Sunday, October 31, 2004
Reality Bites
I have been watching a Real World marathon for the past few hours and I can honestly say that it has made me dumber. I have been seized with a sudden desire to take my top off or refer to agressively contemporary decor as "off the hook." I want to launch into a tirade about someone eating my hot pockets and then blame it all on racism or having been touched inappropriately in my bathing suit area. More than anything, however, I feel the need to malaprop incessantly while making desperate sexual overtures at any eligible human (or even reasonably attractive household appliance) in sight. See, who says television isn't a teaching tool?
The Real World and I have a sordid history. Since I grew up in a home without cable (my parents weren't Amish but they enjoyed the lifestyle; I can't really complain because I always had freshly-churned butter), the earliest seasons are sort of a blur to me, pieced together from snippets I saw in Kathy Yu's basement when we were bored with studying chemistry and the marathons they ran instead of actual music television while I was in college. Later, as my insanity deepened, I actually began making an effort to watch new episodes as they aired, even contemplating a fan letter to one New Orleans Kelley. But just as I found myself trying to be home on Tuesday nights to catch new episodes the minute they first aired (I believe this is what substance abuse counselors refer to as "rock bottom"), the second New York season sapped any semblance of my interest just in time for TLC and The Disney Channel to become freshly interesting.
And yet here I am. Could this be the start of a reconciliation? Based on Landon and MJ's matching David Hasselhoff haircuts, I'd have to say no.
I have been watching a Real World marathon for the past few hours and I can honestly say that it has made me dumber. I have been seized with a sudden desire to take my top off or refer to agressively contemporary decor as "off the hook." I want to launch into a tirade about someone eating my hot pockets and then blame it all on racism or having been touched inappropriately in my bathing suit area. More than anything, however, I feel the need to malaprop incessantly while making desperate sexual overtures at any eligible human (or even reasonably attractive household appliance) in sight. See, who says television isn't a teaching tool?
The Real World and I have a sordid history. Since I grew up in a home without cable (my parents weren't Amish but they enjoyed the lifestyle; I can't really complain because I always had freshly-churned butter), the earliest seasons are sort of a blur to me, pieced together from snippets I saw in Kathy Yu's basement when we were bored with studying chemistry and the marathons they ran instead of actual music television while I was in college. Later, as my insanity deepened, I actually began making an effort to watch new episodes as they aired, even contemplating a fan letter to one New Orleans Kelley. But just as I found myself trying to be home on Tuesday nights to catch new episodes the minute they first aired (I believe this is what substance abuse counselors refer to as "rock bottom"), the second New York season sapped any semblance of my interest just in time for TLC and The Disney Channel to become freshly interesting.
And yet here I am. Could this be the start of a reconciliation? Based on Landon and MJ's matching David Hasselhoff haircuts, I'd have to say no.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Ashleegate Revisited
I believe I’ve shown remarkable restraint up to this point in not commenting on the non-musical phenomenon that was Ashlee Simpson’s Saturday Night Live performance. Given that I’m a huge fan of both people who have appeared on Seventh Heaven and those who have atrocious bangs, I’ve been following Ashlee from her faux-punk inception, although not to the extent that I have ever watched her reality show, which I felt gave off a that-creepy-show-about-Brandi-having-a-baby vibe. But now that the preteen-pleasing programming has really gone haywire, with multiple unconvincing explanations for lip syncing and spasmodically "dancing" flying off in all directions, I feel I really have a moral duty to offer Ms. Simpson the Lesser the following additional responses she can rotate through as necessary:
Psychological: I am afraid to allow myself to succeed, and I therefore deliberately sabotaged myself by miscuing the "backing" tape. I actually blacked out for the duration of the incident, and did not even become aware of it until I was washing the blood off of my hands . . . I mean, until I saw the tape.
Artistic: Anyone can perform one song at a time. It takes a true artist to attempt two. If I have fallen, it is because I dared to fly too close to the sun.
Irrelevant: Do you know what it’s like to grow up constantly in the shadow of your prettier, slightly-less-horrifying sister?
Political: I feel as though modern political process has for too long silenced or distorted the voice of today’s youth. I ask you all to join me in my symbolic protest.
Diversionary: Look, I’m making out with Madonna!
Biblical: Let he who is without fault cast the first stone. But just like little stones, please. And try to aim below the head.
Promotional: Don’t forget to watch for my new exercise video, Ashlee Simpson’s Uncomfortably Shimmying to the Oldies!
Dangerously Honest: Yeah, I lip synced! It’s not like there’s a law against it. Jesus, relax, people! This is just like that time when I murdered all those hoboes.
Best of luck, Ashlee! I'm here for you.
I believe I’ve shown remarkable restraint up to this point in not commenting on the non-musical phenomenon that was Ashlee Simpson’s Saturday Night Live performance. Given that I’m a huge fan of both people who have appeared on Seventh Heaven and those who have atrocious bangs, I’ve been following Ashlee from her faux-punk inception, although not to the extent that I have ever watched her reality show, which I felt gave off a that-creepy-show-about-Brandi-having-a-baby vibe. But now that the preteen-pleasing programming has really gone haywire, with multiple unconvincing explanations for lip syncing and spasmodically "dancing" flying off in all directions, I feel I really have a moral duty to offer Ms. Simpson the Lesser the following additional responses she can rotate through as necessary:
Psychological: I am afraid to allow myself to succeed, and I therefore deliberately sabotaged myself by miscuing the "backing" tape. I actually blacked out for the duration of the incident, and did not even become aware of it until I was washing the blood off of my hands . . . I mean, until I saw the tape.
