Friday, September 30, 2005
In Which I Triumphantly Overcome Obstacles Right and Left
I reached into my desk drawer this afternoon to grab a highlighter and apparently a box of push pins had spilled open in there; I ended up driving one under my fingernail. As this was not the sort of mistake one would typically hope to repeat, I guess I'll have to wear protective gloves and possibly a snappy protective vest when opening my drawer from now on. Oooh, and goggles. I should definitely have goggles.
Other than my potential loss of limb, though, I have to say the week has been a good one. I've been productive, a feat that is potentially linked to my increased dependence on caffeine. (The other day the Coke machine wouldn't take my dollar and I flew into a Hulk-like rage, nearly upsetting several languorous secretaries in the process.) I've eaten several especially delicious sandwiches, one of them on bread specially baked with a pretzel-like crust. And I'm almost caught up on my DVRs, with only an almost-certainly-disappointing episode of The OC still waiting for me. (Seriously, what was with Jimmy's bruise makeup last week? And since when does Julie call him James?)
All right, I'm putting some early Stevie Wonder on the stereo, grabbing a few cocktails, and heading out for the evening. I'll supply all the gory details later, I am sure.
I reached into my desk drawer this afternoon to grab a highlighter and apparently a box of push pins had spilled open in there; I ended up driving one under my fingernail. As this was not the sort of mistake one would typically hope to repeat, I guess I'll have to wear protective gloves and possibly a snappy protective vest when opening my drawer from now on. Oooh, and goggles. I should definitely have goggles.
Other than my potential loss of limb, though, I have to say the week has been a good one. I've been productive, a feat that is potentially linked to my increased dependence on caffeine. (The other day the Coke machine wouldn't take my dollar and I flew into a Hulk-like rage, nearly upsetting several languorous secretaries in the process.) I've eaten several especially delicious sandwiches, one of them on bread specially baked with a pretzel-like crust. And I'm almost caught up on my DVRs, with only an almost-certainly-disappointing episode of The OC still waiting for me. (Seriously, what was with Jimmy's bruise makeup last week? And since when does Julie call him James?)
All right, I'm putting some early Stevie Wonder on the stereo, grabbing a few cocktails, and heading out for the evening. I'll supply all the gory details later, I am sure.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
In Brief
-- Identity Crises. One of my coworkers has been calling me Ray for three weeks now. I like to think it's because of my uncanny resemblance to the late, great soul musician. I also like to think that I have a magic unicorn and live in a castle.
-- Arrested Development. Seriously, I will break into your home and force you to watch it, if I have to. I would prefer incarceration to cancellation in this instance.
-- Modern Dance. Today the mail guy walked in on me celebrating the completion of a particularly badass section of memo by rocking my desk chair back and forth and pumping my fists in the air. To his credit, he did not bat an eye. To my credit, I tried to pretend I was merely suffering from a medical problem of some kind.
-- The Aristocrats. I finally saw this the other night, and it really is just an hour and a half of the same joke. If I wanted that, I'd watch the According to Jim marathon on ABC.
-- Tom DeLay. Now that he's stepped down as House Majority Leader, he'll have more time to pursue his other interests, like developing ungainly hairstyles and eating babies.
-- Identity Crises. One of my coworkers has been calling me Ray for three weeks now. I like to think it's because of my uncanny resemblance to the late, great soul musician. I also like to think that I have a magic unicorn and live in a castle.
-- Arrested Development. Seriously, I will break into your home and force you to watch it, if I have to. I would prefer incarceration to cancellation in this instance.
-- Modern Dance. Today the mail guy walked in on me celebrating the completion of a particularly badass section of memo by rocking my desk chair back and forth and pumping my fists in the air. To his credit, he did not bat an eye. To my credit, I tried to pretend I was merely suffering from a medical problem of some kind.
-- The Aristocrats. I finally saw this the other night, and it really is just an hour and a half of the same joke. If I wanted that, I'd watch the According to Jim marathon on ABC.
-- Tom DeLay. Now that he's stepped down as House Majority Leader, he'll have more time to pursue his other interests, like developing ungainly hairstyles and eating babies.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
The More You Know
Every morning now at my gym I get to listen to the shouted conversations of the lumpy old men who parade around the locker room naked. They say so many ridiculous things that I always think I should write them down, but sadly I seldom carry a pen and paper with me in the shower. But suffice it to say that, with The Excess Body Hair Brigade in charge, the Cubs would have won the World Series about six times this year, terrorists would have built us a couple of extra buildings instead of the other way around, and CBS never would have cancelled Diagnosis: Murder. These guys have the answers to everything!
I, in contrast, seem to have the answers to very little these days. The other day I was leaving a phone message and I realized I could not recall my own phone number. (The maintenance man will now forever think I slipped him a fake.) I now use a handheld device to remind me to do things like eat and pick up my dry cleaning. (Always in that order.) And I have called the computer help line so many times that I am now on a first name basis with all of the tech guys. (Special thanks to Tech Guy Steve for explaining to me how to fix computers by striking them or removing their batteries.) I am in bad shape.
On the plus side, I have nearly caught up with my two-week backlog of DVRed television. And I am more deeply in love with LOST than I have ever been. That, for some reason, I can actually follow...
Every morning now at my gym I get to listen to the shouted conversations of the lumpy old men who parade around the locker room naked. They say so many ridiculous things that I always think I should write them down, but sadly I seldom carry a pen and paper with me in the shower. But suffice it to say that, with The Excess Body Hair Brigade in charge, the Cubs would have won the World Series about six times this year, terrorists would have built us a couple of extra buildings instead of the other way around, and CBS never would have cancelled Diagnosis: Murder. These guys have the answers to everything!
I, in contrast, seem to have the answers to very little these days. The other day I was leaving a phone message and I realized I could not recall my own phone number. (The maintenance man will now forever think I slipped him a fake.) I now use a handheld device to remind me to do things like eat and pick up my dry cleaning. (Always in that order.) And I have called the computer help line so many times that I am now on a first name basis with all of the tech guys. (Special thanks to Tech Guy Steve for explaining to me how to fix computers by striking them or removing their batteries.) I am in bad shape.
