never comment. I know of at least 4 people that have checked out my blog: one of them I'm sure is a regular, another is at least a semi-regular, and the other two are anybody's guess. Blogging is a two part exercise. The first part lets me have something to do when I'm bored and the other part is confirmation from the reader that my thoughts have been received. You're not living up to your end of the bargain.
I just drank what I believe to be some pretty suspect orange juice. It was a little zippier than orange juice ought to be and I think that its potential "having gone badness" is counteracting the effects of the vodka. After three shots I don't feel like I ought to after having had three shots in the space of half an hour. And I even made sure to eat a very light dinner so as to not ruin my planned alcohol consumption. Now, some people might say that that's the mark of an alcoholic...a functioning alcoholic but an alcoholic nonetheless. But the person that says that would be wrong. The mark of a high functioning alcoholic is pacing the drinking experience by consuming a glass of water for each shot or so. I, on the other hand, rush headlong into drunkenness and embrace binge drinking. It's my trademark. Still, I'm not sure what to think about that suspect orange juice.
You will surely regret this
Sam Brown--explodingdog.com
Thursday, August 30, 2007
New Directions
With the help of a co-worker that lives in Hagerstown, I figured out how to avoid both 495 and 270 on my way home to WV. I just go north on New Hampshire/Rt. 650 (the street I live on) until I hit Georgia Ave./97 and then hang a right on it. Then 70 will just sort of appear a little ways up from Cooksville. Whoo. Less traffic. Lots of stopping and starting and going through towns but still...way less traffic considering that I'm leaving Friday at rush hour right before a holiday weekend. This is way awesome.
Crummy Dreams
I had one where there was a great fear that maybe I was pregnant. We [with "we" being me and some faceless dude] went to get the morning after pill. Then we did it--again--and realized--again--that we had forgotten the condom. What a ripoff.
I have an understanding with children: I'm one of them except bigger and with more resources and so long as the smaller, less established children stay out of my way and I stay out of theirs, all is well. I won't try to horn in on their toys and they'll stay the eff away from my car and other possessions. The only time me and kids get in a rumble is when they stand outside of my apartment window and loudly meow at my cats. Cats, like me, are really freaked out by most kids and are generally turned off by the majority of human beings.
----------------------------
There was some link to an ABC news article on yahoo today about a family of 7 that was so frugal they lived on $35,000 a year. Big effing deal. They had such shocking tips as:
-compare grocery prices
-stick to a budget
-if you don't have money for it then don't buy it
-shop at thrift stores.
Seriously. That isn't so impressive. My parents had a family of 5 that they took care of on $17,000 a year. In addition, one of their kids (hooray, me) had some serious medical bills to a neurologist for frequent epilepsy related appointments and a therapist to break various OCD related compulsions. So yeah, I ain't feeling this whole "it sure is backbreaking to raise a family on $35,000" garbage.
I know it isn't cool these days to admire your parents, but my mom and dad did some pretty amazing stuff to make sure that we were all taken care of. When I was 5ish my mom was laid off and my dad was about to get laid off. He decided to get certified to be a bus driver for the board of education because that would allow him to have time off when we were at home and, you know, they wouldn't lay him off. (My dad has always been obsessive about spending time with his kids.) But before you're a full time bus driver you're a part time bus driver and that means that you have no steady income. On top of that my mom couldn't find work because, let's face it, there ain't a whole lot of work in West Virginia.
So my parents got creative. My dad learned how to do taxidermy (which is a family trade that both my grandfather and great grandfather had plied) and that brought in some extra cash, particuarly around deer season. We spent our summers cutting wood (among other things). Some of it was to heat our own house but we cut a ton of extra to sell to other people. Many of my childhood memories are tied to the smell of wood smoke [and immediately I think of my mom sitting by the barrel stove with its hatch open, tending/watching the fire and chainsmoking a pack of Basic Menthol Light 100s] and the rough feel of the wood as we'd unload and stack it. Or the way it's hard to keep your balance on a pile of split wood. But I digress.
My dad also did odd jobs for some old lady in Fairmont whose family didn't bother checking in on her. I think her name was Mrs. Black. He'd take us along on his jobs the same way that my grandfather had taken him along to play outside the mine while he dug coal or set him and his sister, Linda, atop the horse when he worked around the farm. We'd play in Mrs. Black's yard and watch dad work and she'd usually give us some freeze pops. It was good.
Then my mom had the idea to sell berries. We'd get up at 5:30 or 6:00 and put on flannel shirts, long pants, and boots to protect ourselves from the briars and bugs and snakes that were so thick in the areas where blackberries and raspberries were best. My mom would make us each an egg sandwich with cheese that we'd eat in the back of the truck on our way to the next holler over, Parker Run. We armed ourselves with various tools to cut back the growth. Dad usually had a scythe, Fred preferred a machete, and I had a sickle. Mom had a sickle too but I can't recall what Jay carried. We picked berries till our fingers were stained and we had several 5 gallon buckets filled. It gets hotter than you'd think in the woods. There's shade but the humidity is made worse by all the dew trapped around the leaves and in the grass. The dew takes forever to evaporate and all the while it makes it hotter and hotter. We'd go home when we ran out of water in the giant thermos or became too bogged down by the heat to pick anymore. But more often than not, we went home when my brothers and I started getting too rowdy to concentrate on berry picking and started playing war.
Man...I could spend a whole day just recollecting.
I have an understanding with children: I'm one of them except bigger and with more resources and so long as the smaller, less established children stay out of my way and I stay out of theirs, all is well. I won't try to horn in on their toys and they'll stay the eff away from my car and other possessions. The only time me and kids get in a rumble is when they stand outside of my apartment window and loudly meow at my cats. Cats, like me, are really freaked out by most kids and are generally turned off by the majority of human beings.
----------------------------
There was some link to an ABC news article on yahoo today about a family of 7 that was so frugal they lived on $35,000 a year. Big effing deal. They had such shocking tips as:
-compare grocery prices
-stick to a budget
-if you don't have money for it then don't buy it
-shop at thrift stores.
Seriously. That isn't so impressive. My parents had a family of 5 that they took care of on $17,000 a year. In addition, one of their kids (hooray, me) had some serious medical bills to a neurologist for frequent epilepsy related appointments and a therapist to break various OCD related compulsions. So yeah, I ain't feeling this whole "it sure is backbreaking to raise a family on $35,000" garbage.
I know it isn't cool these days to admire your parents, but my mom and dad did some pretty amazing stuff to make sure that we were all taken care of. When I was 5ish my mom was laid off and my dad was about to get laid off. He decided to get certified to be a bus driver for the board of education because that would allow him to have time off when we were at home and, you know, they wouldn't lay him off. (My dad has always been obsessive about spending time with his kids.) But before you're a full time bus driver you're a part time bus driver and that means that you have no steady income. On top of that my mom couldn't find work because, let's face it, there ain't a whole lot of work in West Virginia.
So my parents got creative. My dad learned how to do taxidermy (which is a family trade that both my grandfather and great grandfather had plied) and that brought in some extra cash, particuarly around deer season. We spent our summers cutting wood (among other things). Some of it was to heat our own house but we cut a ton of extra to sell to other people. Many of my childhood memories are tied to the smell of wood smoke [and immediately I think of my mom sitting by the barrel stove with its hatch open, tending/watching the fire and chainsmoking a pack of Basic Menthol Light 100s] and the rough feel of the wood as we'd unload and stack it. Or the way it's hard to keep your balance on a pile of split wood. But I digress.
My dad also did odd jobs for some old lady in Fairmont whose family didn't bother checking in on her. I think her name was Mrs. Black. He'd take us along on his jobs the same way that my grandfather had taken him along to play outside the mine while he dug coal or set him and his sister, Linda, atop the horse when he worked around the farm. We'd play in Mrs. Black's yard and watch dad work and she'd usually give us some freeze pops. It was good.
Then my mom had the idea to sell berries. We'd get up at 5:30 or 6:00 and put on flannel shirts, long pants, and boots to protect ourselves from the briars and bugs and snakes that were so thick in the areas where blackberries and raspberries were best. My mom would make us each an egg sandwich with cheese that we'd eat in the back of the truck on our way to the next holler over, Parker Run. We armed ourselves with various tools to cut back the growth. Dad usually had a scythe, Fred preferred a machete, and I had a sickle. Mom had a sickle too but I can't recall what Jay carried. We picked berries till our fingers were stained and we had several 5 gallon buckets filled. It gets hotter than you'd think in the woods. There's shade but the humidity is made worse by all the dew trapped around the leaves and in the grass. The dew takes forever to evaporate and all the while it makes it hotter and hotter. We'd go home when we ran out of water in the giant thermos or became too bogged down by the heat to pick anymore. But more often than not, we went home when my brothers and I started getting too rowdy to concentrate on berry picking and started playing war.
Man...I could spend a whole day just recollecting.
Unsecret Agent
So as soon as I got to the gym last night some lady was knocking on the door. I let her in and she proceeded to explain why she didn't have her key and how she left some stuff in there. I didn't pay much attention because none of it seemed terribly relevant.
But then she starts talking at me about skin care. How do I care for my skin? What products do I use? Wouldn't I like to keep my skin healthy? And in response I'm all, "What? Huh? Sure." Then she starts handing me all this Mary Kay junk. A coupon, a booklet, a fucking business card. And I'm wondering, "How rude is it if I throw this stuff away while she's still standing here?" But I didn't.
So we get to the point where she's just about done giving me her spiel and then she drops this gem of a rhetorical question in my lap. She says, "So you're a soldier?" Except, obviously, that question mark wasn't really there. She's saying, "You look like a soldier to me." And I'm all, "Schwa?" Seriously, I get that I have some masculine characteristics but a solider? It's one thing if she had assumed that I was in the army but no...she's assuming that I'm in the thick of it. On the front lines. Taking the shit and giving the shit right back. That's completely crazy.
I thought about saying some equally absurd rhetorical question right back at her like, "You're a panzer commander?" Except as soon as it occured to me I was like, "Wait...Panzer Commander is a video game. Damn, I bet this Mary Kay lady will assume that I mean the video game and not the person in charge of commanding a WWII German tank." At which point I had to stop thinking about panzer commanders b/c then I was thinking of Nazis and WWII and that book and the video game and was Eva Braun an attractive woman? I couldn't recall.
Instead, I said, "No. I'm not a soldier, but I do work for the government." Oh man, what? I had so much laughter inside my head when I heard myself saying this that it nearly caused my eyes to explode. On a scale of soldierly things with 1 being a writer/editor with USDA and 10 being a soldier, I'm pretty much a 1. But man...I'm sure she thought that I was at least like 5, with 5 being like an unsecret agent.
But then she starts talking at me about skin care. How do I care for my skin? What products do I use? Wouldn't I like to keep my skin healthy? And in response I'm all, "What? Huh? Sure." Then she starts handing me all this Mary Kay junk. A coupon, a booklet, a fucking business card. And I'm wondering, "How rude is it if I throw this stuff away while she's still standing here?" But I didn't.
So we get to the point where she's just about done giving me her spiel and then she drops this gem of a rhetorical question in my lap. She says, "So you're a soldier?" Except, obviously, that question mark wasn't really there. She's saying, "You look like a soldier to me." And I'm all, "Schwa?" Seriously, I get that I have some masculine characteristics but a solider? It's one thing if she had assumed that I was in the army but no...she's assuming that I'm in the thick of it. On the front lines. Taking the shit and giving the shit right back. That's completely crazy.
I thought about saying some equally absurd rhetorical question right back at her like, "You're a panzer commander?" Except as soon as it occured to me I was like, "Wait...Panzer Commander is a video game. Damn, I bet this Mary Kay lady will assume that I mean the video game and not the person in charge of commanding a WWII German tank." At which point I had to stop thinking about panzer commanders b/c then I was thinking of Nazis and WWII and that book and the video game and was Eva Braun an attractive woman? I couldn't recall.
