Sunday, September 29, 2013
Breaking Bad Finale Spoilers (Look Out!)
-- It was all a dream.
-- It wasn't cancer after all, just a bad cold.
-- Jesse has actually been dead the whole time.
-- Crossover appearances from the cast of Dance Moms.
-- Sklyer is a hologram.
-- Drugs are bad.
-- Walt moves to Seattle to host his own call-in radio show.
-- Visits from the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future remind everyone of the true meaning of Christmas.
-- Walt, Jr. has two different dates to the school dance, with hilarious consequences.
-- Two words: Celine Dion.
-- Hats, lots of hats.
-- All drug trafficking nationwide is brought to an immediate halt through the courageous efforts of DARE officers.
-- Everyone just says fuck it and lays on the couch watching Real Housewives.
-- It was all a dream.
-- It wasn't cancer after all, just a bad cold.
-- Jesse has actually been dead the whole time.
-- Crossover appearances from the cast of Dance Moms.
-- Sklyer is a hologram.
-- Drugs are bad.
-- Walt moves to Seattle to host his own call-in radio show.
-- Visits from the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future remind everyone of the true meaning of Christmas.
-- Walt, Jr. has two different dates to the school dance, with hilarious consequences.
-- Two words: Celine Dion.
-- Hats, lots of hats.
-- All drug trafficking nationwide is brought to an immediate halt through the courageous efforts of DARE officers.
-- Everyone just says fuck it and lays on the couch watching Real Housewives.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
In Which I Reach Amazing New Levels of Procrastination
I have to write an abstract for one of my articles this weekend. This is not a difficult or a time consuming thing to do. And yet, I do not really want to do it. It will require me to remember what the damn article is about and summarize it in a concise yet clever way. I may even have to read the thing. Clearly, I would rather watch Lifetime movies. And so I have spent the day so far coming up with other tasks that I can do instead of working on the abstract. For example, I voted all of the proxies that have been sitting on my kitchen counter for about three weeks. When I want to vote a proxy rather than do something, you can tell I really don't want to do that something, let me tell you. Although to be clear, I feel very strongly about which people I don't know should serve on the boards of corporations I don't remember buying stock in. I also wrote my acceptance speech for the alumni award I'm getting from my undergrad next weekend. It's supposed to be no more than two minutes long and it basically boils down to just "thank you," so clearly that needed doing. And I went through and shredded old bank statements. Yes, I still get some hard copy bank statements. Frankly, I'm begging for my identity to be stolen, because who ever takes it would likely use it far more productively than me.
I have to write an abstract for one of my articles this weekend. This is not a difficult or a time consuming thing to do. And yet, I do not really want to do it. It will require me to remember what the damn article is about and summarize it in a concise yet clever way. I may even have to read the thing. Clearly, I would rather watch Lifetime movies. And so I have spent the day so far coming up with other tasks that I can do instead of working on the abstract. For example, I voted all of the proxies that have been sitting on my kitchen counter for about three weeks. When I want to vote a proxy rather than do something, you can tell I really don't want to do that something, let me tell you. Although to be clear, I feel very strongly about which people I don't know should serve on the boards of corporations I don't remember buying stock in. I also wrote my acceptance speech for the alumni award I'm getting from my undergrad next weekend. It's supposed to be no more than two minutes long and it basically boils down to just "thank you," so clearly that needed doing. And I went through and shredded old bank statements. Yes, I still get some hard copy bank statements. Frankly, I'm begging for my identity to be stolen, because who ever takes it would likely use it far more productively than me.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
An Incomplete Guide to What Your Reading Material on the Train Says About You
The New Yorker -- I want to pretend that I'm deeply interested in the plight of the Syrians, but really I'm just going to read the criticism and the cartoons.
Harper's -- I like The New Yorker, but it's just not hysterically liberal enough for me.
The Utne Reader -- I hate myself.
The Economist -- I hate everyone else.
