien. Also because after a certain point sucking up to the cast of TV’s Joey just becomes really disturbing.
– Anyone who regularly executes an Austin Powers impersonation. It is no longer 1997.
– That guy on the train yesterday who kept lecturing everyone about how they needed to move in and make room because there were a lot of people waiting on the platform. Thanks, bud, riding the train was really confusing for me there until you explained to me how it should be done.
– Al Roker.
– Every morning radio DJ in the history of time. I’m not exactly sure what gave them the idea that people would rather hear their Leno-lite musings than the latest hot chart from Xtina Xguilera, but they are sadly mistaken.
– People declare things to be "all that," "not all that," or worst of all "all that and a bag of chips."
– The management and staff of the Sports McDonald’s near my office, home of the half-hour wait and the nonsensical exhortatory sign created with a Commodore 64.
– Whoever came up with those awful cellular commercials where Joan Cusack bitches about how difficult it is to operate a phone.
– The creators of Us Weekly’s "stars . . . they’re just like us!" feature. Yeah, until I found out that Julia Roberts also sometimes shops for groceries I really worried that we might not be able to relate on a human level.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Unclean
I have concluded that the cleaning staff at my office hates me, and I am determined to win them over. Their disdain is very subtly expressed, to be sure, but it is undeniably present. It is in the way the recycling guy opens my office door without knocking while I am in the midst of an extremely vital personal phone call. It is in the condescending smile of the trash lady as she responds to my query as to her well-being with a terse "fine." It is in the occasional appearance, for several hours straight, of an unaccompanied and somewhat aromatic cleaning cart directly outside my door. And I swear to god I sometimes hear them laughing to each other about me and whispering things like "can't keep plants alive" and "has had the same Taco Bell cup in his office since he started here." It's pretty vicious.
As for the winning them over part of things, it's not going so well. The inquiring about well-being was actually the first part of that plan, and it was rejected with a casual ferocity. I'm also trying to smile a lot and act really happy about the removal of the trash, but I think that may just make me seem crazy (it doesn't take a lot). In the next few weeks I may escalate things into buying them first candy, then flowers, then small family sedans. If none of that works, I guess I'll just have to resign myself to being disliked. Or change jobs. Resigning myself to things is not really my forte.
I have concluded that the cleaning staff at my office hates me, and I am determined to win them over. Their disdain is very subtly expressed, to be sure, but it is undeniably present. It is in the way the recycling guy opens my office door without knocking while I am in the midst of an extremely vital personal phone call. It is in the condescending smile of the trash lady as she responds to my query as to her well-being with a terse "fine." It is in the occasional appearance, for several hours straight, of an unaccompanied and somewhat aromatic cleaning cart directly outside my door. And I swear to god I sometimes hear them laughing to each other about me and whispering things like "can't keep plants alive" and "has had the same Taco Bell cup in his office since he started here." It's pretty vicious.
As for the winning them over part of things, it's not going so well. The inquiring about well-being was actually the first part of that plan, and it was rejected with a casual ferocity. I'm also trying to smile a lot and act really happy about the removal of the trash, but I think that may just make me seem crazy (it doesn't take a lot). In the next few weeks I may escalate things into buying them first candy, then flowers, then small family sedans. If none of that works, I guess I'll just have to resign myself to being disliked. Or change jobs. Resigning myself to things is not really my forte.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Travelogue
So I went to visit my sister in Champaign, IL, this weekend, and it was an absolute delight. First of all, since I now have a vehicle with a working radio and climate control, I was able to totally pump up my jams ("Wind Beneath My Wings" has never sounded so hardcore) in mad comfort and style. Secondly, I got the chance to continue my tour of America's Dirtiest Restrooms (soon to be a regular segment on Good Morning America) with a stop in Kankakee, IL, where the facilities were not only an inch deep in suspiciously-colored water but also covered with overly-stern and underly-spelled signs dispensing important warnings to patrons, like "lites turn off after fifeteen minutes" and "hand drier for hand use only." Finally, I passed a car with no fewer than five bumper stickers citing passages of the Bible, which made me feel not only especially speedy but more than a little bit holy. And all of this was before I even got there.
