What the hell? Where has everyone been? I've been sitting here, with all sorts of clever things to say, but no one was here to listen so they've all disappeared into the ether that is the interwebs.
Ok, ok, you caught me...my lazy ass has been notably absent from the blog world for quite some time. (57 days or so, actually, and probably not as notably as I'd like to think.) Anyway, if you're still with me enough to be reading this, you've probably one of the people who's simultaneously reading the Remix, in which case you know most of what's gone on with me in the past two months...but I'll recap anyway.
Remix moved in, and she's wonderful. The new condo is coming along nicely, though improvements have momentarily been suspended on account of funding issues. The cats like the new place, as much as cats have opinions about this sort of thing. Work is busy, but still fun and interesting. We're eating well here, both the Remix and I enjoy cooking, so there's something delicious to be eaten on almost a nightly basis, plus more than occasional cakes. (Both the Remix and I also enjoy cake.) I quit smoking, hoping to take advantage of the climate change to break the habit.
I'm enjoying the hell out of living with this girl. She makes me laugh, she's great company, and she seems to enjoy the hell out of it right back. She's full of ideas for decorating this place, but still interested in making it our place, not just hers, and she's making it fun for me. She's watching movies from my eclectic Netflix list, and I'm picking up new music from her list. My Tivo is recording reality TV right along with Heroes and UFC fights. Our books live on the same shelves, reenergizing our individual libraries by adding a whole new list of someone else's favorites. Most importantly, though, it feels like home. For both of us, I think. Hell, I know.
Yeah, you're happy for us, I get it. If I were you, I'd be sick of reading this already too. I don't know what else to say, though. We're living together, we're happy, and damn it, it works. We've both seen enough bad relationships lately to know how lucky we are--we could be trying to sell the place less than three months after we bought it. It happens, you know. I know a guy.
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
5.11.2007
2.24.2007
I'm so sore from laughing, I haven't got the will to fight.
Totally cribbing from the Remix again, stealing her habit of using obscure song lyrics to title blog posts. I'm shameless, what can I say?
It's an interesting counterpoint, this whole friends dumping friends thing. A year ago, I was recently divorced, and the friend in question was one of the people who stood by the whole time. No, he wasn't exactly full of pithy advice, that's not his style. He didn't lend himself to any epiphany type moments, either. But he sat, and he listened until he was sick of hearing about it, and then he listened some more.
So now it's my turn. I know I should be talking to him--once upon a time, when I was younger, my friends looked at me as the one to turn to for advice. (This may have been because even at 17, I was pretty sure I knew everything there was to know about everything, and sold everyone else on it pretty well. I still don't know everything, but sales is sort of what I do best.) Either way, in this case I don't even know that advice is totally necessary. I think it's too far gone at this point, all the strategizing in the world isn't going to get things back to where they were.
Whether or not there's a solution to be found is beside the point. He needs someone to listen, and I'm not doing much of a job. Our relationship is such that I don't know how to start the conversation at all. When it was me having problems, it worked, but only because I talk all the goddamn time, whether someone is listening or not. For him, it's harder--our whole relationship is based on jokes. I play straight man to his ribbing, we have ludicrous arguments about whether you can make a parachute out of a thin sheet of lead (I say yes) or whether it's actually possible to have a 0% chance of rain (I say no.)
We're running out of jokes, though. I can see the strain in his face, and I hear about it thirdhand from the Remix after her nightly talks with the female in question. He's angry, and he's bitter, and I don't know what to do. If anyone else asked me, I'd say he deserves it, based on his actions. Can't say that to him, though. So I'll sit back here, waiting for him to open the door, and hope that he finds a way to bring it up before it's too late.
It's an interesting counterpoint, this whole friends dumping friends thing. A year ago, I was recently divorced, and the friend in question was one of the people who stood by the whole time. No, he wasn't exactly full of pithy advice, that's not his style. He didn't lend himself to any epiphany type moments, either. But he sat, and he listened until he was sick of hearing about it, and then he listened some more.
So now it's my turn. I know I should be talking to him--once upon a time, when I was younger, my friends looked at me as the one to turn to for advice. (This may have been because even at 17, I was pretty sure I knew everything there was to know about everything, and sold everyone else on it pretty well. I still don't know everything, but sales is sort of what I do best.) Either way, in this case I don't even know that advice is totally necessary. I think it's too far gone at this point, all the strategizing in the world isn't going to get things back to where they were.
Whether or not there's a solution to be found is beside the point. He needs someone to listen, and I'm not doing much of a job. Our relationship is such that I don't know how to start the conversation at all. When it was me having problems, it worked, but only because I talk all the goddamn time, whether someone is listening or not. For him, it's harder--our whole relationship is based on jokes. I play straight man to his ribbing, we have ludicrous arguments about whether you can make a parachute out of a thin sheet of lead (I say yes) or whether it's actually possible to have a 0% chance of rain (I say no.)
We're running out of jokes, though. I can see the strain in his face, and I hear about it thirdhand from the Remix after her nightly talks with the female in question. He's angry, and he's bitter, and I don't know what to do. If anyone else asked me, I'd say he deserves it, based on his actions. Can't say that to him, though. So I'll sit back here, waiting for him to open the door, and hope that he finds a way to bring it up before it's too late.
2.20.2007
Migraine, Breakups, and Italian Sodas...Happy Mardi Gras!
Oh sweet Jesus Asshumping Christ, does my head hurt. I don't often get migraines, but on a scale of one to ten, this one is a motherfucker. I missed work today, which is a rare occurrence, mostly on account of the fact that my walk to the shower made me nauseous enough I had to sit down.
I have nothing productive to say, really. I'm not tired, so I can't possibly sleep anymore today. My head hurts if I watch TV, play video games, or stare at the interwebs too long. Reading isn't going to happen, period. So I'm sitting here doing nothing.
Recent developments in the Breakup (it gets capital letters now) between Boy and Girl, some friends of the Remix and I's, have got me thinking, though. Boy (the one I'm friends with) is clearly in the wrong. I won't say why, because it's not my story to tell, but suffice it to say he's not garnering much in the way of sympathy from me--and that doesn't absolve me from my duties as a friend.
As I told the Remix the other day, the dilemma for me is simple: I know what's wrong, at least superficially. I could give Boy a laundry list of things to say, even things to do, which might convince her to consider taking him back. I can't, though. Girl is my friend too, and I'm not sure that taking him back would be very good for either of them. So when he asks my advice, what do I do? It's like being a public defender--I know he's guilty, but I also feel like he deserves the best defense I can give him. So I've decided to lead the witness. I won't tell him what to do or say, and I'm certainly not going to pat his hand reassuringly and tell him everything is alright. If he starts down the right path, though, I'll prod him in the right direction.
For this to work, for Girl to consider any possibility of getting back together with Boy, Boy needs to undergo some wholesale changes. The old Boy, the one who screwed this up in the first place, isn't getting back together with anyone. If there's a possibilty of a new Boy, he still may not be able to make up for this one--but if there's a new Boy, he'll be better off with the next girl, too. He may be an asshole, and he may deserve every bit of misery he's got right now, but my own personal experience makes me a firm believer in second chances. I don't believe they'll get back together, even if he says all the right things and means them. I think it's too far gone. It'll be easier for me to look him in the eye and respect him, though, if he gives it his best shot. Girl is the best thing that ever happened to Boy--unfortunately for him, he doesn't realize it, and Girl could do a whole lot better for herself anyway. If he can figure out what he did wrong, there's a chance he could turn out alright, whatever happens with Girl. If not, well, I'll just keep preparing myself for this same dog and pony show every four to six years, and hope I don't get tired of him before he stops needing a friend.
Eesh. That's depressing. I'm going to go back to laying on my couch trying to keep my left eye from popping out of my head. Any advice here is welcome, folks, whether it pertains to migraines, disastrous break-ups, or recommendations on a good, cheap place to get Italian soda. (I'm sort of hooked on Target's private lable brands of Italian soda...orange passionfruit mango is the favorite so far, but I'm looking forward to trying the blueberry pomegranate in about three minutes...)
Honestly, is there anything gayer for a straight man to drink than Italian soda? Ok, maybe Jagerbombs or Amaretto Sours, but in the non-alcoholic category, it's gotta be tops.
I have nothing productive to say, really. I'm not tired, so I can't possibly sleep anymore today. My head hurts if I watch TV, play video games, or stare at the interwebs too long. Reading isn't going to happen, period. So I'm sitting here doing nothing.
Recent developments in the Breakup (it gets capital letters now) between Boy and Girl, some friends of the Remix and I's, have got me thinking, though. Boy (the one I'm friends with) is clearly in the wrong. I won't say why, because it's not my story to tell, but suffice it to say he's not garnering much in the way of sympathy from me--and that doesn't absolve me from my duties as a friend.
As I told the Remix the other day, the dilemma for me is simple: I know what's wrong, at least superficially. I could give Boy a laundry list of things to say, even things to do, which might convince her to consider taking him back. I can't, though. Girl is my friend too, and I'm not sure that taking him back would be very good for either of them. So when he asks my advice, what do I do? It's like being a public defender--I know he's guilty, but I also feel like he deserves the best defense I can give him. So I've decided to lead the witness. I won't tell him what to do or say, and I'm certainly not going to pat his hand reassuringly and tell him everything is alright. If he starts down the right path, though, I'll prod him in the right direction.
For this to work, for Girl to consider any possibility of getting back together with Boy, Boy needs to undergo some wholesale changes. The old Boy, the one who screwed this up in the first place, isn't getting back together with anyone. If there's a possibilty of a new Boy, he still may not be able to make up for this one--but if there's a new Boy, he'll be better off with the next girl, too. He may be an asshole, and he may deserve every bit of misery he's got right now, but my own personal experience makes me a firm believer in second chances. I don't believe they'll get back together, even if he says all the right things and means them. I think it's too far gone. It'll be easier for me to look him in the eye and respect him, though, if he gives it his best shot. Girl is the best thing that ever happened to Boy--unfortunately for him, he doesn't realize it, and Girl could do a whole lot better for herself anyway. If he can figure out what he did wrong, there's a chance he could turn out alright, whatever happens with Girl. If not, well, I'll just keep preparing myself for this same dog and pony show every four to six years, and hope I don't get tired of him before he stops needing a friend.