On the plus side, I have nearly caught up with my two-week backlog of DVRed television. And I am more deeply in love with LOST than I have ever been. That, for some reason, I can actually follow...
Sunday, September 25, 2005
And Guest
Went to a wedding with Roommate Liz last night. As the "and guest" for the evening, I knew absolutely no one, and accordingly it was my prerogative to get as shitcanned as possible and say inappropriate things. Let me just say that, in the course of the evening, I ate a whole table's supply of after-dinner truffles and slow danced with a 74-year-old woman. By the end of the night, the bartender was setting out our drinks for us before we even got within a five-yard radius of the bar. And that's how you make it classy, kids.
But the real highlight of the evening was the b-sides-only DJ. He seriously played more songs that I have never heard before in my life than I had ever dreamed possible, including a song declaring the listener a "diamond girl" and several early-hip-hop-sounding songs with inappropriately randy lyrics. But we did get to hear Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath my Wings," at least, and several separate renditions of the chicken dance. Add to this his constant shouts of "this is a wedding, not a funeral!" and his trashtastic fake-gold- and Dynasty-era-shoulder-pads-wearing girlfriend standing by his side, and you have a real recipe for wedded bliss.
Oh, and in the "I am an idiot" department, Roommate Liz and I decided to take a cab to this event, which, as it was on the far Northwest side of the city, cost us $25. So we ended up hitching a ride home with my aforementioned slow-dance-partner. When your night ends in a stranger's Hyundai, you know it's been a magical one.
Went to a wedding with Roommate Liz last night. As the "and guest" for the evening, I knew absolutely no one, and accordingly it was my prerogative to get as shitcanned as possible and say inappropriate things. Let me just say that, in the course of the evening, I ate a whole table's supply of after-dinner truffles and slow danced with a 74-year-old woman. By the end of the night, the bartender was setting out our drinks for us before we even got within a five-yard radius of the bar. And that's how you make it classy, kids.
But the real highlight of the evening was the b-sides-only DJ. He seriously played more songs that I have never heard before in my life than I had ever dreamed possible, including a song declaring the listener a "diamond girl" and several early-hip-hop-sounding songs with inappropriately randy lyrics. But we did get to hear Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath my Wings," at least, and several separate renditions of the chicken dance. Add to this his constant shouts of "this is a wedding, not a funeral!" and his trashtastic fake-gold- and Dynasty-era-shoulder-pads-wearing girlfriend standing by his side, and you have a real recipe for wedded bliss.
Oh, and in the "I am an idiot" department, Roommate Liz and I decided to take a cab to this event, which, as it was on the far Northwest side of the city, cost us $25. So we ended up hitching a ride home with my aforementioned slow-dance-partner. When your night ends in a stranger's Hyundai, you know it's been a magical one.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Music Appreciation
Last night Guest Blogger Kathy took me to a Chicago Symphony Orchestra concert. Now typically my Fridays involve a few carefully-timed drinks at the office happy hour followed by many less-planned drinks at some bar I would never visit sober; the closest I come to culture is watching a DVRed episode of The OC before passing out. (McG is the Ibsen of our time.) But the CSO was, if I may just take a moment of unironic enjoyment here, completely amazing.
First of all, if you've never been to Orchestra Hall, it's totally awesome. The acoustics are really good, so it sounds like you're sitting right in the orchestra, which I actually don't recommend, violin bows being rather pointy. And it's all classy and velvety and shit in there, which is why you have to wear your work clothes instead of your Big Johnson t-shirt. They have a delightfully incongruous usher (not to be confused with Usher) who sounds like Tim Meadows as The Ladies Man, and you get to cast angry and judgmental looks at anyone who coughs or squeaks their shoes during the performance (I'm looking at you, 175-year-old man across the aisle from us). Oh, while we're on the topic, if you think old people are cute, a symphony concert is a great place for you. It's like Lansburypalooza in there.
Anyway, the CSO is definitely one of the finest orchestras in the world. Seriously, everybody says that, but it's not until you actually hear them, live (and I'm not talking about Ravinia -- binge drinking in a park is not music appreciation), that you really understand it. I couldn't get over the clarity of their sound; it's as though a 20-member violin section is one instrument. And the way they bring out the line and color in everything they play makes even some old Mozart chestnut that has been used on every diamond and luxury car commercial from here to the Gold Coast sound truly vibrant and exciting. So if you have fifty bucks and you don't know what to do with it, catch a CSO concert today!
Last night Guest Blogger Kathy took me to a Chicago Symphony Orchestra concert. Now typically my Fridays involve a few carefully-timed drinks at the office happy hour followed by many less-planned drinks at some bar I would never visit sober; the closest I come to culture is watching a DVRed episode of The OC before passing out. (McG is the Ibsen of our time.) But the CSO was, if I may just take a moment of unironic enjoyment here, completely amazing.
First of all, if you've never been to Orchestra Hall, it's totally awesome. The acoustics are really good, so it sounds like you're sitting right in the orchestra, which I actually don't recommend, violin bows being rather pointy. And it's all classy and velvety and shit in there, which is why you have to wear your work clothes instead of your Big Johnson t-shirt. They have a delightfully incongruous usher (not to be confused with Usher) who sounds like Tim Meadows as The Ladies Man, and you get to cast angry and judgmental looks at anyone who coughs or squeaks their shoes during the performance (I'm looking at you, 175-year-old man across the aisle from us). Oh, while we're on the topic, if you think old people are cute, a symphony concert is a great place for you. It's like Lansburypalooza in there.
Anyway, the CSO is definitely one of the finest orchestras in the world. Seriously, everybody says that, but it's not until you actually hear them, live (and I'm not talking about Ravinia -- binge drinking in a park is not music appreciation), that you really understand it. I couldn't get over the clarity of their sound; it's as though a 20-member violin section is one instrument. And the way they bring out the line and color in everything they play makes even some old Mozart chestnut that has been used on every diamond and luxury car commercial from here to the Gold Coast sound truly vibrant and exciting. So if you have fifty bucks and you don't know what to do with it, catch a CSO concert today!