Instead, I said, "No. I'm not a soldier, but I do work for the government." Oh man, what? I had so much laughter inside my head when I heard myself saying this that it nearly caused my eyes to explode. On a scale of soldierly things with 1 being a writer/editor with USDA and 10 being a soldier, I'm pretty much a 1. But man...I'm sure she thought that I was at least like 5, with 5 being like an unsecret agent.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Peanut butter...
Is the only sweet thing that I eat in giant, heaping gobs. I mean, I realize that peanut butter already sort of comes in gob form. But what I'm saying is that I seldom smear it on things unless the thing it's being smeared on is a spoon or my tongue. Why is that? When I eat chocolate I don't gorge. But peanut butter...oh sweet peanut butter...you've turned me into your bitch.
Varied
Whoo!!! Today's agenda includes a convoluted letter about Mexican cattle imports and another convoluted letter about foot-and-mouth disease. I'm living the life.
My boss brought in donuts today. So yeah, maybe I am actually living the life.
It looks like Ben will be at a Morrissey show on the night of the Lucero show that I've been thinking about going to. That's sort of good because I wasn't really sure that he enjoyed Lucero the last time we saw them. I mean, he likes them enough but he can't get really into them the way he gets really into Morrissey or They Might Be Giants or something. Also, it's hard enough to go to a bar that you hate to see a band that you love but taking someone along who also hates the bar and isn't in love with the band makes it that much more difficult to ignore all the bad things about the bar. That was a mouthful.
I'm doing the paperwork for my government sponsored trip to California. It's awesome that I get to go but it's totally unawesome to figure out the stupid maths that the government uses. On our timesheets, they teach you that if you work 8 1/2 hours you should call that 8.2 hours. If you work 8 hours and 45 minutes that would be 8.3 hours. It's all very counter-intuitive. I refuse to use that math on my timesheet so when I started filling it out with the correct maths I had to explain to our timekeeper how 8 1/2 hours actually translated to 8.5 hours. She was incredulous at first and still remains pretty skeptical about my civilian maths. I'm considering getting her an abacus for Christmas. We all have to start somewhere.
That Ryan Adams song "Life is Beautiful" sounds a lot like some of the stuff on the Velvet Goldmine soundtrack. That's sort of weird.
Christ...something amazing needs to happen. I gotta kick these blogs up a notch.
My boss brought in donuts today. So yeah, maybe I am actually living the life.
It looks like Ben will be at a Morrissey show on the night of the Lucero show that I've been thinking about going to. That's sort of good because I wasn't really sure that he enjoyed Lucero the last time we saw them. I mean, he likes them enough but he can't get really into them the way he gets really into Morrissey or They Might Be Giants or something. Also, it's hard enough to go to a bar that you hate to see a band that you love but taking someone along who also hates the bar and isn't in love with the band makes it that much more difficult to ignore all the bad things about the bar. That was a mouthful.
I'm doing the paperwork for my government sponsored trip to California. It's awesome that I get to go but it's totally unawesome to figure out the stupid maths that the government uses. On our timesheets, they teach you that if you work 8 1/2 hours you should call that 8.2 hours. If you work 8 hours and 45 minutes that would be 8.3 hours. It's all very counter-intuitive. I refuse to use that math on my timesheet so when I started filling it out with the correct maths I had to explain to our timekeeper how 8 1/2 hours actually translated to 8.5 hours. She was incredulous at first and still remains pretty skeptical about my civilian maths. I'm considering getting her an abacus for Christmas. We all have to start somewhere.
That Ryan Adams song "Life is Beautiful" sounds a lot like some of the stuff on the Velvet Goldmine soundtrack. That's sort of weird.
Christ...something amazing needs to happen. I gotta kick these blogs up a notch.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
For a group of burners you guys aren't very chillaxed.
The PDF listserv is also subject to arson. It's been set ablaze with chatter and characteristic burner fighting over the arson at Burning Man. I generally don't read the listserv emails. I only subscribed b/c I'd often hear people reference the fights that happen on the list and I never knew what they meant and I at least wanted to know which fight was being referred to. Well, it turns out that the list is primarily a place for grown men and women to get together and complain about capitalism, man. (Please read the sarcasm in there.) One of the biggest fights in recent history was about how the DJ that played during the pony burn at Spring PDF had the gall, the outright audacity to play We Didn't Start the Fire and Light My Fire and other amusing songs. HAfuckingHA. That's awesome. "But dude, how dare DJ Alucious Nebakus Firepants ruin my good time by playing tunes from dudes that are on major labels? He totally harshed on my mellow." And then like two dudes were all, "STFU." And then 300 burners pulled themselves away from staring at the tapestry on their wall to call all manner of hell down upon the STFU dudes by re-harshing on them and engaging in some seriously nasty name calling. I think they even accused them of pandering to the great, white capitalist fathers and consuming products...like, you know...ever. Wicked mean stuff in the burner world. So the STFU dudes tried to highlight the hypocritical nature of what was going on. How could burners--people deeply committed to being inclusive and accepting and kind--be so exclusive, unaccepting, and mean towards capitalists, consumers, the great, white fathers, and bitchin' songs by Billy Joel and The Doors? But the burners would not hear of it. Their retorts were weak but they came in mass. They flooded the listserv with their poor logic ("DUDE, I have never been to a store in my fucking life and I'm pretty sure that listening to Billy Joel is akin to filleting a baby.") much as they flood the port-a-potties with their granola infused crap. It was a sight to see. The STFU dudes could not escape the vitriol. And so, the fight ended in the STFU dudes taking their own advice and shutting TFU.
Oh but wait...I meant to blog about the arson again...damn. Next time.
Oh but wait...I meant to blog about the arson again...damn. Next time.
It sort of smells like a more flowery White Shoulders.
1,2,3 JERKFACE. A game. On the count of 3, be a complete jerkface. Go!
My phone rang at work and I took one of my earplugs out and sort of put it in between my lips. Noticed that it smelled like perfume. Took it out from between my lips and noticed it was bitter like the taste of perfume. Who's been putting perfume in my ears?
My hands also smell like perfume. I'm becoming suspicious that I've been losing entire periods of time. Maybe I was hanging out with a heavily perfumed lady and I don't even remember it but her scent lingers to remind me.
My phone rang at work and I took one of my earplugs out and sort of put it in between my lips. Noticed that it smelled like perfume. Took it out from between my lips and noticed it was bitter like the taste of perfume. Who's been putting perfume in my ears?
My hands also smell like perfume. I'm becoming suspicious that I've been losing entire periods of time. Maybe I was hanging out with a heavily perfumed lady and I don't even remember it but her scent lingers to remind me.
They totally shot their wad.
So Ben's at Burning Man right now. I declined to go this year b/c 1. it's costly, B. it's difficult, and III. it happens every year so there ain't no rush to get my Burning Man on. Anyway, Rob and Lauren sent me IMs this morning telling me that someone apparently set the man on fire last night. Fucking hilarious. Seriously. I'm sure there's a bunch of pissed off burners in the middle of the desert right now. I mean, I'm also sure there are a bunch of other burners laughing about it but I'm more entertained by the pissy ones. As a person that primarily appreciates the aspects of the burner culture that are more focused on debauchery and hooliganism rather than on hippy dippy shittyness, I'm thrilled by this act of either arson or accidental fire. I prefer to think it's arson. Since so many dickbags have turned burning culture into their religion and Burning Man into their church, it's pretty funny to see their idol burned before the ritual was completed. It's like someone just prematurely ejaculated on their deity. I'm sure that right about now (it's like 8:15 am in Nevada) Ben is sitting on one of those crummy uncomfortable stools of his in his dome and he's having a beer or a rockstar or something because it's already too fucking hot to be sleeping (so you might as well get drunk) and he's laughing about this entire incident. And it's Ben and people like him that make burner events worthwhile and interesting for me.
Upcoming show and more lyrics
Lucero is coming to the Black Cat on Halloween. I hate the Black Cat. The beer is overpriced, the bar is cash only, and the hipsters are so fucking hip. I checked around to see if they'd be playing in Morgantown during this particular bout of touring but the answer is no. So the question is, do I love Lucero enough to brave the crowd of jerkwads that don't sing along or get drunk or dance in order to be one of the dozen or so people (mostly from out of town) that sing every song and jump up and down and wild out? Possibly. And maybe more importantly, if you go to a Lucero show on Halloween, do you dress up?
I got that second Cory Branan album yesterday. It's awesome. Totally different from his first album but not inferior or superior...just different and awesome. Here are some lyric highlights.
The Prettiest Waitress in Memphis
Somehow she remembered my name though its been
Several months since I passed through this way
She said she’s lived here all her twenty three years
I said I’d be here for a day
Ordered the pecan pie and in the wink of an eye
Got a slice as big as my head
And her name and her number on a Sweet-n-Low package
Is the best poem that I’ve ever read
Muhammad Ali (and me)
My love put the deep in the ocean
My love talked the sky into going with blue
My love caused a big ol’ commotion
Cause that’s what love do
[And from another section of the same song]
You’re gonna fall for me so far
You’ll think you’ll never stop landing
You’re gonna fall for me so fast and hard
I’ll leave your shadow still standing
Tall Green Grass
There’s a whole mess of trouble up on Choctaw hill
You’re sister couldn’t make it but I bet you will
Knockin’ back a jelly jar of Watermelon wine
I ain’t never seen a place where the sun can’t…
Wash off all your make-up with a garden hose
Watch the freckles sparkle down the ridge of your nose
With your lemon yellow ribbons and your bleach blonde hair
Blendin’ in the sun until you’re barely there
We’ll be off the radar, off the map
Stretched out in the tall green grass
It’s only green against the blue
It’s only me against you
A man that says ‘Dreams don’t last’
Never slept in tall green grass
A man that says ‘Coo-coo-cachoo’
Did some time in the tall green grass with you
Warm molasses midnight on a Mississippi star
Candy apple moon on the hood of my car
Never could’ve told me you’d've gone this far
I can’t even tell you where the fuck we are
Must be off the radar, off the map…
Leave your reservations in the cold red clay
We got the tall green grass
For the whole damn day
We’ll be off the radar, off the map…
Easy
She said “Nobody ever walks no ocean
Nobody parts no sea
If you really wanna know devotion
Take heart in me"
[And this one is from the first album but I missed it when posting lyrics before.]
Whiskey Grove
I once knew the love of a wife
sometimes the nectar, sometimes the knife
I got that second Cory Branan album yesterday. It's awesome. Totally different from his first album but not inferior or superior...just different and awesome. Here are some lyric highlights.
The Prettiest Waitress in Memphis
Somehow she remembered my name though its been
Several months since I passed through this way
She said she’s lived here all her twenty three years
I said I’d be here for a day
Ordered the pecan pie and in the wink of an eye
Got a slice as big as my head
And her name and her number on a Sweet-n-Low package
Is the best poem that I’ve ever read
Muhammad Ali (and me)
My love put the deep in the ocean
My love talked the sky into going with blue
My love caused a big ol’ commotion
Cause that’s what love do
[And from another section of the same song]
You’re gonna fall for me so far
You’ll think you’ll never stop landing
You’re gonna fall for me so fast and hard
I’ll leave your shadow still standing
Tall Green Grass
There’s a whole mess of trouble up on Choctaw hill
You’re sister couldn’t make it but I bet you will
Knockin’ back a jelly jar of Watermelon wine
I ain’t never seen a place where the sun can’t…
Wash off all your make-up with a garden hose
Watch the freckles sparkle down the ridge of your nose
With your lemon yellow ribbons and your bleach blonde hair
Blendin’ in the sun until you’re barely there
We’ll be off the radar, off the map
Stretched out in the tall green grass
It’s only green against the blue
It’s only me against you
A man that says ‘Dreams don’t last’
Never slept in tall green grass
A man that says ‘Coo-coo-cachoo’
Did some time in the tall green grass with you
Warm molasses midnight on a Mississippi star
Candy apple moon on the hood of my car
Never could’ve told me you’d've gone this far
I can’t even tell you where the fuck we are
Must be off the radar, off the map…
Leave your reservations in the cold red clay
We got the tall green grass
For the whole damn day
We’ll be off the radar, off the map…
Easy
She said “Nobody ever walks no ocean
Nobody parts no sea
If you really wanna know devotion
Take heart in me"
[And this one is from the first album but I missed it when posting lyrics before.]