Eesh. That's depressing. I'm going to go back to laying on my couch trying to keep my left eye from popping out of my head. Any advice here is welcome, folks, whether it pertains to migraines, disastrous break-ups, or recommendations on a good, cheap place to get Italian soda. (I'm sort of hooked on Target's private lable brands of Italian soda...orange passionfruit mango is the favorite so far, but I'm looking forward to trying the blueberry pomegranate in about three minutes...)
Honestly, is there anything gayer for a straight man to drink than Italian soda? Ok, maybe Jagerbombs or Amaretto Sours, but in the non-alcoholic category, it's gotta be tops.
2.10.2007
Fallout
This post will not be about the problems some mutual friends of the Remix and I are having. The details are unimportant, the people invoved have never been of interest here before, so it seems unfair to start writing about them now, and the situation isn't nearly sordid or unique enough for y'all to be interested anyway.
No, what's interesting to me here (and notice how smoothly I pick up after disappearing for a month, with no excuse for my absence other than laziness) is the ripple effect this whole thing has had on my relationship with the Remix--which is still going swimmingly, by the way. The problem with the disintegration of our friends' relationship is that it lends itself to talking about problems. The way it'll effect our relationship with those friends individually, who's at fault, what we'll do if they work it out, now that we've effectively chosen sides, the usual things. We end up in heated conversations about why so and so should do such and such, and when we disagree, it seems to become far more important than it really ought to be.
I've discovered, to my great chagrin, that this particular effect is my fault. I'm not good at gray area, you see. I am opinionated, all the time, about everything. My flaw is that even when I agree with you, I still have a way of making people feel like I'm telling them they're wrong. I don't mean to. I get so passionate about what I think, that it sounds like I must think anyone who doesn't agree is an idiot. I don't really know how to fix it, exactly. I like that I'm passionate, and I think most of the people who like me do too. I had to apologize to the Remix today, though, because I made her feel acutely unappreciated just by being me.
We've been talking a lot, lately, about the whole "That's just me being me" idea, mostly because of our friends and their catastrophic relationship. We agree that "DJ being DJ" is an acceptable excuse for baskets of clean laundry laying out on the floor for days at a time, but maybe not so much for making people feel unimportant. So it's no excuse anymore. I'll make an effort to be better, and the Remix will keep reminding me when I'm not.
Except, of course, while blogging. It wouldn't do to have my audience, if there's any left, thinking that I suddenly no longer know everything, would it?
No, what's interesting to me here (and notice how smoothly I pick up after disappearing for a month, with no excuse for my absence other than laziness) is the ripple effect this whole thing has had on my relationship with the Remix--which is still going swimmingly, by the way. The problem with the disintegration of our friends' relationship is that it lends itself to talking about problems. The way it'll effect our relationship with those friends individually, who's at fault, what we'll do if they work it out, now that we've effectively chosen sides, the usual things. We end up in heated conversations about why so and so should do such and such, and when we disagree, it seems to become far more important than it really ought to be.
I've discovered, to my great chagrin, that this particular effect is my fault. I'm not good at gray area, you see. I am opinionated, all the time, about everything. My flaw is that even when I agree with you, I still have a way of making people feel like I'm telling them they're wrong. I don't mean to. I get so passionate about what I think, that it sounds like I must think anyone who doesn't agree is an idiot. I don't really know how to fix it, exactly. I like that I'm passionate, and I think most of the people who like me do too. I had to apologize to the Remix today, though, because I made her feel acutely unappreciated just by being me.
We've been talking a lot, lately, about the whole "That's just me being me" idea, mostly because of our friends and their catastrophic relationship. We agree that "DJ being DJ" is an acceptable excuse for baskets of clean laundry laying out on the floor for days at a time, but maybe not so much for making people feel unimportant. So it's no excuse anymore. I'll make an effort to be better, and the Remix will keep reminding me when I'm not.
Except, of course, while blogging. It wouldn't do to have my audience, if there's any left, thinking that I suddenly no longer know everything, would it?
1.05.2007
27 spins around the sun
As of tomorrow, the earth will have circled the sun twenty-seven times since the day I was born. Since January 6th, 1980, the U.S. has fought two wars in Iraq. The best president of my lifetime saw his approval ratings climb because of an ill-advised blowjob. The worst president of my lifetime recently decided it was ok for the government to read your mail.
Since I was born, my hometown of Chicago has seen eight sports championships. The single greatest basketball player of all time once signed a scrap of notebook paper for me in a restaurant parking lot. The worst team in all of baseball has lost over 2000 games. The Bears haven't had one Pro Bowl quarterback.
Since I was born, Pauly Shore has made fourteen movies. So has Martin Scorcese. This is not ok.
Since I was born, The Stones have gone on tour eight times. The New Kids played over 750 shows in a four year span.
Since I was born, I've gained over 260 pounds. I've grown over five feet. My hair has been brown at times, and occasionally auburn, and most recently awfully gray. My glasses have gotten progressively stronger every year for the past twenty.
Since I was born, I've been engaged twice, married once, and divorced once. I've spent five years in college, without getting a degree. My combined earnings for the entire time I've been working are about a year of my father's salary. I've learned a lot, forgotten more, and looking forward to many more years of the same.
More importantly than all the above, though: Since last year, this time, I've fallen in love, again, with a beautiful woman that I never deserved a second chance with. Since last year, this time, I've broken down the old walls I'd put up to survive my marriage, and reopened passages that I never thought I'd be allowed to use. I write again, even if it's just this tripe. I cook again. I look forward to spending time with the Remix, rather than dreading spending time with the ex. I'm able to look myself in the mirror every morning with respect and a touch of amazement, unable to believe I've come this far but proud as hell to have made it.
I don't remember exactly what I did last year on my birthday. The way things were going then, probably nothing to be proud of. This year was perfect. Gifts from the Remix, then dinner. Curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and homemade kolaczki, watching Nip/Tuck...Happy Birthday to me. Life is good, again, and this next spin around is looking like it may be the best one yet.
Since I was born, my hometown of Chicago has seen eight sports championships. The single greatest basketball player of all time once signed a scrap of notebook paper for me in a restaurant parking lot. The worst team in all of baseball has lost over 2000 games. The Bears haven't had one Pro Bowl quarterback.
Since I was born, Pauly Shore has made fourteen movies. So has Martin Scorcese. This is not ok.
Since I was born, The Stones have gone on tour eight times. The New Kids played over 750 shows in a four year span.
Since I was born, I've gained over 260 pounds. I've grown over five feet. My hair has been brown at times, and occasionally auburn, and most recently awfully gray. My glasses have gotten progressively stronger every year for the past twenty.
Since I was born, I've been engaged twice, married once, and divorced once. I've spent five years in college, without getting a degree. My combined earnings for the entire time I've been working are about a year of my father's salary. I've learned a lot, forgotten more, and looking forward to many more years of the same.
More importantly than all the above, though: Since last year, this time, I've fallen in love, again, with a beautiful woman that I never deserved a second chance with. Since last year, this time, I've broken down the old walls I'd put up to survive my marriage, and reopened passages that I never thought I'd be allowed to use. I write again, even if it's just this tripe. I cook again. I look forward to spending time with the Remix, rather than dreading spending time with the ex. I'm able to look myself in the mirror every morning with respect and a touch of amazement, unable to believe I've come this far but proud as hell to have made it.
I don't remember exactly what I did last year on my birthday. The way things were going then, probably nothing to be proud of. This year was perfect. Gifts from the Remix, then dinner. Curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and homemade kolaczki, watching Nip/Tuck...Happy Birthday to me. Life is good, again, and this next spin around is looking like it may be the best one yet.
1.02.2007
Ain't Too Proud To Beg
When she asks me to do things, I listen. I don't jump, necessarily, but I always hear her out. I need reading material. So here we are. Reading material.
I wrote once about my innate resistance to change, even if for the better. This, thankfully, has not changed. My wallet overstuffed with old gift cards and student IDs, my high school football jersey buried in a drawer somewhere, the three earrings I wore a lifetime ago packed neatly somewhere in my parents basement--my inability to give up bits of my past. It has little to do with nostalgia, that green and gold #77 jersey doesn't hold any special sentimental value. My recollections of my sleeker and stronger days don't need any physical reminders; I've integrated both good and bad memories of who and what I am and have been pretty firmly into my sense of self without needing any souvenirs. I just like to keep stuff.
I have a pair of shoes. I got them sometime after the Remix and I ended it for good (or so we thought), and before I met the future ex-wife. They're simple brown Rockports, one of the only brand names to carry the extra-extra-wide sizes I need to accomodate my freakish feet. (There's probably a whole other blog entry there, but no one would ever want to read it.) They started out nice, heavy leather and thick soles, rock 'n' roll enough to wear with jeans at a bar but serious enough to settle down nicely with a pair of khakis and a button down.
Dozens of rainstorms, errant drops of beer and Jack Daniels, tripping over curbs, and a steady diet of road salt all took their toll over time. The supple leather grew stiff, and then surrendered completely to a texture more like well worn cotton. The heel of the right shoe is wedge-shaped, worn smooth on one side from thousands of miles of working the gas pedal. The soles are a distant memory, in some places worn thin enough to see the leather bottom of the shoe. The heels are crushed, from day after day of jamming my monstrous feet in without bothering to untie them. The laces are so frayed that the brown covering is all gone, exposing the densely intertwined bits of string that just barely hold the tongue down.
I love my shoes. I don't have any memories with them, there's no pictures of me with the shoes at the Grand Canyon or cuddling up on the ferris wheel at Navy Pier. For the last year or so, everyone I know has mentioned at one time or another that I really needed new ones, but I never quite made it out to buy any. And then.
Monday, the Remix and I went out to see Harriet and Mr. Spy for a new year's party. The Remix wasn't appalled enough to forbid my wearing the shoes in public. Just barely. She laughed when she said it, there were no hard feelings, I don't feel like she's running my life--but when she asks, I listen. You have got to get new shoes. Today. She was right, too.
