Thursday, March 31, 2005
Fear Factor
Sometimes I am paranoid. I’m not saying I believe that the ancient astronauts are spying on me or that the government has implanted a chip in my brain to make me shop at The Container Store, but I do have some odd fears. I always stand at least three feet away from the edge of the el platform lest I stumble in the path of an oncoming purple line express, I categorically refuse to eat at the Subway where I once saw a girl pick her nose with her sandwich-making gloves on, regardless of who the sandwich artist is that day, and I once prowled the hallways of my childhood home wielding a Badge-A-Minute buttonmaker to protect me from the intruders I was sure lurked in the linen closet. Suffice it to say this boy has issues.
But recent events have, if possible, made me even more insane. If you follow the news (and you totally should – it’s like One Tree Hill, but substantially less cute and with more genocide) you probably know that there’s been a little trend of employees of the judicial system getting shot lately. So every morning when I roll into my courthouse for work, I find myself thinking "Hey, that guy’s sort of preternaturally bald. Could he be an angry skinhead?" or "Interesting set of crazy eyes on that woman. I wonder if she’s packing heat." Of course, half the time someone approaches me twitching and muttering unintelligibly, it turns out to be one of my coworkers, but spending hours reading immigration decisions can definitely have that effect on people. So can a single episode of Hannity & Colmes.
Not that any of this is really brings me down too much, though. I think it was about the time they told us that terrorists were planning to cropdust the Midwest with poison gas that I decided I wasn’t going to let unfocused worry ruin my days. I think my unabashed love of Taco Bell and Arby’s is far more likely to kill me than any well-armed nutcase and, regardless, we all have to go someday, right? I promise I’ll have my ashes scattered over the blog.
Sometimes I am paranoid. I’m not saying I believe that the ancient astronauts are spying on me or that the government has implanted a chip in my brain to make me shop at The Container Store, but I do have some odd fears. I always stand at least three feet away from the edge of the el platform lest I stumble in the path of an oncoming purple line express, I categorically refuse to eat at the Subway where I once saw a girl pick her nose with her sandwich-making gloves on, regardless of who the sandwich artist is that day, and I once prowled the hallways of my childhood home wielding a Badge-A-Minute buttonmaker to protect me from the intruders I was sure lurked in the linen closet. Suffice it to say this boy has issues.
But recent events have, if possible, made me even more insane. If you follow the news (and you totally should – it’s like One Tree Hill, but substantially less cute and with more genocide) you probably know that there’s been a little trend of employees of the judicial system getting shot lately. So every morning when I roll into my courthouse for work, I find myself thinking "Hey, that guy’s sort of preternaturally bald. Could he be an angry skinhead?" or "Interesting set of crazy eyes on that woman. I wonder if she’s packing heat." Of course, half the time someone approaches me twitching and muttering unintelligibly, it turns out to be one of my coworkers, but spending hours reading immigration decisions can definitely have that effect on people. So can a single episode of Hannity & Colmes.
Not that any of this is really brings me down too much, though. I think it was about the time they told us that terrorists were planning to cropdust the Midwest with poison gas that I decided I wasn’t going to let unfocused worry ruin my days. I think my unabashed love of Taco Bell and Arby’s is far more likely to kill me than any well-armed nutcase and, regardless, we all have to go someday, right? I promise I’ll have my ashes scattered over the blog.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Capitalism at Work
There's a huge battle shaping up outside my el station. We're lucky enough to have this great Red Eye guy who makes up fun musical sales pitches (I think one of them was cribbed from Xtina Aguilera, but I couldn't prove it in a court of law) and even personalizes them (to a woman in a red shirt -- "Hey, Scarlett, how about a Red Eye?!"). But this morning I was shocked to see a rather dazed-looking gentleman in a funeral director's suit also standing at our stop trying to give out newspapers. It turns out this isn't some sort of Red Eye internship program (which is too bad, because I really think I could write the "Whoville" column, as long as they let me make things up), but rather a Jehovah's Witness encroaching on Red Eye territory. I'm not going to tell you there weren't some tense moments, folks. And I hate to think what would've happened if the Streetwise guy arrived on the scene.
For now, though, I have to give the edge to the good people at Tribune Media. I mean, sure, The Watchtower is good, but I found it kind of preachy. And shockingly low on stories about Nick & Jessica. They might want to punch up their design a little, add some fun fonts, maybe a few tarted-up shots of the Olsens. Plus, I really think the Red Eye guy could take suit guy in a fair fight, which is not to say it would be one. Suit guy looks like he's probably a biter.
Ahhh, the joys of free enterprise. If we were communists we might only have one choice for publications to skim wearily on the train and cast into the nearest trash bin.
There's a huge battle shaping up outside my el station. We're lucky enough to have this great Red Eye guy who makes up fun musical sales pitches (I think one of them was cribbed from Xtina Aguilera, but I couldn't prove it in a court of law) and even personalizes them (to a woman in a red shirt -- "Hey, Scarlett, how about a Red Eye?!"). But this morning I was shocked to see a rather dazed-looking gentleman in a funeral director's suit also standing at our stop trying to give out newspapers. It turns out this isn't some sort of Red Eye internship program (which is too bad, because I really think I could write the "Whoville" column, as long as they let me make things up), but rather a Jehovah's Witness encroaching on Red Eye territory. I'm not going to tell you there weren't some tense moments, folks. And I hate to think what would've happened if the Streetwise guy arrived on the scene.
For now, though, I have to give the edge to the good people at Tribune Media. I mean, sure, The Watchtower is good, but I found it kind of preachy. And shockingly low on stories about Nick & Jessica. They might want to punch up their design a little, add some fun fonts, maybe a few tarted-up shots of the Olsens. Plus, I really think the Red Eye guy could take suit guy in a fair fight, which is not to say it would be one. Suit guy looks like he's probably a biter.
Ahhh, the joys of free enterprise. If we were communists we might only have one choice for publications to skim wearily on the train and cast into the nearest trash bin.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Boring Book Chat
There is probably nothing less interesting than a secondhand account of a book you haven’t read. My eyes glaze over every time someone tries to summarize the alleged thrills and chills of The Da Vinci Code for me, and I think even Gayle turns off Oprah when she gets going on Toni Morrison or Maya Angelou. That being said, I’m going to have to take some time here to talk about Gravity’s Rainbow, since I just finished it after nearly two months of reading. If you’re bored, feel free to click over to nastychicks.com or google that girl with the glasses from accounting; we’ll be safely back to musings on The OC and explications of Wal-Mart greeter etiquette in the morning.
To start off, I have to say that I really enjoyed the book in a way I didn’t expect. For all of its postmodern busyness, Gravity’s Rainbow has a lot of passages that proceed straightforwardly and honestly, and I found a good deal of it quite moving. Not on a Judging Amy level, mind you, but Pynchon didn’t have Tyne Daly to work with. Other parts are pretty funny – there’s an octopus attack, and a whole section centered around an immortal light bulb. Top that, Two and a Half Men.
The problem is that this is the sort of book I really feel like I would have had to quit my job to read properly. It’s long, sure, but long I can handle. When I put my mind to it, I took Bleak House down in a month, for God’s sake. It’s just that the chronology is so skewed and there are so many characters that I found myself struggling to keep track of things between sittings. It doesn’t help that Pynchon likes to switch between points of view in the middle of paragraphs or even merge them. Don’t get me wrong, it’s all very artful and I think it really works in service of his goals, but it makes it hard for me to keep track. And if I wanted that I could just examine the Wisconsin side of my family tree.
Anyway, I guess I’ve got that off my chest. I’m glad I read it, as I admittedly am with just about everything. I’m not sure I’m ready for another big literary challenge just yet, though. At least until the next Harry Potter comes out.
There is probably nothing less interesting than a secondhand account of a book you haven’t read. My eyes glaze over every time someone tries to summarize the alleged thrills and chills of The Da Vinci Code for me, and I think even Gayle turns off Oprah when she gets going on Toni Morrison or Maya Angelou. That being said, I’m going to have to take some time here to talk about Gravity’s Rainbow, since I just finished it after nearly two months of reading. If you’re bored, feel free to click over to nastychicks.com or google that girl with the glasses from accounting; we’ll be safely back to musings on The OC and explications of Wal-Mart greeter etiquette in the morning.