Whiskey Grove
I once knew the love of a wife
sometimes the nectar, sometimes the knife
Monday, August 27, 2007
Playing with my blood.
Driving by a McDonald's today I thought I saw a statue of an old lady. Then I realized that it was just an old lady that was standing very still.
Everyone at the doctor's office today was fat, or old, or both. Some of them were so fat that they were using a cane to get around. Some of them were so old that they couldn't stop shaking. And some of them were so both that their fatness and oldness pressed down on them and made it necessary that they carry their own oxygen around in little tanks. It was terrifying.
One lady in the waiting room was wearing her bathing suit top under her tank top. She was rough--not so much like a lady that had smoked a lot of cigarettes but more like a lady that was about to turn into a cigarette.
The nurse practicioner I saw was incredibly thorough. The breast exam took so long that I thought she was trying to woo me. It nearly worked.
She checked my ears, eyes, lungs, heart, reflexes, and took a reasonably extensive medical history. Everything looked normal and didn't elicit much of a reaction but when she looked into my ears she exclaimed, "Your ears look great!" It made me proud of my ears for the first time in my life.
After all that, she moved on to the uncomfortable part of the exam where she checks your lady bits to make sure that everything is in order and looks presentable and then the council has to make a determination about whether you're allowed to return to the world with your genitals in an "as is" condition.
After taking samples of the inside, doing that weird abdomen pressing thing to make sure I don't have cancerous masses, and generally poking around in a scientific fashion, she pronounced me visually healthy and sent me to the lab for all the blood work.
They took 6 vacutainers of blood from me, 4 large and 2 small. Seems like a lot of blood for a few tests but they're doing my annual cholesterol screening and all that jazz in addition to the all the STD tests. I don't mind getting this sort of thing done. I don't hate going to the doctor. I don't mind being poked and prodded at. As a person that had a lot of health issues when I was very young (and as a person that wants to be on top of the whole health thing), I'm quite accustomed to having a wide array of the medical community looking at and examining various bits of me. What I do mind is that when you get tests like this done they don't often call and explain things to you or send you the test results (even though you probably wouldn't understand them). Most doctors only call if they find that something is wrong. That bothers me. I pay for the tests but then they don't deliver them in any concrete way. How's come they don't send me difficult to understand documents that affirm or deny various things about my health? If they sent me that, I'd put it in a file somewhere. And then when I looked back at my insurance claims I could feel like I really got my insurance worth. As it is, I have no real idea that they actually tested me for those things. Maybe they just sit around playing with my blood. Who can say?
Everyone at the doctor's office today was fat, or old, or both. Some of them were so fat that they were using a cane to get around. Some of them were so old that they couldn't stop shaking. And some of them were so both that their fatness and oldness pressed down on them and made it necessary that they carry their own oxygen around in little tanks. It was terrifying.
One lady in the waiting room was wearing her bathing suit top under her tank top. She was rough--not so much like a lady that had smoked a lot of cigarettes but more like a lady that was about to turn into a cigarette.
The nurse practicioner I saw was incredibly thorough. The breast exam took so long that I thought she was trying to woo me. It nearly worked.
She checked my ears, eyes, lungs, heart, reflexes, and took a reasonably extensive medical history. Everything looked normal and didn't elicit much of a reaction but when she looked into my ears she exclaimed, "Your ears look great!" It made me proud of my ears for the first time in my life.
After all that, she moved on to the uncomfortable part of the exam where she checks your lady bits to make sure that everything is in order and looks presentable and then the council has to make a determination about whether you're allowed to return to the world with your genitals in an "as is" condition.
After taking samples of the inside, doing that weird abdomen pressing thing to make sure I don't have cancerous masses, and generally poking around in a scientific fashion, she pronounced me visually healthy and sent me to the lab for all the blood work.
They took 6 vacutainers of blood from me, 4 large and 2 small. Seems like a lot of blood for a few tests but they're doing my annual cholesterol screening and all that jazz in addition to the all the STD tests. I don't mind getting this sort of thing done. I don't hate going to the doctor. I don't mind being poked and prodded at. As a person that had a lot of health issues when I was very young (and as a person that wants to be on top of the whole health thing), I'm quite accustomed to having a wide array of the medical community looking at and examining various bits of me. What I do mind is that when you get tests like this done they don't often call and explain things to you or send you the test results (even though you probably wouldn't understand them). Most doctors only call if they find that something is wrong. That bothers me. I pay for the tests but then they don't deliver them in any concrete way. How's come they don't send me difficult to understand documents that affirm or deny various things about my health? If they sent me that, I'd put it in a file somewhere. And then when I looked back at my insurance claims I could feel like I really got my insurance worth. As it is, I have no real idea that they actually tested me for those things. Maybe they just sit around playing with my blood. Who can say?
I told you so.
Apparently, while I was at the doctor's office, Alberto Gonzales announced his resignation. I totally told you jerks he couldn't make it to the end of Bush's term. SCORE! More on my trip to the doctor later.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Object Petit A
I always mark spam as spam and yahoo tells me that this will train my spam filters to work better for me. That's such a fucking lie. Since I started marking things as spam, way more spam has been escaping my filters and making its way to my inbox. Either that or I may already have won a vacation or an inheritance from my long lost uncle in Nigeria. It's all fuzzy.
I had two misadventures in consumerism this weekend as I tried to attain my objet petit a. (Fuck you, Lacan!) As my friend Paul nicely summarized (or perhaps he stole the summary from one of our lit. theory books):
"According to French psychoanalysis, people suffer impossible lack and incompleteness starting from the moment when (as babies) they realize they are distinct from the world and other people. For our entire lives we seek things we believe we want (an iPod nano, black tar heroin, relationships, hair extensions, acceptance) because these are proxies for our real desire to once again achieve universal completion, a sort of depersonalized utopia. The thing we want which takes the place of this secular nirvana is called the objet petit a which means little object a."
So, by its very definition, the objet petit a is unattainable. Or at least, unattainable in the sense that it never fills the void we want it to fill. What was unfortunate about my attempts to spend money and be a good consumer this weekend is that I couldn't even get my grubby little hands on the objects that were bound to not fill my void. Generally, one wants their objet petit a and thinks it will complete them and then finds that that isn't the case. But this weekend I couldn't even manage to buy the things. After picking out clothes at H&M that I was sure would make me a more attractive winner, I became disenchanted by the size of the checkout line and abandoned my potential purchases. That was sort of unfortunate but also pleasing. I had, in a manner of speaking, saved money.
With a renewed sense of determination, I went to PG Plaza early today and was sure that I'd walk away with glorious purchases that I couldn't really afford but that would, nonetheless, improve the quality of my life to such an extent that the costliness would be justified. Same situation. I picked out a bunch of work appropriate stuff and then saw that each line was at least 10 asstards deep. I made my way to the express checkout where fortune was on my side and I totally was the next person in line. Then some old lady came up to me and said, "I think I'm next in line. You just walked in front of me." I had. But there was a good reason. This crazy old bitch was queued up in front of the other express line. But whatever. I was all, "That's cool." And I wandered away from the checkout lines and dropped the armload of lightweight fall sweaters that would have made me a better person and filled the gaping hole in my soul onto a rack and promptly left Target. Fuck that ish.
I had two misadventures in consumerism this weekend as I tried to attain my objet petit a. (Fuck you, Lacan!) As my friend Paul nicely summarized (or perhaps he stole the summary from one of our lit. theory books):
"According to French psychoanalysis, people suffer impossible lack and incompleteness starting from the moment when (as babies) they realize they are distinct from the world and other people. For our entire lives we seek things we believe we want (an iPod nano, black tar heroin, relationships, hair extensions, acceptance) because these are proxies for our real desire to once again achieve universal completion, a sort of depersonalized utopia. The thing we want which takes the place of this secular nirvana is called the objet petit a which means little object a."
So, by its very definition, the objet petit a is unattainable. Or at least, unattainable in the sense that it never fills the void we want it to fill. What was unfortunate about my attempts to spend money and be a good consumer this weekend is that I couldn't even get my grubby little hands on the objects that were bound to not fill my void. Generally, one wants their objet petit a and thinks it will complete them and then finds that that isn't the case. But this weekend I couldn't even manage to buy the things. After picking out clothes at H&M that I was sure would make me a more attractive winner, I became disenchanted by the size of the checkout line and abandoned my potential purchases. That was sort of unfortunate but also pleasing. I had, in a manner of speaking, saved money.
With a renewed sense of determination, I went to PG Plaza early today and was sure that I'd walk away with glorious purchases that I couldn't really afford but that would, nonetheless, improve the quality of my life to such an extent that the costliness would be justified. Same situation. I picked out a bunch of work appropriate stuff and then saw that each line was at least 10 asstards deep. I made my way to the express checkout where fortune was on my side and I totally was the next person in line. Then some old lady came up to me and said, "I think I'm next in line. You just walked in front of me." I had. But there was a good reason. This crazy old bitch was queued up in front of the other express line. But whatever. I was all, "That's cool." And I wandered away from the checkout lines and dropped the armload of lightweight fall sweaters that would have made me a better person and filled the gaping hole in my soul onto a rack and promptly left Target. Fuck that ish.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Some dude on a bike plus Putin and Obama.
After yesterday's run I was walking from the park back to the USDA building to get my car when a guy in his 50s stopped his bike and asked me if I had a good run. I said that I did. He went on (and on and on) to explain that he wanted to lose another 25 lbs. He used to weigh over 400 lbs. but he couldn't really be blamed for that. He was coming off a bad injury. He was in a car accident and was partially paralyzed for about 12 years. He had to learn to walk all over again and "shit like that." But since then he's completely regained the use of the paralyzed portions of his body and lost a lot of weight through his newfound passion for physical activity. He seemed so pleased with himself. I wanted to encourage him but also to address him as if we were old friends, to return the favor of familiarity that he had started. But it's hard to do that when the person in front of you--stranger or not--is already becoming the main character in the story of their life, as envisioned by you. It's hard to treat them as real when you're thinking of yourself as the omniscient narrator. So, not sure what to say, I just opened my mouth and what came out was, "That's awesome. Keep it up, man." And immediately I was wondering why my way of being familiar with this stranger was to be so obviously masculine. I guess it'd be far stranger if I was obviously feminine with him. I'm not even sure what those words would be, the obviously feminine ones.Apparently, there's a big stir over the pictures of a vacationing Vladimir Putin going shirtless while fishing in the Siberian mountains. Russian women are swooning, gay men are saying it's a tacit sign that Putin supports gay rights in a country that's fairly homophobic, and political pundits think it's an attempt to rally support so that Putin doesn't have to reli
nquish his position at the end of his second term as he's promised he would (and as is required by Russia's constitution). Clearly, Putin is a far sexier man than his predecessor, Boris Yeltsin. Not that it's hard to be sexier than Boris Yeltsin. (There's a joke or a new slang term to be had in there somewhere.) Based on the kind of public image he wants to project and not paying any attention to his politics, I'm going to go out on a non-existent limb here and say that I would vote for Putin were I allowed to vote in Russia. He's virile. In that one picture we can clearly see that he's carrying a bowie knife. Now let me be clear: I don't care if Putin uses that bowie knife or not. I don't care if his entire camo outfit is staged to make him appear like the kind of robust dude that could have his way with me in the middle of a Siberian forest where the vigilant eyes of cold Mother Russia would be watching. It doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is that he's the kind of dude that wants this to be his public image. Golly, I wonder where, in American politics, I can find someone that has an energetic, youthful, virile appearance that I can really get behind. Hmmm....
nquish his position at the end of his second term as he's promised he would (and as is required by Russia's constitution). Clearly, Putin is a far sexier man than his predecessor, Boris Yeltsin. Not that it's hard to be sexier than Boris Yeltsin. (There's a joke or a new slang term to be had in there somewhere.) Based on the kind of public image he wants to project and not paying any attention to his politics, I'm going to go out on a non-existent limb here and say that I would vote for Putin were I allowed to vote in Russia. He's virile. In that one picture we can clearly see that he's carrying a bowie knife. Now let me be clear: I don't care if Putin uses that bowie knife or not. I don't care if his entire camo outfit is staged to make him appear like the kind of robust dude that could have his way with me in the middle of a Siberian forest where the vigilant eyes of cold Mother Russia would be watching. It doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is that he's the kind of dude that wants this to be his public image. Golly, I wonder where, in American politics, I can find someone that has an energetic, youthful, virile appearance that I can really get behind. Hmmm....