So here I sit, a brand new pair of shoes resting comfortably by the door on my left. Simple brown Rockports. Similar enough to my other pair that they could be twins. Yes, the kind of twins where one has grown up to be a eminent heart surgeon and the other just came off yet another three day crystal meth binge, but twins nonetheless. The new shoes are great, just as comfortable, easier to walk in (you try to balance in shoes with a third of the sole missing), and snappy enough to hang with the khaki pants crowd. There was no reason not to get new ones, I just needed a prod in the right direction. Well, more like a horse kick in the right direction, but you get the point.
She couldn't have made me do it. She wouldn't have, either. She knows I hang on to things. The leopard print pillow she made me all those years ago. The songs she downloaded to my computer in college. The story that I wrote for her the day she needed one worst. It's not sentimental. Really. I just like to keep stuff.
I wrote once about my innate resistance to change, even if for the better. This, thankfully, has not changed. My wallet overstuffed with old gift cards and student IDs, my high school football jersey buried in a drawer somewhere, the three earrings I wore a lifetime ago packed neatly somewhere in my parents basement--my inability to give up bits of my past. It has little to do with nostalgia, that green and gold #77 jersey doesn't hold any special sentimental value. My recollections of my sleeker and stronger days don't need any physical reminders; I've integrated both good and bad memories of who and what I am and have been pretty firmly into my sense of self without needing any souvenirs. I just like to keep stuff.
I have a pair of shoes. I got them sometime after the Remix and I ended it for good (or so we thought), and before I met the future ex-wife. They're simple brown Rockports, one of the only brand names to carry the extra-extra-wide sizes I need to accomodate my freakish feet. (There's probably a whole other blog entry there, but no one would ever want to read it.) They started out nice, heavy leather and thick soles, rock 'n' roll enough to wear with jeans at a bar but serious enough to settle down nicely with a pair of khakis and a button down.
Dozens of rainstorms, errant drops of beer and Jack Daniels, tripping over curbs, and a steady diet of road salt all took their toll over time. The supple leather grew stiff, and then surrendered completely to a texture more like well worn cotton. The heel of the right shoe is wedge-shaped, worn smooth on one side from thousands of miles of working the gas pedal. The soles are a distant memory, in some places worn thin enough to see the leather bottom of the shoe. The heels are crushed, from day after day of jamming my monstrous feet in without bothering to untie them. The laces are so frayed that the brown covering is all gone, exposing the densely intertwined bits of string that just barely hold the tongue down.
I love my shoes. I don't have any memories with them, there's no pictures of me with the shoes at the Grand Canyon or cuddling up on the ferris wheel at Navy Pier. For the last year or so, everyone I know has mentioned at one time or another that I really needed new ones, but I never quite made it out to buy any. And then.
Monday, the Remix and I went out to see Harriet and Mr. Spy for a new year's party. The Remix wasn't appalled enough to forbid my wearing the shoes in public. Just barely. She laughed when she said it, there were no hard feelings, I don't feel like she's running my life--but when she asks, I listen. You have got to get new shoes. Today. She was right, too.
So here I sit, a brand new pair of shoes resting comfortably by the door on my left. Simple brown Rockports. Similar enough to my other pair that they could be twins. Yes, the kind of twins where one has grown up to be a eminent heart surgeon and the other just came off yet another three day crystal meth binge, but twins nonetheless. The new shoes are great, just as comfortable, easier to walk in (you try to balance in shoes with a third of the sole missing), and snappy enough to hang with the khaki pants crowd. There was no reason not to get new ones, I just needed a prod in the right direction. Well, more like a horse kick in the right direction, but you get the point.
She couldn't have made me do it. She wouldn't have, either. She knows I hang on to things. The leopard print pillow she made me all those years ago. The songs she downloaded to my computer in college. The story that I wrote for her the day she needed one worst. It's not sentimental. Really. I just like to keep stuff.
12.05.2006
Who Needs Sleep?
Why I can't sleep is something of a mystery to me, and yet here we are. My eyes are so tired they hurt, and I'm yawning uncontrollably, but when I go to bed I find myself gazing at the ceiling, thinking about nothing.
A list of things I have to do this week, hopefully getting everything on paper will get my brain off strike and let me go to bed...
A list of things I have to do this week, hopefully getting everything on paper will get my brain off strike and let me go to bed...
- Finish Christmas shopping. (I got my mom and the Remix done today...I'd love to tell the interwebs what I bought, but frankly I don't trust y'all to keep it to yourselves.)
- Buy my brother a graduation present. This wasn't on the list until the Remix reminded me. Whoops.
- Get my new dress shirt pressed and starched. By friday. Better do that tomorrow.
- Get my dress shoes polished. By Friday. Hmm...there's a rapidly developing theme here...
- Last, but not least, I need to plan out my trip to St. Louis for the Bears game on Monday...apparently the people I'm going with are not the planning types, but I can't just roll with it. The Remix would be so proud.
Ok. That's all I have for today. Fantastically disinteresting, I know. Catch you on the flipside, interwebs...hopefully after a few hours sleep.
11.30.2006
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
So I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere at “Pizza School,” learning to make pizzas just like they do in one of the world’s largest fast food chains. Unfortunately, I signed about twelve different confidentiality agreements, so I’m not really going to say anything more about that. Good stories, but not worth getting fired over, you know?
Anyway, this leaves me forced to write about something else. I drove here, four some hours from home, and all the way I listened to Christmas music off my MP3 player. I’m a sucker for Christmas music, I love it, and I’m thrilled that the socially acceptable time for listening is back. (Not that I’m above playing it softly in the privacy of my own home in mid-June, mind you.) I’m thinking I can probably get a blog entry out of this, so here it goes. My all-time Christmas CD, in poorly thought out form. I’m sure you’ll be less than thrilled. Please, by all means, make suggestions. They’re beyond welcome, it’s more of a craving…I know there’s great Christmas music out there that I’ve never heard of (the Remix can attest—saying my taste in music is refined is like saying Britney Spears flashed everyone her uterus by mistake—horseshit.) So tell me what you think, what you like, and if there’s something I just gotta hear that didn’t make my list. And without further ado:
1. Holly Jolly Christmas, Burl Ives – Yes, the one from that stop-motion animated Rudolph special I’ve seen a thousand times. I love the memories I have of this one. Sitting in front of the TV in my pajamas on Christmas Eve, with a bowl of popcorn my pops just made, giddy with anticipation and barely able to sit still for the whole movie.
2. Merry Christmas From the Family, Montgomery Gentry – I know Robert Earl Keane did it first and better, but did you? Didn’t think so. If you’ve heard it, you’ve probably heard the one that actually made the radio. My sense of humor is just juvenile enough that this still makes me laugh.
3. Baby It’s Cold Outside, Dean Martin – This is the first close call on the list. Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald are both among my favorites, but the mental image of Satchmo trying to storm Lady Ella’s castle during a blizzard is just this side of nauseating. Dean had the personality to sell it right…I mean, who can’t picture Dean Martin smooth-talking some poor virtuous neighborhood girl right out of her dress? (Good Christ, do I think about this stuff too much, or what?)
4. Winter Wonderland, Harry Connick Jr. – The instrumental version, I think it was in When Harry Met Sally. This is the kind of rollicking Connick solo that makes me curse the day I quit piano lessons. I’d give my left big toe to be able to play a piano like this.
5. You’re A Mean One, Mr. Grinch, Boris Karloff – It’s Boris Karloff. Singing. What else can I say? I’d sort of like to know how ridiculous I look bellowing along to this in the car. I’m somewhere between a bass and a baritone, and to match Boris on this one I do that goofy face where it looks like you’re fighting back a tremendous belch in an effort to will up the bottom notes from the depths of my chest. It’s gotta be as hilarious as it is off-key.
6. Blue Christmas, Elvis Presley – Only the King can pull off a Christmas song that’s this ostensibly sad and have this much fun hamming it up. Sure, he says he’s going to have a blue Christmas without you, but it sounds more like he’s looking forward to getting rip-roaring drunk and passing out in the mashed potatoes and then blaming it all on you when he wakes up the next day.
7. Christmas Waltz, Frank Sinatra – Connick’s version of this was close, but Frankie does it best. Even in a Christmas song, Sinatra sounds like he’s simultaneously wishing you a happy holiday and dropping his hotel room key in your girlfriend’s purse. He was just that kind of guy.
8. Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr. Garrison on South Park – Ninety percent of the time, I’m above South Park. It’s rude, and gross, and pushes the envelope just for the sake of doing it. And then they go and do something like this…and totally redeem themselves! Seriously, anytime you can combine two of my favorite pastimes (swearing and mocking religious/political extremists) and make it a Christmas song to boot, you’ve got me sold. I’m a sucker like that.
9. Frosty the Snowman, Leon Redbone and Dr. John – Two of the most distinctive voices I know, doing a raucous and nonsensical version of a traditional Christmas classic. The first time I heard this, I thought it was just the greatest Christmas joke since the nativity. Brilliant.
10. O Holy Night, Anyone – When it’s done right, this is simply one of the prettiest songs ever. I’ve yet to find a version that’s totally satisfactory—there’s lots of soaring, beautiful recordings out there, but not one I can sing along with in key. I’ll let you know if I find one, or maybe someone here can help me out.
11. Let It Snow, Bing Crosby – A perfect crooner’s song, for the perfect crooner. Bing may have been a violent maniac in real life, but behind the microphone he’s as smooth as glass. His voice is low enough to rumble the windows, but it’s silk the whole time. Plus, there’s a groovy clarinet part. Don’t get to say that often enough.
12. Dominic the Donkey, Lou Monte – The Italian Christmas donkey? Seriously? Did they cut this track with me in mind, or are there other people in the world who take a ridiculous amount of pleasure in that phrase. I’m going to say it again…Italian Christmas donkey…look at those endorphins go.
13. Feliz Navidad, Jose Feliciano – I know how bad this is. Really, I do. There’s more good memories here, though…two years ago, roadtripping with a couple of good friends to see another get married the weekend before Christmas, the only time my buddy in the back seat woke up was when this came on the radio, and we’d scream it out until we had no voices left, at which point he’d lay back down on the seat and go back to bed.
