Not too long ago I was robbed by gypsies.
In my quiet moments, when I am not imagining how I might fare amidst a zombie Apocalypse or wondering what the color green tastes like, I like to think that I'm savvy enough to recognize and avoid the chicanery of the travelling people. However, through the benefit of hindsight and its corrective lenses, I recognize that my previous run-in with them in Paris years ago left me woefully unprepared for the reality of their low cunning. Then, they operated in feral packs of children, Dickensian in their purpose and numbers but with the added charm of physical deformity thrown in for good measure. My upper-middle class background needed little more than their poverty to make me instinctively recoil from their outstretched hands, but the real charm came from their utter lack of craft. Still new to the con, these children simply walked around, hands out, and went from surly to irate when their gestures were ignored. A darling child of nine stood in front of me disapprovingly, and when I shrugged at her, she shook her hand in exasperation and explained to the stupid American, and I quote, "You know: money!" The scamp.
I am not entirely unconvinced that this was a deliberate effort to lay the groundwork for their American kin this past year. In my defense (says the man who just described ignoring deformed Parisian orphans - in front of Notre Dame, no less!), they didn't exactly roll up in a garishly painted wagon and dance with swirling skirt and laughing mustache as a monkey, seemingly to the music of a merry organ grinder, nimbly picked my pocket. Still, I should have seen this coming; I say this less because of some abstract notion of my Perception skill, but rather that my wife immediately warned me that they were trouble. But I get ahead of myself.
Some time ago the doorbell to our apartment was frantically rung, as if the person on the other side were desperately seeking sanctuary. Two children greeted me as I opened the door, though, asking if we had any recycling they could have. As charming as their precocious smiles were, I only had beer cans to give, so I apologized and closed the door. After another five visits over the course of the next week, I gave them the beer cans. Rather than appeasing them, however, the young male started to return with greater frequency. His name was Sonny, almost certainly an alias I realize now, and he liked to arrive and ask for handouts. "Can I have the computer monitor in your garage? Will you let me wash this shirt at your house? Do you have an Xbox?" This last query caught me off guard, and I stupidly answered in the affirmative. From then on, he started asking to borrow games, and for reasons I may never fully comprehend, I finally lent him one I no longer play just to get rid of him. He literally lived fifty yards away, so I saw little harm in the gesture.
Long story short, my far more perceptive wife gradually started pointing out the unsettling signs that surrounded this family, as one gradually leads a former cultist of Creationist, I imagine, back into the harsh daylight of the real world. First, she insisted there was something insidious about the fact that the women of the family only ever wore skirts, but my fashion acumen is such that this made no impact. However there did seem to be about fifteen to twenty people living in their apartment at various times, which I think exceeded limits set by the management. Another afternoon, in broad daylight let me remind you, we saw the patriarch breaking into the electrical hub for our portion of the apartment and attach some sort of rig that ran its wires back into their home. Finally, they always seemed to be driving different cars, swapping them with a regularity that made their only constant vehicle, a dilapidated Cadillac that would almost definitely give you tetanus if you sat in the back seat, stand out all the more. Finally coming around to the idea that loaning this child my belongings, while a grand gesture of truly living the Gospel (John 15:27 - "And thou shalt lend thy games, And thou shalt play thy Rockband, And thou shalt please thy Lord"), was not wise. It was about that time they were evicted from the complex and disappeared forever.
So, all told, I'm down a game and a controller, but more importantly, I will never trust a child again. Sure, when he returned the first game and asked to borrow another instead, when I looked at the videogame case that appeared to have been vigorously mauled by a feral badger and, inquiring about its condition, was told "My little sister got it," I perhaps should have become suspicious. But sometimes you must touch the fire to truly learn it burns, so now, as I clutch my charred heart to my chest, I finally see the world without my rose-colored lenses. Now to go email that Nigerian lawyer back about his former client's estate.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
I'm Not Dead Yet
Long time no see, as my father used to say. I've been away for over a month now, but not really "away" so much as simply doing other things. Had my week with the lads, which rejuvenates me in all the ways that it doesn't exasperate or drain me. Enjoyed another week or so of playing catch-up on all the grading I was putting off as I was drinking from the kegerator in Pasadena and rolling my twenty sided so poorly that I'm convinced I must have insulted a voodoo priest sometime recently. Maybe it was that homeless guy I hit with my Jeep...but that was just sport, so it shouldn't count. Went to Vegas with Kelly to meet Debbie and Ryan, which was great fun, even if I didn't do well at the blackjack tables (I never do, but hope spring eternally, eh?).
Now things are settling in for a somewhat unpleasant few months. Nothing particularly bad is actually coming down the pipe - quite the contrary. I've been offered a full time lecturing position despite the abysmal economy, I'm teaching my first Shakespearean drama class starting next week, and the dissertation is winding to a gradual close. It's just that they're all hitting at nearly the same time, and that means I have to work on all of them, and that's just not something I'm convinced I can pull off. Couple that with deadlines and my inability to sit down and work hard for an entire day (as if I have an entire day to do so), and I fear for what slop I'll be writing for my dissertation's introduction or using to fill the three hour blocks of summer school Shakespeare (starting Tuesday, did I mention?).
I'm not popping on the blogosphere to bitch and moan, as I honestly recognize that I have no leg to stand on. Let's instead just say that my schedule seems to be preventing me from the whimsy and sardonic detachment I typically cultivate immediately before making a post, and so I may not be making any more for a little while more. I'll try. I just can't make any promises.
Now things are settling in for a somewhat unpleasant few months. Nothing particularly bad is actually coming down the pipe - quite the contrary. I've been offered a full time lecturing position despite the abysmal economy, I'm teaching my first Shakespearean drama class starting next week, and the dissertation is winding to a gradual close. It's just that they're all hitting at nearly the same time, and that means I have to work on all of them, and that's just not something I'm convinced I can pull off. Couple that with deadlines and my inability to sit down and work hard for an entire day (as if I have an entire day to do so), and I fear for what slop I'll be writing for my dissertation's introduction or using to fill the three hour blocks of summer school Shakespeare (starting Tuesday, did I mention?).
I'm not popping on the blogosphere to bitch and moan, as I honestly recognize that I have no leg to stand on. Let's instead just say that my schedule seems to be preventing me from the whimsy and sardonic detachment I typically cultivate immediately before making a post, and so I may not be making any more for a little while more. I'll try. I just can't make any promises.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Get Your Swole On
I was locked in my apartment complex's gym for about half an hour tonight with a nice Asian couple that was hesitant to use the building's second story window as an escape. Consequently, I stuck around with them and watched as an equally helpful neighbor attempted to open the deadbolt that stood between the sweaty gym air and our freedom with a hairpin and a flathead screwdriver. Ultimately we all took the window. I didn't make up a single syllable of that opening. That's just the kind of crap I find myself in from time to time.
As you might suspect yourself, there are a number of things wrong with this picture. For one, who the hell gets locked in the gym? The immediate culprit was a deadbolt whose key only staff has, so it clearly wasn't an ignorant resident. But why would a passing security guard or maintenance man assume no one was there? Well, because the three people doing cardio upstairs had the lights turned off. Sadly, I was one of them. You see, the couple was already up there, working away, with the lights off when I arrived, and I didn't feel comfortable just showing up and throwing the light switch. I mean, who the hell am I? I bring a Nintendo DS to the gym to keep my mind distracted from the burning sensation in my lungs when I ride the stationary bike, which I ride because the treadmill involves too much motion to actually play the DS. I don't really have a leg to stand on here. So I just hopped on a bike and pedalled (difficult without that leg), glancing between the ESPN on in front of the husband and the E channel before the wife, and as the three of us burned away dozens of calories to the blue light of flatpanel televisions, someone locked us in the gym.