Yes, Barack. You have wowed me with your reasonable level of fitness and your staunch anti-Iraq war sentiments. And while I'm sad that I can't vote in Russia, you make it okay that I can vote in the United States.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Yep, I have like a buttload of them.
Lots of office gossip and intrigue today. None of it fun for people that don't work in this office.
After a day and a half of listening to that Cory Branan album I broke down and bought his newest album too. I couldn't imagine continuing to live a life that doesn't maximize on my exposure to him.
Put some Gillian Welch and Emmylou Harris on my Amazon wishlist.
The type of person that I'm becoming with regard to music is not what I would have expected but at the same time it seems like I should have been expecting that.
-----------------------------------
Cooper's AIM away message today was "Hire me, you big, beautiful bastards!" It cracks me up every time I see it. You're hired!
I've also decided that buttload is my preferred way to measure things. This term has fallen out of popular usage in my vocabulary and I'm planning to resurrect it.
------------------------------------
My legs feel like they're rubberbands that have been snapped a few too many times. For the past few months it's been too hot to run outside so I've been using the elliptical in the gym. Your muscles forget pretty quickly what it's like to deal with jarring motions. I can't wait to do it again today.
After a day and a half of listening to that Cory Branan album I broke down and bought his newest album too. I couldn't imagine continuing to live a life that doesn't maximize on my exposure to him.
Put some Gillian Welch and Emmylou Harris on my Amazon wishlist.
The type of person that I'm becoming with regard to music is not what I would have expected but at the same time it seems like I should have been expecting that.
-----------------------------------
Cooper's AIM away message today was "Hire me, you big, beautiful bastards!" It cracks me up every time I see it. You're hired!
I've also decided that buttload is my preferred way to measure things. This term has fallen out of popular usage in my vocabulary and I'm planning to resurrect it.
------------------------------------
My legs feel like they're rubberbands that have been snapped a few too many times. For the past few months it's been too hot to run outside so I've been using the elliptical in the gym. Your muscles forget pretty quickly what it's like to deal with jarring motions. I can't wait to do it again today.
Awesome Cory Branan Lyrics
I tried to find my favorite bits but when it comes to Skateland South there's no such thing as a favorite bit. The entire thing is like a fourth grade sucker punch.
I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that as a songwriter, Cory Branan can do no wrong. I feel like I owe Lucero money for mentioning him in a song and getting me to buy this album.
Crush
i'm a 16 year old hitler with a crazy lovesick mind
do you get the picture?
i am of the dangerous kind
Skateland South
every other sunday at the skateland south
i always end up with my skate in my mouth
maybe this is the day i can make some ok sentences
hell i might as well undo my laces because there she is
all marshmallow-white and bubblegum-pink
her dreamsicle roller-skates circle the rink
and this pastel heaven can last until seven or eight
if my mom watches Falcon Crest
sometimes she picks me up late
hey D.J. play the one i know you know
as i roll across the carpet smooth and slow
ease the neon nice and low
the next one ins couple skate only
my friends bet their quarters that i'm gonna cave
but this seventh soda pop's making me brave
or maybe it's the black lite
but the moment looks right to me
so i roll up like romeo, juliet say can you see
that video game - that's Galaxia 4
one day i'll get the highest score
and i'll type in your name
i wanna share all this fame with you
and we'll celebrate with a couple skate, or two
hey D.J. play the one i know you know ...
Tame
they say the center of a hurricane is a deadly calm
the center of the girl i love
is the twenty-third psalm
Love Song 8
need her like a crack-baby, i can see her in the dark
came together so hard we broke both our hearts
now i'm whistling dixie, spittin' teeth
i can't shed this skin she's underneath
Crackerjack Heart
girl i miss your crackerjack heart
and the fake tattoos that say 'Forever Yours'
i could tear this town apart
looking for a toy, but that's not the point
when all i'm after is a simple surprise
it's the way you taste like a storm
rolling in across the bed
the way you answer me with those eyes
speaking volumes about things unsaid
the way your dumbest joke finds a laugh
that's been welling in my darkest place
ever since i was an atom or a star
smiling like i had a face
I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that as a songwriter, Cory Branan can do no wrong. I feel like I owe Lucero money for mentioning him in a song and getting me to buy this album.
Crush
i'm a 16 year old hitler with a crazy lovesick mind
do you get the picture?
i am of the dangerous kind
Skateland South
every other sunday at the skateland south
i always end up with my skate in my mouth
maybe this is the day i can make some ok sentences
hell i might as well undo my laces because there she is
all marshmallow-white and bubblegum-pink
her dreamsicle roller-skates circle the rink
and this pastel heaven can last until seven or eight
if my mom watches Falcon Crest
sometimes she picks me up late
hey D.J. play the one i know you know
as i roll across the carpet smooth and slow
ease the neon nice and low
the next one ins couple skate only
my friends bet their quarters that i'm gonna cave
but this seventh soda pop's making me brave
or maybe it's the black lite
but the moment looks right to me
so i roll up like romeo, juliet say can you see
that video game - that's Galaxia 4
one day i'll get the highest score
and i'll type in your name
i wanna share all this fame with you
and we'll celebrate with a couple skate, or two
hey D.J. play the one i know you know ...
Tame
they say the center of a hurricane is a deadly calm
the center of the girl i love
is the twenty-third psalm
Love Song 8
need her like a crack-baby, i can see her in the dark
came together so hard we broke both our hearts
now i'm whistling dixie, spittin' teeth
i can't shed this skin she's underneath
Crackerjack Heart
girl i miss your crackerjack heart
and the fake tattoos that say 'Forever Yours'
i could tear this town apart
looking for a toy, but that's not the point
when all i'm after is a simple surprise
it's the way you taste like a storm
rolling in across the bed
the way you answer me with those eyes
speaking volumes about things unsaid
the way your dumbest joke finds a laugh
that's been welling in my darkest place
ever since i was an atom or a star
smiling like i had a face
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I'm gonna
go running in the rain after work. And I'm going to think a million thoughts that I won't be able to remember once my blood cools and they'll all be gorgeous or ingenious but also completely useless and more important for being ephemeral than they would have been if they were enduring.
you shoulda told me sooner
I cried during an episode of Buffy last night. I couldn't help myself. It was Season 4 and Oz finally came back to Sunnydale but Willow was already involved with Tara and difficult decisions had to be made regarding this love triangle and Willow defended her feelings for Oz by saying the only thing you can say about Oz which is, "He's Oz" and that's all that needs to be said because Oz is so thoroughly Oz that everyone knows what that means and you can't say the same thing about Tara because Tara is Tara and not Oz and so Willow's choice to stay with Tara instead of Oz dragged from my tiny little heart any remaining bitty bits of human sentiment that I can muster and now I've wasted it all on fictional characters and my heart is used up, done, and spent and there's just the humdrum laying about, the reclining exhaustion and ohmyfuckinggod, I might have to have sex with this Ryan Adams album if he keeps singing like that. Read that last part as an exclamation because that's how I intend it.
I sometimes feel a bit angry that my friends didn't sit me down and properly explain to me the benefits of having an interest in music. It seemed to me that music was the most hasslesome cultural signifier. Much like a cool pair of jeans can make you look awesome, an interest in good music can make you look awesome with the exception that it requires you to know a bunch of stuff about bands and the people in them and what they do and the labels they're on and all that junk. I didn't realize until later that you didn't have to be a pretentious ass to like music. Additionally, and more importantly, I didn't realize that music could benefit me rather than just identifying me as a member of various subcultures to others. Someone should have said something.
I sometimes feel a bit angry that my friends didn't sit me down and properly explain to me the benefits of having an interest in music. It seemed to me that music was the most hasslesome cultural signifier. Much like a cool pair of jeans can make you look awesome, an interest in good music can make you look awesome with the exception that it requires you to know a bunch of stuff about bands and the people in them and what they do and the labels they're on and all that junk. I didn't realize until later that you didn't have to be a pretentious ass to like music. Additionally, and more importantly, I didn't realize that music could benefit me rather than just identifying me as a member of various subcultures to others. Someone should have said something.
Whooo!!!! College!!!!
Once again, WVU gets serious street cred as a place to get drunk before 9pm and vomit all over high street. Seriously, not that long ago I saw this girl all tarted up and she was sitting beside a pile of her vomit in front of that fancy furniture store downtown. Some dude was trying to get her up to continue partying. Awesome.
W.Va. University tops party school list
By VICKI SMITH, Associated Press WriterTue Aug 21, 5:03 AM ET
To the disappointment of school administrators — and the pride of some students — West Virginia University is No. 1 on The Princeton's Review's annual list of the top 20 party schools.
The school has made the list seven times in the past 15 years, despite efforts to curb underage drinking and rowdy behavior.
But not since 1997 have the Mountaineers taken the top spot. Last year, WVU was No. 3, bested by the University of Texas at Austin and Penn State, both of which remain in the top 10 this year.
Senior Katie O'Hara, 22, said WVU is No. 1 because "no matter what kind of party you want it's here — bars, fraternities, house parties. ... If you want to take shots all night, there's a bar; no matter what you want to do, it's there."
Still, O'Hara said her friends "know how to manage their time. They know when to party and when not to," which wouldn't explain the school's No. 1 ranking in the category of Their Students (Almost) Never Study.
The rankings are contained in the 2008 edition of "The Best 366 Colleges," which is going on sale Tuesday and is based on a survey of 120,000 college students at those schools, mostly during the 2006-07 school year.
No. 2 on the party list was the University of Mississippi, followed by the UT-Austin, the University of Florida and the University of Georgia.
West Virginia's No. 1 ranking is just speculation, said West Virginia sophomore Stuart Sauer.
"I think there's no way to measure that," said Sauer, 20, of Richmond, Va. "Every school's a party school."
Incoming WVU President Mike Garrison focused on the positive rather than the rankings, saying the students he met over the weekend and on the first day of classes Monday are more concerned with their futures "and with the great year we have ahead" than with partying.
"I'm focused on the way this university changes people's lives, the research that we do and the service we provide to the state of West Virginia," said Garrison, who officially replaces David C. Hardesty Jr. on Sept. 1. "This is a special place, and the whole state is proud of it."
The Princeton Review says the guide to the best schools is intended to help applicants who can't visit every school in person.
Guide author Robert Franek said each of the 366 schools "is a 'best' when it comes to academics.