Friday, September 23, 2005
Corrections
We reported last week that God is dead. Sources have now informed us that that was not indeed God that we struck with our Buick last week, but a small raccoon. God has merely been hospitalized for "exhaustion."
In Tuesday's "Living" section, we quoted Jessica Simpson as stating "I'm a stupid, talentless whore." That was a misprint; the quote should have read "I like ice cream."
It has come to our attention that Tuesday's feature on teen movies was heavily plagiarized from the 1948 Norman Mailer classic The Naked and the Dead. Our heartfelt apologies to Mr. Mailer and to John Hughes.
Once we said we really liked flan, but we were thinking of something else, something edible. Please don't make us eat any more flan.
On Tuesday's World News page, we observed that maybe the whole rest of the Goddamned world deserves more than a single page, half taken up by a McDonald's ad, next to the Ziggy comic and the jumble. We apologize for that moment of conscience.
Yesterday's edition featured an anecdote about President Bush, a donkey, and the cast of the hit CBS comedy The King of Queens. That anecdote was unnecessarily crude and completely unsuitable for young readers, and we promise to bring you more such content in the future.
In our "Around Town" segment, we quoted centegenarian Ida McLaughlin as attributing her longevity to "near-constant, hardcore, unprotected sex;" as it turns out, that is an extremely unpleasant image that we'd all just rather forget about.
Last week our cooking guru, Mr. Eats, suggested that readers perk up their lasagnas with a dash of methamphetamine. Though we have no doubt of this suggestion's accuracy, we must disclose that Mr. Eats is now doing 5-10 in the county lockup.
We reported last week that God is dead. Sources have now informed us that that was not indeed God that we struck with our Buick last week, but a small raccoon. God has merely been hospitalized for "exhaustion."
In Tuesday's "Living" section, we quoted Jessica Simpson as stating "I'm a stupid, talentless whore." That was a misprint; the quote should have read "I like ice cream."
It has come to our attention that Tuesday's feature on teen movies was heavily plagiarized from the 1948 Norman Mailer classic The Naked and the Dead. Our heartfelt apologies to Mr. Mailer and to John Hughes.
Once we said we really liked flan, but we were thinking of something else, something edible. Please don't make us eat any more flan.
On Tuesday's World News page, we observed that maybe the whole rest of the Goddamned world deserves more than a single page, half taken up by a McDonald's ad, next to the Ziggy comic and the jumble. We apologize for that moment of conscience.
Yesterday's edition featured an anecdote about President Bush, a donkey, and the cast of the hit CBS comedy The King of Queens. That anecdote was unnecessarily crude and completely unsuitable for young readers, and we promise to bring you more such content in the future.
In our "Around Town" segment, we quoted centegenarian Ida McLaughlin as attributing her longevity to "near-constant, hardcore, unprotected sex;" as it turns out, that is an extremely unpleasant image that we'd all just rather forget about.
Last week our cooking guru, Mr. Eats, suggested that readers perk up their lasagnas with a dash of methamphetamine. Though we have no doubt of this suggestion's accuracy, we must disclose that Mr. Eats is now doing 5-10 in the county lockup.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Occurrences of Note
Our new neighbors on the first floor appear to have built a barricade behind our building. If this seems insane, let me clarify that it is. Rather than moving their worldly possessions all the way into the apartment, these young ladies apparently became too exhausted to continue schlepping bankers boxes in the courtyard, and left all manner of paper products, electronics, clothing, furniture, and even artwork there. In an enormous pile. And then it rained. For several days. The only way I can see this working for them is if they're planning to stage a production of Les Miserables back there. If that's the case, hell, I'll even buy them a French flag.
I've also brought my impressive two weeks of job experience to bear on a couple of recruiting lunches this week. They're fun because I end up getting so hepped up on caffeine and sugar that I tell long, irrelevant stories and repeatedly announce how much I love my job. Meanwhile, the poor interviewees are typically so tired of telling people what kind of tree they would be if they could be a tree and why that they're just glad that I'm doing the talking for a while. See, my life is all about public service. That, and self-aggrandizement.
And last night I totally flipped out on my roommate because I couldn't get the DVR remote to work. It was a complete Incredible Hulk moment. All because I wanted to watch Arrested Development. Okay, also because of those secret government hormone tests I participated in three years ago, but what's a little genetic mutation among friends?
Our new neighbors on the first floor appear to have built a barricade behind our building. If this seems insane, let me clarify that it is. Rather than moving their worldly possessions all the way into the apartment, these young ladies apparently became too exhausted to continue schlepping bankers boxes in the courtyard, and left all manner of paper products, electronics, clothing, furniture, and even artwork there. In an enormous pile. And then it rained. For several days. The only way I can see this working for them is if they're planning to stage a production of Les Miserables back there. If that's the case, hell, I'll even buy them a French flag.
I've also brought my impressive two weeks of job experience to bear on a couple of recruiting lunches this week. They're fun because I end up getting so hepped up on caffeine and sugar that I tell long, irrelevant stories and repeatedly announce how much I love my job. Meanwhile, the poor interviewees are typically so tired of telling people what kind of tree they would be if they could be a tree and why that they're just glad that I'm doing the talking for a while. See, my life is all about public service. That, and self-aggrandizement.
And last night I totally flipped out on my roommate because I couldn't get the DVR remote to work. It was a complete Incredible Hulk moment. All because I wanted to watch Arrested Development. Okay, also because of those secret government hormone tests I participated in three years ago, but what's a little genetic mutation among friends?
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Picture This
I've been a little bit delinquent in posting pictures lately; just to prove that my self-love has not in fact run out, here's a few images from this summer, with the requisite snarky captions.
Look, I have facial hair! And it's horrifying! Sort of a flesh-eating virus sort of look. That God someone has employed me again and forced me to abide by society's standards of grooming.
When I don't have facial hair, sometimes people even allow me on their boats. I'm just classy like that. Actually, this picture was taken moments before the boat's actual owners discovered that Liz and I were there and forced us to dramatically walk the plank.
My friend Diana and I posing for a photo like we're going to be in Chicago Scene magazine. Unfortunately, very few of your finer society engagements involve jello shotage. I'm planning a class action lawsuit to correct that.