I discovered almost immediately that a window on the second level would make for an easy escape, mainly because another resident climbed in through it and asked what was going on. And while the descent out the window was certainly possible, the wife in particular was having none of it, and for whatever reason I do the things I do, my brain decided it was poor form to leave them alone. Honestly, I'd be that douche on the Titanic politely allowing other people onto the lifeboats because of the poor Irish bastards drowning in coach. Anyway, that's what kept me there so long. That, and I was mildly curious to see if the new arrival actually had what it takes to pick a deadbolt with improvised tools. He did not. Still, he seemed a good guy. Sure he had a knife on his belt, and while the type of white guy who perpetually carries a knife on his hip is typically not the kind I want to toast a Natural Ice with, he seemed a good sort. He even said I should stop by his place to have a beer and play videogames some time. He probably plans to kill me and use my skin to make a dress, but with an invitation that charming, who knows?
Clearly, this absurd situation was a divine portent if ever I've seen one. The problem with any sign, as all you good semioticians know, is the ambiguity in interpreting them. I naturally assumed the Divine was suggesting I skip working out to stay home and invent new songs about my dog. My wife suggested I was supposed to stay in the gym longer to begin with. Touche. I'll be going back tomorrow, if only so that when the roof collapses on me I can tell my dearest "I told you so."
As you might suspect yourself, there are a number of things wrong with this picture. For one, who the hell gets locked in the gym? The immediate culprit was a deadbolt whose key only staff has, so it clearly wasn't an ignorant resident. But why would a passing security guard or maintenance man assume no one was there? Well, because the three people doing cardio upstairs had the lights turned off. Sadly, I was one of them. You see, the couple was already up there, working away, with the lights off when I arrived, and I didn't feel comfortable just showing up and throwing the light switch. I mean, who the hell am I? I bring a Nintendo DS to the gym to keep my mind distracted from the burning sensation in my lungs when I ride the stationary bike, which I ride because the treadmill involves too much motion to actually play the DS. I don't really have a leg to stand on here. So I just hopped on a bike and pedalled (difficult without that leg), glancing between the ESPN on in front of the husband and the E channel before the wife, and as the three of us burned away dozens of calories to the blue light of flatpanel televisions, someone locked us in the gym.
I discovered almost immediately that a window on the second level would make for an easy escape, mainly because another resident climbed in through it and asked what was going on. And while the descent out the window was certainly possible, the wife in particular was having none of it, and for whatever reason I do the things I do, my brain decided it was poor form to leave them alone. Honestly, I'd be that douche on the Titanic politely allowing other people onto the lifeboats because of the poor Irish bastards drowning in coach. Anyway, that's what kept me there so long. That, and I was mildly curious to see if the new arrival actually had what it takes to pick a deadbolt with improvised tools. He did not. Still, he seemed a good guy. Sure he had a knife on his belt, and while the type of white guy who perpetually carries a knife on his hip is typically not the kind I want to toast a Natural Ice with, he seemed a good sort. He even said I should stop by his place to have a beer and play videogames some time. He probably plans to kill me and use my skin to make a dress, but with an invitation that charming, who knows?
Clearly, this absurd situation was a divine portent if ever I've seen one. The problem with any sign, as all you good semioticians know, is the ambiguity in interpreting them. I naturally assumed the Divine was suggesting I skip working out to stay home and invent new songs about my dog. My wife suggested I was supposed to stay in the gym longer to begin with. Touche. I'll be going back tomorrow, if only so that when the roof collapses on me I can tell my dearest "I told you so."
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Drug Scandal Rocks NASCAR: Mullets to Fly at Half Mast
NASCAR officially joined the auspicious ranks of Major League Baseball, the Olympic Games, and Midget Tossing on May 1st when Jeremy Mayfield, one of the "sport's" noted auto-coach pilots, failed a drug test. It was mainly short essay and multiple choice questions, and while he did alright through the geography and, surprisingly, Native American history sections, he really tripped up on #32: "Are you on drugs?" Rather than opting for "a) No" or "b) Of course not; in fact, even asking me not only affronts my sensibilities as a sportsman but tarnishes the game itself," good ol' Jeremy circled "c) Fuck, I don't know. I'm way too stoned. Better make me pee in a cup."
Well, today ESPN broke the story wide open. In brazen defiance of convention, NASCAR's first documented positive drug test was for - you guessed it - crystal meth. I, for one, am shocked; I really had my money on some combination of huffing paint and popping a murderous amount of Flintstones chewable vitamins. Just goes to show you, I guess: you can take the Redneck out of the trailer park, but not out of the "Redneck Roundy-Round." NASCAR fandom has been rocked by this latest news, and many aficionados are too distressed by the revelation to finish brewing the latest batch of moonshine in their bathtubs; indeed, even the sultry arms of a first-cousin cannot distract these gap-toothed, hillbilly degenerates from their inconsolable loss.
Of course, I don't mean to suggest that the sluggish, cholesterol-ridden arteries of NASCAR have flowed with only pure red, white, and blue until this dark day. You see, this is the first year such drug testing has been instituted. In previous epochs, pit crews simply assumed the earthenware jug their driver was securely belting beside him was merely water to fight the dehydratin'. Clearly, they had no idea what was going on. One senior editor at ESPN even reports that a retired driver admits to having raced on heroin. Yeah, I'll repeat that: "he drove on heroin." Way to put the whole Barry Bonds thing in perspective for us, Cleatus McDrivesalot. In so many other sports, athletes discretely take drugs to enhance their performance; NASCAR drives apparently just want to get fucked up, and aren't about to let driving a car at speeds over 200 mph get in the way. Kinda puts a new spin on that famous line, "I feel the need - the need for speed." Just imagine the bloodbath if those NASCAR racers had ejector seats.
Well, today ESPN broke the story wide open. In brazen defiance of convention, NASCAR's first documented positive drug test was for - you guessed it - crystal meth. I, for one, am shocked; I really had my money on some combination of huffing paint and popping a murderous amount of Flintstones chewable vitamins. Just goes to show you, I guess: you can take the Redneck out of the trailer park, but not out of the "Redneck Roundy-Round." NASCAR fandom has been rocked by this latest news, and many aficionados are too distressed by the revelation to finish brewing the latest batch of moonshine in their bathtubs; indeed, even the sultry arms of a first-cousin cannot distract these gap-toothed, hillbilly degenerates from their inconsolable loss.
Of course, I don't mean to suggest that the sluggish, cholesterol-ridden arteries of NASCAR have flowed with only pure red, white, and blue until this dark day. You see, this is the first year such drug testing has been instituted. In previous epochs, pit crews simply assumed the earthenware jug their driver was securely belting beside him was merely water to fight the dehydratin'. Clearly, they had no idea what was going on. One senior editor at ESPN even reports that a retired driver admits to having raced on heroin. Yeah, I'll repeat that: "he drove on heroin." Way to put the whole Barry Bonds thing in perspective for us, Cleatus McDrivesalot. In so many other sports, athletes discretely take drugs to enhance their performance; NASCAR drives apparently just want to get fucked up, and aren't about to let driving a car at speeds over 200 mph get in the way. Kinda puts a new spin on that famous line, "I feel the need - the need for speed." Just imagine the bloodbath if those NASCAR racers had ejector seats.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Penis Mightier
Have you ever thought to yourself, "How am I supposed to take a drink when I'm using my hands to lather my shampoo / drive this snowmobile / fend off my traitorous attack panda"? Shortly after that, did another synapse accidentally fire and you thought, "Holy fuck, I'm drunk"? Of course you have -- you're one of my readers, aren't you? Hell, I was probably with you when this happened.
The problem, though, is that we're often in short supply of efficient means of capturing those pristine moments of spiritual clarity and liquid depravity. Forget memory (ironic word usage! 3 points!); there are entire weekends from college that neither I nor any of my friends can accurately piece back together. And sure, there is the ever-popular voice mail, but they do tend to drag on, and often the speaker sounds like Eliza Doolittle with a mouth full of marbles. But in this age of Twitter, where anything and everything of meaning can apparently be condensed to 14o characters or less (Milton just rolled over in his grave...onto Henry James), I'm actually thankful for the text message. Not because it prompts my students to essentially fiddle with themselves under their desk in a pitiful attempt at being clandestine, no -- because it gives us something as beautiful as my new favorite site, Texts From Last Night.