"But as anyone visiting colleges can attest, their campus cultures and offerings differ greatly," he said. "It's all about the fit."
At the other end of the partying spectrum is Brigham Young University, claiming the top spot in the "Stone Cold Sober" category for the 10th straight year.
The book has 62 categories in all, including: Best Campus Food, Virginia Tech; Most Beautiful Campus, Sweet Briar (Va.); Dorms Like Palaces, Smith College (Mass.); and Birkenstock-Wearing, Tree-Hugging, Clove-Smoking Vegetarians, Hampshire College (Mass).
This year, WVU finishes among the Top 10 in several other categories: No. 4 in Students Pack the Stadiums; No. 5 for Best College Library; No. 6 for Lots of Beer; No. 7 for Lots of Hard Liquor; and No. 8 for Best College Newspaper.
The Princeton Review, which is not affiliated with Princeton University, is a New York company known for test preparation courses, educational services and books. It published its first survey findings in August 1992.
W.Va. University tops party school list
By VICKI SMITH, Associated Press WriterTue Aug 21, 5:03 AM ET
To the disappointment of school administrators — and the pride of some students — West Virginia University is No. 1 on The Princeton's Review's annual list of the top 20 party schools.
The school has made the list seven times in the past 15 years, despite efforts to curb underage drinking and rowdy behavior.
But not since 1997 have the Mountaineers taken the top spot. Last year, WVU was No. 3, bested by the University of Texas at Austin and Penn State, both of which remain in the top 10 this year.
Senior Katie O'Hara, 22, said WVU is No. 1 because "no matter what kind of party you want it's here — bars, fraternities, house parties. ... If you want to take shots all night, there's a bar; no matter what you want to do, it's there."
Still, O'Hara said her friends "know how to manage their time. They know when to party and when not to," which wouldn't explain the school's No. 1 ranking in the category of Their Students (Almost) Never Study.
The rankings are contained in the 2008 edition of "The Best 366 Colleges," which is going on sale Tuesday and is based on a survey of 120,000 college students at those schools, mostly during the 2006-07 school year.
No. 2 on the party list was the University of Mississippi, followed by the UT-Austin, the University of Florida and the University of Georgia.
West Virginia's No. 1 ranking is just speculation, said West Virginia sophomore Stuart Sauer.
"I think there's no way to measure that," said Sauer, 20, of Richmond, Va. "Every school's a party school."
Incoming WVU President Mike Garrison focused on the positive rather than the rankings, saying the students he met over the weekend and on the first day of classes Monday are more concerned with their futures "and with the great year we have ahead" than with partying.
"I'm focused on the way this university changes people's lives, the research that we do and the service we provide to the state of West Virginia," said Garrison, who officially replaces David C. Hardesty Jr. on Sept. 1. "This is a special place, and the whole state is proud of it."
The Princeton Review says the guide to the best schools is intended to help applicants who can't visit every school in person.
Guide author Robert Franek said each of the 366 schools "is a 'best' when it comes to academics.
"But as anyone visiting colleges can attest, their campus cultures and offerings differ greatly," he said. "It's all about the fit."
At the other end of the partying spectrum is Brigham Young University, claiming the top spot in the "Stone Cold Sober" category for the 10th straight year.
The book has 62 categories in all, including: Best Campus Food, Virginia Tech; Most Beautiful Campus, Sweet Briar (Va.); Dorms Like Palaces, Smith College (Mass.); and Birkenstock-Wearing, Tree-Hugging, Clove-Smoking Vegetarians, Hampshire College (Mass).
This year, WVU finishes among the Top 10 in several other categories: No. 4 in Students Pack the Stadiums; No. 5 for Best College Library; No. 6 for Lots of Beer; No. 7 for Lots of Hard Liquor; and No. 8 for Best College Newspaper.
The Princeton Review, which is not affiliated with Princeton University, is a New York company known for test preparation courses, educational services and books. It published its first survey findings in August 1992.
Monday, August 20, 2007
la la la la la
I got a text message this morning from a very close friend whose long term relationship just ended. I called and commiserated. I agreed that the situation was sucky and that it was likely to be sucky for a while. (It's awful when people try to tell you that the clearly shitty circumstances you find yourself facing are not as clearly shitty as they obviously are. I didn't want to do that.) I asked if there was anything I could do. But there clearly isn't and I just felt ineffectual. I was sad for my friend and sad to bear witness to the end of a super cool couple.
The end of a long term relationship thrusts you into an odd position where you're forced to get to know yourself again and the process of re-becoming autonomous is alienating and difficult. It's hard to remember what you're supposed to do when you're alone. How do you have satisfying experiences? Are you still capable? How long will it take for you to remember? Perhaps the most frustrating aspect is that you know that it'll pass but you can't will it to be over with sooner. What you hopefully get from all of this--and hopefully this happens when you're younger--is that autonomy is something that needs to be nurtured and established in relationships early on. The dynamic of the couple and joined wills is enticing but damaging to the will and ego of the individual. Keep parts of yourself for yourself.
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When I lose something, a sock or a ring or something of that nature, I find myself incredibly frustrated with the limits of my own knowledge. That sock didn't just stop existing. It exists...somewhere. But I don't know where. And I likely never fucking will. So it might as well have had the common decency to just blink out of existence. As it is, someone, somewhere might have found my sock and be wearing it. Or maybe it's at the bottom of a trash heap. Maybe it spends its days mingling with old pizza boxes and used dental floss. What an awful fate for my sock. It was mine and I shed countless cells in it and those cells are probably still clinging to the fabric. Bits of me are now in the bottom of a dumpster. Bits of me that I didn't willingly throw away. How terrifying.
If I'm out in public and I'm chewing off my fingernails, I won't spit them out or throw them away. It creeps me out. That's a part of me! It doesn't belong separate from the rest of me. I'd rather take my nails home where I can dispose of them in my trash can. I know that they'll still end up in a landfill but at least I did the honorable thing and gave them the respect they deserved. I mean, they've done a lot for me. They scratched itches and helped me open containers and they've likely formed little crescent shapes on various body parts of boyfriends or lovers. They started out down on the bottom near my cuticle and they waited patiently until they'd be the part of the nail at the tip, the part of the nail that gets all the action. And now I'm going to bite them off and spit them on the floor of a Sheetz in Prince George's County, MD where they'll be trampled by the feet of strangers that can't possibly appreciate the wonderful things they've done or experienced? No, I won't join the ranks of you philistines yet.
I haven't been able to start watching Season 2 of Rome yet because netflix says that the first disc is a "very long wait" for me. Ben saw it and he says it's pretty good but he's disappointed by the show being cancelled and feels like ripped off because some of the most interesting bits of Augustus's reign won't be covered (the bits between the time period of Rome and that of I, Claudius). Rather than watching a fictionalized version of how it played out, he's stuck having to imagine it. And in his words, "My brain is so not even close to Hi-Def." Fair enough.
The end of a long term relationship thrusts you into an odd position where you're forced to get to know yourself again and the process of re-becoming autonomous is alienating and difficult. It's hard to remember what you're supposed to do when you're alone. How do you have satisfying experiences? Are you still capable? How long will it take for you to remember? Perhaps the most frustrating aspect is that you know that it'll pass but you can't will it to be over with sooner. What you hopefully get from all of this--and hopefully this happens when you're younger--is that autonomy is something that needs to be nurtured and established in relationships early on. The dynamic of the couple and joined wills is enticing but damaging to the will and ego of the individual. Keep parts of yourself for yourself.
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When I lose something, a sock or a ring or something of that nature, I find myself incredibly frustrated with the limits of my own knowledge. That sock didn't just stop existing. It exists...somewhere. But I don't know where. And I likely never fucking will. So it might as well have had the common decency to just blink out of existence. As it is, someone, somewhere might have found my sock and be wearing it. Or maybe it's at the bottom of a trash heap. Maybe it spends its days mingling with old pizza boxes and used dental floss. What an awful fate for my sock. It was mine and I shed countless cells in it and those cells are probably still clinging to the fabric. Bits of me are now in the bottom of a dumpster. Bits of me that I didn't willingly throw away. How terrifying.
If I'm out in public and I'm chewing off my fingernails, I won't spit them out or throw them away. It creeps me out. That's a part of me! It doesn't belong separate from the rest of me. I'd rather take my nails home where I can dispose of them in my trash can. I know that they'll still end up in a landfill but at least I did the honorable thing and gave them the respect they deserved. I mean, they've done a lot for me. They scratched itches and helped me open containers and they've likely formed little crescent shapes on various body parts of boyfriends or lovers. They started out down on the bottom near my cuticle and they waited patiently until they'd be the part of the nail at the tip, the part of the nail that gets all the action. And now I'm going to bite them off and spit them on the floor of a Sheetz in Prince George's County, MD where they'll be trampled by the feet of strangers that can't possibly appreciate the wonderful things they've done or experienced? No, I won't join the ranks of you philistines yet.
I haven't been able to start watching Season 2 of Rome yet because netflix says that the first disc is a "very long wait" for me. Ben saw it and he says it's pretty good but he's disappointed by the show being cancelled and feels like ripped off because some of the most interesting bits of Augustus's reign won't be covered (the bits between the time period of Rome and that of I, Claudius). Rather than watching a fictionalized version of how it played out, he's stuck having to imagine it. And in his words, "My brain is so not even close to Hi-Def." Fair enough.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Dear Spam:
Quit putting your Spammy McSpam fingers all over my blog. Fuck your stupid website. I took those comments down, son.
-m
PS. Dudes, do you think Spam will actually read this and stop?
-m
PS. Dudes, do you think Spam will actually read this and stop?
These things are good.
--Went to the Univeristy of Maryland dairy and got some french fries.
--My old editor complimented my Blondie shirt and I was all, "Yeah, I like things that rule."
--My current editor said that I was pretty and I was like, "You are not wrong about that."
--Totally got two horseshoes that were fresh off of my boss's horse. I have no idea what I'll do with them but, you know...something.
--Time travel. It didn't happen today but it could happen...any day now. Keep your eyes peeled.
--My old editor complimented my Blondie shirt and I was all, "Yeah, I like things that rule."
--My current editor said that I was pretty and I was like, "You are not wrong about that."
--Totally got two horseshoes that were fresh off of my boss's horse. I have no idea what I'll do with them but, you know...something.
--Time travel. It didn't happen today but it could happen...any day now. Keep your eyes peeled.
My scab is itchy.
I was thinking yesterday about how everyone my age is getting married or is otherwise entangled in a very serious, long term relationship type thing that will end--eventually--in marriage. How does this affect me, I wondered? While there's still a reasonable amount of dudes in my age range to date, I anticipate that it'll dwinde to a slow trickle over the next few years as they all leave the ranks to get their wife on. But then, say in the next 5-10 years, they'll all be getting divorced and ripe to date again. If that's right, then from age 29ish to 35ish I won't be scoring the mad honeys that I had envisioned myself scoring. This presents a serious lifestyle problem. I'm going to need some sort of action plan to combat this incredibly heinous situation. Accordingly, I want to assemble a team of scholars, geniuses, and wizards to work this out. Unfortunately, I don't know any scholars, geniuses, or wizards. My crack team is much more likely to be populated by fuckups, layabouts, and people with schizoaffective disorder. They're unlikely to solve this potential future problem but it's guaranteed that they'll entertain the hell out of you. So maybe I should just scrap the team idea and instead assemble these shifty eyed bastards to be in a sitcom.
My scab is itchy.
My scab is itchy.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
OH JEEZUS!
I waited all day to do it but the google image search on gangrene is so insane. It's so insane that I thought about underlining the word insane...but blogger won't let me. Oh man...image search that stuff.