The Red Eye -- I am too lazy or too cheap to procure actual reading material, so I'll just skim this crap about Kim Kardashian's bangs.
The Hunger Games -- I think it's two years ago.
TIME -- I didn't realize they had invented the Internet.
Vanity Fair -- I'm dying to find out all the latest goings on in the 1940s.
Fifty Shades of Grey -- I have no shame.
Details -- I'm just not quite ready to come out of the closet yet.
US Weekly -- I have no desire to be taken seriously.
A Game of Thrones -- I think HBO has made this socially acceptable.
People -- I enjoy reading about other people's weight loss but have no plans to achieve my own.
The Wall Street Journal -- I got a six month free trial and have never bothered to cancel.
Entertainment Weekly -- I consider myself an industry insider because I read an interview with Joss Whedon once.
The Chicago Sun Times -- I like the Red Eye, but wish I had to pay for it.
Nothing -- I have no soul.
The New Yorker -- I want to pretend that I'm deeply interested in the plight of the Syrians, but really I'm just going to read the criticism and the cartoons.
Harper's -- I like The New Yorker, but it's just not hysterically liberal enough for me.
The Utne Reader -- I hate myself.
The Economist -- I hate everyone else.
The Red Eye -- I am too lazy or too cheap to procure actual reading material, so I'll just skim this crap about Kim Kardashian's bangs.
The Hunger Games -- I think it's two years ago.
TIME -- I didn't realize they had invented the Internet.
Vanity Fair -- I'm dying to find out all the latest goings on in the 1940s.
Fifty Shades of Grey -- I have no shame.
Details -- I'm just not quite ready to come out of the closet yet.
US Weekly -- I have no desire to be taken seriously.
A Game of Thrones -- I think HBO has made this socially acceptable.
People -- I enjoy reading about other people's weight loss but have no plans to achieve my own.
The Wall Street Journal -- I got a six month free trial and have never bothered to cancel.
Entertainment Weekly -- I consider myself an industry insider because I read an interview with Joss Whedon once.
The Chicago Sun Times -- I like the Red Eye, but wish I had to pay for it.
Nothing -- I have no soul.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Not Really Liveblogging the Emmys
I was maybe going to liveblog, but then I ended up having some other stuff to do and also not really being all that interested in the Emmys. It's been on in the background, though, so I can definitely share some thoughts.
The red carpet was kind of amazing, if only because it allowed me to continue to work on my detailed psychological profile of Ryan Seacrest. He somehow manages to seem genuinely uninterested in hearing any of the nominees talk about the work they are nominated for, while repeatedly badgering people for inane details of what they are wearing or what sort of terrible presenting patter they have been called upon to deliver. He kept asking people about the "secrets" of the opening number as though he was secretly hoping they might include the injection of bovine growth hormone into Ryan Seacrest. Also, he really seems terrified any time anyone tries to make a joke in his presence; humor might as well be Mandarin Chinese to him. And he also makes self deprecating jokes in that way where it is obvious that the person speaking actually does not appreciate jokes being made about him or her at all. There's a dissertation in him somewhere, I'm telling you.
I also enjoyed Julia Louis-Dreyfus's obvious indifference to everything having to do with the red carpet. When you already have three Emmys, Seinfeld money, and amazing bone structure, why should you give a fuck?
Frankly, Neil Patrick Harris has really gone too far. Explain to me why we have a host intro and two musical numbers while we are playing the actual winners off after about ten seconds of speaking? Also, when did the Emmys become an infomercial for How I Met Your Mother?
Can I also call unconscionability on Claire Danes wining yet again over Kerry Washington for Scandal? I know that the New Yorker wants to have about 10,000 of Claire's babies, but Kerry is popular over at Vanity Fair, America's Leading Magazine for Coverage of Dead Ladies. And also amazing.