14. Merry Muthafuckin’ Xmas, Eazy E – Again, uncontrollable swearing and a Christmas song? Count me in. This one doesn’t even make any sense, it’s just a jumble of poorly conceived innuendos and drug references, with no real point….it’s wonderful.
15. White Christmas, Bing Crosby – It’s too good not to put Bing on here twice. This song is sort of a catch-all for Christmas memories for me, December 25th is just another day until this comes on.
So there you have it. Again, please feel free to hit me up with suggestions. I’m going to exhaust my stash before we’re even halfway to the holiday. There may be another entry forthcoming with all the Christmas music that I can’t stand…
Anyway, this leaves me forced to write about something else. I drove here, four some hours from home, and all the way I listened to Christmas music off my MP3 player. I’m a sucker for Christmas music, I love it, and I’m thrilled that the socially acceptable time for listening is back. (Not that I’m above playing it softly in the privacy of my own home in mid-June, mind you.) I’m thinking I can probably get a blog entry out of this, so here it goes. My all-time Christmas CD, in poorly thought out form. I’m sure you’ll be less than thrilled. Please, by all means, make suggestions. They’re beyond welcome, it’s more of a craving…I know there’s great Christmas music out there that I’ve never heard of (the Remix can attest—saying my taste in music is refined is like saying Britney Spears flashed everyone her uterus by mistake—horseshit.) So tell me what you think, what you like, and if there’s something I just gotta hear that didn’t make my list. And without further ado:
1. Holly Jolly Christmas, Burl Ives – Yes, the one from that stop-motion animated Rudolph special I’ve seen a thousand times. I love the memories I have of this one. Sitting in front of the TV in my pajamas on Christmas Eve, with a bowl of popcorn my pops just made, giddy with anticipation and barely able to sit still for the whole movie.
2. Merry Christmas From the Family, Montgomery Gentry – I know Robert Earl Keane did it first and better, but did you? Didn’t think so. If you’ve heard it, you’ve probably heard the one that actually made the radio. My sense of humor is just juvenile enough that this still makes me laugh.
3. Baby It’s Cold Outside, Dean Martin – This is the first close call on the list. Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald are both among my favorites, but the mental image of Satchmo trying to storm Lady Ella’s castle during a blizzard is just this side of nauseating. Dean had the personality to sell it right…I mean, who can’t picture Dean Martin smooth-talking some poor virtuous neighborhood girl right out of her dress? (Good Christ, do I think about this stuff too much, or what?)
4. Winter Wonderland, Harry Connick Jr. – The instrumental version, I think it was in When Harry Met Sally. This is the kind of rollicking Connick solo that makes me curse the day I quit piano lessons. I’d give my left big toe to be able to play a piano like this.
5. You’re A Mean One, Mr. Grinch, Boris Karloff – It’s Boris Karloff. Singing. What else can I say? I’d sort of like to know how ridiculous I look bellowing along to this in the car. I’m somewhere between a bass and a baritone, and to match Boris on this one I do that goofy face where it looks like you’re fighting back a tremendous belch in an effort to will up the bottom notes from the depths of my chest. It’s gotta be as hilarious as it is off-key.
6. Blue Christmas, Elvis Presley – Only the King can pull off a Christmas song that’s this ostensibly sad and have this much fun hamming it up. Sure, he says he’s going to have a blue Christmas without you, but it sounds more like he’s looking forward to getting rip-roaring drunk and passing out in the mashed potatoes and then blaming it all on you when he wakes up the next day.
7. Christmas Waltz, Frank Sinatra – Connick’s version of this was close, but Frankie does it best. Even in a Christmas song, Sinatra sounds like he’s simultaneously wishing you a happy holiday and dropping his hotel room key in your girlfriend’s purse. He was just that kind of guy.
8. Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr. Garrison on South Park – Ninety percent of the time, I’m above South Park. It’s rude, and gross, and pushes the envelope just for the sake of doing it. And then they go and do something like this…and totally redeem themselves! Seriously, anytime you can combine two of my favorite pastimes (swearing and mocking religious/political extremists) and make it a Christmas song to boot, you’ve got me sold. I’m a sucker like that.
9. Frosty the Snowman, Leon Redbone and Dr. John – Two of the most distinctive voices I know, doing a raucous and nonsensical version of a traditional Christmas classic. The first time I heard this, I thought it was just the greatest Christmas joke since the nativity. Brilliant.
10. O Holy Night, Anyone – When it’s done right, this is simply one of the prettiest songs ever. I’ve yet to find a version that’s totally satisfactory—there’s lots of soaring, beautiful recordings out there, but not one I can sing along with in key. I’ll let you know if I find one, or maybe someone here can help me out.
11. Let It Snow, Bing Crosby – A perfect crooner’s song, for the perfect crooner. Bing may have been a violent maniac in real life, but behind the microphone he’s as smooth as glass. His voice is low enough to rumble the windows, but it’s silk the whole time. Plus, there’s a groovy clarinet part. Don’t get to say that often enough.
12. Dominic the Donkey, Lou Monte – The Italian Christmas donkey? Seriously? Did they cut this track with me in mind, or are there other people in the world who take a ridiculous amount of pleasure in that phrase. I’m going to say it again…Italian Christmas donkey…look at those endorphins go.
13. Feliz Navidad, Jose Feliciano – I know how bad this is. Really, I do. There’s more good memories here, though…two years ago, roadtripping with a couple of good friends to see another get married the weekend before Christmas, the only time my buddy in the back seat woke up was when this came on the radio, and we’d scream it out until we had no voices left, at which point he’d lay back down on the seat and go back to bed.
14. Merry Muthafuckin’ Xmas, Eazy E – Again, uncontrollable swearing and a Christmas song? Count me in. This one doesn’t even make any sense, it’s just a jumble of poorly conceived innuendos and drug references, with no real point….it’s wonderful.
15. White Christmas, Bing Crosby – It’s too good not to put Bing on here twice. This song is sort of a catch-all for Christmas memories for me, December 25th is just another day until this comes on.
So there you have it. Again, please feel free to hit me up with suggestions. I’m going to exhaust my stash before we’re even halfway to the holiday. There may be another entry forthcoming with all the Christmas music that I can’t stand…
11.25.2006
Go Speedracer, Go!
I don't run much. By much, I mean ever. My pop used to joke (when comparing me to my slimmer and more fleet-footed brother) that I wasn't built to run far, just ten yards and through a brick wall. He's right, too. I'm pudgy at best, but with broad bulky shoulders, a huge squarish head, and tiny little legs. Exactly the wrong size and shape to run anywhere at all. Add to this the fact that my football playing days are a good eight years behind me now, and I'm up to a pack a day of Marlboro Blend No. 27s, and you've got a textbook example of someone who shouldn't be anywhere near an 8k "race" at 9 in the morning on Thanksgiving day.
Obviously I wouldn't be telling you this story if that wasn't exactly where I found myself on Thursday, in a huddled mass of people under the morning sun preparing to run around the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. The Remix was with me, of course, since she instigated this whole thing, bright eyed and flush with the prospect of pounding 4.9 miles of pavement before lunchtime.
We somehow managed to park a solid mile away from the registration area, which meant I was already tired and ready for a cigarette by the time I got to the table. I went to the huge bulletin boards to find our numbers, and was surprised to find my name unironically placed amongst the others, as if I belonged. We stood in line for a good ten minutes, listening to people younger and spryer than I compare past times and issue challenges. This is something I never liked about the runners I've known in the past--with the exception of the Remix, and a couple other friends who managed to both run and not talk about running at every break in the conversation, most people I know who own a pair of running shoes feel the need to discuss it with you at every interval. One of my college buddies married a "runner," who will still tell you about the absolute rush of hitting the street at 5am on a December morning as she pops twinkies in her mouth like tic tacs. Ok, we get it. You ran a marathon once. You're the size of a Volkswagen now, isn't it time to let it go already?
I was dismayed to discover that the entry fee for this event included the cost of renting a tiny piece of plastic which through some sort of advanced ESP technology will enable the organizers to publish online exactly how out of shape I am for all the world to see. Apparently the humiliation of trying to run is not enough, they have to time me, too. I tied my little plastic tattle-tale to my shoe and stood cracking my knuckles while I watched the people around me contort themselves into all sorts of positions in the interests of stretching.
The people watching was great, though. Middle-aged men with expensive Nike and adidas track jackets and spandex pants; soccer moms in ear-warmers, faces set in their best imitation of grim determination; parents with strollers, trying desperately to explain to their kids why it will be fun to get pushed over a bumpy trail for an hour when they could be on a swingset somewhere. Directly in front of us was a man dressed like a giant turkey. Directly behind, a teenaged girl wearing what could only be a spandex tent. In the middle of all of this, here I am in an ISU t-shirt and ancient blue basketball shorts with paint stains, trying to look like I have some idea what the hell I'm doing.
The Remix is an angel. Once the starter's horn sounded, she trotted patiently along beside me at a much slower pace than she'd have set for herself. At first, I did my best to be funny and self-deprecating, making the people around me chuckle as I'm inclined to do anytime there's more than three people around to potentially form an audience. That was while I was still able to talk. By the first hill, I was breathing like a wounded water buffalo. By the end of the first mile, I had to take my first walking break. As my lungs pounded against my ribs, I tried to urge the Remix on without me, if only to spare myself some embarassment. She wouldn't go, at least not until I'd walked half of the second mile and did not look to be gaining any steam. I made one last push with her coaching, another 3 or 4 tenths of a mile, and finally gave up. She took off, bobbing and weaving through the racewalkers as she struggled to catch up with the pack.
I took my time the rest of the course, jogging and walking intermittently, determined to finish but not quite enough to find some untapped reservoir of athletic ability. An old man with a limp gritted his teeth as he worked his way by me on the left. A gay man and a tiny terrier pranced by me on the other side. I'm convinced that the kids in strollers were laughing as they blew by. Even the racewalkers looked sympathetic as their ferocious pacing outstripped my unique run-stumble-walk-run-pray for death strategy.