Artistic: Anyone can perform one song at a time. It takes a true artist to attempt two. If I have fallen, it is because I dared to fly too close to the sun.
Irrelevant: Do you know what it’s like to grow up constantly in the shadow of your prettier, slightly-less-horrifying sister?
Political: I feel as though modern political process has for too long silenced or distorted the voice of today’s youth. I ask you all to join me in my symbolic protest.
Diversionary: Look, I’m making out with Madonna!
Biblical: Let he who is without fault cast the first stone. But just like little stones, please. And try to aim below the head.
Promotional: Don’t forget to watch for my new exercise video, Ashlee Simpson’s Uncomfortably Shimmying to the Oldies!
Dangerously Honest: Yeah, I lip synced! It’s not like there’s a law against it. Jesus, relax, people! This is just like that time when I murdered all those hoboes.
Best of luck, Ashlee! I'm here for you.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
A Random Occurrence and the Random Observations Stemming Therefrom
Every day I walk down the streets of this big, anonymous city, assidulously avoiding eye contact with the thousands of strangers who dot its sidewalks, no doubt secretly planning to maim or rob me. But today at lunch I happened to randomly run into a good friend I haven't seen in years. And I'll be damned if afterwards I couldn't stop thinking about those fun little lines from Ezra Pound in "In a Station of the Metro," the ones that make freshman English students everywhere ask if something that short really counts as a poem, and if so, why that limerick they copied off the bathroom wall was received so poorly last week:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
There's definitely a magical quality to that connection between two people. If you think about it, to recognize, and be recognized by, anyone in this huge, overpopulated world is a little bit of a miracle.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Every day I walk down the streets of this big, anonymous city, assidulously avoiding eye contact with the thousands of strangers who dot its sidewalks, no doubt secretly planning to maim or rob me. But today at lunch I happened to randomly run into a good friend I haven't seen in years. And I'll be damned if afterwards I couldn't stop thinking about those fun little lines from Ezra Pound in "In a Station of the Metro," the ones that make freshman English students everywhere ask if something that short really counts as a poem, and if so, why that limerick they copied off the bathroom wall was received so poorly last week:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
There's definitely a magical quality to that connection between two people. If you think about it, to recognize, and be recognized by, anyone in this huge, overpopulated world is a little bit of a miracle.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Watching and Learning
I was skeptical at first, but I have to admit that the advent of TiVo in my life has been pretty fascinating. To begin with, I'm a huge fan of pausing live TV so I can go make a sandwich, water pic my teeth, or write the Great American Novel without missing a single precious moment of The UPN's Veronica Mars. I also enjoy seeing what TiVo thinks I want it to record for me, which for some reason has included a strange preponderance of Malcolm in the Middles and Spanish-language news programs. On Saturday I actually caught TiVo gearing up to tape, without any request from me, a Spanish-language movie on a channel we do not actually receive. You see, TiVo knows me better than I know myself, which is why I watched all three hours of the test pattern it recorded and did so happily. My relationship with TiVo is all about compromise.
And while TiVo was taking in Monday Night Football last night, I managed to sneak away to my friend's house to watch what I had remembered as being a childhood horror classic, A Nightmare on Elm Street. What had apparently once seemed scary, however, ended up striking me only as mildly and unintentionally hilarious. From the sight of a young Johnny Depp in a half-shirt and rolled up sweatpants to the casually comic presentation of alcoholism to the heroine's absurd mood swings (casually accepting the death of a loved one but flying into a rage at a hall monitor and screaming "Screw your hall pass!") , there were plenty of chuckles to be had. And since my own dreams rarely feature burn victims with knives for fingers (unless Oprah has really changed her look), I had no problem sleeping peacefully last night. Which is good, because I've got about a hundred Malcom in the Middles to get through today.
I was skeptical at first, but I have to admit that the advent of TiVo in my life has been pretty fascinating. To begin with, I'm a huge fan of pausing live TV so I can go make a sandwich, water pic my teeth, or write the Great American Novel without missing a single precious moment of The UPN's Veronica Mars. I also enjoy seeing what TiVo thinks I want it to record for me, which for some reason has included a strange preponderance of Malcolm in the Middles and Spanish-language news programs. On Saturday I actually caught TiVo gearing up to tape, without any request from me, a Spanish-language movie on a channel we do not actually receive. You see, TiVo knows me better than I know myself, which is why I watched all three hours of the test pattern it recorded and did so happily. My relationship with TiVo is all about compromise.
And while TiVo was taking in Monday Night Football last night, I managed to sneak away to my friend's house to watch what I had remembered as being a childhood horror classic, A Nightmare on Elm Street. What had apparently once seemed scary, however, ended up striking me only as mildly and unintentionally hilarious. From the sight of a young Johnny Depp in a half-shirt and rolled up sweatpants to the casually comic presentation of alcoholism to the heroine's absurd mood swings (casually accepting the death of a loved one but flying into a rage at a hall monitor and screaming "Screw your hall pass!") , there were plenty of chuckles to be had. And since my own dreams rarely feature burn victims with knives for fingers (unless Oprah has really changed her look), I had no problem sleeping peacefully last night. Which is good, because I've got about a hundred Malcom in the Middles to get through today.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Kids Say the Darndest Things!
Funny and/or ridiculous quotes from things I wrote in undergrad:
On Mark Twain's The Mysterious Stranger -- "Perhaps Twain's novella is not meant to make a statement at all, but merely to distract readers from the ultimate nothingness that is existence."
On direct election of judges -- "The power can reside with the people, but it must be an informed power."