What is God's name is wrong with Shemar Moore? He's just wandering around backstage talking next to (not with) famous people, mainly from fantastic CBS programming. And he feels the need to constantly refer to the fact that he's backstage. Okay, Shemar, we believe you, you're at the Emmys.
On a positive note, it was nice to see Tony Hale win for Veep. Although I would have preferred for him to accept as Buster and get his hook caught in the statuette.
Jeff Daniels over Bryan Cranston? I don't even watch Breaking Bad but Facebook has it covered for me and is appropriately outraged.
I can't even remember what Tina Fey won but I'm glad it was something. I feel like they should just give her everything, up to and including blue ribbons at various county fairs. But where are the glasses, Tina? They deserve to be recognized, too.
Okay, I know the show's not over yet, but I pretty much am. Talk amongst yourselves.
I was maybe going to liveblog, but then I ended up having some other stuff to do and also not really being all that interested in the Emmys. It's been on in the background, though, so I can definitely share some thoughts.
The red carpet was kind of amazing, if only because it allowed me to continue to work on my detailed psychological profile of Ryan Seacrest. He somehow manages to seem genuinely uninterested in hearing any of the nominees talk about the work they are nominated for, while repeatedly badgering people for inane details of what they are wearing or what sort of terrible presenting patter they have been called upon to deliver. He kept asking people about the "secrets" of the opening number as though he was secretly hoping they might include the injection of bovine growth hormone into Ryan Seacrest. Also, he really seems terrified any time anyone tries to make a joke in his presence; humor might as well be Mandarin Chinese to him. And he also makes self deprecating jokes in that way where it is obvious that the person speaking actually does not appreciate jokes being made about him or her at all. There's a dissertation in him somewhere, I'm telling you.
I also enjoyed Julia Louis-Dreyfus's obvious indifference to everything having to do with the red carpet. When you already have three Emmys, Seinfeld money, and amazing bone structure, why should you give a fuck?
Frankly, Neil Patrick Harris has really gone too far. Explain to me why we have a host intro and two musical numbers while we are playing the actual winners off after about ten seconds of speaking? Also, when did the Emmys become an infomercial for How I Met Your Mother?
Can I also call unconscionability on Claire Danes wining yet again over Kerry Washington for Scandal? I know that the New Yorker wants to have about 10,000 of Claire's babies, but Kerry is popular over at Vanity Fair, America's Leading Magazine for Coverage of Dead Ladies. And also amazing.
What is God's name is wrong with Shemar Moore? He's just wandering around backstage talking next to (not with) famous people, mainly from fantastic CBS programming. And he feels the need to constantly refer to the fact that he's backstage. Okay, Shemar, we believe you, you're at the Emmys.
On a positive note, it was nice to see Tony Hale win for Veep. Although I would have preferred for him to accept as Buster and get his hook caught in the statuette.
Jeff Daniels over Bryan Cranston? I don't even watch Breaking Bad but Facebook has it covered for me and is appropriately outraged.
I can't even remember what Tina Fey won but I'm glad it was something. I feel like they should just give her everything, up to and including blue ribbons at various county fairs. But where are the glasses, Tina? They deserve to be recognized, too.
Okay, I know the show's not over yet, but I pretty much am. Talk amongst yourselves.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Maine Event
Of course there must be photos. Here's a sampling.
They have lots of weird carvings like this one. I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be Dumbledore, but they got the wizard hat all wrong.
This is fairly low on the mountain. By the time we got higher I looked a lot more freaked out. Also I wasn't taking pictures because I thought it might somehow cause me to pitch down mountain.
P.S. Do you see how my body positioning here totally makes me look like I'm missing my left arm? Tyra would be so pissed.
We managed to find a restaurant here they'd glued crazy crap on the walls. A necessity on any trip, really.
Quaint. It is all very quaint. Even the minivan somehow looks quaint.
And here comes the bride! Liz always has known how to rock a veil. I always just assumed that she would become a professional mourner.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Maineiac
Seriously, they have all kinds of merchandise there that says "Maineiac" on it. Also merchandise that says "Caution: Women Shopping" and "Caution: Men Thinking." It is a highly hilarious state, obviously.