To start off, I have to say that I really enjoyed the book in a way I didn’t expect. For all of its postmodern busyness, Gravity’s Rainbow has a lot of passages that proceed straightforwardly and honestly, and I found a good deal of it quite moving. Not on a Judging Amy level, mind you, but Pynchon didn’t have Tyne Daly to work with. Other parts are pretty funny – there’s an octopus attack, and a whole section centered around an immortal light bulb. Top that, Two and a Half Men.
The problem is that this is the sort of book I really feel like I would have had to quit my job to read properly. It’s long, sure, but long I can handle. When I put my mind to it, I took Bleak House down in a month, for God’s sake. It’s just that the chronology is so skewed and there are so many characters that I found myself struggling to keep track of things between sittings. It doesn’t help that Pynchon likes to switch between points of view in the middle of paragraphs or even merge them. Don’t get me wrong, it’s all very artful and I think it really works in service of his goals, but it makes it hard for me to keep track. And if I wanted that I could just examine the Wisconsin side of my family tree.
Anyway, I guess I’ve got that off my chest. I’m glad I read it, as I admittedly am with just about everything. I’m not sure I’m ready for another big literary challenge just yet, though. At least until the next Harry Potter comes out.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Further Evidence of my Total Shamelessness
While I was home I scanned in a bunch of old pictures to share with you kids. While I have drawn the line at nudes and anything from junior high (we'll call those "the mathletics years"), other than that I've decided to pretty much go all access. Because I figure, hey, once you've shared the intimate details of your digestive maladies, it's pretty hard to categorize anything else as "too private." Although no, you're still not seeing my wang. It'd really kill the romance, anyway.
So today's photo is from Halloween 2002, when my friend Liz and I decided to go as Blair and Tootie from The Facts of Life. I'm the one on the left.
I'm pretty proud of the way I got the whole "Blair attitude" down. I couldn't shave for days. And I'm doubly proud of the fact that I'm drinking Boone's Farm (my guess is Wild Island) straight from the bottle. Now that's commitment to character. I'd like to see Pacino pull this one off.
I'm still mad that Liz got to wear the roller skates, though. The fact that she kept falling on her ass all night was surprisingly little consolation. Maybe because a few bottles of Boone's later I was doing the same thing.
Sometimes I amaze even myself. Amaze and depress.
While I was home I scanned in a bunch of old pictures to share with you kids. While I have drawn the line at nudes and anything from junior high (we'll call those "the mathletics years"), other than that I've decided to pretty much go all access. Because I figure, hey, once you've shared the intimate details of your digestive maladies, it's pretty hard to categorize anything else as "too private." Although no, you're still not seeing my wang. It'd really kill the romance, anyway.
So today's photo is from Halloween 2002, when my friend Liz and I decided to go as Blair and Tootie from The Facts of Life. I'm the one on the left.
I'm pretty proud of the way I got the whole "Blair attitude" down. I couldn't shave for days. And I'm doubly proud of the fact that I'm drinking Boone's Farm (my guess is Wild Island) straight from the bottle. Now that's commitment to character. I'd like to see Pacino pull this one off.
I'm still mad that Liz got to wear the roller skates, though. The fact that she kept falling on her ass all night was surprisingly little consolation. Maybe because a few bottles of Boone's later I was doing the same thing.
Sometimes I amaze even myself. Amaze and depress.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
The Big Res
I am 27 years old and my parents still give me an Easter basket. Fortunately, I am no longer required to scavenge about the lawn for plastic eggs or make milk carton Easter bunnies, but I wouldn't be surprised if these things are merely on hiatus and reemerge when I am 35. We colored eggs, for God's sake. Mine became controversial when I chose a naturalistic brown.
And my parents still display the crafts my sister and I made in second grade. It's interesting, because even then my artwork displayed a compulsive attention to detail, a rigid attachment to following the instructions, and a very traditional conception of the holidays. My sister, meanwhile, drew an electric eel attacking a baby chick and saying "It's time to stun the baby!" Good that she's the one who went into a helping profession.
I'm adding euthanasia to the list of topics not to discuss with my grandma. Well, to be fair, it was already on that list, but I'm underlining it and surrounding it with about six stars. Her winning debate tactic, for all you students out there, was to dwell at length on the potential timing, manner, and duration of her own death. Of course, she can steer a conversation about America's Cutest Puppies in that direction, but this was simply too short a trip. And it didn't help that she kept saying she wished Terri Schiavo would do something about her hair.
It was beautiful outside today, though. I celebrated in grand American fashion by washing the Corolla. Then we walked the dogs and went to the Wal-Mart. Happy Resurrection, Jesus!
I am 27 years old and my parents still give me an Easter basket. Fortunately, I am no longer required to scavenge about the lawn for plastic eggs or make milk carton Easter bunnies, but I wouldn't be surprised if these things are merely on hiatus and reemerge when I am 35. We colored eggs, for God's sake. Mine became controversial when I chose a naturalistic brown.
And my parents still display the crafts my sister and I made in second grade. It's interesting, because even then my artwork displayed a compulsive attention to detail, a rigid attachment to following the instructions, and a very traditional conception of the holidays. My sister, meanwhile, drew an electric eel attacking a baby chick and saying "It's time to stun the baby!" Good that she's the one who went into a helping profession.
I'm adding euthanasia to the list of topics not to discuss with my grandma. Well, to be fair, it was already on that list, but I'm underlining it and surrounding it with about six stars. Her winning debate tactic, for all you students out there, was to dwell at length on the potential timing, manner, and duration of her own death. Of course, she can steer a conversation about America's Cutest Puppies in that direction, but this was simply too short a trip. And it didn't help that she kept saying she wished Terri Schiavo would do something about her hair.
It was beautiful outside today, though. I celebrated in grand American fashion by washing the Corolla. Then we walked the dogs and went to the Wal-Mart. Happy Resurrection, Jesus!
Friday, March 25, 2005
Resurrection Road Trip Weekend!
So I'm heading home for Easter this weekend. The theory, I guess, is that Christ is only rising from the dead in Quincy, IL (apparently he wants to be near a Farm and Home Supply) and can only do so with my help. Which is fine, although I'm kind of hoping we can get Jerry Orbach back in the bargain, too. And if Christ sees his shadow and we have six more weeks of winter I'm going to be super pissed.
I haven't been home in three months, so this should be pretty interesting. My parents have celebrated two birthdays, been to one folklore conference, and no doubt disseminated hundreds of stupefyingly boring theories on medieval literature since I last saw them. My sister’s become a TA in the interim, which, if the WB is any example, has likely resulted in all sorts of crazy sexcapades that I’d frankly rather not know about. And my grandma’s a bionic woman now, what with her snazzy new pacemaker and all. The dogs will probably have very little to report.
As always, I’m unsure if I’ll have either the ability or the inclination to post while I’m away, but know in your hearts that I’ll be thinking about you. Except for those of you who got here by searching for "Janet Reno nude pics"; that’s really just kind of sick.
So I'm heading home for Easter this weekend. The theory, I guess, is that Christ is only rising from the dead in Quincy, IL (apparently he wants to be near a Farm and Home Supply) and can only do so with my help. Which is fine, although I'm kind of hoping we can get Jerry Orbach back in the bargain, too. And if Christ sees his shadow and we have six more weeks of winter I'm going to be super pissed.
I haven't been home in three months, so this should be pretty interesting. My parents have celebrated two birthdays, been to one folklore conference, and no doubt disseminated hundreds of stupefyingly boring theories on medieval literature since I last saw them. My sister’s become a TA in the interim, which, if the WB is any example, has likely resulted in all sorts of crazy sexcapades that I’d frankly rather not know about. And my grandma’s a bionic woman now, what with her snazzy new pacemaker and all. The dogs will probably have very little to report.