Texts From Last Night is exactly what the name promises: it's a compilation of hilarious text messages people have sent one another the night of or immediately following a bender. As one might imagine, a number of them are rather crude and rarely "politically correct," but there are some gems that carry a wisdom profound enough to make tears glisten on the hardest cheek. To make matters even better, they put the area code of the guilty party before every text. Enter yours, and see if you were the naked form splayed unconscious beside them, the one about whom they sent that somewhat unflattering report to their friend.
The gods are otherwise embroiled in family squabbles at their celestial table -- quick now, sample their divine ambrosia:
(815): I met the nicest Tranny last night. He/She loves Cheetos.
(408): I told him it was like a man's penis, but smaller.
(352): I just woke up and realized I puked in my boxers WTF.
(904): You stay classy.
(352): The worst part was I forgot until I tried to put them on.
(954): I just got hit by a car and apologized to the driver. I asked him if he was okay.
(404): I just bought the big bottle of Patron. It looks small. What have I done with my life?
(503): Succeeded.
And my personal favorites:
(703): I asked him if he wanted to go to my place, he said i could go but he was gonna stay
(407): I woke up this morning next to some guy. I was horrified, he woke up and said, "the white tiger strikes again!"
The problem, though, is that we're often in short supply of efficient means of capturing those pristine moments of spiritual clarity and liquid depravity. Forget memory (ironic word usage! 3 points!); there are entire weekends from college that neither I nor any of my friends can accurately piece back together. And sure, there is the ever-popular voice mail, but they do tend to drag on, and often the speaker sounds like Eliza Doolittle with a mouth full of marbles. But in this age of Twitter, where anything and everything of meaning can apparently be condensed to 14o characters or less (Milton just rolled over in his grave...onto Henry James), I'm actually thankful for the text message. Not because it prompts my students to essentially fiddle with themselves under their desk in a pitiful attempt at being clandestine, no -- because it gives us something as beautiful as my new favorite site, Texts From Last Night.
Texts From Last Night is exactly what the name promises: it's a compilation of hilarious text messages people have sent one another the night of or immediately following a bender. As one might imagine, a number of them are rather crude and rarely "politically correct," but there are some gems that carry a wisdom profound enough to make tears glisten on the hardest cheek. To make matters even better, they put the area code of the guilty party before every text. Enter yours, and see if you were the naked form splayed unconscious beside them, the one about whom they sent that somewhat unflattering report to their friend.
The gods are otherwise embroiled in family squabbles at their celestial table -- quick now, sample their divine ambrosia:
(815): I met the nicest Tranny last night. He/She loves Cheetos.
(408): I told him it was like a man's penis, but smaller.
(352): I just woke up and realized I puked in my boxers WTF.
(904): You stay classy.
(352): The worst part was I forgot until I tried to put them on.
(954): I just got hit by a car and apologized to the driver. I asked him if he was okay.
(404): I just bought the big bottle of Patron. It looks small. What have I done with my life?
(503): Succeeded.
And my personal favorites:
(703): I asked him if he wanted to go to my place, he said i could go but he was gonna stay
(407): I woke up this morning next to some guy. I was horrified, he woke up and said, "the white tiger strikes again!"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Social Darwinism
Honestly, I'm not sure if they think I'm stupid, or if they're just that stupid themselves, but whatever the reason, there are always a few students who mistake my affable, good nature and think they can pull a fast one on me. Couple that with Spring Quarter sloth, and you have a charming cocktail that can, at times, result in them submitting absolute bullshit. It's time's like these, dear reader, when I can write emails like this:
Part of the reason I had asked for the electronic version of your paper was because I actually did have the first page of what you had turned in last week, but it didn't quite look like it was what the assignment was asking for, so I thought there may have been some mistake. This is indeed what you sent this time, but again, let me suggest you double check that this file was actually your second essay. If it were, I'd point out that the header of the essay suggests you originally wrote this for _________ in Fall Quarter, and remind you that submitting old work, even of your own, for a new assignment technically constitutes plagiarism. Additionally, as there is no mention made of _____________, the essay our papers were meant to respond to, this essay doesn't meet the basic requirements of the prompt. Either way, it would have gotten a 0.
Of course, none of that matters, because I'm sure this isn't the rough draft of your second essay. Do look around for it and get it in to me as soon as you can.
Before I address what's going on here, allow me to translate my previous, formal missive:
Hey, you fucking retard. I realize this is already weeks late, but please don't think I'm so goddamn stupid that I wouldn't notice the shit you sent me is barely on topic and clearly has another class named in the header. Let me remind you that I can now official nail your ass to the wall; I own you. However, as I loathe communicating with you in any fashion, I find it far more expedient to threaten you and then point your ignorant ass toward the back door than to actually follow it up. Cobble some shit together overnight, lie to me (like you would anyway), and I'll give you a D-. Chop, chop.
p.s. You put the date at November 2009 on your paper, dipshit. I suggest you get in that time machine and turn in a fucking paper on topic this time around.
Ah. I feel considerably better now. One or two of you may be aghast, or at least curious, why I'm not turning this person in to a disciplinary committee, but the short answer is his sloth is actually working in his favor. Having never turned in a hard copy of the paper, he can just claim that he accidentally sent the wrong file, and as my delicately worded translation suggested, I don't have the time or inclination to deal with it. Besides, as our final paper is on a famous novel, chances are he might try it again.
Honestly, if we were all on the Serengeti, this one would have been ostracized from the herd and pulled down by predators long ago. Alas for our more "civilized" age.
Part of the reason I had asked for the electronic version of your paper was because I actually did have the first page of what you had turned in last week, but it didn't quite look like it was what the assignment was asking for, so I thought there may have been some mistake. This is indeed what you sent this time, but again, let me suggest you double check that this file was actually your second essay. If it were, I'd point out that the header of the essay suggests you originally wrote this for _________ in Fall Quarter, and remind you that submitting old work, even of your own, for a new assignment technically constitutes plagiarism. Additionally, as there is no mention made of _____________, the essay our papers were meant to respond to, this essay doesn't meet the basic requirements of the prompt. Either way, it would have gotten a 0.
Of course, none of that matters, because I'm sure this isn't the rough draft of your second essay. Do look around for it and get it in to me as soon as you can.
Before I address what's going on here, allow me to translate my previous, formal missive:
Hey, you fucking retard. I realize this is already weeks late, but please don't think I'm so goddamn stupid that I wouldn't notice the shit you sent me is barely on topic and clearly has another class named in the header. Let me remind you that I can now official nail your ass to the wall; I own you. However, as I loathe communicating with you in any fashion, I find it far more expedient to threaten you and then point your ignorant ass toward the back door than to actually follow it up. Cobble some shit together overnight, lie to me (like you would anyway), and I'll give you a D-. Chop, chop.
p.s. You put the date at November 2009 on your paper, dipshit. I suggest you get in that time machine and turn in a fucking paper on topic this time around.
Ah. I feel considerably better now. One or two of you may be aghast, or at least curious, why I'm not turning this person in to a disciplinary committee, but the short answer is his sloth is actually working in his favor. Having never turned in a hard copy of the paper, he can just claim that he accidentally sent the wrong file, and as my delicately worded translation suggested, I don't have the time or inclination to deal with it. Besides, as our final paper is on a famous novel, chances are he might try it again.
Honestly, if we were all on the Serengeti, this one would have been ostracized from the herd and pulled down by predators long ago. Alas for our more "civilized" age.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A Gentleman's Bet
Shut down every tattoo parlor on the planet, because there's just no point anymore. The single best tattoo every produced has been created, and its very existence reveals how hollow and shameful all other body art really is. Virgin tears and the blood of Thor were used to create this ink, and as the needle first pierced this person's leg / beefy forearm, the angels wept for joy.