I don't think the signs warning you that moose might be crossing the highway are a joke, though. Fortunately the only thing we saw crossing the highway was a discarded Taco Bell bag.
Speaking of which, there was a Pizza Hut incident. On the way back, we were all starving and desperate for a place to eat where we wouldn't fear being shunned as non-locals. So we stopped at a Pizza Hut. We should have realized something was amiss from the fact that the paint on the roof was peeling worse than Nicole Kidman at the dermatologist. By the time we saw the woman changing a baby on her dining table, it was already too late. But regardless, mistakes were made. The waiter informed us that our food was running late because they had dropped my entrée on the floor. The implication was that they had replaced it, but it scares me that he never said it outright. And half of our order never arrived; the waiter gave us a lengthy explanation that boiled down to him forgetting to put that part of the order in. I will admit that the breadsticks were still delicious, though.
Anyway, have I said anything about the wedding itself? It was really lovely and touching; they did their own vows and the readers all selected their own readings. They had me give a toast and I managed to not wet myself or collapse into drunken sobbing. The bride and I also did an epic dance duet to Van Halen's "Jump." Just standard wedding stuff, you know.
Seriously, they have all kinds of merchandise there that says "Maineiac" on it. Also merchandise that says "Caution: Women Shopping" and "Caution: Men Thinking." It is a highly hilarious state, obviously.
I don't think the signs warning you that moose might be crossing the highway are a joke, though. Fortunately the only thing we saw crossing the highway was a discarded Taco Bell bag.
Speaking of which, there was a Pizza Hut incident. On the way back, we were all starving and desperate for a place to eat where we wouldn't fear being shunned as non-locals. So we stopped at a Pizza Hut. We should have realized something was amiss from the fact that the paint on the roof was peeling worse than Nicole Kidman at the dermatologist. By the time we saw the woman changing a baby on her dining table, it was already too late. But regardless, mistakes were made. The waiter informed us that our food was running late because they had dropped my entrée on the floor. The implication was that they had replaced it, but it scares me that he never said it outright. And half of our order never arrived; the waiter gave us a lengthy explanation that boiled down to him forgetting to put that part of the order in. I will admit that the breadsticks were still delicious, though.
Anyway, have I said anything about the wedding itself? It was really lovely and touching; they did their own vows and the readers all selected their own readings. They had me give a toast and I managed to not wet myself or collapse into drunken sobbing. The bride and I also did an epic dance duet to Van Halen's "Jump." Just standard wedding stuff, you know.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Into the Wild
Former Roommate Liz's wedding was this past weekend. It was in Bar Harbor, Maine, which as it turns out is quite far from here. We had to fly to Boston, drive for five hours, and then reverse the process. Still it was quite nice, though! It is pretty and quaint, as in fact is Former Roommate Liz. There's a lot of ocean, a lot of mountains, and a lot of trees. And the wedding was right on the water. I felt like Kathie Lee Gifford could pull up any moment on a Carnival Cruise, and then drown immediately, so long as we're fantasizing. Plus there were lots of cute shops where the owners close whenever they feel like it because damn it this is New England, and lots of breweries, and lots of tourist trap restaurants with a bunch of crazy crap glued up on their walls. Talk about Nirvana! No seriously, it will remind me of my adolescence; please talk about Nirvana.
Any trip of this size invariably creates a lot of incident, so I'll likely milk it over the course of a few days. Let me start by saying that I have no idea why I thought I was the kind of person who gets up at 3:45 to go to the airport and get on a flight. I literally wanted to kill every person that I saw. Add to that flying Southwest and therefore jockeying for position with every lazy eyed soccer mom in the Chicagoland area and you have a recipe for disaster. I did appreciate the nice cookies on the flight over, however.