Foxy boxing!!!!! You better believe that Liz understands that her proper place is in the kitchen after this particular form of dispute resolution.
I've been a little bit delinquent in posting pictures lately; just to prove that my self-love has not in fact run out, here's a few images from this summer, with the requisite snarky captions.
Look, I have facial hair! And it's horrifying! Sort of a flesh-eating virus sort of look. That God someone has employed me again and forced me to abide by society's standards of grooming.
When I don't have facial hair, sometimes people even allow me on their boats. I'm just classy like that. Actually, this picture was taken moments before the boat's actual owners discovered that Liz and I were there and forced us to dramatically walk the plank.
My friend Diana and I posing for a photo like we're going to be in Chicago Scene magazine. Unfortunately, very few of your finer society engagements involve jello shotage. I'm planning a class action lawsuit to correct that.
Foxy boxing!!!!! You better believe that Liz understands that her proper place is in the kitchen after this particular form of dispute resolution.Monday, September 19, 2005
Weekend Update
Little bit of a bash at the apartment this weekend. Apparently operating on the principle that summer can't be over if we just pretend we're not freezing, we threw open our roof to a hundred or so of our closest friends and associates. And this time, it was a theme party; all of our door prizes were items left behind by former roommates. The grand prize? A trash bag full of hangers.
But entertaining comes with a price, and I accordingly spent most of my Saturday cleaning and making jello shots. Because I'm an idiot, I got nine different flavors of jello and didn't even think to boil two pots of water at the same time until the last iteration, so it literally took me two hours (or two full episodes of the America's Next Top Model marathon, including the one where Tyra freaked out and screamed "You don't know me! You don't know where I come from!" at some hapless and overly tatooed girl) to get them all done. Also because I'm an idiot, I filled the Dixie Cups nearly all the way to the top, resulting in what were basically jello double shots, or as I called them, jello snacks. Add in the steep, twisting stairs to our roof deck, and it was a recipe for party magic.
Sunday was, in contrast, mostly devoted to work and writing the single worst sketch I have ever produced. Seriously. It has a zero-dimensional character named "Dawnette" in it and revolves around an "appeals court for Judge Judy losers." I can't wait to hear the helpful feedback I get at class tonight, no doubt including "Hey, maybe you could make the sketch funny," and "Well, it's paper, so the good news is that it can be burned." It's sure to be the best of times.
Little bit of a bash at the apartment this weekend. Apparently operating on the principle that summer can't be over if we just pretend we're not freezing, we threw open our roof to a hundred or so of our closest friends and associates. And this time, it was a theme party; all of our door prizes were items left behind by former roommates. The grand prize? A trash bag full of hangers.
But entertaining comes with a price, and I accordingly spent most of my Saturday cleaning and making jello shots. Because I'm an idiot, I got nine different flavors of jello and didn't even think to boil two pots of water at the same time until the last iteration, so it literally took me two hours (or two full episodes of the America's Next Top Model marathon, including the one where Tyra freaked out and screamed "You don't know me! You don't know where I come from!" at some hapless and overly tatooed girl) to get them all done. Also because I'm an idiot, I filled the Dixie Cups nearly all the way to the top, resulting in what were basically jello double shots, or as I called them, jello snacks. Add in the steep, twisting stairs to our roof deck, and it was a recipe for party magic.
Sunday was, in contrast, mostly devoted to work and writing the single worst sketch I have ever produced. Seriously. It has a zero-dimensional character named "Dawnette" in it and revolves around an "appeals court for Judge Judy losers." I can't wait to hear the helpful feedback I get at class tonight, no doubt including "Hey, maybe you could make the sketch funny," and "Well, it's paper, so the good news is that it can be burned." It's sure to be the best of times.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Least Popular Porn Sites
Well-Behaved College Girls
Chicks With Dicks Book Club
robinwilliamsnaked.com
Twinks Questioning the Existence of God
Bears With Angina
Just Knees!
yourparentsdoingit.com
Hidden Camera Nursing Home!
CNN "After Dark"
Underage Actuaries
Martha Stewart Porking
meaningfulrelationships.com
Naughty Truss World
Well-Behaved College Girls
Chicks With Dicks Book Club
robinwilliamsnaked.com
Twinks Questioning the Existence of God
Bears With Angina
Just Knees!
yourparentsdoingit.com
Hidden Camera Nursing Home!
CNN "After Dark"
Underage Actuaries
Martha Stewart Porking
meaningfulrelationships.com
Naughty Truss World
Friday, September 16, 2005
Pain is Love
I think I might be a little bit of a sadist. No, not the nipple clamps and jumper cables kind; I just mean that I tend to enjoy things that other people find painful. And I'm not just talking PBS and Gwyneth Paltrow, although I am totally looking forward to that five-part series on stamps. What I'm trying to say is that I've been working a lot this week, performing hours of arcane legal research and reviewing stacks of documents drafted by America's Most Boring Businessmen, and I'm absolutely loving it. I like leaving the office at nine and going straight out to meet my friends. I like eating a wilted salad with one hand while I type a curt email with the other. And, God help me, I like The Bluebook: A Uniform System of Citation. Did you know there's a new edition out? It's got all kinds of crazy fonts and everything.
I guess we'll have to see if all this lasts. Probably even the folks in Guantanamo thought it was kind of like camp at first. The cuteness may wear off. But that's the thing about honeymoons; they're all kinds of fun, but somebody always ends up getting fucked.
I think I might be a little bit of a sadist. No, not the nipple clamps and jumper cables kind; I just mean that I tend to enjoy things that other people find painful. And I'm not just talking PBS and Gwyneth Paltrow, although I am totally looking forward to that five-part series on stamps. What I'm trying to say is that I've been working a lot this week, performing hours of arcane legal research and reviewing stacks of documents drafted by America's Most Boring Businessmen, and I'm absolutely loving it. I like leaving the office at nine and going straight out to meet my friends. I like eating a wilted salad with one hand while I type a curt email with the other. And, God help me, I like The Bluebook: A Uniform System of Citation. Did you know there's a new edition out? It's got all kinds of crazy fonts and everything.