On Thoreau -- "As characters like Hesse's Steppenwolf or even the angst-filled teens on Dawson's Creek search plaintively for completeness in their inner being, they owe the pain and the joy of aspiration to the thinkers and writers of the American Renaissance."
On production/operations management, which I do not to this day understand -- "In a business like this, service is of incredible importance, and must be given substantial consideration."
On preservation, dabbling a bit in poetry --
"They know,
And we know,
That they will be the next to go,
Offered up in fawning sacrifice
To the insatiable god progress."
On multiculturalism -- "Five students. Five cultures. One house. No problem."
On first language acquisition -- "In the end, it may well be that love is the universal language."
On theatre -- "Anything Goes! provided trenchant social commentary on the era of American history when infamy first became the surest route to fame."
Funny and/or ridiculous quotes from things I wrote in undergrad:
On Mark Twain's The Mysterious Stranger -- "Perhaps Twain's novella is not meant to make a statement at all, but merely to distract readers from the ultimate nothingness that is existence."
On direct election of judges -- "The power can reside with the people, but it must be an informed power."
On Thoreau -- "As characters like Hesse's Steppenwolf or even the angst-filled teens on Dawson's Creek search plaintively for completeness in their inner being, they owe the pain and the joy of aspiration to the thinkers and writers of the American Renaissance."
On production/operations management, which I do not to this day understand -- "In a business like this, service is of incredible importance, and must be given substantial consideration."
On preservation, dabbling a bit in poetry --
"They know,
And we know,
That they will be the next to go,
Offered up in fawning sacrifice
To the insatiable god progress."
On multiculturalism -- "Five students. Five cultures. One house. No problem."
On first language acquisition -- "In the end, it may well be that love is the universal language."
On theatre -- "Anything Goes! provided trenchant social commentary on the era of American history when infamy first became the surest route to fame."
Friday, October 22, 2004
A Magical Journey of Personal Discovery
I began my day today by driving a stool sample halfway across town so that my doctor can confirm that Frank, The Parasite (soon to star in his own children's animated series) has indeed gone to the big intestines in the sky. I'm tempted to view this as a metaphor for my life, but for now let's just say that I really wouldn't mind leaving all of my bodily functions unexamined for a while. It seems unlikely that digestive distress is going to be "in" this year.
On a slightly more newsworthy note, but retaining the unpleasant smell, I also accepted an offer of employment today that commits me to be in Chicago for at least the next two years. I realize that this would not seem like a big deal to most people, but since it was only last year that I first took a job that won't be terminated by going back to school or flipping off the manager, I'm feeling rather mature. I have future plans that pretty much preclude me from running off to join a hippie commune (they still have those, right?) or moving to Malaysia to teach English to young employees of Nike. I will have a secretary and people who have to do what I tell them to. It seems likely that the whole structure of our national economy will collapse.
Tonight I'm going over to my friend's place to carve pumpkins and drink wine. Alcohol and knives are definitely a winning combination. Isn't fall just the best?
I began my day today by driving a stool sample halfway across town so that my doctor can confirm that Frank, The Parasite (soon to star in his own children's animated series) has indeed gone to the big intestines in the sky. I'm tempted to view this as a metaphor for my life, but for now let's just say that I really wouldn't mind leaving all of my bodily functions unexamined for a while. It seems unlikely that digestive distress is going to be "in" this year.
On a slightly more newsworthy note, but retaining the unpleasant smell, I also accepted an offer of employment today that commits me to be in Chicago for at least the next two years. I realize that this would not seem like a big deal to most people, but since it was only last year that I first took a job that won't be terminated by going back to school or flipping off the manager, I'm feeling rather mature. I have future plans that pretty much preclude me from running off to join a hippie commune (they still have those, right?) or moving to Malaysia to teach English to young employees of Nike. I will have a secretary and people who have to do what I tell them to. It seems likely that the whole structure of our national economy will collapse.
Tonight I'm going over to my friend's place to carve pumpkins and drink wine. Alcohol and knives are definitely a winning combination. Isn't fall just the best?
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
The Accusations Fly
So on Monday I momentarily thought that our cleaning lady had stolen my gym clothes. I'll admit that this seemed like a strange choice, given that they most probably reek and there were any number of small, easily portable electronic devices nearby. But I thought maybe it was a fetish thing, that maybe she was irresistably drawn to me like so many have been. (read: Ed Asner) This conclusion seemed, in fact, rather inescapable, after neither my clever crawl under the bed or my journey to the very heart of darkness of my closet turned up any navy blue nylon shorts. Thankfully, however, I decided to take a gander at my roommate's room before phoning the police. The silly woman had for some reason placed my dirty laundry in a laundry basket! I'm sorry I doubted you, Simone. I'm even more sorry I had you placed on an FBI watch list.
In other news, I had a half-hour-long conversation with my mother about the draconian nature of our country's drug laws last night. This is not something I recommend. No child should have to hear about the various controlled substances one's parent may or may not have experimented with, especially not when those experiments may or may not have been contemporaneous with one's own stay at the hotel womb. I never signed up to have a "cool mom," and I would much prefer that she go back to worrying that people don't read enough any more or complaining that Everybody Loves Raymond is too dirty. Or at the very least share.
Life is just exhausting, isn't it?
So on Monday I momentarily thought that our cleaning lady had stolen my gym clothes. I'll admit that this seemed like a strange choice, given that they most probably reek and there were any number of small, easily portable electronic devices nearby. But I thought maybe it was a fetish thing, that maybe she was irresistably drawn to me like so many have been. (read: Ed Asner) This conclusion seemed, in fact, rather inescapable, after neither my clever crawl under the bed or my journey to the very heart of darkness of my closet turned up any navy blue nylon shorts. Thankfully, however, I decided to take a gander at my roommate's room before phoning the police. The silly woman had for some reason placed my dirty laundry in a laundry basket! I'm sorry I doubted you, Simone. I'm even more sorry I had you placed on an FBI watch list.