There may or may not have been an incident or several where I screamed at the GPS lady for depicting turns in a confusing way. (Or for depicting staying on the same goddamned road as some sort of turn, for Pete's sake.) There was also definitely a very tense afternoon where we decided to drive up a mountain in the national park despite the fact that I am not the biggest fan of heights. I'm sure everyone else in the park enjoyed driving behind me at five miles per hour with the emergency lights on, however.
At one point we had an hour long conversation about The Golden Girls. This actually happened. We read quotes from IMDB out loud to see if we could guess which character said them. I was much better at this game than the game where we tried to guess who the 25 most viewed "celebrities" on IMDB were. Who the fuck is Dakota Johnson?
More to come when I feel like it.
Former Roommate Liz's wedding was this past weekend. It was in Bar Harbor, Maine, which as it turns out is quite far from here. We had to fly to Boston, drive for five hours, and then reverse the process. Still it was quite nice, though! It is pretty and quaint, as in fact is Former Roommate Liz. There's a lot of ocean, a lot of mountains, and a lot of trees. And the wedding was right on the water. I felt like Kathie Lee Gifford could pull up any moment on a Carnival Cruise, and then drown immediately, so long as we're fantasizing. Plus there were lots of cute shops where the owners close whenever they feel like it because damn it this is New England, and lots of breweries, and lots of tourist trap restaurants with a bunch of crazy crap glued up on their walls. Talk about Nirvana! No seriously, it will remind me of my adolescence; please talk about Nirvana.
Any trip of this size invariably creates a lot of incident, so I'll likely milk it over the course of a few days. Let me start by saying that I have no idea why I thought I was the kind of person who gets up at 3:45 to go to the airport and get on a flight. I literally wanted to kill every person that I saw. Add to that flying Southwest and therefore jockeying for position with every lazy eyed soccer mom in the Chicagoland area and you have a recipe for disaster. I did appreciate the nice cookies on the flight over, however.
There may or may not have been an incident or several where I screamed at the GPS lady for depicting turns in a confusing way. (Or for depicting staying on the same goddamned road as some sort of turn, for Pete's sake.) There was also definitely a very tense afternoon where we decided to drive up a mountain in the national park despite the fact that I am not the biggest fan of heights. I'm sure everyone else in the park enjoyed driving behind me at five miles per hour with the emergency lights on, however.
At one point we had an hour long conversation about The Golden Girls. This actually happened. We read quotes from IMDB out loud to see if we could guess which character said them. I was much better at this game than the game where we tried to guess who the 25 most viewed "celebrities" on IMDB were. Who the fuck is Dakota Johnson?
More to come when I feel like it.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
File Under Awakenings, Rude
So we have a new cleaning lady. I know this because she walked in on me in the bathroom at 7:30 this morning. It almost made me drop my iPhone in the toilet. Which could have seriously endangered my Candy Crush. But instead I just stupidly yelled "Hello! I'll be out in a minute!" As though she was hoping to have an amazing heart to heart. I honestly think she was more scared of me than I was of her, though, at least judging by her many exclamations in a foreign tongue.
You see, the previous cleaning lady never showed up before, say, 8:30, which gave me time to get my New Adventures of Old Christine on while getting dressed and ready for the day before heading out to the train. Apparently this new lady is more proactive. She did separately request that I show her where the cleaning supplies, towels, and vacuum are, though, which seemed a bit odd to me in light of the fact that they are all in the same place. Maybe she was just afraid to go looking for things in light of our earlier run in?
So I got ready in record time and ended up at work half an hour early. While she, apparently, went at our shower with dynamite and battery acid, as I have never seen it cleaner. A little more of that and I may have to marry the lady.
So we have a new cleaning lady. I know this because she walked in on me in the bathroom at 7:30 this morning. It almost made me drop my iPhone in the toilet. Which could have seriously endangered my Candy Crush. But instead I just stupidly yelled "Hello! I'll be out in a minute!" As though she was hoping to have an amazing heart to heart. I honestly think she was more scared of me than I was of her, though, at least judging by her many exclamations in a foreign tongue.