I guess we'll have to see if all this lasts. Probably even the folks in Guantanamo thought it was kind of like camp at first. The cuteness may wear off. But that's the thing about honeymoons; they're all kinds of fun, but somebody always ends up getting fucked.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Summer Reading
I thought it was about time to punish my readers again with my thoughts on my latest literary conquests. That's right -- I read, you suffer. It's all about the division of labor.
So in the category of "books I'm embarrassed I didn't read in 10th grade like everyone else," I read Willa Cather's O, Pioneers! this month. I guess it's popular with the high school English teacher set because it's short and folksy. It kind of reminded me of Deborah Norville; inoffensive but also not that interesting. No, there are parts of it that are really rather vivid, and I can tell you from my own firsthand experience of the plains that it captures their feel pretty accurately. It's a nice book, a perfectly sweet, gentle read, but not anything that would have utterly altered the course of my life had I read it back in American Lit.
I also read Salinger's Nine Stories, which I made a point of saving until this summer. I like Salinger so much (and he has written so little) that I have forced myself to resist the urge to binge on his work. This was no exception. I just love how Salinger is unafraid to take small moments, even just everyday conversations, and mine the beauty and mystery in them. And his style seems so clean and contemporary to me, never dated. So yeah.
Then there was Lewis's Babbitt, which I don't have a whole lot to say about other than that it really made me see where my grandmother's worldview comes from. I was also interested by how much Lewis picks on the character who is for all intents and purposes his protagonist.
And finally, I just finished A Farewell to Arms. They ought to call it A Farewell to Legs, ha ha! Anyway, it's sort of flowery, at least by Hemingway standards. It's not as objective as you usually expect. But it's the same game as always, with the hollow people failing to have feelings about dreadful experiences in a war. Definitely good times.
Anyway, I probably won't be doing as much leisure reading from now on, so you can expect this vexing feature to be less frequent...
I thought it was about time to punish my readers again with my thoughts on my latest literary conquests. That's right -- I read, you suffer. It's all about the division of labor.
So in the category of "books I'm embarrassed I didn't read in 10th grade like everyone else," I read Willa Cather's O, Pioneers! this month. I guess it's popular with the high school English teacher set because it's short and folksy. It kind of reminded me of Deborah Norville; inoffensive but also not that interesting. No, there are parts of it that are really rather vivid, and I can tell you from my own firsthand experience of the plains that it captures their feel pretty accurately. It's a nice book, a perfectly sweet, gentle read, but not anything that would have utterly altered the course of my life had I read it back in American Lit.
I also read Salinger's Nine Stories, which I made a point of saving until this summer. I like Salinger so much (and he has written so little) that I have forced myself to resist the urge to binge on his work. This was no exception. I just love how Salinger is unafraid to take small moments, even just everyday conversations, and mine the beauty and mystery in them. And his style seems so clean and contemporary to me, never dated. So yeah.
Then there was Lewis's Babbitt, which I don't have a whole lot to say about other than that it really made me see where my grandmother's worldview comes from. I was also interested by how much Lewis picks on the character who is for all intents and purposes his protagonist.
And finally, I just finished A Farewell to Arms. They ought to call it A Farewell to Legs, ha ha! Anyway, it's sort of flowery, at least by Hemingway standards. It's not as objective as you usually expect. But it's the same game as always, with the hollow people failing to have feelings about dreadful experiences in a war. Definitely good times.
Anyway, I probably won't be doing as much leisure reading from now on, so you can expect this vexing feature to be less frequent...
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
I'm With Stupid
Guess who spent his entire afternoon writing and rewriting the same paragraph. No, not David Foster Wallace, although that's a really good guess. It was me! Apparently, my gift for legal prose ran out along with my paychecks and health insurance, and I spent my afternoon staring blankly at my computer screen. I wonder if the head writer of Yes, Dear ever feels this way. Probably, but with more suicide attempts. At least he gets a little bit of cardiovascular exercise that way.
We're talking a day of extraordinary stupidity here. Around 5:30 I found that I was actually having a difficult time reading, and not because of blurred vision, but just a simple inability to make the letters form words. Earlier today I attended a meeting in the wrong conference room, all by myself. Oh, and I managed to seriously injure myself while trying to put on a nametag. It ended up saying "Hello, my name is blood stains." I'm not completely sure we're reached the "danger to himself" stage, but we can't be more than a few steps shy.
But other than that, all is well. I have the season premiere of Arrested Development DVRed and waiting for me at home, and hopefully a large bottle of red wine, as well. Nothing cures stupidity like alcohol, right?
Guess who spent his entire afternoon writing and rewriting the same paragraph. No, not David Foster Wallace, although that's a really good guess. It was me! Apparently, my gift for legal prose ran out along with my paychecks and health insurance, and I spent my afternoon staring blankly at my computer screen. I wonder if the head writer of Yes, Dear ever feels this way. Probably, but with more suicide attempts. At least he gets a little bit of cardiovascular exercise that way.
We're talking a day of extraordinary stupidity here. Around 5:30 I found that I was actually having a difficult time reading, and not because of blurred vision, but just a simple inability to make the letters form words. Earlier today I attended a meeting in the wrong conference room, all by myself. Oh, and I managed to seriously injure myself while trying to put on a nametag. It ended up saying "Hello, my name is blood stains." I'm not completely sure we're reached the "danger to himself" stage, but we can't be more than a few steps shy.
But other than that, all is well. I have the season premiere of Arrested Development DVRed and waiting for me at home, and hopefully a large bottle of red wine, as well. Nothing cures stupidity like alcohol, right?
Monday, September 12, 2005
Tidbits
-- Time Management. Now that my job keeps me really busy, I have an excuse to carry on conversations while walking down the hallway at top speed, West Wing style. And yesterday I returned text messages from atop the elliptical machine at my gym. Basically I'm an industrial accident waiting to happen.
-- Technological Savvy. Is it wrong that I'm choosing my new palmtop computer based on the cuteness factor alone? The thing is, my toaster is looking to hook up. Pun SO intended.