In other news, I had a half-hour-long conversation with my mother about the draconian nature of our country's drug laws last night. This is not something I recommend. No child should have to hear about the various controlled substances one's parent may or may not have experimented with, especially not when those experiments may or may not have been contemporaneous with one's own stay at the hotel womb. I never signed up to have a "cool mom," and I would much prefer that she go back to worrying that people don't read enough any more or complaining that Everybody Loves Raymond is too dirty. Or at the very least share.
Life is just exhausting, isn't it?
Monday, October 18, 2004
This Modern World
– Shopping. I may just seriously lose it on the next clerk who asks for "my autograph" on the credit card receipt. Autographs are for 8x10 glossies and occasionally boobs, not the mastercard slip from the chinos you bought at Banana Republic. And while we’re at it, let’s place a moratorium on calling it a "John Hancock" as well.
– I Heart Huckabees. I’m not entirely convinced that putting a lot of philosophical references and a chick with a French accent into your movie automatically makes it art, but then again I was too dumb to get most of it, anyway. My only real problem is that it’s keeping Marky Mark away from his important work with the Funky Bunch.
– TiVO. We just got it, and I have to admit I had never realized how much terrible crap there is on television. Or how much I desperately need to watch all of it.
– Symbolism. I had a dream last night that I got attacked by snakes on the train. When I tried to interpret the dream online, I found out that I either fear commitment or harbor unresolved issues with my mother. And all this time I thought I was just afraid of snakes.
– Guilt. After a year and a half of pretending we could actually take care of ourselves on our own, my roommate and I finally decided to hire a cleaning woman. But now I’m too ashamed to let her do anything. Last night I pre-cleaned the toilet so she wouldn’t think we were animals.
– Shopping. I may just seriously lose it on the next clerk who asks for "my autograph" on the credit card receipt. Autographs are for 8x10 glossies and occasionally boobs, not the mastercard slip from the chinos you bought at Banana Republic. And while we’re at it, let’s place a moratorium on calling it a "John Hancock" as well.
– I Heart Huckabees. I’m not entirely convinced that putting a lot of philosophical references and a chick with a French accent into your movie automatically makes it art, but then again I was too dumb to get most of it, anyway. My only real problem is that it’s keeping Marky Mark away from his important work with the Funky Bunch.
– TiVO. We just got it, and I have to admit I had never realized how much terrible crap there is on television. Or how much I desperately need to watch all of it.
– Symbolism. I had a dream last night that I got attacked by snakes on the train. When I tried to interpret the dream online, I found out that I either fear commitment or harbor unresolved issues with my mother. And all this time I thought I was just afraid of snakes.
– Guilt. After a year and a half of pretending we could actually take care of ourselves on our own, my roommate and I finally decided to hire a cleaning woman. But now I’m too ashamed to let her do anything. Last night I pre-cleaned the toilet so she wouldn’t think we were animals.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
The Cold War
Yesterday I spent half the day wearing two pairs of pants, and not just for the fashion. You see, just in time for Chicago's first day of truly miserable cold, our heating system decided to not work. And because waiting for the pidgin-speaking repairman to arrive required several hours of sitting in To-Build-a-Fire-level temperatures, my roommate and I spent those hours arraying ourselves in numerous layers of our finest winter clothes, inventing games we could play to stay warm (I'm amazed that "Capture the Remote Control" hasn't yet caught on in more temperate zones, frankly), and eating "warm foods." I made grilled cheese sandwiches while wearing winter gloves. It was awesome.
But finally our salvation presented itself, in monosyllabic form. After pointing perplexedly at our heater for about fifteen minutes and uttering surprised-sounding expressions that I swear could not have been English, our repair guy made a quick trip to Home Depot and put everything back in order. He explained the problem, but given that the explanation contained the word "therm" about fifteen times, I'm pretty sure it was made up, and totally sure I completely zoned out for the duration. I got back to one-pant status, though, which is probably how God intended it, and that's all that I ask.
There's got to be a valuable lesson to learn somewhere in all of this, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. Keep plenty of sweaters on hand? Eat more grilled cheese? Therm? This is why I'll never be a children's television show host. This and all those felonies.
Yesterday I spent half the day wearing two pairs of pants, and not just for the fashion. You see, just in time for Chicago's first day of truly miserable cold, our heating system decided to not work. And because waiting for the pidgin-speaking repairman to arrive required several hours of sitting in To-Build-a-Fire-level temperatures, my roommate and I spent those hours arraying ourselves in numerous layers of our finest winter clothes, inventing games we could play to stay warm (I'm amazed that "Capture the Remote Control" hasn't yet caught on in more temperate zones, frankly), and eating "warm foods." I made grilled cheese sandwiches while wearing winter gloves. It was awesome.
But finally our salvation presented itself, in monosyllabic form. After pointing perplexedly at our heater for about fifteen minutes and uttering surprised-sounding expressions that I swear could not have been English, our repair guy made a quick trip to Home Depot and put everything back in order. He explained the problem, but given that the explanation contained the word "therm" about fifteen times, I'm pretty sure it was made up, and totally sure I completely zoned out for the duration. I got back to one-pant status, though, which is probably how God intended it, and that's all that I ask.