Also, Ben turned me on to image searches for harlequin fetus. Seriously. It's the result of a really severe form of ichthyosis. My friend Seth had ichthyosis but not like these damn harlequin babies. It just made Seth scaley and he had to always be putting lotion on or his skin cracked. Oh damn. Google. You're rocking my world.
Also, Ben turned me on to image searches for harlequin fetus. Seriously. It's the result of a really severe form of ichthyosis. My friend Seth had ichthyosis but not like these damn harlequin babies. It just made Seth scaley and he had to always be putting lotion on or his skin cracked. Oh damn. Google. You're rocking my world.
Atrocities
I'm tired of not having money. And like any red-blooded American that's tired of not having a satisfying level of expendable income, I decided to spend some money to make myself feel better about that situation. Buying that Cory Branan CD was one thing, but I ordered 2 Son Volt albums, 2 Ryan Adams albums, and an Uncle Tupelo album today. I mean, I got awesome deals. With shipping I ordered 5 albums for like $30. But it might be time to stop spending money on non-necessities.
If you get some time today, look up gangrene on Wikipedia. It's so amazing and yet, so disappointing. I expected more pictures. The two they have up are fine but I know damn good and well that there's been a lot of gangrene in the world and there's no reason for them to not show me more of all that gross business. Also, I learned that noma is gangrene of the face. You can follow the link but there aren't any pictures. Fucking awful. What's the point of there being such a thing as gangrene of the face if I can't see it?
When I was very young my Uncle Woodrow had a neighbor named Lee. Lee was one of the few people to live in Sugar Lane that wasn't related to my family in some way. His wife died when I was too young to really remember but I can't forget Lee because he was a sweet old guy in a wheelchair that got gangrene because he was a stubborn diabetic that didn't take his medicine or alter his diet. At first it was just one leg but then the circulation to the other leg stopped and I remember it turning black. I remember him showing his black foot to me because I was curious and scared. He said it didn't hurt. And he didn't mind when the doctors said they'd have to take most of that leg off too. And I remember him letting me sit on his stump legs in his wheelchair and telling my dad that he'd give him a nickle for me and I could stay and be his little girl. Lee's own kids and grandkids seldom, if ever, braved the mountains to come and see him. They had grown up and moved away and didn't come back as some types from Appalachia tend to do. I thought that was sad because he was such a nice guy. Both he and Uncle Woodrow had real nice houses right on the river. Their homes were separated by the train tracks. Sometimes you couldn't get to Lee's house because the train was going by so I'd just stand there watching the train and waiting and then I'd run up to his porch and knock at his screen door and ask to see his black leg and could I please have some candy? Neither Lee nor Uncle Woodrow had an indoor toilet. They had running water from a well and they had bathtubs. But neither had a shower or toilet. You had to go out to the privy. But you didn't really mind that at Uncle Woodrow's house because Aunt Annie had put linoleum down and there was needlepoint hanging on the walls and it never smelled bad. Plus, Uncle Woodrow's house was at the end of the holler and there was always something nice about being at the end of it and looking up the road and knowing that the entire thing was ahead of you. And there was the river. As kids, playing in the woods was the only thing we loved better than fucking around at the river. But Lee and his black legs...he was good times too.
So my friend Becca has this genetic disease that often results in painful blisters forming on her body as a result of the layers of skin not being...well...I guess basically not being thoroughly attached to one another. It's called epidermolysis bullosa. Right? I mean, if someone from home reads this and can remember if that's the thing Becca has, let me know. Anyway, the point is they made a documentary called The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off about this guy named Jonny Kennedy who had that disease except that he had it way worse than my friend Becca. The slightest touch would make this guy's skin blister. Consequently, he always had boo boos and then the boo boos would create scar tissue and the scar tissue would be tight like scar tissue is and after years of this he couldn't use his hands very well. The scar tissue had turned them into something like tight little claws. In the documentary he talks about how he wishes they had had a test for the disease while he was in utero and he would have wanted to be aborted. He looked forward to death something awful but at the same time he was a real upbeat guy and had a great sense of humor. Anyway, it was a very touching story that made me feel worse for Becca with her blisters and such.
Oooh..and if you go on Wikipedia to look all that stuff up, check out maggot therapy too. I mean, you probably already know what it is but it's still cool to see the pictures.
If you get some time today, look up gangrene on Wikipedia. It's so amazing and yet, so disappointing. I expected more pictures. The two they have up are fine but I know damn good and well that there's been a lot of gangrene in the world and there's no reason for them to not show me more of all that gross business. Also, I learned that noma is gangrene of the face. You can follow the link but there aren't any pictures. Fucking awful. What's the point of there being such a thing as gangrene of the face if I can't see it?
When I was very young my Uncle Woodrow had a neighbor named Lee. Lee was one of the few people to live in Sugar Lane that wasn't related to my family in some way. His wife died when I was too young to really remember but I can't forget Lee because he was a sweet old guy in a wheelchair that got gangrene because he was a stubborn diabetic that didn't take his medicine or alter his diet. At first it was just one leg but then the circulation to the other leg stopped and I remember it turning black. I remember him showing his black foot to me because I was curious and scared. He said it didn't hurt. And he didn't mind when the doctors said they'd have to take most of that leg off too. And I remember him letting me sit on his stump legs in his wheelchair and telling my dad that he'd give him a nickle for me and I could stay and be his little girl. Lee's own kids and grandkids seldom, if ever, braved the mountains to come and see him. They had grown up and moved away and didn't come back as some types from Appalachia tend to do. I thought that was sad because he was such a nice guy. Both he and Uncle Woodrow had real nice houses right on the river. Their homes were separated by the train tracks. Sometimes you couldn't get to Lee's house because the train was going by so I'd just stand there watching the train and waiting and then I'd run up to his porch and knock at his screen door and ask to see his black leg and could I please have some candy? Neither Lee nor Uncle Woodrow had an indoor toilet. They had running water from a well and they had bathtubs. But neither had a shower or toilet. You had to go out to the privy. But you didn't really mind that at Uncle Woodrow's house because Aunt Annie had put linoleum down and there was needlepoint hanging on the walls and it never smelled bad. Plus, Uncle Woodrow's house was at the end of the holler and there was always something nice about being at the end of it and looking up the road and knowing that the entire thing was ahead of you. And there was the river. As kids, playing in the woods was the only thing we loved better than fucking around at the river. But Lee and his black legs...he was good times too.
So my friend Becca has this genetic disease that often results in painful blisters forming on her body as a result of the layers of skin not being...well...I guess basically not being thoroughly attached to one another. It's called epidermolysis bullosa. Right? I mean, if someone from home reads this and can remember if that's the thing Becca has, let me know. Anyway, the point is they made a documentary called The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off about this guy named Jonny Kennedy who had that disease except that he had it way worse than my friend Becca. The slightest touch would make this guy's skin blister. Consequently, he always had boo boos and then the boo boos would create scar tissue and the scar tissue would be tight like scar tissue is and after years of this he couldn't use his hands very well. The scar tissue had turned them into something like tight little claws. In the documentary he talks about how he wishes they had had a test for the disease while he was in utero and he would have wanted to be aborted. He looked forward to death something awful but at the same time he was a real upbeat guy and had a great sense of humor. Anyway, it was a very touching story that made me feel worse for Becca with her blisters and such.
Oooh..and if you go on Wikipedia to look all that stuff up, check out maggot therapy too. I mean, you probably already know what it is but it's still cool to see the pictures.
They're like tiny warlocks.
I had a dream last night that Ben was going out of town and asked me to take care of his pets. But he didn't have the cats anymore. Now he had some kind of rare worms that could do special stuff (the nature of the special stuff was really unclear...at least, at that point). I asked what I had to do to take care of them and he promised that it was really easy. He kept them in a black sock and all I had to do was everyday, shake one worm out of the sock. As it was travelling down the sock, right before it popped out, I should stop it. Pinch it inside the sock with my fingers. It was important for me to not let it come all the way out. I couldn't look at it for some reason. And while I had it in between my thumb and forefinger, I was to bend it till it cracked and died. It wasn't as bendy as an earthworm and doing this would certainly kill it. He said that everytime you killed one you could make a wish. So I should kill it and then wish for the ones remaining in the sock to multiply and then have enough food.
He tried to demonstrate it to me but the worms got out of the sock and went everywhere. They were amazingly gnarly. Some of them landed on Milo and Ben said, "Don't worry. I don't think they bite cats." That was the first time he had mentioned that they bite and I asked what happens when they bite. He explained that when they bite they basically perform magic and turn the bitten thing into something else. But it's all willynilly since they're fucking worms and they don't really understand that they're like tiny warlocks. I freaked out because I knew that if a damn warlock worm turned Milo into a baby's diaper or something there would be no way to reason with that worm and get Milo back to being a cat. I yelled at Ben that we had to find those worms but it turns out that once they're out of the sock they can be totally invisible. We didn't find them and he tried to reassure me that they'd never reappear and cause trouble. I didn't buy it. See if I ever agree to watch your pet magic worms again.
He tried to demonstrate it to me but the worms got out of the sock and went everywhere. They were amazingly gnarly. Some of them landed on Milo and Ben said, "Don't worry. I don't think they bite cats." That was the first time he had mentioned that they bite and I asked what happens when they bite. He explained that when they bite they basically perform magic and turn the bitten thing into something else. But it's all willynilly since they're fucking worms and they don't really understand that they're like tiny warlocks. I freaked out because I knew that if a damn warlock worm turned Milo into a baby's diaper or something there would be no way to reason with that worm and get Milo back to being a cat. I yelled at Ben that we had to find those worms but it turns out that once they're out of the sock they can be totally invisible. We didn't find them and he tried to reassure me that they'd never reappear and cause trouble. I didn't buy it. See if I ever agree to watch your pet magic worms again.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Somewhat Notable
I finally broke down and bought a Cory Branan CD. I was tired of hearing those lines from the Lucero song without having any idea if Cory Branan is as good as they claim("Cory Branan's got an evil streak/And a way with words that'll bring you to your knees/Oh he can play the wildest shows and he can sing so sweet"). And I love Ben Nichols enough to try anything he recommends. Except for American Princes. I thought they totally sucked and was wildly disappointed that Lucero was touring with them. But I can find all sorts of ways to not make that Lucero's fault.
I tried champagne grapes today. They're tiny. That's about all I have to say about those.
At the end of the first week of September I'm going to Maine to see my oldest brother get married. I'll be the only one of my siblings that isn't yet linked by matrimonial bonds. I win! ... I've never been to Maine before and, while I'm sure it's beautiful, it promises to be a terrible trip. I'm sharing a suite of rooms with my mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law, and niece. Yeah. That'll suck. But it's right on the beach. Which is good. Except they say it'll be too cold to swim then. Crap.
At the end of September I'm going to California for work. I'm sort of hoping that I get to go along for some aerial coyote hunting. Score. I've never been to California but I've watched 90210 so I'm sure to be prepared for whatever it can throw at me. If Brenda gets mad at Dillion, I'll totally know what to do.
I sent some title options to Sam Brown at explodingdog.com. Hopefully he'll pick one. They were:
--Friday is so far away.
--They all looked the same typed out like that.
--I blame you.
Pretty good.
Fall is coming soon. You can already smell it in the mornings. All that orange and red and then Halloween and my birthday. Amazing. But if I'm to be honest, a majority of my synesthetic memories of fall are about things that have to do with boys and infatuation. It's about attractive people in scarves and long sleeves and jacket weather. It's about school starting and hand holding and kissing when leaves crunch under your feet. It's about costumes and cold evenings and dusk at 6pm. Makes me want to go back to college.
I tried champagne grapes today. They're tiny. That's about all I have to say about those.