-- Season Premiere Season, When TV's Brightest Stars Come Out to Shine. Is it just me, or did things get underway intensely early this year? I mean, America is just coming down from the high of "I Want to Be a Hilton." Shouldn't we get some time to relax and clean up the trails of projectile vomit?
-- The Exorcism of Emily Rose. This movie made $30 million this past weekend. So while I may not concede the presence of mysterious forces of evil in this world, I must concede the presence of mysterious forces of bad taste.
-- Time Management. Now that my job keeps me really busy, I have an excuse to carry on conversations while walking down the hallway at top speed, West Wing style. And yesterday I returned text messages from atop the elliptical machine at my gym. Basically I'm an industrial accident waiting to happen.
-- Technological Savvy. Is it wrong that I'm choosing my new palmtop computer based on the cuteness factor alone? The thing is, my toaster is looking to hook up. Pun SO intended.
-- Season Premiere Season, When TV's Brightest Stars Come Out to Shine. Is it just me, or did things get underway intensely early this year? I mean, America is just coming down from the high of "I Want to Be a Hilton." Shouldn't we get some time to relax and clean up the trails of projectile vomit?
-- The Exorcism of Emily Rose. This movie made $30 million this past weekend. So while I may not concede the presence of mysterious forces of evil in this world, I must concede the presence of mysterious forces of bad taste.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Samuel Beckett, Eat Your Heart Out
Today I'm spending the day waiting for Comcast to come hook up our DVR. I called them three weeks ago, but this was the first day they had available. Which meant I missed the season premiere of The OC, because let's face it, I definitely don't know how to hook up my VCR. And I do think there's a rather significant probability that they won't come at all. But I've become so addicted to the wonderful drug we call cable television (Celebrity Fit Club, anyone?) that I would probably be grateful even if Comcast came and burned my house down, so long as I somehow received some free premium channels in the transaction. Real estate comes and goes; back-to-back showings of Eurotrip are forever.
I haven't been around the house much lately, though, so I guess I probably shouldn't complain. This way I can remove that suspicious grey ring around the edge of my tub and banish the several bags of trash hopefully piled up next to the actual trash can. Maybe I'll even relocate the large pile of broken-down moving boxes from the center of our living room floor. There's a whole world of amazing possibilities out there; all you have to do is be completely housebound at the whim of your utility providers.
Today I'm spending the day waiting for Comcast to come hook up our DVR. I called them three weeks ago, but this was the first day they had available. Which meant I missed the season premiere of The OC, because let's face it, I definitely don't know how to hook up my VCR. And I do think there's a rather significant probability that they won't come at all. But I've become so addicted to the wonderful drug we call cable television (Celebrity Fit Club, anyone?) that I would probably be grateful even if Comcast came and burned my house down, so long as I somehow received some free premium channels in the transaction. Real estate comes and goes; back-to-back showings of Eurotrip are forever.
I haven't been around the house much lately, though, so I guess I probably shouldn't complain. This way I can remove that suspicious grey ring around the edge of my tub and banish the several bags of trash hopefully piled up next to the actual trash can. Maybe I'll even relocate the large pile of broken-down moving boxes from the center of our living room floor. There's a whole world of amazing possibilities out there; all you have to do is be completely housebound at the whim of your utility providers.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Learning Curve
Still in adjustment mode here, folks. I accidentally walked into the copy room instead of the bathroom, and into a wall instead of the stairwell. My office door somehow got stuck in the closed position this morning, and I literally had to slide the key under the door to my secretary in order to be released. And when I tried to put line one on hold and answer line two, I ended up hanging up on both lines. So there's still a little bit of learning to do.
The weirdest thing of all, though, is the fact that I now have people who follow my instructions. When she's not freeing me from imprisonment, my secretary is asking me about things like how I want my phone answered and how I want to keep track of my billing. A paralegal apologized profusely to me today because a page was missing from some copies she made for me. Even the locksmith sought my advice on the whole door issue. Don't these people know I'm 27 years old and really pretty stupid? I mean, there are certain episodes of Saved By the Bell I've seen more than ten times. I read Us Weekly, and not just in line at the grocery store. I really should not be commanding troops of any kind.
Of course, they did warn us during orientation not to ask our secretaries to fetch us lunch or go pick up our dry cleaning. Damn, I guess that means sending her to the sperm bank is out of the question. Always the red tape, you know?
Still in adjustment mode here, folks. I accidentally walked into the copy room instead of the bathroom, and into a wall instead of the stairwell. My office door somehow got stuck in the closed position this morning, and I literally had to slide the key under the door to my secretary in order to be released. And when I tried to put line one on hold and answer line two, I ended up hanging up on both lines. So there's still a little bit of learning to do.
The weirdest thing of all, though, is the fact that I now have people who follow my instructions. When she's not freeing me from imprisonment, my secretary is asking me about things like how I want my phone answered and how I want to keep track of my billing. A paralegal apologized profusely to me today because a page was missing from some copies she made for me. Even the locksmith sought my advice on the whole door issue. Don't these people know I'm 27 years old and really pretty stupid? I mean, there are certain episodes of Saved By the Bell I've seen more than ten times. I read Us Weekly, and not just in line at the grocery store. I really should not be commanding troops of any kind.
Of course, they did warn us during orientation not to ask our secretaries to fetch us lunch or go pick up our dry cleaning. Damn, I guess that means sending her to the sperm bank is out of the question. Always the red tape, you know?
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
The Orient Express
Started my new job today. As is the custom in this country, I wore a nametag all day, sat through a number of informative presentations (involving Powerpoints!) about using the phone and email, and drank way too many diet cokes (the shakes set in). It was nice to be back to doing something productive again, though, even if it was just sitting around in an office all day instead of on my couch. My new secretary seems very friendly and helpful, unlike previous secretaries who have either A) seemed to be afraid of me for no reason at all or B) resolutely refused to do anything for me. And my office is on the East side, which means I'll be able to glance over at the lake occasionally as my computer screen burns print-shaped holes in my retinas. It should all be really good times.