There's got to be a valuable lesson to learn somewhere in all of this, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. Keep plenty of sweaters on hand? Eat more grilled cheese? Therm? This is why I'll never be a children's television show host. This and all those felonies.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Dilemma
Halloween is only a few weeks away, and for those of us who never got past the adolescent phase, this means a lot of pressure to come up with an amazing costume. This is not an easy thing, because once you’re older than, say, nine, it’s no longer okay just to let your mom slap you into a plastic smock with pictures of Batman on it and some neon reflective tape and set you loose upon the streets to pillage for candy and egg gentle elderly people. No, for "adults" costumes have to be somehow high concept (not to mention slutty, for all you gals out there), either appealing to our pop culture nostalgia (TV’s Maude costume), invoking current events (Dick Cheney costume with lifelike lesbian daughter prop), or deconstructing the whole idea of Halloween (child-sized Batman smock worn ironically). The fact of the matter is, childlike, spontaneous Halloween fun takes lots and lots of planning.
In past years I do feel as though I have always risen to the challenge. My first year of law school, I wowed audiences by portraying a tough but sensitive Attorney General Janet Reno, even though my attempts to draft a friend as Little Elian were unsuccessful. The next year, I upped the ante with both a fantastic Hillary Clinton (who was totally not wearing the same suit Janet Reno wore) and a magical Harry Potter (which I actually wore to Evidence class, forgetting momentarily that law school is the place where fun goes to die). The following year I channeled Elton John circa 1978 (the loss of the enormous pink sunglasses I wore for that venture remains one of the saddest unsolved mysteries in my life) and Blair from The Facts of Life, in conjunction with my friend Liz, who won the role of Tootie by virtue of owning roller skates. And last year, well, I topped it all with a dual role as Screech from Saved by the Bell and Burt Reynolds circa 1982. I really believe you can measure Halloween success by how much clothing you buy that you will never wear again and how much damage you do to your hair, and last year was a winner on both counts.
So what new joys with this Halloween bring? I’m honestly not sure yet. You can’t force inspiration; you just suck down ten or twelve pixie sticks and a case of Red Bull and wait for it to happen.
Halloween is only a few weeks away, and for those of us who never got past the adolescent phase, this means a lot of pressure to come up with an amazing costume. This is not an easy thing, because once you’re older than, say, nine, it’s no longer okay just to let your mom slap you into a plastic smock with pictures of Batman on it and some neon reflective tape and set you loose upon the streets to pillage for candy and egg gentle elderly people. No, for "adults" costumes have to be somehow high concept (not to mention slutty, for all you gals out there), either appealing to our pop culture nostalgia (TV’s Maude costume), invoking current events (Dick Cheney costume with lifelike lesbian daughter prop), or deconstructing the whole idea of Halloween (child-sized Batman smock worn ironically). The fact of the matter is, childlike, spontaneous Halloween fun takes lots and lots of planning.
In past years I do feel as though I have always risen to the challenge. My first year of law school, I wowed audiences by portraying a tough but sensitive Attorney General Janet Reno, even though my attempts to draft a friend as Little Elian were unsuccessful. The next year, I upped the ante with both a fantastic Hillary Clinton (who was totally not wearing the same suit Janet Reno wore) and a magical Harry Potter (which I actually wore to Evidence class, forgetting momentarily that law school is the place where fun goes to die). The following year I channeled Elton John circa 1978 (the loss of the enormous pink sunglasses I wore for that venture remains one of the saddest unsolved mysteries in my life) and Blair from The Facts of Life, in conjunction with my friend Liz, who won the role of Tootie by virtue of owning roller skates. And last year, well, I topped it all with a dual role as Screech from Saved by the Bell and Burt Reynolds circa 1982. I really believe you can measure Halloween success by how much clothing you buy that you will never wear again and how much damage you do to your hair, and last year was a winner on both counts.
So what new joys with this Halloween bring? I’m honestly not sure yet. You can’t force inspiration; you just suck down ten or twelve pixie sticks and a case of Red Bull and wait for it to happen.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Strange Days
I've been having really weird dreams again lately. Last night I dreamed that my sister drove the new Corolla off a cliff after getting lost on the way to our church. She was fine, but we got into a big argument over who had to call the insurance company and our parents. I also dreamed that I was on Oprah, but no one would tell me why. I was really hoping it wasn't going to be one of those crappy book club episodes. And it was the fat Oprah, by the way, not the thin one. Not that that stopped me from trying to make out with her.
And as we fade into the grey days of autumn, I have to admit that daily life is starting to seem more and more like a dream. I wake up when it's still dark out and stumble to the gym with my crazily unkempt hair and green track pants, rocking the "crazy homeless person" look that's so popular with the kids these days. The day crawls by in a haze of shockingly tame office gossip and mind-numbing legal minutiae, with only a trip to the all-you-can-eat salad bar or a coffeeless coffee break to divide things up. And by seven pm it's dark again, making bedtime seem like a moral certainty and any hyjinks like they're simply existing on borrowed time. Fall is, after all, a season of decay and death, which frankly makes me question the motives of all you sick fucks out there who claim to actually love it. That cute little crackle of the leaves beneath your feet? That's their death scream, people.
Anyway, the world's a great (and a terrible) place any time of year, but I always find these transitions sort of surreal. As for the bizzaro Oprah dreams, those are pretty much a constant, not to mention definitely sort of hot...
I've been having really weird dreams again lately. Last night I dreamed that my sister drove the new Corolla off a cliff after getting lost on the way to our church. She was fine, but we got into a big argument over who had to call the insurance company and our parents. I also dreamed that I was on Oprah, but no one would tell me why. I was really hoping it wasn't going to be one of those crappy book club episodes. And it was the fat Oprah, by the way, not the thin one. Not that that stopped me from trying to make out with her.