I challenge anyone to find and post a picture of a tattoo more awesome than this. It's alright if you fail; the deck is stacked against you. But as your eyes well up at the prospect, merely behold this, and you will be whole again. And if you're blind, just point the useless jelly that was your eyes in the direction of this image, and those sightless orbs will no longer be a mockery of your sad plight. Also, if I'm not mistaken, your sins will be forgiven...or maybe that's when you stare at a Florida license plate. I can never remember. But I'm pretty sure this tattoo can at least cure leprosy.
I challenge anyone to find and post a picture of a tattoo more awesome than this. It's alright if you fail; the deck is stacked against you. But as your eyes well up at the prospect, merely behold this, and you will be whole again. And if you're blind, just point the useless jelly that was your eyes in the direction of this image, and those sightless orbs will no longer be a mockery of your sad plight. Also, if I'm not mistaken, your sins will be forgiven...or maybe that's when you stare at a Florida license plate. I can never remember. But I'm pretty sure this tattoo can at least cure leprosy.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
WWJD?
I must confess, I'm still getting used to the "married" thing. After being told for the majority of my life that accidentally brushing against the corner of a sofa with my swimsuit area would consign me to the ceaseless agony of purging flames and the harsh trill of demonic laughter, I can't help but feel suspicious that sex is now suddenly okay. It's as if I could swear I saw the pitcher throw the ball, but when I'm frantically rounding second base, I see it drawn, almost lazily, from his voluminous glove as a shit-eating grin spreads slowly across his face. I fell for his trick, and now I'm trapped. And then I'm pulled screaming down to hell in that ridiculous baseball uniform...
It's only fair, then, that the Catholic Church is making an effort to correct the significant psychological damage inflicted upon me during my formative years - at least the part dealing with, well, one's "part":
Say hello to Sex As You Don't Know It: For Married Couples Who Love God, the seksy new book by Polish priest Ksawery Knotz. In it, Kfather Knotz assures his guilt-ridden readership that sex should be "saucy, surprising and fantasy packed," which is eerily prescient, as I know many a Catholic who secretly dreams about being suddenly ambushed by their spouse dressed as a high elf and dunked in sun-dried tomato Alfredo. The Cliffnotes version is that, surprise, you won't burst into flame during sex, though if you and your spouse didn't hit the clinic before your "I do," there may be some burning afterward.
Speaking of reasons to be horribly, horribly ashamed, Florida (the flaccid penis of the continental United States!) has recently made a real push to add a sense of gravitas and quiet respect to their license plates:
Now, I'm willing to go out on a limb here and say that this one isn't a Catholic thing; we're more into having members of an abstinent religious order give married couples sexual advice based off of a year's worth of counseling experience. But as a religious institution with a long history of iconographic, even idolatrous experience (if you ask a sixteenth-century Protestant), please allow a Catholic to give you a few points on your latest brain child. For starters, is our Lord and Savior languishing in front of a sun, a giant halo, or an orange? There's a chance this may affect the interpretation of the devout, or make people thirsty for juice. Get on that. Also, while it will make Christ-centered vanity plates much easier to accomplish, having a picture of Jesus in the middle may ruin the effect of my FKOSAMA or HIOFCER plate. I mean, the old design was perfect. What could go wrong with it?
Props to Doc and Digital Mercenary, who passed along the Seks book and license plate, respectively. I love how I have become the repository for all the absurd things my friends uncover on the interwebs.
It's only fair, then, that the Catholic Church is making an effort to correct the significant psychological damage inflicted upon me during my formative years - at least the part dealing with, well, one's "part":
Say hello to Sex As You Don't Know It: For Married Couples Who Love God, the seksy new book by Polish priest Ksawery Knotz. In it, Kfather Knotz assures his guilt-ridden readership that sex should be "saucy, surprising and fantasy packed," which is eerily prescient, as I know many a Catholic who secretly dreams about being suddenly ambushed by their spouse dressed as a high elf and dunked in sun-dried tomato Alfredo. The Cliffnotes version is that, surprise, you won't burst into flame during sex, though if you and your spouse didn't hit the clinic before your "I do," there may be some burning afterward.
Speaking of reasons to be horribly, horribly ashamed, Florida (the flaccid penis of the continental United States!) has recently made a real push to add a sense of gravitas and quiet respect to their license plates:
Now, I'm willing to go out on a limb here and say that this one isn't a Catholic thing; we're more into having members of an abstinent religious order give married couples sexual advice based off of a year's worth of counseling experience. But as a religious institution with a long history of iconographic, even idolatrous experience (if you ask a sixteenth-century Protestant), please allow a Catholic to give you a few points on your latest brain child. For starters, is our Lord and Savior languishing in front of a sun, a giant halo, or an orange? There's a chance this may affect the interpretation of the devout, or make people thirsty for juice. Get on that. Also, while it will make Christ-centered vanity plates much easier to accomplish, having a picture of Jesus in the middle may ruin the effect of my FKOSAMA or HIOFCER plate. I mean, the old design was perfect. What could go wrong with it?
Props to Doc and Digital Mercenary, who passed along the Seks book and license plate, respectively. I love how I have become the repository for all the absurd things my friends uncover on the interwebs.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Happy Mother's Day
A bit belated, I know, but I still wanted to share some admittedly saccharine, overly-sentimental takes on Mother's Day.
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 02 - Watch more free videos
And my personal favorite:
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 04 - Watch more free videos
My thanks to Oghrim for passing these along. I'm sure there's no deep seated, repressed justifications for why we find these so funny.
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 02 - Watch more free videos
And my personal favorite:
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 04 - Watch more free videos
My thanks to Oghrim for passing these along. I'm sure there's no deep seated, repressed justifications for why we find these so funny.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
A Midnight Train to Anywhere
My wife and I attended a wedding this weekend in San Diego, the highlight of which was a tray of miniature Kobe beef burgers that went largely unnoticed by the other guests. As they frolicked on the dance floor to the sweet siren song of Journey's Don't Stop Believing, I abandoned social decorum altogether and gorged myself as if tomorrow were the end of days, when such forbidden delights would be fodder for grandfather's firelight reminisces as the klaxons in the distance warn of our robot overlords' approach. Actually, I only ate three, but I felt as if I had drawn them from the very table of Zeus himself. And Zeus loved him some Kobe beef burgers. And impregnating virtually anything he could shower in gold or accost in the form of a swan. But he was married to his older sister Hera, goddess of women and marriage...
And we're back to the wedding, which was absolutely terrifying, seeing as how I forget people's names when I haven't seen them in a few months; imagine walking through a reception filled with people who you haven't spoken to in a decade, many of whom you didn't particularly go out of your way to speak to when you knew them in college. Be that as it may, I still wanted to stay at that reception for as long as I could. Why? Because I had this waiting for me in my hotel room:
What exactly is that, you might ask? Well unless you just suffered a stroke or some other significant medical event that would cause a largely unused portion of your brain to suddenly misfire a few million neurons, chances are you didn't just blurt out "That's a painting of a miniature doorway at the top of a tiny stairway to nowhere inside a hotel walk-in closet." But that's exactly what it is.
Upon first seeing this carnival horror, I immediately thought of Poe's "The Black Cat." Was there a dead woman bricked up behind that wall, one whom the murderer couldn't help but taunt in perpetuity by painting her means of escape on the other side? The fact that it was a full-fledged door, rather than a clumsily scrawled rectangle made in chalk, was some consolation, though. Had it been the latter, I would have been forced to conclude it was either a portal to some waiting room for the recently deceased or a sumptuous banquet, table laden with every imaginable delight as a pallid form with no eyes sits at the head of that feast (and by the by, if you are told by the creepy giant faun not to touch anything in some magical in-between locale, and when you get to that place, there's a fucking eyeless monster sitting at the table, you keep your emaciated fingers to yourself). Glancing out the window of our hotel room, I saw neither sand worms nor fascist Spain, so the door remained a mystery.
If anything came out of that door during the night, it made not a sound, but instead stood over our sleeping forms silently, perhaps pondering what to do with these interlopers, these intruders in its sacred domain. All I can tell you is that in the morning as we prepared to leave, I noticed the paint of the keyhole in that door was chipped.