As always, I’m unsure if I’ll have either the ability or the inclination to post while I’m away, but know in your hearts that I’ll be thinking about you. Except for those of you who got here by searching for "Janet Reno nude pics"; that’s really just kind of sick.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Taxicab Confessions
Yesterday I got into an argument with a cab driver over my home address. I really felt that I should prevail on this one, since I lived there, but I think he got the best of me, given that I ended up walking the last several blocks. Apparently when I say "Hudson" it sounds a lot like "Halsted," and when I say "Wait, aren’t you going the wrong direction?" it somehow resembles "Swerve across two lanes of traffic and start shouting incoherently." Of course, I have to admit that my entreaties regarding directions and the need to not mow down elderly people were rudely interrupting my driver’s rather animated (and multilingual!) phone conversation, but things were simply not going well compared to any driver’s ed film I have ever watched.
I have been harassed by cab drivers on more occasions than you can even possibly imagine. I have had several see fit to inquire into the intimate personal details of my life, asking questions that even Larry Flynt would find somewhat intrusive. Others have launched right into providing unsolicited and generally terrible advice, encouraging me to quit my job, break my lease, or exchange sexual favors for hardcore drugs. (Okay, so I made the last one up, but I’m expecting it any day now.) Then there are the entertainers, who try to brighten up my dull gray life by sharing the enthralling stories of their own or, on at least one occasion, by singing. These are the occasions on which I wish the back seat were equipped with an ejector seat or, at the very least, a lethal injection.
But invariably traffic is heavy, some theoretical "short cut" demands attempting, or (this actually happened) some greater maniac smashes into the cab, and my relationship with the driver only deepens. Who says it’s hard to meet people in the city? As long as you don’t mind insanity, you can always get a new friend to drive right up to your front door!
Yesterday I got into an argument with a cab driver over my home address. I really felt that I should prevail on this one, since I lived there, but I think he got the best of me, given that I ended up walking the last several blocks. Apparently when I say "Hudson" it sounds a lot like "Halsted," and when I say "Wait, aren’t you going the wrong direction?" it somehow resembles "Swerve across two lanes of traffic and start shouting incoherently." Of course, I have to admit that my entreaties regarding directions and the need to not mow down elderly people were rudely interrupting my driver’s rather animated (and multilingual!) phone conversation, but things were simply not going well compared to any driver’s ed film I have ever watched.
I have been harassed by cab drivers on more occasions than you can even possibly imagine. I have had several see fit to inquire into the intimate personal details of my life, asking questions that even Larry Flynt would find somewhat intrusive. Others have launched right into providing unsolicited and generally terrible advice, encouraging me to quit my job, break my lease, or exchange sexual favors for hardcore drugs. (Okay, so I made the last one up, but I’m expecting it any day now.) Then there are the entertainers, who try to brighten up my dull gray life by sharing the enthralling stories of their own or, on at least one occasion, by singing. These are the occasions on which I wish the back seat were equipped with an ejector seat or, at the very least, a lethal injection.
But invariably traffic is heavy, some theoretical "short cut" demands attempting, or (this actually happened) some greater maniac smashes into the cab, and my relationship with the driver only deepens. Who says it’s hard to meet people in the city? As long as you don’t mind insanity, you can always get a new friend to drive right up to your front door!
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Madeline Albright
Can I tell you how much I love our neighbors on the first floor? They’re always doing fun things like making iced Valentine’s Day cookies or going country line dancing, they frequently have jell-o shots or delicious taco dip, and they provide excellent advice for dealing with our swarthy and non-English-speaking building maintenance crew. (First tip? Never look them directly in the eyes, or they will think you are trying to steal their souls.) Plus they never get mad at me if I come home drunk and decide that three in the morning is just as good a time to chat as any. I’m pretty sure we developed a fairly comprehensive solution to the Iraqi quagmire during one of those sessions, but unfortunately my notes were destroyed in a freak vomiting incident. I hear the same thing once happened to Madeline Albright.
In other thoughts that randomly occur to me, has anyone seen the new Real World/Road Rules Challenge? I love the challenges because they allow us to see familiar brands of crazy showcased in new and exciting environments. For instance, who can forget the season when Crazy Religious New Orleans Julie collided with Crazy Promiscuous Semester at Sea Veronica, with the result of lots of hilarious trash talk and one attempted murder? There have only been two episodes so far this season, but already Crazy Kidney Problems Chicago Tonya has thrown all of Crazy Persecution Complex Beth’s clothes into the swimming pool. Later, I hear they have a threesome with Madeline Albright.
And while we’re at it, what’s the deal with Friendster lately? Sometimes I don’t get my messages until days after they’re sent, which in the hustle-and-bustle world of online relationship development is a lifetime. How am I supposed to come up with a witty comment about someone’s choice of Us Weekly as a "favorite book" or designation of NAMBLA as an "affiliation" if I don’t get a little research time? I am pretty jonesed about the fact that I have 99 friends now, though. You know who I’m choosing for number 100? Madeline Albright.
Can I tell you how much I love our neighbors on the first floor? They’re always doing fun things like making iced Valentine’s Day cookies or going country line dancing, they frequently have jell-o shots or delicious taco dip, and they provide excellent advice for dealing with our swarthy and non-English-speaking building maintenance crew. (First tip? Never look them directly in the eyes, or they will think you are trying to steal their souls.) Plus they never get mad at me if I come home drunk and decide that three in the morning is just as good a time to chat as any. I’m pretty sure we developed a fairly comprehensive solution to the Iraqi quagmire during one of those sessions, but unfortunately my notes were destroyed in a freak vomiting incident. I hear the same thing once happened to Madeline Albright.
In other thoughts that randomly occur to me, has anyone seen the new Real World/Road Rules Challenge? I love the challenges because they allow us to see familiar brands of crazy showcased in new and exciting environments. For instance, who can forget the season when Crazy Religious New Orleans Julie collided with Crazy Promiscuous Semester at Sea Veronica, with the result of lots of hilarious trash talk and one attempted murder? There have only been two episodes so far this season, but already Crazy Kidney Problems Chicago Tonya has thrown all of Crazy Persecution Complex Beth’s clothes into the swimming pool. Later, I hear they have a threesome with Madeline Albright.
And while we’re at it, what’s the deal with Friendster lately? Sometimes I don’t get my messages until days after they’re sent, which in the hustle-and-bustle world of online relationship development is a lifetime. How am I supposed to come up with a witty comment about someone’s choice of Us Weekly as a "favorite book" or designation of NAMBLA as an "affiliation" if I don’t get a little research time? I am pretty jonesed about the fact that I have 99 friends now, though. You know who I’m choosing for number 100? Madeline Albright.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Things That Are Funny About Work Today
1. The case I'm reading that keeps referring to "internment camps" as "internship camps." I just keep imagining people filing and getting middle managers coffee behind brick walls and barbed wire. Actually, that's more like my real job than an internship.
2. The hold music I had to listen to for about twenty minutes. It was perhaps the most out-of-tune version of the Pachelbel Canon I have ever heard, and I have been to middle school orchestra concerts. As if this weren't enough, they kept inserting the obviously Prozac-induced intonations of some woman who was really enthusiastic about hospice care.
3. The fact that I'm listening to R.Kelly while writing my legal memorandum. Ever since that man became a criminal he hasn't written a bad song.
4. Guest Blogger Kathy reconstructing her shoddily-made cafeteria sandwich, lamenting the uneven slicing of tomatoes that left her with reduced levels of tomato-related enjoyment. This one is both funny and tragic, obviously.
5. The secretary who, a year and a half into my employment here, still thinks my name is Eric. It's way too late to correct her, so I'm just hoping she'll shift over to calling me some more exotic wrong name like Juan Carlos or Helga.
1. The case I'm reading that keeps referring to "internment camps" as "internship camps." I just keep imagining people filing and getting middle managers coffee behind brick walls and barbed wire. Actually, that's more like my real job than an internship.
2. The hold music I had to listen to for about twenty minutes. It was perhaps the most out-of-tune version of the Pachelbel Canon I have ever heard, and I have been to middle school orchestra concerts. As if this weren't enough, they kept inserting the obviously Prozac-induced intonations of some woman who was really enthusiastic about hospice care.
3. The fact that I'm listening to R.Kelly while writing my legal memorandum. Ever since that man became a criminal he hasn't written a bad song.
4. Guest Blogger Kathy reconstructing her shoddily-made cafeteria sandwich, lamenting the uneven slicing of tomatoes that left her with reduced levels of tomato-related enjoyment. This one is both funny and tragic, obviously.