At the end of the first week of September I'm going to Maine to see my oldest brother get married. I'll be the only one of my siblings that isn't yet linked by matrimonial bonds. I win! ... I've never been to Maine before and, while I'm sure it's beautiful, it promises to be a terrible trip. I'm sharing a suite of rooms with my mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law, and niece. Yeah. That'll suck. But it's right on the beach. Which is good. Except they say it'll be too cold to swim then. Crap.
At the end of September I'm going to California for work. I'm sort of hoping that I get to go along for some aerial coyote hunting. Score. I've never been to California but I've watched 90210 so I'm sure to be prepared for whatever it can throw at me. If Brenda gets mad at Dillion, I'll totally know what to do.
I sent some title options to Sam Brown at explodingdog.com. Hopefully he'll pick one. They were:
--Friday is so far away.
--They all looked the same typed out like that.
--I blame you.
Pretty good.
Fall is coming soon. You can already smell it in the mornings. All that orange and red and then Halloween and my birthday. Amazing. But if I'm to be honest, a majority of my synesthetic memories of fall are about things that have to do with boys and infatuation. It's about attractive people in scarves and long sleeves and jacket weather. It's about school starting and hand holding and kissing when leaves crunch under your feet. It's about costumes and cold evenings and dusk at 6pm. Makes me want to go back to college.
Give me your body or Dracula. (As in, Dracula is the consequence of not giving me your body.)
Michael Vick, the Atlanta Falcons quarterback that's being indicted on dogfighting charges, is seeking a plea deal so he can--he hopes--return to the NFL after he's inevitably convicted. Michael Vick is also the douchnozzle that had a water bottle at the Miami Airport that contained a secret little compartment in it for him to stash his weed. I don't give a raging shit about football. I don't care if douchenozzles want to do drugs. And it's not like I'm a dog person. But come the fuck on. The shit that Vick is being indicted for is pretty damn heinous. There's been a lot of talk from Vick's defenders about how he's being made an example of. I guess my question is, so the fuck what? Does Vick serving as an example somehow make him less obviously guilty of running and profiting from a seriously cruel dogfighting enterprise? Also, isn't anyone that gets prosecuted for illegal doings serving as some kind of example? Isn't that the entire point? Hmm. If you want to read the indictement you can find it here: http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/years/2007/0717072vick1.html.
Remember how there was like a space of about 10 minutes back in the late 90s when Courtney Love was hot? There was an article in yahoo news today about how she's lost a bunch of weight and she credits it to her incredible "discipline." She says "it's about detoxing". Additionally, she replaces two meals a day with shakes and for the third meal eats fish. So yeah, less about discipline and detoxing and more about not eating. Dear fat asses of the world, stop eating so much. You too could look as good as Courtney Love. Except not from when she was all hot and dating Edward Norton. But like, from now when she's all sallow and old and creeping you out with her face that sort of resembles Rocky Dennis...you know...from Mask.
Damn. Mask is a great movie. I cry every time I see it...or Courtney Love.
Remember how there was like a space of about 10 minutes back in the late 90s when Courtney Love was hot? There was an article in yahoo news today about how she's lost a bunch of weight and she credits it to her incredible "discipline." She says "it's about detoxing". Additionally, she replaces two meals a day with shakes and for the third meal eats fish. So yeah, less about discipline and detoxing and more about not eating. Dear fat asses of the world, stop eating so much. You too could look as good as Courtney Love. Except not from when she was all hot and dating Edward Norton. But like, from now when she's all sallow and old and creeping you out with her face that sort of resembles Rocky Dennis...you know...from Mask.
Damn. Mask is a great movie. I cry every time I see it...or Courtney Love.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Hmmm.
Does anyone know someone for whom the Netflix instant viewing option actually works? Cause it sure as fuck isn't me.
All of the lights that are permanent fixtures in my apartment hum or flicker or both. There are two overhead kitchen lights...one hums and the other flickers. The bathroom vanity lights flicker and then hum once they've coaxed themselves into green fluorescenty life. The overhead light in the hallway hums but with that one it almost seems it does that because it's happy that I finally turned it on. I find all that flickering and humming just reminds me of the temporaryness of my apartment. Real homes have incandescent lighting. Fake homes use fluorescent because it's cheaper and lasts longer. I try to avoid turning on most of these lights. They're alienating.
If having sex was anything like the sex you think about having when you're masturbating, it would be very disorienting. The cast of characters changes frequently and I'm pretty sure that you can really hurt yourself by switching positions so often without so much as pausing for a breath. I know a lot of people that claim that when they start having sex on a regular basis, they stop masturbating entirely or else cut back a lot. I don't understand this. Masturbation isn't substitute sex. It's not like you're fooling your body into thinking that you're totally doing it with someone else. I'm totally aware that no one else is there. So why would someone else being there some of the time cancel my need to take care of myself the rest of the time. I guess I just don't see masturbation as being that heavily related to other sexual activity.
All of the lights that are permanent fixtures in my apartment hum or flicker or both. There are two overhead kitchen lights...one hums and the other flickers. The bathroom vanity lights flicker and then hum once they've coaxed themselves into green fluorescenty life. The overhead light in the hallway hums but with that one it almost seems it does that because it's happy that I finally turned it on. I find all that flickering and humming just reminds me of the temporaryness of my apartment. Real homes have incandescent lighting. Fake homes use fluorescent because it's cheaper and lasts longer. I try to avoid turning on most of these lights. They're alienating.
If having sex was anything like the sex you think about having when you're masturbating, it would be very disorienting. The cast of characters changes frequently and I'm pretty sure that you can really hurt yourself by switching positions so often without so much as pausing for a breath. I know a lot of people that claim that when they start having sex on a regular basis, they stop masturbating entirely or else cut back a lot. I don't understand this. Masturbation isn't substitute sex. It's not like you're fooling your body into thinking that you're totally doing it with someone else. I'm totally aware that no one else is there. So why would someone else being there some of the time cancel my need to take care of myself the rest of the time. I guess I just don't see masturbation as being that heavily related to other sexual activity.
The Reader's Digest Condensed Story of my Weekend
I got a tattoo from Josh and he did a bitchin' job. James was very much James and that's always amusing. Sean was sleepy but sucked it up enough to talk to Fred about his feet transforming into a variety of things (wheels, brass horses, submarines, etc.). Bryn was amped and drank a bunch and, again, that's always amusing. Saw Valerie and Becca and Jamie Arnold and Bryan Newruck. Choice. Made a vague assertion that the next time I'm in town we'll all get together for some dinner and follow it with the bar. So how does Asian Garden sound?
I'd also like to note that I now have more tattoo options than I've had in years. The decision to go ahead and do the inside of my forearm means that I now have the option to cover my full arms if I so choose. I like that. So seriously, how's about a kitten riding a dirtbike with a tattoo of me riding a dirt bike? But more seriously, what about an image of a velociraptor fighting a protoceratops? Several years ago they found that very fight fossilized in the Gobi Desert. That's
My current annoyance is that I can't get blogger to let me post pictures mid-way through a blog. Why? Why the fuck does it always want my images to be at the top and how do I tell it to stop that? Dammit.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Suddenly Limited
About a month or so ago my building installed a series of shelves in the laundry room to act as a "free cycle" store. Prior to that, people had just sort of left stuff (mostly books and clothes) laying around for neighbors to take. Since they've installed the shelves, the quality of the offerings has vastly improved and I've found some really good stuff. For instance, today I found a brand new framed military backpack. An item that has great potential for being incredibly useful.My greatest find to date are two pairs of knee high, low heeled faux suede boots in vibrant shades of green and purple. Immediately, I think "The Joker" and nab them up. Perhaps this Halloween I'll go as the female joker...in the form of Duela Dent, a character that DC has toyed with. So this gets me thinking about costumes and Halloween and how I want this year to be better than last year. Last year I was Gecko from Beyond Thunderdome. The costume was awesome and I totally looked like him but the only person that knew who I was is Ben. I was so disappointed with the reaction that I didn't even bother taking pictures. And that's a real statement for me. Anyway...I'm thinking about my costuming options for October and then it hits me: I have girl length hair now. The days of me going as a male character, or a young boy characters, or as androgynous characters is over. Sad.
Sure...it's not like I've never gone as a female character. I did the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland a few years ago and Rodriguez from Aliens more recently. But I'm accustomed to my hair being a limiting factor to my costuming options. I'm against wearing wigs that aren't excellent wigs and excellent wigs are super costly. Consequently, I've often resorted to male characters. And now, what with me having hair, my entire costuming paradigm has shifted. My hair is too short to be an overly feminine persona and too long to be much of a successful masculine persona. This is infinitely disappointing.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
This day won't end.
This office would be better if they installed pneumatic tubes between the cubicles. Not for messages. That's what IM is for. But for gifts? I don't know. I can't say that we'd use them for any particular thing but I'm sure we'd use them. They're pneumatic tubes for Christ's sake.
At the beginning of the summer I went home for a week and loused about. I rode bikes with Bryn and Hess, drank a lot of beers, sat on the porch, looked at the mountains, drank more beers, drunkenly speculated with Jamie Arnold about where all the hotties were, shared cigarettes with James, fell asleep as soon as Ron arrived to hang out, chased my beers with some vodka, and enjoyed how the air in WV smells better. That was a great week.
At lunch today, Katie and Christa said that people sometimes misunderstand me because I'm so direct. Most people, according to them, couch things in softer language and when I don't do that they become confused and assume I meant something other than what I said. I told them that that was stupid. The whole point of being direct is to allow people to avoid that very situation. I can't be blamed for the faults of others.
At the beginning of the summer I went home for a week and loused about. I rode bikes with Bryn and Hess, drank a lot of beers, sat on the porch, looked at the mountains, drank more beers, drunkenly speculated with Jamie Arnold about where all the hotties were, shared cigarettes with James, fell asleep as soon as Ron arrived to hang out, chased my beers with some vodka, and enjoyed how the air in WV smells better. That was a great week.
At lunch today, Katie and Christa said that people sometimes misunderstand me because I'm so direct. Most people, according to them, couch things in softer language and when I don't do that they become confused and assume I meant something other than what I said. I told them that that was stupid. The whole point of being direct is to allow people to avoid that very situation. I can't be blamed for the faults of others.
Home for the Weekend
So I'm going home this weekend and I'm hoping that my new friend Sean will decide to come along for the trip. I like taking people to WV, particularly if they've never been before. My pleasure is partly derived from wanting people to meet my friends and partly from enjoying their reactions to Morgantown. I suppose that, to an outsider, Morgantown doesn't look that attractive at first. But a few hours of being nestled in the mountains usually changes that. I suppose though, that it might just be me. I might be the only one that finds it comforting to have walls of mountains surrounding you. When I go to the beach, no one but me appears to be disturbed by how flat it is. Where can you hide? What if the ocean decides to just keep coming onto the shore and never stops? What barriers do you have in place to protect yourself? What if graboids make it to the beach? They'd move so easily through the sand. You'll all die.
But mountains...mountains shelter and protect you. They provide for you. The land itself defends the people on it. Mountains are where you go when times get hard or dangerous or apocalyptic. The mountains are where you go to survive nuclear holocaust. And I'm not joking about that. The government built a secret bunker under The Greenbrier in Greenbrier County WV in the 1950s. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Greenbrier) The mountains are where you go to escape graboids. Has Kevin Bacon taught us nothing? The mountains are where you want to be if communist paratroopers from Cuba and the Soviet Union decide to start wailing on your ass. Watch Red Dawn if you need further badass proof of this from Charlie Sheen and Patrick Swayze. The mountains are where zombies cannot go. And even if they do get there, people in the mountains possess arsenals of weaponry. Rewatch Dawn of the Dead and notice the awesome Pennsylvania rednecks drinking beer and shooting zombies. Go to the damn mountains! Oh wait...snap. I am. Whooo!