Not really spooky, I know. But if you want to see something truly frightening, watch that Journey video I linked above. Tell me if lead singer Steve Perry's penis isn't looking stage right.
And we're back to the wedding, which was absolutely terrifying, seeing as how I forget people's names when I haven't seen them in a few months; imagine walking through a reception filled with people who you haven't spoken to in a decade, many of whom you didn't particularly go out of your way to speak to when you knew them in college. Be that as it may, I still wanted to stay at that reception for as long as I could. Why? Because I had this waiting for me in my hotel room:
What exactly is that, you might ask? Well unless you just suffered a stroke or some other significant medical event that would cause a largely unused portion of your brain to suddenly misfire a few million neurons, chances are you didn't just blurt out "That's a painting of a miniature doorway at the top of a tiny stairway to nowhere inside a hotel walk-in closet." But that's exactly what it is.
Upon first seeing this carnival horror, I immediately thought of Poe's "The Black Cat." Was there a dead woman bricked up behind that wall, one whom the murderer couldn't help but taunt in perpetuity by painting her means of escape on the other side? The fact that it was a full-fledged door, rather than a clumsily scrawled rectangle made in chalk, was some consolation, though. Had it been the latter, I would have been forced to conclude it was either a portal to some waiting room for the recently deceased or a sumptuous banquet, table laden with every imaginable delight as a pallid form with no eyes sits at the head of that feast (and by the by, if you are told by the creepy giant faun not to touch anything in some magical in-between locale, and when you get to that place, there's a fucking eyeless monster sitting at the table, you keep your emaciated fingers to yourself). Glancing out the window of our hotel room, I saw neither sand worms nor fascist Spain, so the door remained a mystery.
If anything came out of that door during the night, it made not a sound, but instead stood over our sleeping forms silently, perhaps pondering what to do with these interlopers, these intruders in its sacred domain. All I can tell you is that in the morning as we prepared to leave, I noticed the paint of the keyhole in that door was chipped.
Not really spooky, I know. But if you want to see something truly frightening, watch that Journey video I linked above. Tell me if lead singer Steve Perry's penis isn't looking stage right.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Victory in Defeat
To quote the esteemed Danny Glover from the Citizen Cane of buddy cop action movies, Lethal Weapon: I'm getting too old for this shit.
The weekend started off with a bang, metaphorically speaking. In fact, any such sound whatsoever must have been confined to the Elysian fields of metaphor, because when I turned the key in my ignition on Friday, nothing happened at all. I may as well have had a zucchini plugged into wires where my engine was. Thankfully Debbie saved the day by picking me up and taking me to rent a car; I didn't have time to get it towed, you all know I'm fairly inept with repairing mechanical devices, and since Debbie offered me the use of a screwdriver from an eyeglass repair kit for my car, I thought it might be best to leave the Jeep where it was.
But you don't care about my car. You want to hear about the pub golf. Well, it was glorious. As the first place was a somewhat swanky wine bar, we got our first attack of giggles at the fact that Brock, who was dressed up in his dorkiest golf attire, actually fit in perfectly with the douches already there; we counted three different iterations of his exact outfit, in fact. From there we went to the Galley, where the owner asked to have a picture taken with Ray, the mastermind behind our round of alcoholic golf. At stop three, Finn McCools, we ran into Emerson and Nick, two good friends from college we haven't talked to in way too long, and they decided to join the round and stick with us for the rest of the night. Truly, truly delightful to see them.
I only wish I could remember more of it. I do know that we started gathering disciples in each bar we entered, and like the man from Galilee, soon we had our own devout congregation--only ours were worshiping at the altar of alcoholic self-flagellation. Our initial band of intrepid eleven hit somewhere around twenty five by the end of the night, I'm told. I say "I'm told" because I have no firm recollection of those later stages, but rather like a mere acquaintance who looks at the picture slide show on your laptop, I must construct the night from a few scattered moments, frozen in time. They are, in no particular order:
Being pretty gung-ho about demolishing a soft taco in one bite, choking on it, and having to settle for three.
Hating the Cadillac margarita, ordering a basket of chips to help wash it down--for every individual in the group--and then leaving the place just as our 10 baskets of chips arrived.
Delicious nut-brown Newcastle ale up my nose.
The rest has been pieced together by others, but apparently we had to attend a different bar for the 9th, one that didn't serve Irish Car Bombs, so some genius ordered Jager Bombs instead. I don't remember it at all, but my score card says I drank it, so I'll believe that.
Yes, you're reading that correctly: I shot a 19, a full twelve strokes under par. I decided to pull the trigger later that night (classic Colonel Gentleman, I know) and I was still a wreck the next day, but it was worth it. Of course, I didn't even come close to placing, as the organizer Ray won with an 11. He's a classy man, and thus I can't think of a better set of shoulders from which to hang this equally classy green jacket.
Oh yes, he made a jacket for the winner.
Speaking of winners, the crown for our own little contest has to go to Debbie. Not only did she guess the lowest score (amidst a truly staggering number of entries, I might add), but she also single-handedly ensured I was able to even make it to LA in the first place, so she could have guessed I'd score "Rhubarb" and she'd still have won this. Thanks to her, to everyone else who played along, and to my liver, for not quitting on me just yet.
The weekend started off with a bang, metaphorically speaking. In fact, any such sound whatsoever must have been confined to the Elysian fields of metaphor, because when I turned the key in my ignition on Friday, nothing happened at all. I may as well have had a zucchini plugged into wires where my engine was. Thankfully Debbie saved the day by picking me up and taking me to rent a car; I didn't have time to get it towed, you all know I'm fairly inept with repairing mechanical devices, and since Debbie offered me the use of a screwdriver from an eyeglass repair kit for my car, I thought it might be best to leave the Jeep where it was.
But you don't care about my car. You want to hear about the pub golf. Well, it was glorious. As the first place was a somewhat swanky wine bar, we got our first attack of giggles at the fact that Brock, who was dressed up in his dorkiest golf attire, actually fit in perfectly with the douches already there; we counted three different iterations of his exact outfit, in fact. From there we went to the Galley, where the owner asked to have a picture taken with Ray, the mastermind behind our round of alcoholic golf. At stop three, Finn McCools, we ran into Emerson and Nick, two good friends from college we haven't talked to in way too long, and they decided to join the round and stick with us for the rest of the night. Truly, truly delightful to see them.
I only wish I could remember more of it. I do know that we started gathering disciples in each bar we entered, and like the man from Galilee, soon we had our own devout congregation--only ours were worshiping at the altar of alcoholic self-flagellation. Our initial band of intrepid eleven hit somewhere around twenty five by the end of the night, I'm told. I say "I'm told" because I have no firm recollection of those later stages, but rather like a mere acquaintance who looks at the picture slide show on your laptop, I must construct the night from a few scattered moments, frozen in time. They are, in no particular order:
Being pretty gung-ho about demolishing a soft taco in one bite, choking on it, and having to settle for three.
Hating the Cadillac margarita, ordering a basket of chips to help wash it down--for every individual in the group--and then leaving the place just as our 10 baskets of chips arrived.
Delicious nut-brown Newcastle ale up my nose.
The rest has been pieced together by others, but apparently we had to attend a different bar for the 9th, one that didn't serve Irish Car Bombs, so some genius ordered Jager Bombs instead. I don't remember it at all, but my score card says I drank it, so I'll believe that.
Yes, you're reading that correctly: I shot a 19, a full twelve strokes under par. I decided to pull the trigger later that night (classic Colonel Gentleman, I know) and I was still a wreck the next day, but it was worth it. Of course, I didn't even come close to placing, as the organizer Ray won with an 11. He's a classy man, and thus I can't think of a better set of shoulders from which to hang this equally classy green jacket.
Oh yes, he made a jacket for the winner.