I might have finished even worse, but for the added motivation of my new training partner. Around the turn of the fourth mile as I plodded on in a sort of shuffling half-jog, a tiny blue haired old lady overtook me and then left me in her dust. That was too much. I ran the last 8 tenths of a mile as fast as I could manage, determined not to be run into the ground by anyone's grandma. When I crossed the finish line, unable to breathe, talk, or think, the Remix greeted me with a banana and a glass of water, beaming at me in the sun while a curmudgeonly race volunteer cut the timer off my shoe. I'm proud I finished, and according to my plastic friend, in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Could be worse. Could be much worse, actually. The remix and I started our trek back to the car. I'm glad you came, she said. It's fun doing this stuff with you. Limping to the car, feeling smug just for finishing the damn race, my beautiful girlfriend on my arm and oblivious to the array of musclebound gym boys, I couldn't agree more. I'm glad I came too. I love you. And I meant it.
Obviously I wouldn't be telling you this story if that wasn't exactly where I found myself on Thursday, in a huddled mass of people under the morning sun preparing to run around the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. The Remix was with me, of course, since she instigated this whole thing, bright eyed and flush with the prospect of pounding 4.9 miles of pavement before lunchtime.
We somehow managed to park a solid mile away from the registration area, which meant I was already tired and ready for a cigarette by the time I got to the table. I went to the huge bulletin boards to find our numbers, and was surprised to find my name unironically placed amongst the others, as if I belonged. We stood in line for a good ten minutes, listening to people younger and spryer than I compare past times and issue challenges. This is something I never liked about the runners I've known in the past--with the exception of the Remix, and a couple other friends who managed to both run and not talk about running at every break in the conversation, most people I know who own a pair of running shoes feel the need to discuss it with you at every interval. One of my college buddies married a "runner," who will still tell you about the absolute rush of hitting the street at 5am on a December morning as she pops twinkies in her mouth like tic tacs. Ok, we get it. You ran a marathon once. You're the size of a Volkswagen now, isn't it time to let it go already?
I was dismayed to discover that the entry fee for this event included the cost of renting a tiny piece of plastic which through some sort of advanced ESP technology will enable the organizers to publish online exactly how out of shape I am for all the world to see. Apparently the humiliation of trying to run is not enough, they have to time me, too. I tied my little plastic tattle-tale to my shoe and stood cracking my knuckles while I watched the people around me contort themselves into all sorts of positions in the interests of stretching.
The people watching was great, though. Middle-aged men with expensive Nike and adidas track jackets and spandex pants; soccer moms in ear-warmers, faces set in their best imitation of grim determination; parents with strollers, trying desperately to explain to their kids why it will be fun to get pushed over a bumpy trail for an hour when they could be on a swingset somewhere. Directly in front of us was a man dressed like a giant turkey. Directly behind, a teenaged girl wearing what could only be a spandex tent. In the middle of all of this, here I am in an ISU t-shirt and ancient blue basketball shorts with paint stains, trying to look like I have some idea what the hell I'm doing.
The Remix is an angel. Once the starter's horn sounded, she trotted patiently along beside me at a much slower pace than she'd have set for herself. At first, I did my best to be funny and self-deprecating, making the people around me chuckle as I'm inclined to do anytime there's more than three people around to potentially form an audience. That was while I was still able to talk. By the first hill, I was breathing like a wounded water buffalo. By the end of the first mile, I had to take my first walking break. As my lungs pounded against my ribs, I tried to urge the Remix on without me, if only to spare myself some embarassment. She wouldn't go, at least not until I'd walked half of the second mile and did not look to be gaining any steam. I made one last push with her coaching, another 3 or 4 tenths of a mile, and finally gave up. She took off, bobbing and weaving through the racewalkers as she struggled to catch up with the pack.
I took my time the rest of the course, jogging and walking intermittently, determined to finish but not quite enough to find some untapped reservoir of athletic ability. An old man with a limp gritted his teeth as he worked his way by me on the left. A gay man and a tiny terrier pranced by me on the other side. I'm convinced that the kids in strollers were laughing as they blew by. Even the racewalkers looked sympathetic as their ferocious pacing outstripped my unique run-stumble-walk-run-pray for death strategy.
I might have finished even worse, but for the added motivation of my new training partner. Around the turn of the fourth mile as I plodded on in a sort of shuffling half-jog, a tiny blue haired old lady overtook me and then left me in her dust. That was too much. I ran the last 8 tenths of a mile as fast as I could manage, determined not to be run into the ground by anyone's grandma. When I crossed the finish line, unable to breathe, talk, or think, the Remix greeted me with a banana and a glass of water, beaming at me in the sun while a curmudgeonly race volunteer cut the timer off my shoe. I'm proud I finished, and according to my plastic friend, in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Could be worse. Could be much worse, actually. The remix and I started our trek back to the car. I'm glad you came, she said. It's fun doing this stuff with you. Limping to the car, feeling smug just for finishing the damn race, my beautiful girlfriend on my arm and oblivious to the array of musclebound gym boys, I couldn't agree more. I'm glad I came too. I love you. And I meant it.
11.10.2006
Never met a metaphor I didn't like
I am taking a day off on Monday. This is odd. I have, since I began my current job two years ago, taken only two days off. I am adjusting to the idea slowly, and finding it not entirely unpleasant.
The Remix and I are spending the day together; doing nothing in particular. We may go shopping for a suit (I don't own one, or at least not a whole one, and this seems like a situation I should remedy.) We may spend all day drinking wine and making out like high schoolers playing hooky. We may go see a movie. We may even just curl up at opposite ends of the couch, legs entwined, reading books and chasing away cats. It doesn't matter to me. Her presence is relaxing, a whole uninterrupted weekday is tantamount to a two week vacation for me.
Four days from now will be the one year anniversary of my divorce. It's been a surprising year. I fell in love, which I hadn't anticipated. I didn't get depressed, which I had both anticipated and dreaded. Being prone to depression is hard to explain to anyone who's not had the experience. It's a little like walking on an icy sidewalk--you know there's a good chance you're falling on your ass, but until you feel the cold seeping through your pants you don't even realize you've slipped. For a while, I drank too much, flirted with the wrong girls, made just a few too many jokes with that uncomfortable edge that everyone can see right through. I could have slipped, but I didn't. I pulled myself up, tiptoed carefully for a while, and eventually the danger passed.
The Remix was waiting at the other end of the sidewalk. Tall and beautiful, aching to be loved, and generous with her second chance. The timing was perfect--any sooner, I'd have been too fragile for this to work; any later and I might have been too calloused to give it a real chance. To say that she's everything my ex-wife was not would be unfair, to both of them and myself. There is no comparison, and to attempt to qualify her as juxtaposition to someone else is both senseless and cruel. The things my ex-wife did wrong were not entirely her fault. We didn't fit together, period, and for all our good intentions our attempts to mesh were doomed to end in grinding gears and a cloud of noxious smoke.
The Remix fits. Her intelligence, her beauty, her grace, her varied and impressive talents--all the things that make her an incredible and unique individual--make sense to me. They fit my idea of a life, and of a person to share it with. She makes me better, without ever making me feel bad about who I am. It's not a sense of completion, exactly. It's more like infinite potential. We're not good because of who we were before we met. We're good because of who we can be because we're together.
The Remix and I are spending the day together; doing nothing in particular. We may go shopping for a suit (I don't own one, or at least not a whole one, and this seems like a situation I should remedy.) We may spend all day drinking wine and making out like high schoolers playing hooky. We may go see a movie. We may even just curl up at opposite ends of the couch, legs entwined, reading books and chasing away cats. It doesn't matter to me. Her presence is relaxing, a whole uninterrupted weekday is tantamount to a two week vacation for me.
Four days from now will be the one year anniversary of my divorce. It's been a surprising year. I fell in love, which I hadn't anticipated. I didn't get depressed, which I had both anticipated and dreaded. Being prone to depression is hard to explain to anyone who's not had the experience. It's a little like walking on an icy sidewalk--you know there's a good chance you're falling on your ass, but until you feel the cold seeping through your pants you don't even realize you've slipped. For a while, I drank too much, flirted with the wrong girls, made just a few too many jokes with that uncomfortable edge that everyone can see right through. I could have slipped, but I didn't. I pulled myself up, tiptoed carefully for a while, and eventually the danger passed.
The Remix was waiting at the other end of the sidewalk. Tall and beautiful, aching to be loved, and generous with her second chance. The timing was perfect--any sooner, I'd have been too fragile for this to work; any later and I might have been too calloused to give it a real chance. To say that she's everything my ex-wife was not would be unfair, to both of them and myself. There is no comparison, and to attempt to qualify her as juxtaposition to someone else is both senseless and cruel. The things my ex-wife did wrong were not entirely her fault. We didn't fit together, period, and for all our good intentions our attempts to mesh were doomed to end in grinding gears and a cloud of noxious smoke.
The Remix fits. Her intelligence, her beauty, her grace, her varied and impressive talents--all the things that make her an incredible and unique individual--make sense to me. They fit my idea of a life, and of a person to share it with. She makes me better, without ever making me feel bad about who I am. It's not a sense of completion, exactly. It's more like infinite potential. We're not good because of who we were before we met. We're good because of who we can be because we're together.
Oddities
There is a cat in my pantry. This is neither unusual or particularly disturbing (after all, there's no food in the pantry, so hygiene is a non-issue) but it occurs to me that I have no idea when the cats learned to open doors. Maybe I need security cameras in here...strange things may go on when I'm at work.
10.30.2006
Writer's block
Hm. I'm very much jonesing to write something today, in short story form, but seriously bone dry on ideas. Worst feeling in the world, if you've ever put pen to paper in an attempt to create something. I've written one decent short story in the past year. (If you'd like to read it, feel free to leave me a comment, I'll be happy to send it to you. I'm at the point of trying to submit it for publication, and I can use all the intelligent criticism I can get, you know?)
Truth be told, I'm pimping my last story here in a vain attempt to boost my ego enough to get something else started. I know the last one is good, good enough anyway. If enough people tell me so, maybe I can prod my brain enough to get another one free.
I've got the stories I can't write. The ones that hurt to remember, the ones that would kill me to write honestly and would suck any other way. There's gotta be something, though. Something worth putting down, playing with, pretending I might publish. Wish me luck...