Our activities themselves were not so monumental, if you can believe it. We played some Sega (Remember Sonic the Hedgehog? And all the other fun Sega characters? Like that one red guy? And the guy who punches people?), gorged ourselves at a quality family-dining establishment, and went to a movie. There was a brief flurry of activity directed at attempting to go to an orchard so my sister could potentially ride a pony despite the fact that she is not four, but it all came to naught when it predictably turned out that the orchard attractions are in fact devoted to children. We almost bought some homemade fudge, though, so the twenty minute trip out there was totally worth it.
So I went to visit my sister in Champaign, IL, this weekend, and it was an absolute delight. First of all, since I now have a vehicle with a working radio and climate control, I was able to totally pump up my jams ("Wind Beneath My Wings" has never sounded so hardcore) in mad comfort and style. Secondly, I got the chance to continue my tour of America's Dirtiest Restrooms (soon to be a regular segment on Good Morning America) with a stop in Kankakee, IL, where the facilities were not only an inch deep in suspiciously-colored water but also covered with overly-stern and underly-spelled signs dispensing important warnings to patrons, like "lites turn off after fifeteen minutes" and "hand drier for hand use only." Finally, I passed a car with no fewer than five bumper stickers citing passages of the Bible, which made me feel not only especially speedy but more than a little bit holy. And all of this was before I even got there.
Our activities themselves were not so monumental, if you can believe it. We played some Sega (Remember Sonic the Hedgehog? And all the other fun Sega characters? Like that one red guy? And the guy who punches people?), gorged ourselves at a quality family-dining establishment, and went to a movie. There was a brief flurry of activity directed at attempting to go to an orchard so my sister could potentially ride a pony despite the fact that she is not four, but it all came to naught when it predictably turned out that the orchard attractions are in fact devoted to children. We almost bought some homemade fudge, though, so the twenty minute trip out there was totally worth it.
Friday, November 05, 2004
Life is Worth Living Again
The long national nightmare is over. The OC has returned on FOX.
It sounds incredibly foolish now, I know, but for a moment I was actually worried that the season premiere might not be the greatest single artisitic accomplishment in the history of man. With Desperate Housewives grabbing for the camp crown and Everwood working the teen drama angle for all its worth, it seemed just barely possible that The OC might not resoundingly exceed all expectations. Of course, those fears were banished even before the plaintive tones of "California... California..." wrapped us in their warm, loving embrace. In the opening scene, Brows Gallagher stepped up to the plate by apparently deciding that Sandy ought to have some sort of unidentifiable accent this season, alternately dropping his "r"s and fiercely rolling them with mad pirate-on-the-high-seas style. Genuis on a Steven Hawking level.
Nor did the rest of the episode disappoint. From Marissa's chair flinging freakout to Theresa's highly implausible and frighteningly monotoned lie to the reemergence of Luke's Gay Dad, there were high points a plenty. And no trace of Oliver or Rooney in sight.
Make no mistake about it, this is a great time to be alive.
The long national nightmare is over. The OC has returned on FOX.
It sounds incredibly foolish now, I know, but for a moment I was actually worried that the season premiere might not be the greatest single artisitic accomplishment in the history of man. With Desperate Housewives grabbing for the camp crown and Everwood working the teen drama angle for all its worth, it seemed just barely possible that The OC might not resoundingly exceed all expectations. Of course, those fears were banished even before the plaintive tones of "California... California..." wrapped us in their warm, loving embrace. In the opening scene, Brows Gallagher stepped up to the plate by apparently deciding that Sandy ought to have some sort of unidentifiable accent this season, alternately dropping his "r"s and fiercely rolling them with mad pirate-on-the-high-seas style. Genuis on a Steven Hawking level.
Nor did the rest of the episode disappoint. From Marissa's chair flinging freakout to Theresa's highly implausible and frighteningly monotoned lie to the reemergence of Luke's Gay Dad, there were high points a plenty. And no trace of Oliver or Rooney in sight.
Make no mistake about it, this is a great time to be alive.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Four More Years
Well, the election is over and, perhaps unsurprisingly, it turns out that elderly religious zealots and unabashed racists are better at getting the vote out than stoners and b-list celebrities. Here's a little preview of what's to come in the second administration of Bush the Second:
-- National pasttime changed from baseball to death by lethal injection.
-- New American colonies formed in Iran and North Korea, bringing citizens the joys of SEARS and Family Matters reruns.
-- Topless clubs reclassified as "faith-based initiatives."
-- Oprah deported.
-- Functions of legislating and resolving judicial disputes outsourced to Halliburton.
-- Crack cocaine added to the "food pyramid."