You see, the previous cleaning lady never showed up before, say, 8:30, which gave me time to get my New Adventures of Old Christine on while getting dressed and ready for the day before heading out to the train. Apparently this new lady is more proactive. She did separately request that I show her where the cleaning supplies, towels, and vacuum are, though, which seemed a bit odd to me in light of the fact that they are all in the same place. Maybe she was just afraid to go looking for things in light of our earlier run in?
So I got ready in record time and ended up at work half an hour early. While she, apparently, went at our shower with dynamite and battery acid, as I have never seen it cleaner. A little more of that and I may have to marry the lady.
Saturday, September 07, 2013
Apparently, Your Aunt Patti is Now Editing The New Yorker
A few weeks ago, The New Yorker devoted three pages of its print edition to a defense of Sex & The City, a show that went off the air almost ten years ago and that, judging by its bestselling DVDs and frequent replays on cable, really is not much in need of defense. Their TV critic, who by the way only infrequently rouses herself to write about shows that are actually happening right now, apparently read some dismissive comments about the show in a book that dealt with The Sopranos, The Wire, etc., and felt a strong need to respond. Because forget about Ulysses, Sex & The City was the greatest artistic achievement in the history of man. The characters were so real! You know, just like your friends who have fabulous apartments in Manhattan on writers' salaries and work at large law firms without ever once having to miss a weekend trip with the gal pals. The concept was so innovative! Because until then, no one had ever thought of reverse-aging The Golden Girls. Feminism! Because I'm pretty sure Gloria Steinem herself spends most of her time brunching and pining after a cold, adulterous, shallow sack of man flesh. So don't worry, the reputation of America's favorite sex comedy starring Seabiscuit has been restored. And keep an eye out for the upcoming takedown of Mary Tyler Moore. Why did people think it was good? She barely even got to first base!
The most recent issue, however, almost topped this with a nearly ten-page article about "the volcanic performances of Claire Danes." Yes, Dame Helen Mirren can go fuck herself, because Claire Danes is the greatest actress any time, anywhere. It seems like nearly every performance she's ever given, save perhaps those Latisse commercials, is giving a thorough tongue bathing. My So Called Life was Ibsen and Terminator 3 was Beckett. And let's not forget her 1992 episode of Law & Order!
I mean, I get it. You like things. But a national magazine is not your Pinterest board. That being said, if The New Yorker ever needs someone to cover Tyra Banks's seismic performances, I'm all over it.
A few weeks ago, The New Yorker devoted three pages of its print edition to a defense of Sex & The City, a show that went off the air almost ten years ago and that, judging by its bestselling DVDs and frequent replays on cable, really is not much in need of defense. Their TV critic, who by the way only infrequently rouses herself to write about shows that are actually happening right now, apparently read some dismissive comments about the show in a book that dealt with The Sopranos, The Wire, etc., and felt a strong need to respond. Because forget about Ulysses, Sex & The City was the greatest artistic achievement in the history of man. The characters were so real! You know, just like your friends who have fabulous apartments in Manhattan on writers' salaries and work at large law firms without ever once having to miss a weekend trip with the gal pals. The concept was so innovative! Because until then, no one had ever thought of reverse-aging The Golden Girls. Feminism! Because I'm pretty sure Gloria Steinem herself spends most of her time brunching and pining after a cold, adulterous, shallow sack of man flesh. So don't worry, the reputation of America's favorite sex comedy starring Seabiscuit has been restored. And keep an eye out for the upcoming takedown of Mary Tyler Moore. Why did people think it was good? She barely even got to first base!