Truth be told, I'm pimping my last story here in a vain attempt to boost my ego enough to get something else started. I know the last one is good, good enough anyway. If enough people tell me so, maybe I can prod my brain enough to get another one free.
I've got the stories I can't write. The ones that hurt to remember, the ones that would kill me to write honestly and would suck any other way. There's gotta be something, though. Something worth putting down, playing with, pretending I might publish. Wish me luck...
10.13.2006
There's still a couple things I don't know...
So I have no excuse. None whatsoever. I have 32 minutes until the laundry is done, and when the timer beeps there will be folding and muttering under my breath. I'm not hungry, I don't need to clean anything...nothing to do but add a posting here.
Yesterday the Remix and I were talking idly (as we so often do, gladly, at great length and to my unceasing amazement) and I mentioned that there were literally dozens of things I'd like to know how to do, but just don't have time for. Lousy excuse, right? But it's true. The things listed below are all things I'd like to learn, but not one of them is important enough to me to take time away from anything else. Without further ado...
I'd like to learn:
Yesterday the Remix and I were talking idly (as we so often do, gladly, at great length and to my unceasing amazement) and I mentioned that there were literally dozens of things I'd like to know how to do, but just don't have time for. Lousy excuse, right? But it's true. The things listed below are all things I'd like to learn, but not one of them is important enough to me to take time away from anything else. Without further ado...
I'd like to learn:
- to shoot a gun. A handgun, even though I'd never bring one into my home. I'd like to know if I'm good at it.
- to sing harmony.
- to play the guitar. I owned a bass for a while, purchased under the influence on Ebay (Ebay should come with a breathlyzer, or so my college Visa bill would suggest), but my fingers are far too stubby to actually play the damn thing.
- Computer programming. I was good at visualBasic in high school, but that's as relevant to now as my guidance counselor's insistence that I pursue a career in law enforcement.
- to properly make menudo, or molé, or enchiladas, or any of the other fragrant oddities my great-grandmother used to make for holidays.
- the keyboard shortcut for a lower-case e with an acute accent (é)...oh, right. Just did. check it off the list.
- to swing dance. Swing dancing is totally cliché (there it is again!) now. It's not cool to take swing lessons, unless you also think it's cool to wear sweatshirts with Disney characters and fanny packs on vacation. But...if you just know how to swing, and you can bust it out just at the right time at a wedding, or a bar, you're instantly so cool Frank Sinatra would go get your drinks.
- to play the piano. Well. Like, hear a song on the radio and start playing along well. I can read music, and pick out Joy to the World with one hand, but it's not even close to the same.
- to wiggle my ears.
- to play blackjack.
So there it is. All the things I would do if I could, if I had time, and space in my brain. On the other hand...
I'd like to forget:
- reading Running With Scissors. Terrible book. Worst thing I've read in the past five years, including the bad sci-fi paperbacks my pop keeps in the guest bathroom.
- the lyrics to T-U-R-T-L-E Power, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Somewhere Out There, and Hit Me Baby One More Time. (And a solid 300 more awful songs that reside somewhere in the back of my mind.)
- the day my grandma died.
- how to play backgammon. I mean, really, when is that going to come up again?
- 16 years of Sunday church services.
- seeing Armageddon, Nothing But Trouble, The Blair Witch Project, Con-Air, and Corky Romano, my official top 5 worst movies I've ever seen.
- what asparagus tastes like.
- putting my dog to sleep.
See, there's plenty of ways to make room there. Anyone have an idea on how to pull it off? First person to show up here with a powerpoint and a bonesaw gets to do the operation.
10.11.2006
This just in: My political leanings have finally caused me to fall over. Story at 11.
A second post, since my girlfriend is out gallavanting and my bankroll wouldn't support poker tonight. On a totally different topic, for a change.
"As it turns out, Mr. Foley has had illicit sex with no one that we know of, and the whole thing turned out to be what some people are now saying was a -- sort of a joke by the boy and some of the other pages."
I found this quote about the Mark Foley/teenage boys/cybersex scandal on Salon today, from Dr. James Dobson, by way of Media Matters. I was repulsed, and feeling the need to argue about it with someone, I took the opportunity and forwarded it to my mom, who is always sure to come down on the side of the church.
She took her normal line, when one of these scandals targets someone to the left of her political leanings, and pointed out that it's atrocious that people are playing partisan politics, and that the media is clearly trying to paint Dr. Dobson in a bad light, by quoting him out of context. And in her defense, I agree, for the most part, though I'm constantly awestruck by how quickly that attitude changes when it's a Democrat who's done something untoward.
Also, to be fair to mom and the good doctor, Dobson has gone on the record vehemently condemning Foley for his actions. (Vehemently condemning people is one of the things Dr. Dobson does best, as a matter of fact.) Which brought both mom and I to the most disturbing facet of all this.
Dr. Dobson is a leader of men. Largely brainwashed, unthinking, close-minded men, but a leader nonetheless. He professes to be a man of principle, guided by his relgious beliefs and supposedly unbendable to the whim of anyone but God himself. He is most likely genuine when he calls Foley's behavior disgusting and wrong. And so much the worse, for this statement. Here is a man who's personal beliefs have taken a backseat to partisan politics. This is the state of our political system. A powerful and disturbed representative of the people has used his duly elected position to take sexual advantage of emotionally fragile children, and the people America looks to for guidance are either playing it off or playing it up for political gain.
I grew up going to church, and while I adamantly oppose fundamentalist religion, I respect people who have chosen to live their life by those arbitrary standards, so long as they demonstrably keep to those standards. Nowhere in my understanding of Christianity has the end ever justified the means. While it may be important to Dr. Dobson for myriad reasons that the conservative party maintains control of the government, it flies in the face of everything that he purportedly stands for to in any way use deliberate misinformation to mislead the public into underestimating the gravity of this situation.
I could argue, if I had to, that Congressman Foley's behavior should not cost the Republicans any votes. In a way, it fits my argument anyway. He is an individual, and should be held individually responsible. Obviously, his problems are not indicative in any way of Republicans as a group, in the same way that his predeliction for young men is not indicative of the preferences of homosexuals as a group. For the Democrats to use this abomination as a means to gain political capital is equally distasteful to me.
But then again...my own logic aside, I still believe this should cost the Republicans, and dearly. I believe it because I believe the Republican leadership played a part in deliberately covering this up. I believe it because I believe the hypocrisy they've shown in defending their own is telling in the lack of conviction and moral relativism it shows. I would believe the same thing if Foley was a Democrat and the shoe was on the other foot.
Our politicians, our religious leaders, our political activists, and our own opinions need more accountability. Are party lines really as firmly drawn across America as the politicians would have us believe? This kind of behavior is a direct result of Americans' inability to adhere to the basic tenets of democracy. The average voter doesn't choose a candidate because they believe that said candidate is the person whose strength of character and personal principles will guide them in doing what they believe is right. They vote for the person who appears to be most similar to themselves. Abortion, gun control, immigration, sex education--all of these "issues" inform the average voter--it's just wrong. America's government was designed to ensure that the people best-equipped to make difficult decisions were in the position to make them. People who wouldn't be influenced by the desire to retain their job at the next election, or to please the lobbyists who fund their "fact-finding" trips to the Carribean, or the constantly fluctuating opinion polls. This government is designed to be run by men and women with the strength of will to make what they truly believe is the right choice, regardless of personal consequence. Instead, our servants of the people serve only themselves, and crucial government issues are decided by $1200 lunches with lobbyists instead of personal deliberation.
Our political future is bleak. When a representative of the people can verbally assault their children and the first thing people talk about is the relative effect on the mid-term elections, I find it difficult to hope that things will change.
"As it turns out, Mr. Foley has had illicit sex with no one that we know of, and the whole thing turned out to be what some people are now saying was a -- sort of a joke by the boy and some of the other pages."
I found this quote about the Mark Foley/teenage boys/cybersex scandal on Salon today, from Dr. James Dobson, by way of Media Matters. I was repulsed, and feeling the need to argue about it with someone, I took the opportunity and forwarded it to my mom, who is always sure to come down on the side of the church.
She took her normal line, when one of these scandals targets someone to the left of her political leanings, and pointed out that it's atrocious that people are playing partisan politics, and that the media is clearly trying to paint Dr. Dobson in a bad light, by quoting him out of context. And in her defense, I agree, for the most part, though I'm constantly awestruck by how quickly that attitude changes when it's a Democrat who's done something untoward.
Also, to be fair to mom and the good doctor, Dobson has gone on the record vehemently condemning Foley for his actions. (Vehemently condemning people is one of the things Dr. Dobson does best, as a matter of fact.) Which brought both mom and I to the most disturbing facet of all this.
Dr. Dobson is a leader of men. Largely brainwashed, unthinking, close-minded men, but a leader nonetheless. He professes to be a man of principle, guided by his relgious beliefs and supposedly unbendable to the whim of anyone but God himself. He is most likely genuine when he calls Foley's behavior disgusting and wrong. And so much the worse, for this statement. Here is a man who's personal beliefs have taken a backseat to partisan politics. This is the state of our political system. A powerful and disturbed representative of the people has used his duly elected position to take sexual advantage of emotionally fragile children, and the people America looks to for guidance are either playing it off or playing it up for political gain.
I grew up going to church, and while I adamantly oppose fundamentalist religion, I respect people who have chosen to live their life by those arbitrary standards, so long as they demonstrably keep to those standards. Nowhere in my understanding of Christianity has the end ever justified the means. While it may be important to Dr. Dobson for myriad reasons that the conservative party maintains control of the government, it flies in the face of everything that he purportedly stands for to in any way use deliberate misinformation to mislead the public into underestimating the gravity of this situation.
I could argue, if I had to, that Congressman Foley's behavior should not cost the Republicans any votes. In a way, it fits my argument anyway. He is an individual, and should be held individually responsible. Obviously, his problems are not indicative in any way of Republicans as a group, in the same way that his predeliction for young men is not indicative of the preferences of homosexuals as a group. For the Democrats to use this abomination as a means to gain political capital is equally distasteful to me.