And as we fade into the grey days of autumn, I have to admit that daily life is starting to seem more and more like a dream. I wake up when it's still dark out and stumble to the gym with my crazily unkempt hair and green track pants, rocking the "crazy homeless person" look that's so popular with the kids these days. The day crawls by in a haze of shockingly tame office gossip and mind-numbing legal minutiae, with only a trip to the all-you-can-eat salad bar or a coffeeless coffee break to divide things up. And by seven pm it's dark again, making bedtime seem like a moral certainty and any hyjinks like they're simply existing on borrowed time. Fall is, after all, a season of decay and death, which frankly makes me question the motives of all you sick fucks out there who claim to actually love it. That cute little crackle of the leaves beneath your feet? That's their death scream, people.
Anyway, the world's a great (and a terrible) place any time of year, but I always find these transitions sort of surreal. As for the bizzaro Oprah dreams, those are pretty much a constant, not to mention definitely sort of hot...
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
(Sub)Urban Planning
Yesterday my friend and I decided to use our day off from work for an amazing road trip to the suburbs. It was about as meticulously planned as the invasion of Normandy, or at the very least a carefully-crafted History Channel documentary about the invasion of Normandy. We left at 9:30 AM, which was a bit of a challenge for those of us who had ill-advisedly spent Sunday night at a keg party doing body shots off of strangers. We lunched at a mall food court at precisely 11:30 AM so as to avoid the inevitable onslaught of unwashed masses at the Great Steak 'N Potato Co. And by 2:30 PM we had made ourselves sick experimenting with different fragrances at the Marshall Field's, stocked up on goldfish crackers and cheap plastic "home accents" at the Target, and were back on the road to the city, just beating traffic.
Which is not to say that everything went perfectly. First of all, we noticed a disturbing preponderance of Cosby-type sweaters at several major fashion retailers. It's bad enough that Raven Simone once again has a television show; let's not bring back everything associated with our favorite Jell-O pitchman. Secondly, a "shortcut" we took across the city ended up involving the parking lot of what appeared to be a steel mill, a brief encounter with a panhandler unable to spell "please," and about fifteen minutes stuck in traffic near the Bed, Bath, and Beyond. And finally, perhaps most importantly, our Grammy Winners 2003 CD kept skipping in the CD player, resulting in about a thousand choruses of Missy Elliot's "Work It." Work it indeed.
But all in all, I thought it was an excellent way to honor the intrepid voyager who "discovered" our country. I'm pretty sure he was hungover when he started his trip, too.
Yesterday my friend and I decided to use our day off from work for an amazing road trip to the suburbs. It was about as meticulously planned as the invasion of Normandy, or at the very least a carefully-crafted History Channel documentary about the invasion of Normandy. We left at 9:30 AM, which was a bit of a challenge for those of us who had ill-advisedly spent Sunday night at a keg party doing body shots off of strangers. We lunched at a mall food court at precisely 11:30 AM so as to avoid the inevitable onslaught of unwashed masses at the Great Steak 'N Potato Co. And by 2:30 PM we had made ourselves sick experimenting with different fragrances at the Marshall Field's, stocked up on goldfish crackers and cheap plastic "home accents" at the Target, and were back on the road to the city, just beating traffic.
Which is not to say that everything went perfectly. First of all, we noticed a disturbing preponderance of Cosby-type sweaters at several major fashion retailers. It's bad enough that Raven Simone once again has a television show; let's not bring back everything associated with our favorite Jell-O pitchman. Secondly, a "shortcut" we took across the city ended up involving the parking lot of what appeared to be a steel mill, a brief encounter with a panhandler unable to spell "please," and about fifteen minutes stuck in traffic near the Bed, Bath, and Beyond. And finally, perhaps most importantly, our Grammy Winners 2003 CD kept skipping in the CD player, resulting in about a thousand choruses of Missy Elliot's "Work It." Work it indeed.
But all in all, I thought it was an excellent way to honor the intrepid voyager who "discovered" our country. I'm pretty sure he was hungover when he started his trip, too.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Hooray for Imperialists!
If you're like me, you have the day off from work today in honor of the great explorer Christopher Columbus. You're also recovering from a wicked hangover and you really like macaroni and cheese. But it's not always easy to figure out how to observe such an important occasion, although it's a pretty safe bet that sleeping until noon and watching Oprah won't cut it. Luckily, I have prepared this handy list of appropriate Columbus Day activities:
-- Giving friends and relatives lovely hand-woven blankets infected with smallpox.
-- Dubbing your dobermen Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria prior to the dogfight.
-- Sailing across the drainage ditch behind your house; somehow ending up in the Carribean.
-- Losing thousands of dollars playing the slots at the tribal casino.
-- Petitioning King and Queen of Spain to finance your voyage to MTV Spring Break in Cancun, Mexico.
-- Attempting to convert random strangers on the street to Christianity using a series of shouted parables and crudely drawn pictograms.
-- Moving into your neighbor's home; setting up cardboard box in the garage to serve as a fun-filled "reservation."
-- Failing to understand how to plant corn.
-- Telling yourself the West Indies were never that cool to begin with.
-- Dressing up in pantaloons, a puffy shirt, gold chains, and an enormous feathered cap; being mistaken for Elton John.
-- Snidely telling airport security personnel that "Christopher Columbus never had to put up with this;" spending the rest of your life in a cage in John Ashcroft's basement.
Happy solemn observing!
If you're like me, you have the day off from work today in honor of the great explorer Christopher Columbus. You're also recovering from a wicked hangover and you really like macaroni and cheese. But it's not always easy to figure out how to observe such an important occasion, although it's a pretty safe bet that sleeping until noon and watching Oprah won't cut it. Luckily, I have prepared this handy list of appropriate Columbus Day activities:
-- Giving friends and relatives lovely hand-woven blankets infected with smallpox.