But before I forget, I thought I'd share a few awesome photographs from my recent Labor Day trip to Quincy. The images that follow are of two of our major cultural institutions:
This is the Wal-Mart. There are Values inside. Sometimes they have sweatpants two for $8. Plus, they don't sell any of that Satanic rap music. God Bless America.
This is The Quincy Mall. It used to have a GAP, but it closed. Same with the Orange Julius. But there's still a Foot Locker, a JC Penney, and a movie theater with three screens! Oh, and the pretzel stand. Won't you please have a delicious pretzel with me? Your treat.
Started my new job today. As is the custom in this country, I wore a nametag all day, sat through a number of informative presentations (involving Powerpoints!) about using the phone and email, and drank way too many diet cokes (the shakes set in). It was nice to be back to doing something productive again, though, even if it was just sitting around in an office all day instead of on my couch. My new secretary seems very friendly and helpful, unlike previous secretaries who have either A) seemed to be afraid of me for no reason at all or B) resolutely refused to do anything for me. And my office is on the East side, which means I'll be able to glance over at the lake occasionally as my computer screen burns print-shaped holes in my retinas. It should all be really good times.
But before I forget, I thought I'd share a few awesome photographs from my recent Labor Day trip to Quincy. The images that follow are of two of our major cultural institutions:
This is the Wal-Mart. There are Values inside. Sometimes they have sweatpants two for $8. Plus, they don't sell any of that Satanic rap music. God Bless America.
This is The Quincy Mall. It used to have a GAP, but it closed. Same with the Orange Julius. But there's still a Foot Locker, a JC Penney, and a movie theater with three screens! Oh, and the pretzel stand. Won't you please have a delicious pretzel with me? Your treat.Monday, September 05, 2005
Belabored Day
Even if your job is something amazing, like serving as personal assistant to Bill Cosby (think Jell-O privileges) or doing publicity for the DVD release of I, Robot, it's good to have a day off. But today we must especially try to honor the people who hold these jobs, which are clearly the worst in the entire world (excluding Malaysia):
-- vocal coach to Ashlee Simpson
-- FOX news "fact checker"
-- black Republican
-- Cher
-- gay mafia hit man
-- creator of NBC's "Joey"
-- Amish used car salesman
-- official PETA taxidermist
-- principal cellist of Duluth, MN, symphony orchestra
-- Valtrex spokesperson
-- Mrs. Larry King
-- US Ambassador to Venezuela and close personal friend of Pat Robertson
-- amateur blogger
Even if your job is something amazing, like serving as personal assistant to Bill Cosby (think Jell-O privileges) or doing publicity for the DVD release of I, Robot, it's good to have a day off. But today we must especially try to honor the people who hold these jobs, which are clearly the worst in the entire world (excluding Malaysia):
-- vocal coach to Ashlee Simpson
-- FOX news "fact checker"
-- black Republican
-- Cher
-- gay mafia hit man
-- creator of NBC's "Joey"
-- Amish used car salesman
-- official PETA taxidermist
-- principal cellist of Duluth, MN, symphony orchestra
-- Valtrex spokesperson
-- Mrs. Larry King
-- US Ambassador to Venezuela and close personal friend of Pat Robertson
-- amateur blogger
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Eye Robot
Spending the long weekend in Quincy with my folks. And the great, good news is that my parents waited to rent I, Robot until I was home. They know about my insatiable hunger for hastily-thrown-together Will Smith science fiction flicks; why don't you? I don't want to say too much about the movie, since I know you're all going to want to run out and rent it yourselves, but it did make me strongly suspect that Mr. Pinkett-Smith now has a stipulation in his contract that all the other actors hired for his movies must be worse than him. I'm not sure they were all really even English speakers, actually, although some of them did sound vaguely like Anna Nicole Smith (no relation, I assume). Ahh, the joys of family togetherness.
My sister and I also went to see Red Eye today, which was vaguely hilarious. I spent most of the movie wishing I could reach out and give Cillian Murphy a haircut, but it was genuinely suspenseful and only about five minutes long. Rachel McAdams is really good at looking pretty while crying, and Brian Cox, who plays her father in the movie, looks amusingly like James Lipton. Plus we snuck a whole bunch of candy into the movie, and a good sugar buzz always increases my enjoyment exponentially.
Oh, and we went out to the sticks so I could see our family farm today! Can you believe that we have a family farm? I can't! Apparently my mom just inherited it from some distant relative. But I think I'm going to plant me some sorghum this year. Or open a meth lab. No, just kidding, law enforcement officials. Cops totally love this site.
Spending the long weekend in Quincy with my folks. And the great, good news is that my parents waited to rent I, Robot until I was home. They know about my insatiable hunger for hastily-thrown-together Will Smith science fiction flicks; why don't you? I don't want to say too much about the movie, since I know you're all going to want to run out and rent it yourselves, but it did make me strongly suspect that Mr. Pinkett-Smith now has a stipulation in his contract that all the other actors hired for his movies must be worse than him. I'm not sure they were all really even English speakers, actually, although some of them did sound vaguely like Anna Nicole Smith (no relation, I assume). Ahh, the joys of family togetherness.
My sister and I also went to see Red Eye today, which was vaguely hilarious. I spent most of the movie wishing I could reach out and give Cillian Murphy a haircut, but it was genuinely suspenseful and only about five minutes long. Rachel McAdams is really good at looking pretty while crying, and Brian Cox, who plays her father in the movie, looks amusingly like James Lipton. Plus we snuck a whole bunch of candy into the movie, and a good sugar buzz always increases my enjoyment exponentially.
Oh, and we went out to the sticks so I could see our family farm today! Can you believe that we have a family farm? I can't! Apparently my mom just inherited it from some distant relative. But I think I'm going to plant me some sorghum this year. Or open a meth lab. No, just kidding, law enforcement officials. Cops totally love this site.