5. The secretary who, a year and a half into my employment here, still thinks my name is Eric. It's way too late to correct her, so I'm just hoping she'll shift over to calling me some more exotic wrong name like Juan Carlos or Helga.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
The Passion of the Jay
Today was Palm Sunday, the day when those of us who are lucky enough to be Catholic get an extra helping of church so that the story of Christ getting his ass kicked can be related in all its glory. This year my church made the unconventional choice of having an Asian woman read all of the Christ lines, which I thought was fun, if somewhat reminiscent of a community college production of Godspell. Of course, it could never top the year that my crazy-eyed college priest decided it would be much "hipper" for all of us "kids" if he sang the entire passion. I still have nightmares about that one, which for some reason feature Rue McClanahan.
But my suffering for the day was certainly not limited to the ecclesiastical kind. I had to go in to work and decided I would drive downtown, which resulted in about twenty minutes of circling my office building and swearing. One of my favorite things about downtown Chicago is the stunning mosaic of parking restrictions, whereby a single block can be filled with fifteen or twenty tiny-lettered signs warning "parking for Kabbalah practitioners only" or "no standing on Sundays during a full moon" or simply "fuck you." I couldn’t help but feel that the psychotic honking his horn in the Volvo behind me didn’t really appreciate my attempts to decipher these regulations. Luckily the middle finger I flipped him itself required very little deciphering.
My work itself was the sort of redundant, mind-numbing paperwork that so artfully combines the soullessness of office life with the carpal-tunnel possibilities of a factory floor. I did get the thrill of having the water cooler all to myself, but that actually managed to wear off before my cup was even full. And somehow the water cooler conversation seemed so much duller when it was just me talking to myself. Go figure.
Anyway, I’m home now and Arrested Development is coming on, so I think I’ll take off the crown of thorns and kick back for a bit. Happy Christ punching!
Today was Palm Sunday, the day when those of us who are lucky enough to be Catholic get an extra helping of church so that the story of Christ getting his ass kicked can be related in all its glory. This year my church made the unconventional choice of having an Asian woman read all of the Christ lines, which I thought was fun, if somewhat reminiscent of a community college production of Godspell. Of course, it could never top the year that my crazy-eyed college priest decided it would be much "hipper" for all of us "kids" if he sang the entire passion. I still have nightmares about that one, which for some reason feature Rue McClanahan.
But my suffering for the day was certainly not limited to the ecclesiastical kind. I had to go in to work and decided I would drive downtown, which resulted in about twenty minutes of circling my office building and swearing. One of my favorite things about downtown Chicago is the stunning mosaic of parking restrictions, whereby a single block can be filled with fifteen or twenty tiny-lettered signs warning "parking for Kabbalah practitioners only" or "no standing on Sundays during a full moon" or simply "fuck you." I couldn’t help but feel that the psychotic honking his horn in the Volvo behind me didn’t really appreciate my attempts to decipher these regulations. Luckily the middle finger I flipped him itself required very little deciphering.
My work itself was the sort of redundant, mind-numbing paperwork that so artfully combines the soullessness of office life with the carpal-tunnel possibilities of a factory floor. I did get the thrill of having the water cooler all to myself, but that actually managed to wear off before my cup was even full. And somehow the water cooler conversation seemed so much duller when it was just me talking to myself. Go figure.
Anyway, I’m home now and Arrested Development is coming on, so I think I’ll take off the crown of thorns and kick back for a bit. Happy Christ punching!
Friday, March 18, 2005
Remainders
-- The OC. Ryan and Alex are fighting over Marissa? Is it just me, or does everyone who watches the show pretty much wish Marissa would overdose and die already? Although we would miss her uniquely-inflected version of the English language.
-- Pain Reliever. Seriously, isn't it awesome? A minute ago I felt like Kirstie Alley was sitting on my head, but now I'm as light and unencumbered as Shelley Long's post-Troop-Beverly-Hills career.
-- Mario from American Idol. Given the secrecy surrounding the reasons for his departure, I have to assume he's involved in some covert mission in Afghanistan. Or just really, really gay.
-- People Walking Into Places and Shooting People. It kind of makes me miss the old days, when all I had to worry about was someone flying a plane into my office building or mailing me some anthrax. If only the GAP sold Kevlar vests.
-- Spawn of Kutcher. Star magazine is reporting that Demi Moore's knocked up, so it must be true. I can't decide which is the more appropriate baby gift: a tiny trucker hat or massive amounts of reconstructive surgery.
-- The OC. Ryan and Alex are fighting over Marissa? Is it just me, or does everyone who watches the show pretty much wish Marissa would overdose and die already? Although we would miss her uniquely-inflected version of the English language.
-- Pain Reliever. Seriously, isn't it awesome? A minute ago I felt like Kirstie Alley was sitting on my head, but now I'm as light and unencumbered as Shelley Long's post-Troop-Beverly-Hills career.
-- Mario from American Idol. Given the secrecy surrounding the reasons for his departure, I have to assume he's involved in some covert mission in Afghanistan. Or just really, really gay.
-- People Walking Into Places and Shooting People. It kind of makes me miss the old days, when all I had to worry about was someone flying a plane into my office building or mailing me some anthrax. If only the GAP sold Kevlar vests.
-- Spawn of Kutcher. Star magazine is reporting that Demi Moore's knocked up, so it must be true. I can't decide which is the more appropriate baby gift: a tiny trucker hat or massive amounts of reconstructive surgery.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
March Sadness
Well, the tournament has barely begun and I'm already losing money. Damned Alabama. Actually, they're not so hot as a state, either. Maybe they lost because so many of their players had rickets. Seriously, I don't even know why I enter these pools -- I have less insight into the defensive prowess of Old Dominion than you might think. If only I could get people to gamble on which celebrities are going to end up in rehab first, I could be a millionaire.
In other depression-related news, it's March 17, and it was snowing this morning. I feel like I live in the tundra, at least as far as my 7th grade geography knowledge allows me to remember what a tundra is. The other day my space heater was running so high that I blew out all the power on my side of the office. I blamed the cleaning lady, of course.
And today is St. Patrick's Day. I already used all of my St. Pat's material on Monday, though, when I was really out of ideas. So just content yourselves with drinking something green. I've got some cranberry juice my roommate left in our fridge for the past six months if that's of any service to you.
Well, the tournament has barely begun and I'm already losing money. Damned Alabama. Actually, they're not so hot as a state, either. Maybe they lost because so many of their players had rickets. Seriously, I don't even know why I enter these pools -- I have less insight into the defensive prowess of Old Dominion than you might think. If only I could get people to gamble on which celebrities are going to end up in rehab first, I could be a millionaire.
In other depression-related news, it's March 17, and it was snowing this morning. I feel like I live in the tundra, at least as far as my 7th grade geography knowledge allows me to remember what a tundra is. The other day my space heater was running so high that I blew out all the power on my side of the office. I blamed the cleaning lady, of course.
And today is St. Patrick's Day. I already used all of my St. Pat's material on Monday, though, when I was really out of ideas. So just content yourselves with drinking something green. I've got some cranberry juice my roommate left in our fridge for the past six months if that's of any service to you.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Thinking Inside the Box
Last night my friend invited me to his parents’ box at the Bulls game. This was awesome for many reasons. First of all, I got to eat like a million hot dogs at no expense to myself whatsoever. And the good kind of hot dog that actually tastes like meat instead of plastic and entrails, and is therefore nearly certain to not cause you some sort of crippling intestinal disorder. Secondly, they have an amazing dessert cart where they combine foods that are delicious but terrible for you with impunity – it’s just a few steps removed from chocolate-covered bacon and caramel cheese fries. And oh yeah, there was the game, which was Harlem-Globetrotters-type awesome in the first half and donkey-basketball-type embarrassing in the second. If you’re going to be a sports fan in Chicago, it really helps to be bipolar.
A few other points merit further discussion.
First, after witnessing a few preteens in tight tank tops and strategically-ripped jeans, my friend somehow transformed into my 93-year-old grandmother and began lamenting the "trashy" way kids dress these days. Although I have to agree that choosing to bare one’s midriff in March in Chicago is slightly suspect (unless one really, really wants to get frostbite), I’m not quite ready to get out the stake and start burning these harlots yet. But give me time.