-- Gay marriage outlawed; marriage to unemployed, unwashed "backup dancer" still encouraged.
-- Organ donation made mandatory in effort to rebuild Dick Cheney.
-- Iraqi explosives giveaway program extended through the holidays.
-- Supreme Court steps in to declare Condoleezza Rice America's Next Top Model.
-- Pieing Ann Coulter elevated to a capital crime.
-- Bush forestry policies extended to animal kingdom; baby seals clubbed to death in effort to "save them from themselves."
-- Oil companies encouraged to drill in Kennedy gravesite, "just in case."
Well, the election is over and, perhaps unsurprisingly, it turns out that elderly religious zealots and unabashed racists are better at getting the vote out than stoners and b-list celebrities. Here's a little preview of what's to come in the second administration of Bush the Second:
-- National pasttime changed from baseball to death by lethal injection.
-- New American colonies formed in Iran and North Korea, bringing citizens the joys of SEARS and Family Matters reruns.
-- Topless clubs reclassified as "faith-based initiatives."
-- Oprah deported.
-- Functions of legislating and resolving judicial disputes outsourced to Halliburton.
-- Crack cocaine added to the "food pyramid."
-- Gay marriage outlawed; marriage to unemployed, unwashed "backup dancer" still encouraged.
-- Organ donation made mandatory in effort to rebuild Dick Cheney.
-- Iraqi explosives giveaway program extended through the holidays.
-- Supreme Court steps in to declare Condoleezza Rice America's Next Top Model.
-- Pieing Ann Coulter elevated to a capital crime.
-- Bush forestry policies extended to animal kingdom; baby seals clubbed to death in effort to "save them from themselves."
-- Oil companies encouraged to drill in Kennedy gravesite, "just in case."
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Election Preview 2004!
Is it wrong that I'm secretly (or not so secretly, now, I suppose) hoping that Dan Rather will have a massive on-air breakdown during tonight's election returns? Just think, wouldn't it be awesome if he declared that Florida's electoral votes went to Donny Osmond and then started speaking in tongues? Or freaked out and bit one of the correspondents, preferably Hannah Storm? Or maybe he'll just start calling all the other anchors names, like "Robot Boy" for Tom Brokaw or "Bad Hair McGee" for Peter Jennings. (They're not my bad nicknames, they're Rather's. I'm trying to get inside his head, see? Amateurs.) I mean, he's on his way out, anyway, right? Might as well get drunk on air and take your top off while calling Kansas for Bush.
Supposedly they're not calling the states based on exit polls, though, right? (Fun that I keep asking questions as though someone will answer me.) That'll make for compelling viewing -- "And with regard to the state of Iowa, we can now announce, with some certainty, that both candidates have bad hair yet are worth more money than anyone we know." "And the state of Florida goes to . . . tens of thousands of old people who eat dinner at 3 PM and still complain that Murder, She Wrote went off the air." I can't wait.
I'm still kind of hoping for a surprise ending, though. Maybe my write-in campaign will succeed and The Little Mermaid will become President. I mean, come on, it's not like Bush or Kerry can pull off a seashell bra.
Is it wrong that I'm secretly (or not so secretly, now, I suppose) hoping that Dan Rather will have a massive on-air breakdown during tonight's election returns? Just think, wouldn't it be awesome if he declared that Florida's electoral votes went to Donny Osmond and then started speaking in tongues? Or freaked out and bit one of the correspondents, preferably Hannah Storm? Or maybe he'll just start calling all the other anchors names, like "Robot Boy" for Tom Brokaw or "Bad Hair McGee" for Peter Jennings. (They're not my bad nicknames, they're Rather's. I'm trying to get inside his head, see? Amateurs.) I mean, he's on his way out, anyway, right? Might as well get drunk on air and take your top off while calling Kansas for Bush.
Supposedly they're not calling the states based on exit polls, though, right? (Fun that I keep asking questions as though someone will answer me.) That'll make for compelling viewing -- "And with regard to the state of Iowa, we can now announce, with some certainty, that both candidates have bad hair yet are worth more money than anyone we know." "And the state of Florida goes to . . . tens of thousands of old people who eat dinner at 3 PM and still complain that Murder, She Wrote went off the air." I can't wait.
I'm still kind of hoping for a surprise ending, though. Maybe my write-in campaign will succeed and The Little Mermaid will become President. I mean, come on, it's not like Bush or Kerry can pull off a seashell bra.