But then again...my own logic aside, I still believe this should cost the Republicans, and dearly. I believe it because I believe the Republican leadership played a part in deliberately covering this up. I believe it because I believe the hypocrisy they've shown in defending their own is telling in the lack of conviction and moral relativism it shows. I would believe the same thing if Foley was a Democrat and the shoe was on the other foot.
Our politicians, our religious leaders, our political activists, and our own opinions need more accountability. Are party lines really as firmly drawn across America as the politicians would have us believe? This kind of behavior is a direct result of Americans' inability to adhere to the basic tenets of democracy. The average voter doesn't choose a candidate because they believe that said candidate is the person whose strength of character and personal principles will guide them in doing what they believe is right. They vote for the person who appears to be most similar to themselves. Abortion, gun control, immigration, sex education--all of these "issues" inform the average voter--it's just wrong. America's government was designed to ensure that the people best-equipped to make difficult decisions were in the position to make them. People who wouldn't be influenced by the desire to retain their job at the next election, or to please the lobbyists who fund their "fact-finding" trips to the Carribean, or the constantly fluctuating opinion polls. This government is designed to be run by men and women with the strength of will to make what they truly believe is the right choice, regardless of personal consequence. Instead, our servants of the people serve only themselves, and crucial government issues are decided by $1200 lunches with lobbyists instead of personal deliberation.
Our political future is bleak. When a representative of the people can verbally assault their children and the first thing people talk about is the relative effect on the mid-term elections, I find it difficult to hope that things will change.
10.09.2006
Random thoughts
Some things I'm pretty sure I think:
- I think 90% of the time I offend someone, I had no idea it was going to be offensive.
- I think 10% of the time, I'm just being a dickhead.
- I think one of the biggest reasons I love the Remix is the way her face lights up when she's excited about something.
- I think there's not enough time in a Sunday for all the football I need to watch.
- I think Mondays should be outlawed.
- I think that apologies are better when they're least expected.
- I think that apologies are worst when they're most necessary.
- I think, more than anything, that my worst habit by far is constantly qualifying things I have to say--for examples, see "Some things I'm pretty sure I think."
I don't mean to be overprotective, and I don't mean to be undersensitive. They come from the same place, most times, that warm and cozy spot in my brain where the whole world still revolves around DJ. And I know, for certain, that I can't afford to stay in that spot too long, or the world really will revolve around me, if only for lack of any other options. I made a mistake today, a small one, but one that only happened because of a dreadful lack of circumspection. And I'm sorry.
10.08.2006
Easy like Sunday morning
It's a beautiful sunny Sunday, and I'm in a great fucking mood. Played poker yesterday, not terribly well by my own stringent standards, but well enough that I'm not feeling bad about being knocked out. (Also easing the pain--once I was out of the tournament I got rip-roaring drunk, which I do infrequently enough at this point in my life for it be something of a thrill.) Got up early, made the two and a half hour drive from Peoria in an hour and forty minutes, somehow managed to not be the car that got pulled over when a state trooper descended on a pack of us going 95 on I-55. My beautiful girlfriend is coming over tonight, and we'll freeload on my parents for dinner. My Chicago Bears are dominating the opposition once again...the list goes on and on, but the reasons become somewhat irrelevant after a while.
I've got nothing to say, clearly, other than the sun is shining, there' s football to watch, a girlfriend to love, and I'm pretty goddamn happy, all around. Weird, huh?
I've got nothing to say, clearly, other than the sun is shining, there' s football to watch, a girlfriend to love, and I'm pretty goddamn happy, all around. Weird, huh?
8.12.2006
Shameless Thievery.
I totally ripped this off the Remix's blog, but like I said before--bored and lonely. Apparently this sort of thing is called meme (pronounced meem), which sound more like something that grown under your toenails than a survey, but whatever, right?
One book that changed your life: It was early, and I didn't even read it, but when I was 5 my Aunt Nancy recited The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to me while my uncles and Pops were out trying to plant grass in our clay backyard in the middle of a drought. If there'd been any doubt about my literary bent, this one sealed the deal. I wanted to make stories, stories like that one, stories that could make you laugh or cry or gasp out loud. Never did quite get it down, but I'm getting there.
One book I've read more than once: One? I read everything more than once. A Catcher in the Rye (can you imagine a less original choice?) is an old favorite. My copy has a cover that won't stay attached, stains every few pages from reading at dinner until Pops would make me put it down, and entire sections held together by scotch tape and memory.
One book I want to take on a desert island: I'm not going to cheat, like some people, and pick a dozen, so I'll bite the bullet and settle on one. It. Hear me out, now. I know it's not literary, and I know Stephen King is the proud epitome of everything wrong with the American lit scene, but I have my reasons. One, it's a hefty read, 1100 some pages, an excellent time killer and possible escape raft. Two, it's FUN. It may not be Hemingway, but you won't be bored. It's King at his very best, creepy and disturbed, trying too hard to make horror-movie fiction read like legitimate art. I love it, in spite of myself.
One book that makes me laugh: A Confederacy of Dunces. Flat out, no question, the funniest fucking book I've ever read. Legitimately good, too, Pulitzer Prize and all that. The only thing not funny about it is the fact that John Kennedy Toole killed himself before it was ever published. (Though, honestly? That sort of makes me chuckle too.) Anything by David Sedaris is a close second, here.
One book I wish I'd written: High Fidelity. It's far from being a "great" book, but it's my voice, my kind of writing, and a much clearer idea than I've ever had. Oh well.
One book I wish had never been written: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I've never been more annoyed with anything I had to read in a class than Frankenstein. It's not just that it's a dumb story, I've read lots of bad stories. It's not just that it's the first highly acclaimed novel by a woman, I respect that and understand the importance. It's the fact that the book is so bad. The monster learns English in a month, and then carves notes for Dr. Frankenstein INTO PIECES OF ROCK, mind you, that are both eloquent and lengthy. Is the doctor such a poor pursuer that he's unable to catch his creation during the 8 WEEKS it must take him to write these little masterpieces? Give me a fucking break...
One book that made me cry: For starters, Where the Red Fern Grows. I was eight, I wanted a dog, and this book broke my fucking heart. More recently, Schindler's List, for obvious reasons, and The Da Vinci Code, because it's almost as bad as Frankenstein, and I'm really sick of hearing about it.
Book I'm currently reading: All the Harry Potter books, I just picked them all up in paperback to reread. Good, quick, and fun to read. I just finished The Truth by Al Franken, another reread, and I've got Thank You For Smoking sitting here on the desk next to me waiting to be picked up.
One book I've been meaning to read: The World According to Garp. Never quite got to that one, don't know why. Also, I'm told I need to read some Kate Atkinson, and soon, so the Remix has someone to talk to about it. Fight Club has been on my list for a while. I need a library card, stat!
That's all for now, I'm going to go knock back three more excedrin and pray for death. Thanks for reading!
One book that changed your life: It was early, and I didn't even read it, but when I was 5 my Aunt Nancy recited The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to me while my uncles and Pops were out trying to plant grass in our clay backyard in the middle of a drought. If there'd been any doubt about my literary bent, this one sealed the deal. I wanted to make stories, stories like that one, stories that could make you laugh or cry or gasp out loud. Never did quite get it down, but I'm getting there.
One book I've read more than once: One? I read everything more than once. A Catcher in the Rye (can you imagine a less original choice?) is an old favorite. My copy has a cover that won't stay attached, stains every few pages from reading at dinner until Pops would make me put it down, and entire sections held together by scotch tape and memory.
One book I want to take on a desert island: I'm not going to cheat, like some people, and pick a dozen, so I'll bite the bullet and settle on one. It. Hear me out, now. I know it's not literary, and I know Stephen King is the proud epitome of everything wrong with the American lit scene, but I have my reasons. One, it's a hefty read, 1100 some pages, an excellent time killer and possible escape raft. Two, it's FUN. It may not be Hemingway, but you won't be bored. It's King at his very best, creepy and disturbed, trying too hard to make horror-movie fiction read like legitimate art. I love it, in spite of myself.
One book that makes me laugh: A Confederacy of Dunces. Flat out, no question, the funniest fucking book I've ever read. Legitimately good, too, Pulitzer Prize and all that. The only thing not funny about it is the fact that John Kennedy Toole killed himself before it was ever published. (Though, honestly? That sort of makes me chuckle too.) Anything by David Sedaris is a close second, here.
One book I wish I'd written: High Fidelity. It's far from being a "great" book, but it's my voice, my kind of writing, and a much clearer idea than I've ever had. Oh well.
One book I wish had never been written: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I've never been more annoyed with anything I had to read in a class than Frankenstein. It's not just that it's a dumb story, I've read lots of bad stories. It's not just that it's the first highly acclaimed novel by a woman, I respect that and understand the importance. It's the fact that the book is so bad. The monster learns English in a month, and then carves notes for Dr. Frankenstein INTO PIECES OF ROCK, mind you, that are both eloquent and lengthy. Is the doctor such a poor pursuer that he's unable to catch his creation during the 8 WEEKS it must take him to write these little masterpieces? Give me a fucking break...
One book that made me cry: For starters, Where the Red Fern Grows. I was eight, I wanted a dog, and this book broke my fucking heart. More recently, Schindler's List, for obvious reasons, and The Da Vinci Code, because it's almost as bad as Frankenstein, and I'm really sick of hearing about it.
Book I'm currently reading: All the Harry Potter books, I just picked them all up in paperback to reread. Good, quick, and fun to read. I just finished The Truth by Al Franken, another reread, and I've got Thank You For Smoking sitting here on the desk next to me waiting to be picked up.
One book I've been meaning to read: The World According to Garp. Never quite got to that one, don't know why. Also, I'm told I need to read some Kate Atkinson, and soon, so the Remix has someone to talk to about it. Fight Club has been on my list for a while. I need a library card, stat!
That's all for now, I'm going to go knock back three more excedrin and pray for death. Thanks for reading!
7.22.2006
Social Awkwardness
So this morning at work I made everyone listen to my own version of the worst CD ever made. Meatloaf to ABBA, every song I hate but can't turn off. (This will end up being several volumes when I'm done....I'm a glutton for punishment, music-wise.) Anyway, this sparked a discussion I've had several times the last few months--namely, why am I retarded when it comes to music?