The most recent issue, however, almost topped this with a nearly ten-page article about "the volcanic performances of Claire Danes." Yes, Dame Helen Mirren can go fuck herself, because Claire Danes is the greatest actress any time, anywhere. It seems like nearly every performance she's ever given, save perhaps those Latisse commercials, is giving a thorough tongue bathing. My So Called Life was Ibsen and Terminator 3 was Beckett. And let's not forget her 1992 episode of Law & Order!
I mean, I get it. You like things. But a national magazine is not your Pinterest board. That being said, if The New Yorker ever needs someone to cover Tyra Banks's seismic performances, I'm all over it.
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
Appearances Can Be Deceiving
So I had court again this morning. It was for a motion for extension of time, which usually just gets granted in an email without me even having to put on suit and go down there, but no matter how many times I checked my email there wasn't anything there, so I made the trek. It wasn't like a hundred degrees out and the security guard on duty wasn't the sassy one who always asks me sarcastically if I'm packing heat, so I actually felt okay about it. It kills me not checking my phone while I'm in there, but I don't want to be rude, even if I do have several critical simulation-type games in need of my attention. I sat there for probably half an hour listening to the rest of the call, as people argued about discovery and scheduling and which One Direction guy is the cutest, and then everything just kind of ended without my case ever being called. At which point the clerk gave me a sort of "what the fuck?" look and asked if I was there for the motion call. As opposed to what, the free ice cream? I said yes and gave him my case number. And he informed me that my motion had been granted without appearance. Um, what? What do you mean, "without appearance?" I'm right here! In my suit! But apparently they post the rulings on some of the motions on a bulletin board outside the courtroom, as though they were the results of the high school musical tryouts. And then don't tell anyone about it until after the call, because God knows what would happen if this information fell into the wrong hands.
Anyway, I had a good walk, I guess? And at least the motion was granted. So far I have a perfect record on basically uncontested motions that no one cares about.
So I had court again this morning. It was for a motion for extension of time, which usually just gets granted in an email without me even having to put on suit and go down there, but no matter how many times I checked my email there wasn't anything there, so I made the trek. It wasn't like a hundred degrees out and the security guard on duty wasn't the sassy one who always asks me sarcastically if I'm packing heat, so I actually felt okay about it. It kills me not checking my phone while I'm in there, but I don't want to be rude, even if I do have several critical simulation-type games in need of my attention. I sat there for probably half an hour listening to the rest of the call, as people argued about discovery and scheduling and which One Direction guy is the cutest, and then everything just kind of ended without my case ever being called. At which point the clerk gave me a sort of "what the fuck?" look and asked if I was there for the motion call. As opposed to what, the free ice cream? I said yes and gave him my case number. And he informed me that my motion had been granted without appearance. Um, what? What do you mean, "without appearance?" I'm right here! In my suit! But apparently they post the rulings on some of the motions on a bulletin board outside the courtroom, as though they were the results of the high school musical tryouts. And then don't tell anyone about it until after the call, because God knows what would happen if this information fell into the wrong hands.
Anyway, I had a good walk, I guess? And at least the motion was granted. So far I have a perfect record on basically uncontested motions that no one cares about.
Monday, September 02, 2013
Adult Education
Yesterday I taught my parents how to use Netflix. It went pretty well; there was no screaming or crying. I'm concerned there might not be enough dog-related programming (in the world, really) to satisfy them, but there's not much I can do about that. Unless I want to open my own television and film studio, like Tyler Perry. Which of course I do.
In other exciting news, we encountered a car that was on fire on our way back from dinner last night. It was sitting in the middle of the highway shooting flames high into the air. I was afraid that proximity to the burning car would somehow cause our car to explode (science), so I forced my parents to take the long way around to get home. I mean, it wasn't like Dame Judi Dench was coming over for cocktails or anything. Despite my repeated invitations.
And in a mere matter of hours, I will be getting back on the train for Chicago. The good news is I have switched out my iPhone music mix in the meantime; I can only listen to the Pitch Perfect soundtrack so many times. And in truth the appropriate number of times was probably zero. So with that and the Virginia Woolf book I will find multiple excuses not to read, I am more than equipped to go.