Speaking of winners, the crown for our own little contest has to go to Debbie. Not only did she guess the lowest score (amidst a truly staggering number of entries, I might add), but she also single-handedly ensured I was able to even make it to LA in the first place, so she could have guessed I'd score "Rhubarb" and she'd still have won this. Thanks to her, to everyone else who played along, and to my liver, for not quitting on me just yet.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
A Game of Honor and Diplomacy
No, not midget tossing. Not the choreographed dance that is a Bat Fight, either. I'm talking Pub Golf.
"But Colonel Gentleman, is it possible to merge the sophistication and white privilege of golf with the esteemed literary tradition of semi-functional alcoholism, topped off with a dash of 'Play Hard' to give its some balls?"
"Well, barring the racism and misogyny, Billy, you bet it is!"
You know, I think I'll revert back to a prose description, as my dramatic dialogue was already taking a turn that could only have ended with Billy choking on an ether rag and being hastily shoved into the cramped trunk of a modestly priced American sedan.
Anyway, if Scotland and Ireland had a baby, it would be Pub Golf [surprisingly, there is no documented instance of the Irish and Scots interbreeding, due chiefly to 1) the staggering "awesome" that would be said progeny, and 2), neither the Irish or Scots are good swimmers and have nonexistent navies, so they didn't really have opportunity until last century, and by then tradition had already sunk its roots too deeply to be ignored]. The rules look a little something like this:
If you had to describe those babies in one word, I bet I know what it would be: "small." Allow me to help. The general rules for this most sacred of games are as follows:
1. Girls are allowed a 4 stroke handicap
2. Everyone gets one Mulligan (a "do over," for the uninitiated), but you are penalized 2 strokes on that hole
3. Water hazard - no going to the bathroom while you're on the green (i.e. while mid-drink)
4. A stroke counts as every time you stop drinking; for food, a stroke counts as a bite
5. 1 stroke penalties: poor drinking form (to be voted on by a majority of the group); improper scoring; party fouls
6. at the 9th hole, each successive hole-in-one (i.e. each Irish car bomb) after the first drink will reduce your score by one stroke
7. lowest score wins (you are disqualified if you puke at any point during the round)
If you're anything like me, you wept for joy at the sight of this, as if hearing Maria Callas sing "La Mamma Morta" for the first time or seeing a dolphin leap out of the water as a unicorn hurtles over a rainbow. Sure, it may seem like I'm exaggerating there, but as I typically only associate with people who enjoy abusing their livers as much as I do...let's just say I know my audience.
The list on the left is the specific round for this Friday night. Eight bars and one eatery, eight drinks and one snack. In case you can't read that one either, I've reproduced it below:
Hole--------------------------Club----------------------------Par
Salute Wine Bar----------Glass of Wine-------------------------3
The Galley---------------Vodka Tonic--------------------------3
Finn McCool's-----------Pint of Guiness------------------------6
Lula's Cocina----------Cadillac Margarita-----------------------4
World Cafe------------------Mojito-----------------------------3
Holy Guacamole-----------1 soft taco---------------------------3
Rick's Tavern-----------Pint of B- or C- ------------------------3
Library Ale House--------Pint of Ale----------------------------4
O'Briens----------------Irish Car Bomb-------------------------1
Par for the Course: --------------------------------------------31
On behalf of the hard-hitting journalism I always bring to bear on this blog, I'll post a detailed account of as much as I can remember of the night, along with any apocrypha that may account for the lost time. In the meantime, dearest reader, I propose a gentleman's wager: How do you think I'll score at Pub Golf this weekend? As with any thesis statement, don't forget to support your general claim with justification to convince any potentially unsympathetic reader. Whoever guesses the right score, or comes closest, wins (ties go to the most accurate justification/reasoning).
If I die of alcohol poisoning this weekend...I guess that makes my wife the winner.
"But Colonel Gentleman, is it possible to merge the sophistication and white privilege of golf with the esteemed literary tradition of semi-functional alcoholism, topped off with a dash of 'Play Hard' to give its some balls?"
"Well, barring the racism and misogyny, Billy, you bet it is!"
You know, I think I'll revert back to a prose description, as my dramatic dialogue was already taking a turn that could only have ended with Billy choking on an ether rag and being hastily shoved into the cramped trunk of a modestly priced American sedan.
Anyway, if Scotland and Ireland had a baby, it would be Pub Golf [surprisingly, there is no documented instance of the Irish and Scots interbreeding, due chiefly to 1) the staggering "awesome" that would be said progeny, and 2), neither the Irish or Scots are good swimmers and have nonexistent navies, so they didn't really have opportunity until last century, and by then tradition had already sunk its roots too deeply to be ignored]. The rules look a little something like this:
If you had to describe those babies in one word, I bet I know what it would be: "small." Allow me to help. The general rules for this most sacred of games are as follows:
1. Girls are allowed a 4 stroke handicap
2. Everyone gets one Mulligan (a "do over," for the uninitiated), but you are penalized 2 strokes on that hole
3. Water hazard - no going to the bathroom while you're on the green (i.e. while mid-drink)
4. A stroke counts as every time you stop drinking; for food, a stroke counts as a bite
5. 1 stroke penalties: poor drinking form (to be voted on by a majority of the group); improper scoring; party fouls
6. at the 9th hole, each successive hole-in-one (i.e. each Irish car bomb) after the first drink will reduce your score by one stroke
7. lowest score wins (you are disqualified if you puke at any point during the round)
If you're anything like me, you wept for joy at the sight of this, as if hearing Maria Callas sing "La Mamma Morta" for the first time or seeing a dolphin leap out of the water as a unicorn hurtles over a rainbow. Sure, it may seem like I'm exaggerating there, but as I typically only associate with people who enjoy abusing their livers as much as I do...let's just say I know my audience.
The list on the left is the specific round for this Friday night. Eight bars and one eatery, eight drinks and one snack. In case you can't read that one either, I've reproduced it below:
Hole--------------------------Club----------------------------Par
Salute Wine Bar----------Glass of Wine-------------------------3
The Galley---------------Vodka Tonic--------------------------3
Finn McCool's-----------Pint of Guiness------------------------6
Lula's Cocina----------Cadillac Margarita-----------------------4
World Cafe------------------Mojito-----------------------------3
Holy Guacamole-----------1 soft taco---------------------------3
Rick's Tavern-----------Pint of B- or C- ------------------------3
Library Ale House--------Pint of Ale----------------------------4
O'Briens----------------Irish Car Bomb-------------------------1
Par for the Course: --------------------------------------------31
On behalf of the hard-hitting journalism I always bring to bear on this blog, I'll post a detailed account of as much as I can remember of the night, along with any apocrypha that may account for the lost time. In the meantime, dearest reader, I propose a gentleman's wager: How do you think I'll score at Pub Golf this weekend? As with any thesis statement, don't forget to support your general claim with justification to convince any potentially unsympathetic reader. Whoever guesses the right score, or comes closest, wins (ties go to the most accurate justification/reasoning).
If I die of alcohol poisoning this weekend...I guess that makes my wife the winner.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Damn You, Thermodynamics!
To quote the caveman with the boom mic when Geico first explained just how easy their insurance is: NOT COOL!
Really? A second time? Because I swore this happened about two years ago, and you'd think the replacement hardware they send you wouldn't succumb to the identical malfunction of the aforementioned console/paperweight, but who am I to question their hardware engineers or their business model? After all, I didn't go to ITT Tech, nor am I mandated by state or federal law to wear a helmet when I ride in a car. I similarly lack the distinct, sloping brow or the trademark vacant stare as I gaze across the plains looking for predators only to realize it's my computer wallpaper. I have never attempted to impress anyone by smashing anything on my head, nor do I grope the air with my hairless paw while watching a 3D movie. In short, I'm not a fucking Microsoft engineer, so obviously I wouldn't know anything about putting out a product that's suffered from the same fundamental problem for going on four years now. No, those fellers are much, much too smart for the likes o' me. I just run Chrysler.