I've worked it out into a very simple theory--I am a movie snob, I am a literature snob, and I'm a tremendous sports fan. There's just no room in my head to follow which bands the lead guitar from Audioslave has been in before or who the early influences of Widespread Panic are. I barely know who either of those bands are, for that matter. And I'm happy this way.
The backbone of my theory is this: There are four main areas of potential snobbery for people in my age group--people between college and parenthood. Everyone I know is interested in one of these four things: sports, movies, music, or {other}(I'll explain, promise.). What's more, there's various levels of snobbery -- the more of your energy you focus on any one of these, the less snobbish you will be about the others, unless you possess a supernatural capacity for information retention and only require 2 hours of sleep a night.
Sports: The sports snob is almost always male. I don't mean to suggest that girls cannot be interested in sports, or shouldn't be. However, in my humble experience, the vast majority are not. So. The pinnacle of sports snobbery is that guy everyone knows who follows baseball and professional table tennis with equal interest, just because they're both sports. "Fan" is not descriptive enough for people at the top of their game in this particular region. Sports snobs are occupying their precious mental space with meaningless statistics and well-formed opinions on everything from the starting fullback for their local high school to Superbowl conspiracy theories.
Movies: My personal favorite. Movie snobs don't just watch movies, they devour them. They talk in great detail about camera placements and script to screen transitions as if anyone might actually care. They can list the entire oeuvre of even the least significant bit player and instantly rank for you theri favorite Western bad guy or Englishman-doing-American accents. The other related path for movie snobs is the People magazine/US Weekly/E! Network celebrity cult, the people who know who's sleeping with who before the condom's even dry.
Music: My least favorite, because these people can consistently make me feel slightly stupid. Popular music is almost certainly bad in the mind of the music snob, as a general rule the validity of someone's work is directly inverse to the number of people who have actually heard it. Underground rock bands, basement DJ parties, concert bootlegs--the music snob doesn't just listen, they listen. Ten seconds of any song, they'll give you five bands who influenced the sound. Twenty seconds, and they'll tell you what brand the cymbals are.
{other}: Other is not a throwaway category. Other can be a number of things, but it is important to note that ascending to a high level of snobbery in {other} will limit you to only being able to converse with someone of a similar level--no one else cares. Be it politics or basket-weaving, other is the category that makes us unique, as long as it's held in check. You can dabble in a million things on this category, but you automatically sacrifice accessibility, because you've limited your potential for common ground. The other category is always that oddball friend you have who refuses to care even a little bit about any of the pop culture stuff we all bask in, but will have excruciating conversations about wine or philosophy. Want an example? Two words for you: Evangelical Christian.
Pick two, pick three, you're going to be able to talk to just about anyone. Pick 4, and you're going to be in over your head in any conversation. Pick 1, and you needn't worry about conversations, they'll be few and far between, and most likely at conventions of similarly awkward people.
Oh, and don't worry if you're feeling below-average in any of these. Look around at anyone over thirty who has any kind of life, and you'll realize that once you have kids, a spouse, responsibilities, and a career, it's a little more difficult to care about meaningless bullshit like this. Lucky for you, too bad for the rest of us. Welcome to being an almost-grown-up.
I've worked it out into a very simple theory--I am a movie snob, I am a literature snob, and I'm a tremendous sports fan. There's just no room in my head to follow which bands the lead guitar from Audioslave has been in before or who the early influences of Widespread Panic are. I barely know who either of those bands are, for that matter. And I'm happy this way.
The backbone of my theory is this: There are four main areas of potential snobbery for people in my age group--people between college and parenthood. Everyone I know is interested in one of these four things: sports, movies, music, or {other}(I'll explain, promise.). What's more, there's various levels of snobbery -- the more of your energy you focus on any one of these, the less snobbish you will be about the others, unless you possess a supernatural capacity for information retention and only require 2 hours of sleep a night.
Sports: The sports snob is almost always male. I don't mean to suggest that girls cannot be interested in sports, or shouldn't be. However, in my humble experience, the vast majority are not. So. The pinnacle of sports snobbery is that guy everyone knows who follows baseball and professional table tennis with equal interest, just because they're both sports. "Fan" is not descriptive enough for people at the top of their game in this particular region. Sports snobs are occupying their precious mental space with meaningless statistics and well-formed opinions on everything from the starting fullback for their local high school to Superbowl conspiracy theories.
Movies: My personal favorite. Movie snobs don't just watch movies, they devour them. They talk in great detail about camera placements and script to screen transitions as if anyone might actually care. They can list the entire oeuvre of even the least significant bit player and instantly rank for you theri favorite Western bad guy or Englishman-doing-American accents. The other related path for movie snobs is the People magazine/US Weekly/E! Network celebrity cult, the people who know who's sleeping with who before the condom's even dry.
Music: My least favorite, because these people can consistently make me feel slightly stupid. Popular music is almost certainly bad in the mind of the music snob, as a general rule the validity of someone's work is directly inverse to the number of people who have actually heard it. Underground rock bands, basement DJ parties, concert bootlegs--the music snob doesn't just listen, they listen. Ten seconds of any song, they'll give you five bands who influenced the sound. Twenty seconds, and they'll tell you what brand the cymbals are.
{other}: Other is not a throwaway category. Other can be a number of things, but it is important to note that ascending to a high level of snobbery in {other} will limit you to only being able to converse with someone of a similar level--no one else cares. Be it politics or basket-weaving, other is the category that makes us unique, as long as it's held in check. You can dabble in a million things on this category, but you automatically sacrifice accessibility, because you've limited your potential for common ground. The other category is always that oddball friend you have who refuses to care even a little bit about any of the pop culture stuff we all bask in, but will have excruciating conversations about wine or philosophy. Want an example? Two words for you: Evangelical Christian.
Pick two, pick three, you're going to be able to talk to just about anyone. Pick 4, and you're going to be in over your head in any conversation. Pick 1, and you needn't worry about conversations, they'll be few and far between, and most likely at conventions of similarly awkward people.
Oh, and don't worry if you're feeling below-average in any of these. Look around at anyone over thirty who has any kind of life, and you'll realize that once you have kids, a spouse, responsibilities, and a career, it's a little more difficult to care about meaningless bullshit like this. Lucky for you, too bad for the rest of us. Welcome to being an almost-grown-up.
7.17.2006
Lists
Things she likes more than I do: dresses, yoga, knitting, running, baking bread, trying on shoes, whatever color her hair happens to be, vintage clothing, shopping, her sister, chick flicks, underground music.
Things I like more than she does: video games, football, Ultimate Fighting, keg beer, chicken wings, heavy weights, basketball, poker, involuntary muscle twitches, Westerns, baseball, my cats, '80s metal.
Things we both like: Blue Moon, coffee, Raymond Carver, A Confederacy of Dunces, adventurous restaurant choices, things that happen on top of paisley sheets, garter belts, blogs and other voyeuristic sources of information, great burgers, Chicago, John Cusack movies, sleeping while touching/not touching, sushi, 100 Years of Solitude, writing, kissing, Scrabble, musicals, politics, each other.
I imagine this will be updated at some point, but somewhere in here I'm pretty sure there's a reason why this works.
Things I like more than she does: video games, football, Ultimate Fighting, keg beer, chicken wings, heavy weights, basketball, poker, involuntary muscle twitches, Westerns, baseball, my cats, '80s metal.
Things we both like: Blue Moon, coffee, Raymond Carver, A Confederacy of Dunces, adventurous restaurant choices, things that happen on top of paisley sheets, garter belts, blogs and other voyeuristic sources of information, great burgers, Chicago, John Cusack movies, sleeping while touching/not touching, sushi, 100 Years of Solitude, writing, kissing, Scrabble, musicals, politics, each other.
I imagine this will be updated at some point, but somewhere in here I'm pretty sure there's a reason why this works.
7.13.2006
Too tired to be tired.
Some days, I am tired. Occasionally for good reason, all too frequently for no reason I can discern without far too much introspection for a weekday. By tired, I don't mean sleepy, or insufficiently rested. I mean exhausted, wiped out, totally demolished. Today seems to be one of those days.
Maybe this is stress related. This time of year, problems are so commonplace at work as to become run of the mill. Yesterday, I agreed to take on a new responsibility at work, the kind of additional project that comes without title or increased salary. The kind of project that carries enormous potential for success with little reward. I work too much, most likely. I take work too seriously. I love my job. I cling to it, devouring every bit of praise, no matter how minor; reeling from every criticism, no matter how well deserved. I take no satisfation in a job well done--my satisfaction and my relaxation are bound firm to being the best. Not perfect, but closer too perfect than anyone else. There is no form of obligation so taxing as a constant commitment to one's self.
I stress very little, about other things. I am happy with the Remix. I am happy with my apartment, my cats, my finances, my life. Bills don't concern me, much. I do what I want, when I want, and I answer only to the people I choose to. And yet, I find myself worn out.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a zombie, I am not clinging to my sanity, I am not falling asleep at the wheel of my car. I am merely complaining. Sometimes the best thing for me is just a good bad mood.
Maybe this is stress related. This time of year, problems are so commonplace at work as to become run of the mill. Yesterday, I agreed to take on a new responsibility at work, the kind of additional project that comes without title or increased salary. The kind of project that carries enormous potential for success with little reward. I work too much, most likely. I take work too seriously. I love my job. I cling to it, devouring every bit of praise, no matter how minor; reeling from every criticism, no matter how well deserved. I take no satisfation in a job well done--my satisfaction and my relaxation are bound firm to being the best. Not perfect, but closer too perfect than anyone else. There is no form of obligation so taxing as a constant commitment to one's self.
I stress very little, about other things. I am happy with the Remix. I am happy with my apartment, my cats, my finances, my life. Bills don't concern me, much. I do what I want, when I want, and I answer only to the people I choose to. And yet, I find myself worn out.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a zombie, I am not clinging to my sanity, I am not falling asleep at the wheel of my car. I am merely complaining. Sometimes the best thing for me is just a good bad mood.
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