Friday, September 02, 2005
The Great Depression
Depressing morning here, and not just because I once again missed Kelly Clarkson's screechtastic performance on the VMAs despite sitting through nearly all of Diddy's Hooked-on-Phonics hosting. No, I've been watching hurricane coverage most of the day, which has left me not only horrified by the immensity of the disaster but also shocked (if not exactly surprised) by the inaptitude of our media. I've seen the folks at FOX News struggling desperately to inject some sort of political spin into an act of God, and reporters from CNN giving all-important information on the status of their hotels. (MSNBC, meanwhile, resembles something they'd put together for the video announcements at Grover Cleveland Middle School.) Is there no story so important that the media can't make it all about the media? I can see it now: Jesus Returns to Walk Among Us; Larry King's Reaction at 9.
So I flipped around a bit, hoping to find something to lift my mood a little. But the Dawson's Creeks on TBS were from the depressing era when Andi left town (for the first time, before she cheated on the PSATs and gave Jen ecstasy) and Dawson and Joey were stomach-churningly happy, and the US Open match was between Joe Noname and Sergei Neverevenheardofhim, so the prospects were not looking good. I considered a Step By Step, but I couldn't in good conscience support the acting career of Patrick Duffy, so I flipped over to VH1, home of Omarosa/Janice catfights and D-list celebrities trying fruitlessly to loose weight. And what did I find there? A documentary about AIDS in Africa. So I've spent about the past hour as an emotional wreck, watching Ashley Judd try to convince sex workers in Madagascar (in fluent French, no less) to use condoms and india.arie singing traditional songs with dying orphans in Kenya. No, I'm not kidding, dying orphans. This world isn't nearly as pretty as it looks on Seventh Heaven, you know that?
All right, I think I'm going to go make a donation to the Red Cross or something. Somehow just making snarky comments about Jessica Simpson just doesn't seem that important any more. Okay, so it's important, but there are other things in life as well...
Depressing morning here, and not just because I once again missed Kelly Clarkson's screechtastic performance on the VMAs despite sitting through nearly all of Diddy's Hooked-on-Phonics hosting. No, I've been watching hurricane coverage most of the day, which has left me not only horrified by the immensity of the disaster but also shocked (if not exactly surprised) by the inaptitude of our media. I've seen the folks at FOX News struggling desperately to inject some sort of political spin into an act of God, and reporters from CNN giving all-important information on the status of their hotels. (MSNBC, meanwhile, resembles something they'd put together for the video announcements at Grover Cleveland Middle School.) Is there no story so important that the media can't make it all about the media? I can see it now: Jesus Returns to Walk Among Us; Larry King's Reaction at 9.
So I flipped around a bit, hoping to find something to lift my mood a little. But the Dawson's Creeks on TBS were from the depressing era when Andi left town (for the first time, before she cheated on the PSATs and gave Jen ecstasy) and Dawson and Joey were stomach-churningly happy, and the US Open match was between Joe Noname and Sergei Neverevenheardofhim, so the prospects were not looking good. I considered a Step By Step, but I couldn't in good conscience support the acting career of Patrick Duffy, so I flipped over to VH1, home of Omarosa/Janice catfights and D-list celebrities trying fruitlessly to loose weight. And what did I find there? A documentary about AIDS in Africa. So I've spent about the past hour as an emotional wreck, watching Ashley Judd try to convince sex workers in Madagascar (in fluent French, no less) to use condoms and india.arie singing traditional songs with dying orphans in Kenya. No, I'm not kidding, dying orphans. This world isn't nearly as pretty as it looks on Seventh Heaven, you know that?
All right, I think I'm going to go make a donation to the Red Cross or something. Somehow just making snarky comments about Jessica Simpson just doesn't seem that important any more. Okay, so it's important, but there are other things in life as well...
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Personnel Changes
Our neighbors on the first floor are moving out this week! This is sad, because they were the neighbors that we actually liked. We had parties with them, where they tolerated my constant, irrational need for door prizes and Miller Light, and hung out with them on our roof deck, where we roasted my skin to its current, Colonel's Original recipe shade of brown. We were properly scandalized with them when our former second floor neighbors had loud sex in the hallway or dumped trash out the window or refused to make eye contact when passing us on the front steps. And once, just once, I came home very late at night and they welcomed me into their home for some life-giving drunk food, a beautifully-charred cheeseburger and some spicy potato salad that I will never forget. So goodbye, Emily, Libby, and Melissa, you will be missed!
Apparently their replacements are not destined to be a delight. I'm told they busted into the apartment to take a tour while everyone was sleeping, bringing their yapping toy poodle along for the ride. This was followed by a rather lengthy period of pointedly ignoring the now-roused current residents of the place while asking detailed questions about everything from the quality of the water to the size of the maintenance "staff." (I'm especially jazzed about this one, because prissy girls plus incompetent, non-English speaking man with a wrench equals fun.) A few vastly inappropriate slams to the decor later, they left as quickly as they had come. So obviously I'm so pumped to meet them myself.
And did I mention I was given the big shush by my second floor neighbors at 9:45 on a Thursday? After no more than 30 seconds of noise? This is going to be the best year ever.
Our neighbors on the first floor are moving out this week! This is sad, because they were the neighbors that we actually liked. We had parties with them, where they tolerated my constant, irrational need for door prizes and Miller Light, and hung out with them on our roof deck, where we roasted my skin to its current, Colonel's Original recipe shade of brown. We were properly scandalized with them when our former second floor neighbors had loud sex in the hallway or dumped trash out the window or refused to make eye contact when passing us on the front steps. And once, just once, I came home very late at night and they welcomed me into their home for some life-giving drunk food, a beautifully-charred cheeseburger and some spicy potato salad that I will never forget. So goodbye, Emily, Libby, and Melissa, you will be missed!
Apparently their replacements are not destined to be a delight. I'm told they busted into the apartment to take a tour while everyone was sleeping, bringing their yapping toy poodle along for the ride. This was followed by a rather lengthy period of pointedly ignoring the now-roused current residents of the place while asking detailed questions about everything from the quality of the water to the size of the maintenance "staff." (I'm especially jazzed about this one, because prissy girls plus incompetent, non-English speaking man with a wrench equals fun.) A few vastly inappropriate slams to the decor later, they left as quickly as they had come. So obviously I'm so pumped to meet them myself.
And did I mention I was given the big shush by my second floor neighbors at 9:45 on a Thursday? After no more than 30 seconds of noise? This is going to be the best year ever.