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Toothpaste for Dinner
Toothpaste for Dinner had, no offense Drew, gotten lame. But it's comics like this that remind me why I think TFD is up there with qwantz as the best webcomic ever.
Maybe I should develop some up and swoon points too.
Like a lot of people, I have what I refer to as "up and dip points." These are the points in time when you realize someone won't make a good friend or romantic interest and so you "up and dip" on the relationship. (If you're not familiar with the vernacular, to up and dip is to remove oneself from a situation without informing the various members of your party that you're about to do so. As in, "Where's Matt?" "I don't know. He must have up and dipped.") Whatever your particular term of preference, the gist of the idea is the same: some behaviors, preferences, or idiosyncrasies simply cannot be abided. In those instances, it's time to up and dip. I've been known to engineer situations to determine if I outghtn't to up and dip earlier rather than later to save everyone some time. For instance, I adore the movie adaptation of Wendy MacLeod's play The House of Yes. The director and writer of the adaptation, Mark Waters, thankfully left a lot of the original dialogue in place, which is astoundingly funny and super smart. I often make sure that this particular movie is among the first that I watch with someone I'm just getting to know. If they remark that they don't like the dialogue or that the the movie wasn't funny, I'll take that as a point towards the up and dip category. Now, I won't necessarily stop being friends with someone based on this. But if something else gets heaped atop this calamity, then I'll probably up and dip.
There are two books on my up and dip list. If you read and don't enjoy The Time Traveler's Wife or The Whole Story and Other Stories, then it's real likely that I'll bail on you. We have to have our standards.
In recent years, I've taken to purchasing copies of The Whole Story and Other Stories for old and new friends alike, hoping that they'll read it and I'll finally have someone to discuss it with. This has failed horribly. None of them--as in zero--have ever bothered to read it. And I've given it to at least 4 or 5 people at this point. Of these people, some I already don't really see anymore and some I've been friends with for so long that I wouldn't stop being friends with them even if they read it and didn't like it. But I am frustrated at having my social engineering thwarted so effectively.
The lesson here is to make sure that your up and dip points can be readily brought into actuality to test relationships. Making someone watch a movie for an hour or two is completely within the realm of possibility. Making them read a book so that you can decide if you wanna be their buddy or make out with them is vastly more complex. Also, if I bought you a copy of this book and you haven't read it yet, consider yourself on notice.
The real Fox Mulder...
isn't nearly as hot as you might have hoped. More specifically, he isn't as hot as I might have hoped. If you're curious about him (as I have no energry to relay his entire story) you can read this: http://potw.news.yahoo.com/s/potw/30293/the-real-x-files/. But as much as D.C. has proven to be not nearly as interesting as The West Wing would have me believe, so too does this man prove that alien obsessed dorks with big porn collections are not as sexy(literally and figuratively) as I was led to believe. Chris Carter, I'm looking at you.Where Chris Carter fails, Joss Whedon succeeds. His characters are so incredibly specific and they mess with genres and subcultures to such an extent that there's never going to be a real life version of them for me to be disappointed in. A sad but still triumphant thought. Joss Whedon: Unfuckwithable. Who wants to make me a shirt that says that?
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
She's on the right track.
I found the following letter on Salon.com. It entertained me, primarily because this woman is having the exact reaction she's supposed to be having when you're 24 years old and these questions--in all their freakish vivacity--are presenting themselves to you.
I am a 24-year-old woman. I am either having a nervous breakdown/period of emotional disturbance or I am having an existential crisis of meaning/religious awakening (albeit this sounds pleasanter than what I am experiencing).
For the last several months, I have been obsessed with some pretty large and, ultimately I think, unanswerable questions. I wonder why I exist. I wonder what it is to be a person (i.e., Do I exist while I sleep? Am I simply a collection of memories?) I am scared of death and wish I had some idea what it means. I don't understand the way time functions -- it bothers me that the movement of time is constantly converting the present to the past. It seems to me that our reality is a construct created in our own minds bridging the past and the future, and yet we only truly ever exist in the present. Until we stop existing, which, as I've said, I don't quite understand and which makes me extremely uncomfortable.
These questions bother me to the point that I can't pay attention to anything else. The world is written in a foreign language, and I have the urge to ask strangers how they make sense of their own existence. My father tells me I need medication, not because of what I am thinking, which he says is the stuff of great philosophy, but because of the way I am thinking about it, which precludes any possibility of the answer being something Good, Divine, or at least not terrifying. I am, I should mention, terrified. It really creeps me out that there has been an eternity before my existence and that there will be an eternity after my existence (presumably).
Sometimes I think he is right, but sometimes I think that brain drugs are simply today's answer to a problem that has existed since people existed -- that we have no true ability to understand why things are the way they are. Well, at least, I don't. So, what do you think I should do? Should I probe these questions longer? Should I seek religious counseling? Should I seek medical treatment? Nirvana? A different job?
I am a 24-year-old woman. I am either having a nervous breakdown/period of emotional disturbance or I am having an existential crisis of meaning/religious awakening (albeit this sounds pleasanter than what I am experiencing).
For the last several months, I have been obsessed with some pretty large and, ultimately I think, unanswerable questions. I wonder why I exist. I wonder what it is to be a person (i.e., Do I exist while I sleep? Am I simply a collection of memories?) I am scared of death and wish I had some idea what it means. I don't understand the way time functions -- it bothers me that the movement of time is constantly converting the present to the past. It seems to me that our reality is a construct created in our own minds bridging the past and the future, and yet we only truly ever exist in the present. Until we stop existing, which, as I've said, I don't quite understand and which makes me extremely uncomfortable.
These questions bother me to the point that I can't pay attention to anything else. The world is written in a foreign language, and I have the urge to ask strangers how they make sense of their own existence. My father tells me I need medication, not because of what I am thinking, which he says is the stuff of great philosophy, but because of the way I am thinking about it, which precludes any possibility of the answer being something Good, Divine, or at least not terrifying. I am, I should mention, terrified. It really creeps me out that there has been an eternity before my existence and that there will be an eternity after my existence (presumably).
Sometimes I think he is right, but sometimes I think that brain drugs are simply today's answer to a problem that has existed since people existed -- that we have no true ability to understand why things are the way they are. Well, at least, I don't. So, what do you think I should do? Should I probe these questions longer? Should I seek religious counseling? Should I seek medical treatment? Nirvana? A different job?
Animate Lives of Inanimate Objects
Miss Piggy was being interviewed on the Today Show this morning about a new The Muppet Show DVD that's coming out. I've never seen a muppet interview that wasn't completely awesome in every fucking way. You ever seen Kermit the Frog laying about on a chaise lounge, head propped up on his right arm and legs crossed? Cause you should. Not only is he a fabulously sentimental gentleman, he's also super quick on the uptake.
I'm easily fooled by puppetry. I'm already the kind of person that invents a narrative for the inanimate objects in my life, so puppetry is as good as magic for me. When I was little I used to think that my room full of stuffed animals had hurt feelings because I didn't play with them enough. And they'd look at me with their marble eyes, all sharp and accusing. I was sure they wished to have tendons and muscles and internal functions so that they could locomote and take their revenge on me. To alleviate my guilt and fear, I chose one stuffed animal every day to play with. It was that animal's special day. It didn't last long because it turns out there's a good fucking reason for why I wasn't playing with them...they weren't fun. But still. You get the idea about me and the personalities of inanimate objects.
In high school, my friend Todd would make the little teapot in Chinese restaurants talk to me with a French accent. If someone grabbed it to pour tea, Todd would make gurgling, drowning noises on behalf of my new friend. His lid would move up and down--the teapot analogue of human lips. How had this French teapot come to be in a Chinese restaurant? Where were his family and friends? Was he always such a flirt? The narrative possibilities were endless and endlessly enticing.
This interest in inanimate objects coming to life has followed me into adulthood. It's part of what makes me freaked out by dinosaur bones and statuary. What if, at any moment, they come to life and step on me? Alternatively, what if they come to life and just stand there? Making me feel absurdly small and dwarfed by their presence? How the hell can I be expected to cope with something like that? Won't this spark a whole new set of existential dilemmas that I won't be able to untangle given that I'm standing beside an enormous lizard monster?
In conclusion, if you can do voices, puppetry, and/or muppetry then I'm pretty much going to be enthralled by you. Also, dinosaurs are awesome (in the literal sense of being awe struck) and terrifying.
I'm easily fooled by puppetry. I'm already the kind of person that invents a narrative for the inanimate objects in my life, so puppetry is as good as magic for me. When I was little I used to think that my room full of stuffed animals had hurt feelings because I didn't play with them enough. And they'd look at me with their marble eyes, all sharp and accusing. I was sure they wished to have tendons and muscles and internal functions so that they could locomote and take their revenge on me. To alleviate my guilt and fear, I chose one stuffed animal every day to play with. It was that animal's special day. It didn't last long because it turns out there's a good fucking reason for why I wasn't playing with them...they weren't fun. But still. You get the idea about me and the personalities of inanimate objects.
In high school, my friend Todd would make the little teapot in Chinese restaurants talk to me with a French accent. If someone grabbed it to pour tea, Todd would make gurgling, drowning noises on behalf of my new friend. His lid would move up and down--the teapot analogue of human lips. How had this French teapot come to be in a Chinese restaurant? Where were his family and friends? Was he always such a flirt? The narrative possibilities were endless and endlessly enticing.
This interest in inanimate objects coming to life has followed me into adulthood. It's part of what makes me freaked out by dinosaur bones and statuary. What if, at any moment, they come to life and step on me? Alternatively, what if they come to life and just stand there? Making me feel absurdly small and dwarfed by their presence? How the hell can I be expected to cope with something like that? Won't this spark a whole new set of existential dilemmas that I won't be able to untangle given that I'm standing beside an enormous lizard monster?
In conclusion, if you can do voices, puppetry, and/or muppetry then I'm pretty much going to be enthralled by you. Also, dinosaurs are awesome (in the literal sense of being awe struck) and terrifying.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Tater Mitts
Cooper turned me on to this: http://www.tatermitts.com/. The website says that "the possibilities are endless!" That seems like a pretty dubious claim to me. For me, the appeal of Tater Mitts is how their potential is seriouly limited to the realm of potato peeling. But also, I hear that they're made by a warlock living near Detroit. Score.
quit sitting in that too small desk
I had a dream last night that Michael (of “tuneage” fame) had ripped a patch off of my hoodie and some girl came into the girl’s bathroom at school to tell me about it. She had the hoodie all wadded up in her hands—getting moist from her palms and redrying to form wad-shaped wrinkles. I was irate. I went into my second grade classroom where everyone was sitting in the second grade desks and yelled about how you can’t just go ripping patches off of someone’s hoodie. But Michael was there along with all of my other co-workers—all sitting at the too small desks—and I was pretty sure that he heard me bitching about him and then he said that he had left some money in the pocket of the hoodie to make up for it.
Then I was back in the bathroom of the school and the toilets were overflowing and I was worried that someone expected me to take care of the situation. Further proof that I would make a terrible janitor.
Saturday night I drank enough vodka to last me until the next time I do that.
At lunch Jessica and I were talking about this guy that's doing a detail with various staffs in my department. He's weird because his eyes are large and completely incapable of expression. She said his eyes are like the ocean. I told her she should tell him that. She said she's afraid of water. It nearly made corn come out of my nose.
Then I was back in the bathroom of the school and the toilets were overflowing and I was worried that someone expected me to take care of the situation. Further proof that I would make a terrible janitor.
Saturday night I drank enough vodka to last me until the next time I do that.
At lunch Jessica and I were talking about this guy that's doing a detail with various staffs in my department. He's weird because his eyes are large and completely incapable of expression. She said his eyes are like the ocean. I told her she should tell him that. She said she's afraid of water. It nearly made corn come out of my nose.
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