Really? A second time? Because I swore this happened about two years ago, and you'd think the replacement hardware they send you wouldn't succumb to the identical malfunction of the aforementioned console/paperweight, but who am I to question their hardware engineers or their business model? After all, I didn't go to ITT Tech, nor am I mandated by state or federal law to wear a helmet when I ride in a car. I similarly lack the distinct, sloping brow or the trademark vacant stare as I gaze across the plains looking for predators only to realize it's my computer wallpaper. I have never attempted to impress anyone by smashing anything on my head, nor do I grope the air with my hairless paw while watching a 3D movie. In short, I'm not a fucking Microsoft engineer, so obviously I wouldn't know anything about putting out a product that's suffered from the same fundamental problem for going on four years now. No, those fellers are much, much too smart for the likes o' me. I just run Chrysler.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Stockholm Syndrome
Please forgive my extended absence, dearest reader, but tonight I sat down to do some more work, saw this headline, and thought of you. Indeed, this short news post from MSNBC contains perhaps one of the strangest paragraphs I've read in some time:
"Police say a Japanese pop star dressed up as a pineapple has been robbed while shooting a music video in southern Sweden."
Is it Sweden's frigid northern clime that makes them detest tropical fruit so, or conversely, did the young men who committed the assault so love pineapples that their conscious minds disintegrated in a red wash of fury when they saw their beloved fruit impersonated by a Japanese pop idol? Either way, it involved a grown man in a foam suit getting punched in the face, and if you're a fan of major league mascot death-matches like I am, you know any man vs. costume violence is the good stuff, especially since bum fights are currently in the off season.
The truly sad part, though, is that the man wasn't actually "shooting a music video" at the moment. In truth, "the pineapple-clad artist had been left alone with the equipment while the camera crew went for a break." The poor guy was just sitting there, so small-time that when the camera crew needs to take a break, he's literally the only person around to watch their stuff. I bet the poor bastard was wearing a fanny-pack, too. Not sure why - I just get that feeling.
Come on, now. Who could want to attack this guy?
"Police say a Japanese pop star dressed up as a pineapple has been robbed while shooting a music video in southern Sweden."
Is it Sweden's frigid northern clime that makes them detest tropical fruit so, or conversely, did the young men who committed the assault so love pineapples that their conscious minds disintegrated in a red wash of fury when they saw their beloved fruit impersonated by a Japanese pop idol? Either way, it involved a grown man in a foam suit getting punched in the face, and if you're a fan of major league mascot death-matches like I am, you know any man vs. costume violence is the good stuff, especially since bum fights are currently in the off season.
The truly sad part, though, is that the man wasn't actually "shooting a music video" at the moment. In truth, "the pineapple-clad artist had been left alone with the equipment while the camera crew went for a break." The poor guy was just sitting there, so small-time that when the camera crew needs to take a break, he's literally the only person around to watch their stuff. I bet the poor bastard was wearing a fanny-pack, too. Not sure why - I just get that feeling.
Come on, now. Who could want to attack this guy?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Happy St. Pat's
I'll make a post tomorrow in honor of St. Patrick's Day, but in the meantime, I didn't want to let you go without a good laugh on this most holy of days. Trust me: there is nothing I could write that would be as funny as this clip of hard hitting journalism. Brace yourself.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Git-er-done
Education is often the whipping boy of budgetary cutbacks at the state and federal levels, and not surprisingly, our standing worldwide has steadily ticked downward. Of course, you'd need the ability to connect cause and effect to see the correlation, so I suppose America's youth will remain blissfully unaware of the royal screwing they've been taking since they first put finger to paint, but that's beside the point.
We champions of education must be ever vigilant, for no perspective is wholly unassailable, and should we become too entrenched in the certitude that our cause is just and right, we may miss the reasonable objections of the other side. So allow me to play devil's advocate for a moment:
If we teach hillbillies math, they'll get better at science. Once they get better at math and science, they'll progress to engineering. And once that happens, they start making compact, transforming weaponry that, apparently, they plan to take on walks everywhere they go just in case they have to "get down to business." Behold the latest prototype from Magpul Industries. I can only imagine the man in the clip is sporting an Amish beard to cushion his jaw when he repeatedly thrusts that weapon against his face with such enthusiasm and vigor.
Honestly, I'd have been fine if that child was left behind.
We champions of education must be ever vigilant, for no perspective is wholly unassailable, and should we become too entrenched in the certitude that our cause is just and right, we may miss the reasonable objections of the other side. So allow me to play devil's advocate for a moment:
If we teach hillbillies math, they'll get better at science. Once they get better at math and science, they'll progress to engineering. And once that happens, they start making compact, transforming weaponry that, apparently, they plan to take on walks everywhere they go just in case they have to "get down to business." Behold the latest prototype from Magpul Industries. I can only imagine the man in the clip is sporting an Amish beard to cushion his jaw when he repeatedly thrusts that weapon against his face with such enthusiasm and vigor.
Honestly, I'd have been fine if that child was left behind.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here, or, Hell in a Handbasket
In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to
myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost.
Ah, how hard a thing it is to say what that wood
was, so savage and harsh and strong that the
thought of it renews my fear!
It is so bitter that death is little more so! But to
treat of the good that I found there, I will tell of
the other things I saw.
Call it karma or Newton's third law (MacGyver's favorite, as it turns out) or whatever you like, but the universe has a way of balancing things out. And because of that, I should have seen this thing coming. I mean, I don't want to endorse any sort of overly rigid distinction between high and low culture, but I think it's fair to say Spider-man becoming a Broadway musical isn't necessarily a lateral movement for the intellectual property. But the moment something so thoroughly pop culture is being "elevated" to theater, I assure you somewhere someone is raping a cultural treasure. And usually I can keep a wry distance from it. But no one fucks with Dante Alighieri (or puts Baby in a corner).
But apparently that's exactly what Electronic Arts is doing. EA, shirt collar wide open so the ladies can appreciate its chest pelt and faux-gold necklaces, slithered up to the Divine Comedy at the bar and offered to buy it an appletini. And now, some indeterminate time later, Dante is shivering on the corner at 3:15 am offering to suck your dick for a fiver so his pimp doesn't cut him another nostril. For those of you less well versed in the arcane cryptography of my metaphors, allow me to spell it out: they're making a video game of Dante's Inferno.
As I watched this seven minute interview with one of the criminals responsible for this abomination, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. Sure, maybe I was a little drawn in, but I also slow down to rubber-neck at freeway accidents. And like my molars, which were slowly grinding one another to dust (and plaque, and the gum disease gingivitis), the details I remember from Dante's epic poem and the plot of this game ground together. The pilgrim (Dante) wanders through Hell with Virgil as a guide, until the poet's beloved (Beatrice) must take over Virgil's duty when the pilgrim ascends to Paradise; Digital Dante returns from kicking ass and taking names in the Crusades to find his sweet-heart, Beatrice, has been murdered and her soul dragged to hell by Lucifer himself, so he goes to hell alone to get her. The pilgrim is alternately terrified, infuriated, and seduced by the stories told him by the damned; Digital Dante kicks ass and chews bubblegum, along with the help of his giant fucking scythe (which they'll hopefully name 'Florence' or 'La Vita Nuova' or something). The medieval poem showed me what literature can really do and made me fall in love with poetry; this video game makes me want to strap on a diaper, jump in my car (which is stalled out in parking lot right now, but that's another story), and drive to the developer's studio where I can "get medieval" on each and every one of their pasty asses. I'll show you a contrapasso, you sons of bitches.
Maybe I'm getting a little worked up here, so I'll cut this short - despite my plans of meticulously combing through all thirty three cantos and parodying what I imagine those bastards at EA might do to the text. Come to think of it, though, somebody better check Dante's tomb; I have a feeling his skull is upended somewhere in a game studio and serving double duty as an ashtray and urinal. If there's any justice, those responsible will have an eternity of purging flames to regret their trespass. If not, I'll remind them when I arrive fresh from the Crusades, shotgun in one hand, chainsaw strapped to the stump of my other. Groovy.
myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost.