Yesterday I taught my parents how to use Netflix. It went pretty well; there was no screaming or crying. I'm concerned there might not be enough dog-related programming (in the world, really) to satisfy them, but there's not much I can do about that. Unless I want to open my own television and film studio, like Tyler Perry. Which of course I do.
In other exciting news, we encountered a car that was on fire on our way back from dinner last night. It was sitting in the middle of the highway shooting flames high into the air. I was afraid that proximity to the burning car would somehow cause our car to explode (science), so I forced my parents to take the long way around to get home. I mean, it wasn't like Dame Judi Dench was coming over for cocktails or anything. Despite my repeated invitations.
And in a mere matter of hours, I will be getting back on the train for Chicago. The good news is I have switched out my iPhone music mix in the meantime; I can only listen to the Pitch Perfect soundtrack so many times. And in truth the appropriate number of times was probably zero. So with that and the Virginia Woolf book I will find multiple excuses not to read, I am more than equipped to go.
Sunday, September 01, 2013
Yesterday's Top Story: It Was Hot
Well, not quite. The top story in the Quincy Herald Whig was actually "We Could Really Use Some Rain." And yes, it was in quotes. I hope they had two sources for that -- it's the sort of wild accusation you really shouldn't print without careful attribution.
Other top stories? Rotary Club Set to Revive Strassenfest. Handwriting Camp Helps Kids with Learning Difficulties. Airport Nominee Remains in Limbo. In fairness, Libya did manage to climb its way to the top story for today, but it was NOT getting any pull quotes or a picture.
Of course, my main interest was the comics, where I was finally able to catch up on Sally Forth's adventures. Turns out she still hasn't murdered her entire family, which is too bad. Dilbert hates his job (stop the presses!) and Hagar the Horrible has a complicated family life (women be nagging, yo). I really long for the good old days of Mary Worth and Rex Morgan, MD, when comic strips didn't feel the need to entertain so much as to represent the viewpoints of hectoring old white people. And Brenda Starr, Reporter, the comic strip where they had to remind you that Brenda Starr was a reporter in the title, because mainly she seemed to have weird romances in the strip. Great hair, though.
Parade Magazine has apparently whittled it down to a lean eight pages now. None of them exactly scintillating. If I have questions about Debra Messing's next project that I'd like to write in to a nationally-syndicated paper written on a third grade reading level, though, I'll know exactly where to turn.
I did do other things besides reading the paper today, of course. But how could they ever compare?
Well, not quite. The top story in the Quincy Herald Whig was actually "We Could Really Use Some Rain." And yes, it was in quotes. I hope they had two sources for that -- it's the sort of wild accusation you really shouldn't print without careful attribution.
Other top stories? Rotary Club Set to Revive Strassenfest. Handwriting Camp Helps Kids with Learning Difficulties. Airport Nominee Remains in Limbo. In fairness, Libya did manage to climb its way to the top story for today, but it was NOT getting any pull quotes or a picture.
Of course, my main interest was the comics, where I was finally able to catch up on Sally Forth's adventures. Turns out she still hasn't murdered her entire family, which is too bad. Dilbert hates his job (stop the presses!) and Hagar the Horrible has a complicated family life (women be nagging, yo). I really long for the good old days of Mary Worth and Rex Morgan, MD, when comic strips didn't feel the need to entertain so much as to represent the viewpoints of hectoring old white people. And Brenda Starr, Reporter, the comic strip where they had to remind you that Brenda Starr was a reporter in the title, because mainly she seemed to have weird romances in the strip. Great hair, though.
Parade Magazine has apparently whittled it down to a lean eight pages now. None of them exactly scintillating. If I have questions about Debra Messing's next project that I'd like to write in to a nationally-syndicated paper written on a third grade reading level, though, I'll know exactly where to turn.
I did do other things besides reading the paper today, of course. But how could they ever compare?