Secondly, the entertainment at these games is awesome! Little kids break dancing, people in inflatable costumes ineffectually trying to race various places, women in skin-tight outfits basically simulating sex while maintaining inverted pyramid formations – why there’s not a Nobel Prize for halftime shows, I’ll never know. I do wonder if the Adorabulls have dental benefits, though.
And finally, people are damned mean to service professionals. Is it just me, or is it not appropriate to berate someone for twenty minutes just because you don’t think you’ve got enough ice? Or to make a person run all the way around the arena just to see if they can find you a different kind of cheesecake?
There are a lot of things going on in this beautiful mind of mine.
Last night my friend invited me to his parents’ box at the Bulls game. This was awesome for many reasons. First of all, I got to eat like a million hot dogs at no expense to myself whatsoever. And the good kind of hot dog that actually tastes like meat instead of plastic and entrails, and is therefore nearly certain to not cause you some sort of crippling intestinal disorder. Secondly, they have an amazing dessert cart where they combine foods that are delicious but terrible for you with impunity – it’s just a few steps removed from chocolate-covered bacon and caramel cheese fries. And oh yeah, there was the game, which was Harlem-Globetrotters-type awesome in the first half and donkey-basketball-type embarrassing in the second. If you’re going to be a sports fan in Chicago, it really helps to be bipolar.
A few other points merit further discussion.
First, after witnessing a few preteens in tight tank tops and strategically-ripped jeans, my friend somehow transformed into my 93-year-old grandmother and began lamenting the "trashy" way kids dress these days. Although I have to agree that choosing to bare one’s midriff in March in Chicago is slightly suspect (unless one really, really wants to get frostbite), I’m not quite ready to get out the stake and start burning these harlots yet. But give me time.
Secondly, the entertainment at these games is awesome! Little kids break dancing, people in inflatable costumes ineffectually trying to race various places, women in skin-tight outfits basically simulating sex while maintaining inverted pyramid formations – why there’s not a Nobel Prize for halftime shows, I’ll never know. I do wonder if the Adorabulls have dental benefits, though.
And finally, people are damned mean to service professionals. Is it just me, or is it not appropriate to berate someone for twenty minutes just because you don’t think you’ve got enough ice? Or to make a person run all the way around the arena just to see if they can find you a different kind of cheesecake?
There are a lot of things going on in this beautiful mind of mine.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Department of Stereotypes
St. Patrick’s Day is this Thursday. The river has been dyed green (from its normal rust color), the parades have been held (I especially enjoyed the "Eight Magical Years of Bill O’Reilly" float), and the leprechauns have been imprisoned and tortured in pursuit of their delicious lucky charms. But many Irish-Americans have become uncomfortable with the stereotype of their people as drunken, fumbling, potato-eating morons who couldn’t find a coherent English sentence with two hands, a flashlight, and a copy of Dubliners. And rightly so. Consider, if you will, these overlooked or misunderstood aspects of Irish culture:
– Great potato famine of the 1840s was closely followed by sour cream and chives famine and bacony bacos famine of the 1850s.
– St. Patrick didn’t exactly drive the snakes out of Ireland, they merely evolved into the present-day members of the Irish Parliament.
– James Joyce used to eat babies for lunch every second Tuesday.
– Irish jigs served as an inspiration for the American jitterbug and, later, the funky chicken.
– Ireland isn’t actually that green. The rug don’t match the curtains, if you know what I mean.
– The town of Cork boasts a number of famous former citizens, including Bill Cosby, that guy who won all the money on Jeopardy, and Alf.
– Irish people don’t really drink that much, they just have really low tolerances and they accidentally got blitzed on wine coolers at their sorority formals.
– All those extra letters in Irish place names aren’t there just to fuck with the rest of us. Actually, they’re a secret code that communicates allegiance to Ireland’s demonic lord, Zarax the Destroyer.
– U2 is actually from France.
Isn’t learning just the best?
St. Patrick’s Day is this Thursday. The river has been dyed green (from its normal rust color), the parades have been held (I especially enjoyed the "Eight Magical Years of Bill O’Reilly" float), and the leprechauns have been imprisoned and tortured in pursuit of their delicious lucky charms. But many Irish-Americans have become uncomfortable with the stereotype of their people as drunken, fumbling, potato-eating morons who couldn’t find a coherent English sentence with two hands, a flashlight, and a copy of Dubliners. And rightly so. Consider, if you will, these overlooked or misunderstood aspects of Irish culture:
– Great potato famine of the 1840s was closely followed by sour cream and chives famine and bacony bacos famine of the 1850s.
– St. Patrick didn’t exactly drive the snakes out of Ireland, they merely evolved into the present-day members of the Irish Parliament.
– James Joyce used to eat babies for lunch every second Tuesday.
– Irish jigs served as an inspiration for the American jitterbug and, later, the funky chicken.
– Ireland isn’t actually that green. The rug don’t match the curtains, if you know what I mean.
– The town of Cork boasts a number of famous former citizens, including Bill Cosby, that guy who won all the money on Jeopardy, and Alf.
– Irish people don’t really drink that much, they just have really low tolerances and they accidentally got blitzed on wine coolers at their sorority formals.
– All those extra letters in Irish place names aren’t there just to fuck with the rest of us. Actually, they’re a secret code that communicates allegiance to Ireland’s demonic lord, Zarax the Destroyer.
– U2 is actually from France.
Isn’t learning just the best?
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Postcards from My Descent into Madness
I have a headache and all of my pain reliever has mysteriously disappeared. Which leaves me with the options of either lying here crankily watching college basketball and just hoping it will go away (the headache, not the basketball . . . although Duke is welcome to go away any time it feels like it) or walking the six blocks down to the Walgreens to get more. As I'm not a big fan of A) cold or B) effort, I feel like I'm going to go with the whole just lying here plan.
And cable TV does have so much to offer me today. My TiVo tells me that Channel 8 is showing Annie Hall, although when I flip to it it turns out to be the somewhat lesser classic First Kid starring Sinbad and that kid from Home Improvement. Or, because I apparently lost a bet with God, Making the Band 3 is airing on MTV right now. Of course, I also have the option of watching Law & Order approximately 100 times. Who says that Hollywood is out of ideas?
They should really just open a Walgreens in my apartment. It's the first rule of business: location, location, location. I swear I would do most of my shopping there. I might even buy one of their fun Chicago souvenirs -- I could always use another hot pink visor or Sears Tower shot glass.
Didn't the Native Americans have some sort of natural pain reliever made out of bark or something? I think there's some moldy bread in my kitchen. Maybe I should try that.
I have a headache and all of my pain reliever has mysteriously disappeared. Which leaves me with the options of either lying here crankily watching college basketball and just hoping it will go away (the headache, not the basketball . . . although Duke is welcome to go away any time it feels like it) or walking the six blocks down to the Walgreens to get more. As I'm not a big fan of A) cold or B) effort, I feel like I'm going to go with the whole just lying here plan.
And cable TV does have so much to offer me today. My TiVo tells me that Channel 8 is showing Annie Hall, although when I flip to it it turns out to be the somewhat lesser classic First Kid starring Sinbad and that kid from Home Improvement. Or, because I apparently lost a bet with God, Making the Band 3 is airing on MTV right now. Of course, I also have the option of watching Law & Order approximately 100 times. Who says that Hollywood is out of ideas?
They should really just open a Walgreens in my apartment. It's the first rule of business: location, location, location. I swear I would do most of my shopping there. I might even buy one of their fun Chicago souvenirs -- I could always use another hot pink visor or Sears Tower shot glass.
Didn't the Native Americans have some sort of natural pain reliever made out of bark or something? I think there's some moldy bread in my kitchen. Maybe I should try that.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
The Glitz, The Glamour
Here is a stunning paparrazzi grab of me with my friend Halley at her Oscar party. Now I'm going to go all Highlights Magazine for Children on your ass and ask you to pick out the several things that are wrong with this picture.
Are you ready? Sometimes it helps if you hold it upside down.