-- Dubbing your dobermen Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria prior to the dogfight.
-- Sailing across the drainage ditch behind your house; somehow ending up in the Carribean.
-- Losing thousands of dollars playing the slots at the tribal casino.
-- Petitioning King and Queen of Spain to finance your voyage to MTV Spring Break in Cancun, Mexico.
-- Attempting to convert random strangers on the street to Christianity using a series of shouted parables and crudely drawn pictograms.
-- Moving into your neighbor's home; setting up cardboard box in the garage to serve as a fun-filled "reservation."
-- Failing to understand how to plant corn.
-- Telling yourself the West Indies were never that cool to begin with.
-- Dressing up in pantaloons, a puffy shirt, gold chains, and an enormous feathered cap; being mistaken for Elton John.
-- Snidely telling airport security personnel that "Christopher Columbus never had to put up with this;" spending the rest of your life in a cage in John Ashcroft's basement.
Happy solemn observing!
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Mix and Match
– The Vice Presidential Debates. There’s nothing like an hour and a half of meaningless rhetoric and weak personal jabs. On the plus side, Dick Cheney’s corpse was amazingly lifelike.
– Driving Excitement. My new car has buttons in it for which I have as yet been unable to determine a use. I’m hoping one of them is for executing your passengers.
– Genuine Class. The other day my roommate left a porn video in the middle of our coffee table. Admittedly it was more interesting than the battered copies of general interest magazines we typically leave there, but probably not the best if you think your parents or some parish council members might drop by.
– The Olsen Twins. The new rumor is that they’ve dropped out of NYU. How horrifying to think academia may never be blessed with Mary-Kate’s gloss on Melville or Ashley’s theories on global trade. Again, this all has to be part of Stamos’s evil master plan.
– The Vice Presidential Debates. There’s nothing like an hour and a half of meaningless rhetoric and weak personal jabs. On the plus side, Dick Cheney’s corpse was amazingly lifelike.
– Driving Excitement. My new car has buttons in it for which I have as yet been unable to determine a use. I’m hoping one of them is for executing your passengers.
– Genuine Class. The other day my roommate left a porn video in the middle of our coffee table. Admittedly it was more interesting than the battered copies of general interest magazines we typically leave there, but probably not the best if you think your parents or some parish council members might drop by.
– The Olsen Twins. The new rumor is that they’ve dropped out of NYU. How horrifying to think academia may never be blessed with Mary-Kate’s gloss on Melville or Ashley’s theories on global trade. Again, this all has to be part of Stamos’s evil master plan.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Efficiency in Action
One of the best things about working in an office is that there’s very little time for actual work, what with all the baby showers, birthday lunches, and quality seminars. It’s like living in a really lame commune where nobody believes in free love and someone’s always bitching about whose turn it is to clean the coffee maker. For instance, I spent a good hour of my afternoon today explaining to co-workers that I simply had too much work to do to join them on their various jaunts to the dry cleaners, the yoga center, or the erotic bookstore, before caving in under the enormous weight of peer pressure and engaging in some highly centered erotic dry cleaning. Not really. But my point is that it’s pretty easy to blur that line between work and real life, especially when you consider that work generally takes up a good half of our waking hours.
Which is basically my whole problem with it. I mean, wouldn’t it be great if we could just work as long as it takes to get the stuff we’re paid to do done instead of filling eight hours a day with work, obsessive e-mail checking, and an office romance here and there? Just imagine how it would be if Margie, the hatchet-faced woman in accounting, could just crunch those numbers as fast as her little calculator-punching fingers could carry her and then head off for home to make those seven or eight calls seeking hypo-allergenic shampoo for her terrier, Mitzie? Wouldn’t we all be happier? And what if Chuck the janitor were allowed to mop at his own pace and then go off to build some model trains or something instead of interspersing intermittent swipes at the floor with mumbled swipes at passersby in an eternal struggle to fill his hours for the week? Actually, that wouldn’t work too well for me, because I’ve stolen a lot of Chuck’s material. Of course, I could always go back to stealing from Gallagher. It’s a tradeoff.
Anyway, as it is, there’s a lot of wasted time in the workplace. But I guess that’s true of life, too. And come to think of it, even saying that time can be "wasted" at all presumes that there’s some sort of greater purpose to our lives that our time ought to be devoted to, which is far from certain. Which means that all of this discussion is pretty much, well, a waste. Let’s just all try to pretend that that’s poetic rather than sad. And that we even know the difference.
One of the best things about working in an office is that there’s very little time for actual work, what with all the baby showers, birthday lunches, and quality seminars. It’s like living in a really lame commune where nobody believes in free love and someone’s always bitching about whose turn it is to clean the coffee maker. For instance, I spent a good hour of my afternoon today explaining to co-workers that I simply had too much work to do to join them on their various jaunts to the dry cleaners, the yoga center, or the erotic bookstore, before caving in under the enormous weight of peer pressure and engaging in some highly centered erotic dry cleaning. Not really. But my point is that it’s pretty easy to blur that line between work and real life, especially when you consider that work generally takes up a good half of our waking hours.