Okay, first we need to note the lovely soft-focus glaze that permeates the image. It looks like Halley and I are conducting a Barbara Walters special on that couch. Any moment now she's going to ask me about the tragic death of my first cousin Gladys. Then we'll have a cleansing cry.
Also, I am wearing my glasses! This is the first appearance of my glasses on the blog. Whenever you see them, you will know that I am A) very, very tired, B) hungover, or C) trying to look like your Sophomore English professor. Any combination of the three is also possible.
Third, this is yet another picture in which I am hugging someone. A concerned reader wrote in this week to note that in practically every picture I post here I seem to be molesting some poor creature far too attractive to even be seen with me. What can I say? I am a friendly person. And all of the lawsuits were settled out of court.
And if you look very, very closely at this picture, you will see that I am insane in it. A total of about six hours' sleep went into the weekend this picture was taken. Immediately after taking this, I began speaking in tongues and then ate my hat. Wool is delicious.
Don't you feel like you know me so much better now that you see photos of me every now and then? I didn't say that was a good thing.
Here is a stunning paparrazzi grab of me with my friend Halley at her Oscar party. Now I'm going to go all Highlights Magazine for Children on your ass and ask you to pick out the several things that are wrong with this picture.
Are you ready? Sometimes it helps if you hold it upside down.
Okay, first we need to note the lovely soft-focus glaze that permeates the image. It looks like Halley and I are conducting a Barbara Walters special on that couch. Any moment now she's going to ask me about the tragic death of my first cousin Gladys. Then we'll have a cleansing cry.
Also, I am wearing my glasses! This is the first appearance of my glasses on the blog. Whenever you see them, you will know that I am A) very, very tired, B) hungover, or C) trying to look like your Sophomore English professor. Any combination of the three is also possible.
Third, this is yet another picture in which I am hugging someone. A concerned reader wrote in this week to note that in practically every picture I post here I seem to be molesting some poor creature far too attractive to even be seen with me. What can I say? I am a friendly person. And all of the lawsuits were settled out of court.
And if you look very, very closely at this picture, you will see that I am insane in it. A total of about six hours' sleep went into the weekend this picture was taken. Immediately after taking this, I began speaking in tongues and then ate my hat. Wool is delicious.
Don't you feel like you know me so much better now that you see photos of me every now and then? I didn't say that was a good thing.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Bad
Can we talk for a minute about the Michael Jackson trial?
So okay, granted, Michael’s got back problems. He’s got face problems, he’s got money problems, he’s got dressing-in-sequined-military-garb problems. I can see how these might cause him to run a little behind schedule. But seriously, do they really prevent him from putting on pants? That takes, what, thirty seconds? Maybe forty if they’re button fly? Which, by the way, they should never ever be.
And all this waving to "fans" outside the courthouse is some seriously Norma Desmond shit. This isn’t the Grammys with Brooke Shields. It isn’t even that "tribute concert" he put on for himself a few years ago. It is, in fact, a criminal trial, and not of the adorable Winona-Ryder-wanted-some-tank-tops type. Say what you want about OJ Simpson, he never moonwalked on the roof of a car before heading in to grimace his way through another day of evidence. And he made us all think about Ford Broncos again.
I feel bad for the guy, I really do. Just like I feel bad for the homeless guy who screams song lyrics at people down by the Damen stop on the Blue Line. All crazy people deserve our pity and the best medications we can find them. But Michael needs to understand that it is never again going to be 1983 and that friendships with Liz Taylor and Bubbles the Chimp are no longer the height of pop culture currency. I mean, we all really liked "Thriller," okay? Can’t we just be allowed to retain our pleasant memories of that?
Maybe I should just get rid of my television.
Can we talk for a minute about the Michael Jackson trial?
So okay, granted, Michael’s got back problems. He’s got face problems, he’s got money problems, he’s got dressing-in-sequined-military-garb problems. I can see how these might cause him to run a little behind schedule. But seriously, do they really prevent him from putting on pants? That takes, what, thirty seconds? Maybe forty if they’re button fly? Which, by the way, they should never ever be.
And all this waving to "fans" outside the courthouse is some seriously Norma Desmond shit. This isn’t the Grammys with Brooke Shields. It isn’t even that "tribute concert" he put on for himself a few years ago. It is, in fact, a criminal trial, and not of the adorable Winona-Ryder-wanted-some-tank-tops type. Say what you want about OJ Simpson, he never moonwalked on the roof of a car before heading in to grimace his way through another day of evidence. And he made us all think about Ford Broncos again.
I feel bad for the guy, I really do. Just like I feel bad for the homeless guy who screams song lyrics at people down by the Damen stop on the Blue Line. All crazy people deserve our pity and the best medications we can find them. But Michael needs to understand that it is never again going to be 1983 and that friendships with Liz Taylor and Bubbles the Chimp are no longer the height of pop culture currency. I mean, we all really liked "Thriller," okay? Can’t we just be allowed to retain our pleasant memories of that?
Maybe I should just get rid of my television.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Civil Disorders
I finally saw Hotel Rwanda last night. I hadn't been to a movie in two months, and I was kind of out of practice -- I didn't have all the movie trivia memorized, I put my feet up on the seat in front of me without the slightest feeling of guilt, and I even allowed my friend to buy a $3.50 soda. But anyway, it was a good movie, although I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who's already on suicide watch. Turns out genocide isn't the laugh a minute you might think it would be. And afterwards I dreamed that one of my friends was fleeing the genocide and people were trying to kill me because of him. Because, yes, Rwanda's national tragedy is all about me.
On another note, I've decided to impose martial law at my office building. This will help me to take care of all the repeat offenders who take the elevator for only one floor or try to explain simple tasks like making copies or sending e-mail. I bet people will think twice about their annoying habits when they know they face potential smacking for them. Feel like chewing ice for hours on end? Thwack. Want to make marathon personal phone calls at top volume from your highly exposed cubicle? Thwack. Think you should pepper every conversation with references to mid-90s Saturday Night Live bits that weren't funny the first time around? Thwack thwack thwack. If we wanted Rob Schneider to work here, we could probably afford to hire him.
I finally saw Hotel Rwanda last night. I hadn't been to a movie in two months, and I was kind of out of practice -- I didn't have all the movie trivia memorized, I put my feet up on the seat in front of me without the slightest feeling of guilt, and I even allowed my friend to buy a $3.50 soda. But anyway, it was a good movie, although I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who's already on suicide watch. Turns out genocide isn't the laugh a minute you might think it would be. And afterwards I dreamed that one of my friends was fleeing the genocide and people were trying to kill me because of him. Because, yes, Rwanda's national tragedy is all about me.
On another note, I've decided to impose martial law at my office building. This will help me to take care of all the repeat offenders who take the elevator for only one floor or try to explain simple tasks like making copies or sending e-mail. I bet people will think twice about their annoying habits when they know they face potential smacking for them. Feel like chewing ice for hours on end? Thwack. Want to make marathon personal phone calls at top volume from your highly exposed cubicle? Thwack. Think you should pepper every conversation with references to mid-90s Saturday Night Live bits that weren't funny the first time around? Thwack thwack thwack. If we wanted Rob Schneider to work here, we could probably afford to hire him.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Fun Answers to Bad Small Talk Questions
What do you do?
– Why do I have to do anything? You’ve just met me and already you’re nagging.
– Does "world’s best lover" count as a profession?
– Well, right now, nothing. But I’m working on a demo.
– I play Sharon on The Young and the Restless.
– I’m wearing a lot of different hats right now. Maybe that’s why I don’t have a job, because I spend so much time wearing hats. Berets are my favorites.
How about this weather, huh?
– Yeah, it’s definitely weather, isn’t it? Who could have predicted that?
– Sometimes people die from weather. Not as many as from shotgun blasts to the head, but I’m sure you don’t have any reason to worry about that.
– Hurricanes are so romantic. I met my first wife in one. Well, it turned out she was just a large branch, but man it was nice while it lasted.
– What is that supposed to mean? You racist.
– It’s not the weather I’m worried about, it’s the tiny radios implanted in my brain.
How’s your family?
– Dead. But no one’s going to know about that for a few hours yet, so let’s just act natural. That’s right, everyone’s having a great time, talking and laughing about their families.
– Well, my parents have never loved me, for one thing. And my cousin Greg? A total jackass.