Which is basically my whole problem with it. I mean, wouldn’t it be great if we could just work as long as it takes to get the stuff we’re paid to do done instead of filling eight hours a day with work, obsessive e-mail checking, and an office romance here and there? Just imagine how it would be if Margie, the hatchet-faced woman in accounting, could just crunch those numbers as fast as her little calculator-punching fingers could carry her and then head off for home to make those seven or eight calls seeking hypo-allergenic shampoo for her terrier, Mitzie? Wouldn’t we all be happier? And what if Chuck the janitor were allowed to mop at his own pace and then go off to build some model trains or something instead of interspersing intermittent swipes at the floor with mumbled swipes at passersby in an eternal struggle to fill his hours for the week? Actually, that wouldn’t work too well for me, because I’ve stolen a lot of Chuck’s material. Of course, I could always go back to stealing from Gallagher. It’s a tradeoff.
Anyway, as it is, there’s a lot of wasted time in the workplace. But I guess that’s true of life, too. And come to think of it, even saying that time can be "wasted" at all presumes that there’s some sort of greater purpose to our lives that our time ought to be devoted to, which is far from certain. Which means that all of this discussion is pretty much, well, a waste. Let’s just all try to pretend that that’s poetic rather than sad. And that we even know the difference.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Hubcaps!
So my '95 Neon is no more. Well, it still exists, I guess, but it does so without me, because I have traded it in for a 2003 Corolla, which has the advantages of working air conditioning, a radio that receievs stations other than the mariachi channel, and a full set of hubcaps, at least until those punk kids in my neighborhood go to work again. My drive back to the city was so dry and non-silent it was amazing. I never knew how much I needed to hear the latest from Avril Lavigne until my vehicle denied me that opportunity.
The Neon and I have had, to say the least, a tumultuous relationship. Only a few months after getting the Neon, it enticed me into seeing if it could really go 120 mph like the odometer said, resulting in a very expensive speeding ticket and a highly unnecessary body cavity search. (The answer, by the way? Yes, but not without vehicular shaking intense enough to cause damage to some rather prized internal organs.) The Neon and I got into more trouble when Kathy Yu convinced us we should try to drive over a grass embankment in the high school parking lot, which led to an exceedingly stern and spittle-filled lecture from a twitchy lot attendant who fortunately could not spell my last name to turn me in to the authorities. But the Neon and I have had good times, too, like our crazy road trip to Bloomington/Normal and all the times we used to skip third period study hall to go to Dixie Creme Donuts. It's impossible to sum up what these eleven years together have meant.
But if there's one thing I believe in life, it's that once a vehicle leaves you stranded in Andersonville, it's time for a change. The Corolla and I are getting along famously already. And if it decides it doesn't want to go for donuts, well, I guess I can learn to love bagels instead . . .
So my '95 Neon is no more. Well, it still exists, I guess, but it does so without me, because I have traded it in for a 2003 Corolla, which has the advantages of working air conditioning, a radio that receievs stations other than the mariachi channel, and a full set of hubcaps, at least until those punk kids in my neighborhood go to work again. My drive back to the city was so dry and non-silent it was amazing. I never knew how much I needed to hear the latest from Avril Lavigne until my vehicle denied me that opportunity.
The Neon and I have had, to say the least, a tumultuous relationship. Only a few months after getting the Neon, it enticed me into seeing if it could really go 120 mph like the odometer said, resulting in a very expensive speeding ticket and a highly unnecessary body cavity search. (The answer, by the way? Yes, but not without vehicular shaking intense enough to cause damage to some rather prized internal organs.) The Neon and I got into more trouble when Kathy Yu convinced us we should try to drive over a grass embankment in the high school parking lot, which led to an exceedingly stern and spittle-filled lecture from a twitchy lot attendant who fortunately could not spell my last name to turn me in to the authorities. But the Neon and I have had good times, too, like our crazy road trip to Bloomington/Normal and all the times we used to skip third period study hall to go to Dixie Creme Donuts. It's impossible to sum up what these eleven years together have meant.
But if there's one thing I believe in life, it's that once a vehicle leaves you stranded in Andersonville, it's time for a change. The Corolla and I are getting along famously already. And if it decides it doesn't want to go for donuts, well, I guess I can learn to love bagels instead . . .
Friday, October 01, 2004
Aphorisms for the New Millenium
(with apologies to Ben Franklin)
– Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead; this is especially useful if your secret is that you killed those other two people.
– A penny saved is a penny those worthless grandkids of yours just can’t wait to get their hands on when you die.
– A stitch in time saves one of Nike’s 9-year-old Malaysian employees from being chained to her sewing machine.
– A spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar; a gallon of honey will catch Star Jones.
– A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, but if you’re really worried about how many birds you have your priorities in life are seriously out of whack.
– Fish and visitors smell in three days, although your grandma Ethel pretty much smells right from the start. It’s the Ben-Gay.
– Do not put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Seriously, it’s time to stop talking about banging Jessica Simpson and start doing something about it!
– Early to bed and early to rise makes for really boring reality television.
– Little strokes, fell great oaks. Bigger strokes, fell New Jersey Governor James McGreevey.
(with apologies to Ben Franklin)
– Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead; this is especially useful if your secret is that you killed those other two people.
– A penny saved is a penny those worthless grandkids of yours just can’t wait to get their hands on when you die.
– A stitch in time saves one of Nike’s 9-year-old Malaysian employees from being chained to her sewing machine.
– A spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar; a gallon of honey will catch Star Jones.
– A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, but if you’re really worried about how many birds you have your priorities in life are seriously out of whack.
– Fish and visitors smell in three days, although your grandma Ethel pretty much smells right from the start. It’s the Ben-Gay.
– Do not put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Seriously, it’s time to stop talking about banging Jessica Simpson and start doing something about it!
– Early to bed and early to rise makes for really boring reality television.
– Little strokes, fell great oaks. Bigger strokes, fell New Jersey Governor James McGreevey.