– TV is my family now. I’ve taken Katie Couric as my lovely wife, and Ellen shall be my faithful concubine.
– Great! We could kick your retarded family’s asses any day.
– Oh, I just found out I’m adopted. So my whole family has always been just one big lie. Thanks for bringing it up, though.
What do you do?
– Why do I have to do anything? You’ve just met me and already you’re nagging.
– Does "world’s best lover" count as a profession?
– Well, right now, nothing. But I’m working on a demo.
– I play Sharon on The Young and the Restless.
– I’m wearing a lot of different hats right now. Maybe that’s why I don’t have a job, because I spend so much time wearing hats. Berets are my favorites.
How about this weather, huh?
– Yeah, it’s definitely weather, isn’t it? Who could have predicted that?
– Sometimes people die from weather. Not as many as from shotgun blasts to the head, but I’m sure you don’t have any reason to worry about that.
– Hurricanes are so romantic. I met my first wife in one. Well, it turned out she was just a large branch, but man it was nice while it lasted.
– What is that supposed to mean? You racist.
– It’s not the weather I’m worried about, it’s the tiny radios implanted in my brain.
How’s your family?
– Dead. But no one’s going to know about that for a few hours yet, so let’s just act natural. That’s right, everyone’s having a great time, talking and laughing about their families.
– Well, my parents have never loved me, for one thing. And my cousin Greg? A total jackass.
– TV is my family now. I’ve taken Katie Couric as my lovely wife, and Ellen shall be my faithful concubine.
– Great! We could kick your retarded family’s asses any day.
– Oh, I just found out I’m adopted. So my whole family has always been just one big lie. Thanks for bringing it up, though.
Monday, March 07, 2005
The Life Aquatic
I went to the aquarium yesterday. Although fish lack the fuzzy lovability of some of your finer zoo-dwelling mammals (no one will ever replace the meerkats in my heart), they can possess a certain degree of coolness. I mean, slimy-looking things with excessive eyes and gill slits are just kind of awesome, even if they do sometimes make you jump a little to make sure they’re not crawling on you. And I like creatures that are colors that creatures are typically not, such as those neon-rocking fish that you would think were invented wholesale for some crassly-marketed animated feature, but are actually real and apparently coping with the curse of ADHD each day. I do think it’s amusing that they have a whole section of the aquarium devoted to Illinois lakes and rivers, since most people are probably not too anxious to see animals their pets might drag home in headless form on any given day, but I guess it probably beats an exhibit on the fish of New Jersey, i.e. tires.
Anyway, the best part of the aquarium was their awesome dolphin show. Dolphins are very smart and sometimes save children who have fallen down wells or done poorly on their SATs. I had a dolphin do my taxes just last year. Here, they chose to display the beauty and majesty of the dolphin through the use of grating techno and an annoying host in bad khakis who pushed conservation the way my grandmother pushes an extra slice of nasty-ass pie. They also incorporated the most irritating recurring character in the history of time (yes, more irritating than Skippy on Family Ties) in the persona of "Ozzy," a lovable stoner who learns that one person can make a difference through a series of hilarious dolphin-related misunderstandings, none of which unfortunately result in his accidental drowning. Oh, and there were fat people in wetsuits. Enough said.
Another thing you should know about the aquarium is that they don’t have killer whales there, just little white ones that are disappointingly unwhalelike. So if you want to see Shamu or seek vengeance on the great white who took your leg, it’s not for you. But you should maybe take that as a sign that it’s time to reprioritize in your life, anyway.
I went to the aquarium yesterday. Although fish lack the fuzzy lovability of some of your finer zoo-dwelling mammals (no one will ever replace the meerkats in my heart), they can possess a certain degree of coolness. I mean, slimy-looking things with excessive eyes and gill slits are just kind of awesome, even if they do sometimes make you jump a little to make sure they’re not crawling on you. And I like creatures that are colors that creatures are typically not, such as those neon-rocking fish that you would think were invented wholesale for some crassly-marketed animated feature, but are actually real and apparently coping with the curse of ADHD each day. I do think it’s amusing that they have a whole section of the aquarium devoted to Illinois lakes and rivers, since most people are probably not too anxious to see animals their pets might drag home in headless form on any given day, but I guess it probably beats an exhibit on the fish of New Jersey, i.e. tires.
Anyway, the best part of the aquarium was their awesome dolphin show. Dolphins are very smart and sometimes save children who have fallen down wells or done poorly on their SATs. I had a dolphin do my taxes just last year. Here, they chose to display the beauty and majesty of the dolphin through the use of grating techno and an annoying host in bad khakis who pushed conservation the way my grandmother pushes an extra slice of nasty-ass pie. They also incorporated the most irritating recurring character in the history of time (yes, more irritating than Skippy on Family Ties) in the persona of "Ozzy," a lovable stoner who learns that one person can make a difference through a series of hilarious dolphin-related misunderstandings, none of which unfortunately result in his accidental drowning. Oh, and there were fat people in wetsuits. Enough said.
Another thing you should know about the aquarium is that they don’t have killer whales there, just little white ones that are disappointingly unwhalelike. So if you want to see Shamu or seek vengeance on the great white who took your leg, it’s not for you. But you should maybe take that as a sign that it’s time to reprioritize in your life, anyway.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Excavating the Ruins of Pompeii
I love my roommate, I really do. He always forwards me information about marketing surveys I could participate in for cash, he understands the cultural importance of movies like Sister Act and Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, and he bought us TiVo and a small Bolivian woman to clean up our messes. Plus, he's gone a lot, so I get plenty of Jay time, which is so important.
But he has a habit of leaving things half-done around the house, as though interrupted mid task by a masked home invader or the eruption of a long dormant volcano. I come home and find half a sandwich and an open jar of peanut butter sitting on the counter, or the remains of someone attempting to change a light bulb. Once I came home at three in the morning to find no one home but all the lights on and the TV in the living room blaring a copy of Amistad. This weekend I already have two half-empty pizza boxes decorating the coffee table, a set of clothes originally destined for goodwill adorning the living room floor, and a gallon of milk that's been left out for thirty-six hours on the kitchen counter. All I can say is thank god the Bolivian is coming tomorrow.
Of course, during my relatively short tenure on this earth, I have already lived with a fat nudist, a rageaholic who broke his hand punching a brick wall, and a death metal fan who suffered from both multiple personality disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder. So I'm feeling pretty good about life right now.
I love my roommate, I really do. He always forwards me information about marketing surveys I could participate in for cash, he understands the cultural importance of movies like Sister Act and Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, and he bought us TiVo and a small Bolivian woman to clean up our messes. Plus, he's gone a lot, so I get plenty of Jay time, which is so important.
But he has a habit of leaving things half-done around the house, as though interrupted mid task by a masked home invader or the eruption of a long dormant volcano. I come home and find half a sandwich and an open jar of peanut butter sitting on the counter, or the remains of someone attempting to change a light bulb. Once I came home at three in the morning to find no one home but all the lights on and the TV in the living room blaring a copy of Amistad. This weekend I already have two half-empty pizza boxes decorating the coffee table, a set of clothes originally destined for goodwill adorning the living room floor, and a gallon of milk that's been left out for thirty-six hours on the kitchen counter. All I can say is thank god the Bolivian is coming tomorrow.
Of course, during my relatively short tenure on this earth, I have already lived with a fat nudist, a rageaholic who broke his hand punching a brick wall, and a death metal fan who suffered from both multiple personality disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder. So I'm feeling pretty good about life right now.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Coming Soon to Theaters Near You
We're going to have to talk about this picture for a minute.
Honestly, I'm pretty pleased about how I look in the 80's-style women's sunglasses I lifted from my friend's house. Actually, I think the picture communicates my feelings about the glasses quite well. Thumbs up. That pretty much says it all, doesn't it?
It's not every day that you see me with an open-mouthed smile, either. Maybe someone was dangling a bag of Funyons in front of me while this shot was being taken. It may surprise you to hear this, but I don't really recall this picture happening. Ahhh, missing time. Most people have to be abducted by aliens to achieve it.
But my favorite thing about this picture is my friend Celeste's clear delight with modeling her "Hitch" hat. This picture was taken several weeks before Hitch debuted and Will Smith stole America's collective heart, so she's way ahead of the curve. I don't know how a person obtains an advance Hitch hat, and I would never claim to be able to pull off the jauntily askew look that Celeste truly puts across, but I love it. Almost as much as I love a hot new romantic comedy starring Eva Mendes and Kevin James. My life has been richly blessed.
We're going to have to talk about this picture for a minute.
Honestly, I'm pretty pleased about how I look in the 80's-style women's sunglasses I lifted from my friend's house. Actually, I think the picture communicates my feelings about the glasses quite well. Thumbs up. That pretty much says it all, doesn't it?
It's not every day that you see me with an open-mouthed smile, either. Maybe someone was dangling a bag of Funyons in front of me while this shot was being taken. It may surprise you to hear this, but I don't really recall this picture happening. Ahhh, missing time. Most people have to be abducted by aliens to achieve it.
But my favorite thing about this picture is my friend Celeste's clear delight with modeling her "Hitch" hat. This picture was taken several weeks before Hitch debuted and Will Smith stole America's collective heart, so she's way ahead of the curve. I don't know how a person obtains an advance Hitch hat, and I would never claim to be able to pull off the jauntily askew look that Celeste truly puts across, but I love it. Almost as much as I love a hot new romantic comedy starring Eva Mendes and Kevin James. My life has been richly blessed.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Storytelling
Have you ever been in the middle of describing something that you did at work to someone and suddenly realized that they are imagining something heavy falling on you so as to end the story? I think that maybe the vast amounts of writing and abstract reasoning I do at my job don’t translate so well into an action-packed narrative. I might have to bring Jerry Bruckheimer in to consult – maybe we can blow something up in the middle of my next employment discrimination suit.
I just noticed there’s a man who works in my office building whose name is Chris O’Donnell. Do you think it’s maybe the same one? We haven’t heard much from him since Batman & Robin.
My parents are on Spring Break from the college they work at starting today. For them, this means that for the next week they’ll be spending their days in the library and at their computers for pleasure rather than for work. I like to imagine them heading down to Cancun to do tequila shooters, though.
Tonight I am going to a wine tasting benefit for some kind of Catholic charity. Not one of the ones that wants to get all up in your lady business, though, don’t worry. I think it’s for sick kids. And if my getting wasted cheap leads to even one child feeling even slightly better, well, I’m willing to make the effort. I just hope they don’t serve that cheap-ass communion wine.
Have you ever been in the middle of describing something that you did at work to someone and suddenly realized that they are imagining something heavy falling on you so as to end the story? I think that maybe the vast amounts of writing and abstract reasoning I do at my job don’t translate so well into an action-packed narrative. I might have to bring Jerry Bruckheimer in to consult – maybe we can blow something up in the middle of my next employment discrimination suit.
I just noticed there’s a man who works in my office building whose name is Chris O’Donnell. Do you think it’s maybe the same one? We haven’t heard much from him since Batman & Robin.
My parents are on Spring Break from the college they work at starting today. For them, this means that for the next week they’ll be spending their days in the library and at their computers for pleasure rather than for work. I like to imagine them heading down to Cancun to do tequila shooters, though.
Tonight I am going to a wine tasting benefit for some kind of Catholic charity. Not one of the ones that wants to get all up in your lady business, though, don’t worry. I think it’s for sick kids. And if my getting wasted cheap leads to even one child feeling even slightly better, well, I’m willing to make the effort. I just hope they don’t serve that cheap-ass communion wine.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
The Height of Productivity
Earlier today I fell asleep on top of my keyboard. I woke up to loud beeping from my understandably upset computer, and found that I had typed "hhhhhhh" all over the page with my nose. Frankly, it was one of my more coherent efforts as of late.
A Jolt cola would be pretty nice right about now, although I'm pretty sure that stuff got banned by the FDA at some point during my childhood. Something about sudden heart failure, I don't know. I used to go on Jolt benders all the time in junior high, undoubtedly while jamming to Hammer and playing The American Gladiators Game on my SEGA. Then I got into serious caffeine abuse, popping those Vivarin tabs like pez, though sadly without the Miss-Piggy-shaped dispenser. (It's always been my dream to start a "giants of literature" line of pez dispensers -- imagine snapping Emily Bronte's head back to get your orange-flavored sugar brick! Delicious!) In college, I decided to quit caffeine and ended up sleeping through an entire weekend. I seriously laid down for a nap on Friday night and woke up Sunday. Apparently, my roommate was too busy walking around naked and secretly hating me to notice. God, I miss that kid.
Anyway, today is not a banner day for me. I'm thinking about curling up under my desk for a nap Costanza-style.
Earlier today I fell asleep on top of my keyboard. I woke up to loud beeping from my understandably upset computer, and found that I had typed "hhhhhhh" all over the page with my nose. Frankly, it was one of my more coherent efforts as of late.
A Jolt cola would be pretty nice right about now, although I'm pretty sure that stuff got banned by the FDA at some point during my childhood. Something about sudden heart failure, I don't know. I used to go on Jolt benders all the time in junior high, undoubtedly while jamming to Hammer and playing The American Gladiators Game on my SEGA. Then I got into serious caffeine abuse, popping those Vivarin tabs like pez, though sadly without the Miss-Piggy-shaped dispenser. (It's always been my dream to start a "giants of literature" line of pez dispensers -- imagine snapping Emily Bronte's head back to get your orange-flavored sugar brick! Delicious!) In college, I decided to quit caffeine and ended up sleeping through an entire weekend. I seriously laid down for a nap on Friday night and woke up Sunday. Apparently, my roommate was too busy walking around naked and secretly hating me to notice. God, I miss that kid.
Anyway, today is not a banner day for me. I'm thinking about curling up under my desk for a nap Costanza-style.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
The Best-Looking Suit Anyone Has Ever Purchased
There are a lot of things you can do with $10. You can get a value meal at Arby's, if you don't value your health. You can get a couple of beers, presuming you don't have an especial fondness for the Japanese ones. You can buy a copy of Dirty Dancing (Jerry Orbach, rest in peace).
Or if you're me, and you're amazingly intelligent and fashionable, you can buy a $10 suit.
This is me and my friend Jodi, posing prom-style for a hott shott before we head out to celebrate the confederacy. I wanted to get her a wrist corsage, but they're difficult to come by on short notice. Other than the fact that the sleeves are slightly short, I really don't think you can tell that this suit was purchased for roughly the cost of a 24-pack of Fresca.
Of course, you can't smell the suit on the Internet, so you miss out on that delightful Goodwill Store aroma of mothballs and old person. Sorry. The technology just isn't there yet.
You can sleep in the suit, too, and it pretty much looks the same in the morning. Unlike the rest of us. Whatever that means.
The suit is hanging in my closet right now. Along with my powder blue leisure suit and houndstooth bell bottoms. It probably says something about me that half of my closet is taken up by items more suitable for a fourth grade play than a day at the office, but I've decided not to think about that too much.
Damn, that's a fine looking suit.
There are a lot of things you can do with $10. You can get a value meal at Arby's, if you don't value your health. You can get a couple of beers, presuming you don't have an especial fondness for the Japanese ones. You can buy a copy of Dirty Dancing (Jerry Orbach, rest in peace).
Or if you're me, and you're amazingly intelligent and fashionable, you can buy a $10 suit.
This is me and my friend Jodi, posing prom-style for a hott shott before we head out to celebrate the confederacy. I wanted to get her a wrist corsage, but they're difficult to come by on short notice. Other than the fact that the sleeves are slightly short, I really don't think you can tell that this suit was purchased for roughly the cost of a 24-pack of Fresca.
Of course, you can't smell the suit on the Internet, so you miss out on that delightful Goodwill Store aroma of mothballs and old person. Sorry. The technology just isn't there yet.
You can sleep in the suit, too, and it pretty much looks the same in the morning. Unlike the rest of us. Whatever that means.
The suit is hanging in my closet right now. Along with my powder blue leisure suit and houndstooth bell bottoms. It probably says something about me that half of my closet is taken up by items more suitable for a fourth grade play than a day at the office, but I've decided not to think about that too much.
Damn, that's a fine looking suit.