Ah, how hard a thing it is to say what that wood
was, so savage and harsh and strong that the
thought of it renews my fear!
It is so bitter that death is little more so! But to
treat of the good that I found there, I will tell of
the other things I saw.
Call it karma or Newton's third law (MacGyver's favorite, as it turns out) or whatever you like, but the universe has a way of balancing things out. And because of that, I should have seen this thing coming. I mean, I don't want to endorse any sort of overly rigid distinction between high and low culture, but I think it's fair to say Spider-man becoming a Broadway musical isn't necessarily a lateral movement for the intellectual property. But the moment something so thoroughly pop culture is being "elevated" to theater, I assure you somewhere someone is raping a cultural treasure. And usually I can keep a wry distance from it. But no one fucks with Dante Alighieri (or puts Baby in a corner).
But apparently that's exactly what Electronic Arts is doing. EA, shirt collar wide open so the ladies can appreciate its chest pelt and faux-gold necklaces, slithered up to the Divine Comedy at the bar and offered to buy it an appletini. And now, some indeterminate time later, Dante is shivering on the corner at 3:15 am offering to suck your dick for a fiver so his pimp doesn't cut him another nostril. For those of you less well versed in the arcane cryptography of my metaphors, allow me to spell it out: they're making a video game of Dante's Inferno.
As I watched this seven minute interview with one of the criminals responsible for this abomination, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. Sure, maybe I was a little drawn in, but I also slow down to rubber-neck at freeway accidents. And like my molars, which were slowly grinding one another to dust (and plaque, and the gum disease gingivitis), the details I remember from Dante's epic poem and the plot of this game ground together. The pilgrim (Dante) wanders through Hell with Virgil as a guide, until the poet's beloved (Beatrice) must take over Virgil's duty when the pilgrim ascends to Paradise; Digital Dante returns from kicking ass and taking names in the Crusades to find his sweet-heart, Beatrice, has been murdered and her soul dragged to hell by Lucifer himself, so he goes to hell alone to get her. The pilgrim is alternately terrified, infuriated, and seduced by the stories told him by the damned; Digital Dante kicks ass and chews bubblegum, along with the help of his giant fucking scythe (which they'll hopefully name 'Florence' or 'La Vita Nuova' or something). The medieval poem showed me what literature can really do and made me fall in love with poetry; this video game makes me want to strap on a diaper, jump in my car (which is stalled out in parking lot right now, but that's another story), and drive to the developer's studio where I can "get medieval" on each and every one of their pasty asses. I'll show you a contrapasso, you sons of bitches.
Maybe I'm getting a little worked up here, so I'll cut this short - despite my plans of meticulously combing through all thirty three cantos and parodying what I imagine those bastards at EA might do to the text. Come to think of it, though, somebody better check Dante's tomb; I have a feeling his skull is upended somewhere in a game studio and serving double duty as an ashtray and urinal. If there's any justice, those responsible will have an eternity of purging flames to regret their trespass. If not, I'll remind them when I arrive fresh from the Crusades, shotgun in one hand, chainsaw strapped to the stump of my other. Groovy.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Dick and Jane: All Grown Up, or More Phun Wif Wordz
Honestly, does no one take a step back and read these things before actually putting them up? Perhaps the parties responsible for this little double entendre are simply so naive, so pure of heart, that alternate meanings do not present themselves when they proudly stand aside and gaze at their handiwork. Not so for the rest of us (sorry to drag you down to the gutter with me, dearest reader). Don't get me wrong; despite my alternate reading of this public declaration, it still amounts to the same message. Oh yes, the love is still in this relationship - we may just have a discrepancy over semantics.
Happy Anniversary, Dick and Lisa. To think you've come so far from those golden, childhood years when you two strolled through the neighborhood and, apparently, discovered perverts hiding in the bushes.
My, oh my. The grow up so very fast.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Your Friendly Neighborhood Harbinger of the Apocalpyse
Oh crap! The world is about to end. There is no other way to explain this. None. I mean, I can read articles about atrocities committed in third world nations by militias and dictators, I can watch an administration systematically strip away constitutional rights and perpetuate their power on a platform of fear-mongering and misinformation, I can even wrap my head around the fact that our media culture seems determined to perpetuate Paris Hilton's celebrity instead of euthanizing her, and still believe that our world will somehow continue to limp along blithely. But then I read that they're making a Spider-man musical, directed by Julie Taymor with musical score by Bono and the Edge, and my brain just...
...where am I?
Dammit. I was hoping that I had suffered some sort of blunt-force-trauma to the head and was waking up in a hospital bed in a universe where this sort of absurdity wasn't increasingly common. No such luck. What's that? You don't believe me? You insist that I am actually sitting at my computer with a book of Mad Libs open on my lap, and I thought it would be delightful to combine a superhero comic, half of the Irish rock band U2, and the creative force behind such films as Titus and Across the Universe? But no, such is not the case. There isn't enough crack for me to smoke to come up with that one on my own, though apparently others are happily "hittin' the rock" and maintaining their positions of creative control on Broadway. And who the hell okayed this thing? If you came to me and pitched this idea, I'd stare at you like you had a penis growing out of your forehead.
And come on. Spider-man, Turn Off the Dark is the best they could come up with for a title? Good God! It's like one of my remedial students wrote this thing. Perhaps next we'll be treated to Andrew Lloyd Webber's Aquaman: I Humped a Shark. Jeez, Bono, did you run out of starving people to help? Shouldn't you be busy wearing a dashiki at a press conference in the Sudan or something? I need to stop thinking about this - I'm giving myself an aneurysm. Honestly, I kinda want to kill myself a little bit now. I think I'll go watch Step Up 2: The Streets and remind myself what real art is all about.
...where am I?
Dammit. I was hoping that I had suffered some sort of blunt-force-trauma to the head and was waking up in a hospital bed in a universe where this sort of absurdity wasn't increasingly common. No such luck. What's that? You don't believe me? You insist that I am actually sitting at my computer with a book of Mad Libs open on my lap, and I thought it would be delightful to combine a superhero comic, half of the Irish rock band U2, and the creative force behind such films as Titus and Across the Universe? But no, such is not the case. There isn't enough crack for me to smoke to come up with that one on my own, though apparently others are happily "hittin' the rock" and maintaining their positions of creative control on Broadway. And who the hell okayed this thing? If you came to me and pitched this idea, I'd stare at you like you had a penis growing out of your forehead.
And come on. Spider-man, Turn Off the Dark is the best they could come up with for a title? Good God! It's like one of my remedial students wrote this thing. Perhaps next we'll be treated to Andrew Lloyd Webber's Aquaman: I Humped a Shark. Jeez, Bono, did you run out of starving people to help? Shouldn't you be busy wearing a dashiki at a press conference in the Sudan or something? I need to stop thinking about this - I'm giving myself an aneurysm. Honestly, I kinda want to kill myself a little bit now. I think I'll go watch Step Up 2: The Streets and remind myself what real art is all about.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Because Working at a Car Wash Isn't Bad Enough Already
This little exposé details, in rather business-like fashion, a charming little "snafu" some local car wash owners have gotten themselves into. According to the author, these intrepid titans of industry have been treating their car wash employees like "indentured servants" because, you know, having to tell people you work at a car wash isn't quite shitty enough. Apparently this husband and wife duo "worked [their employees / indentured servants / butts of some cosmic joke] without overtime pay, rest or lunch breaks, drank water from a washing machine, received no proper medical treatment for cuts and burns, and were harassed if they tried to unionize." Most of these I can wrap my head around: while not exactly living the Gospel, I understand that virtually all of these infractions were the result of pushing their employees to be more productive. Fine. I get it. But making them drink water from a washing machine? I mean, it's not like we're talking about a laundromat here. Hell, at least let them drink from a hose or something. Of course, this is also the revelation that makes me giggle the hardest. "What? You want a drink? Well, I just started a load of whites ten minutes ago, so just wring out a pair of underwear and see how much water you can get from that. Oh, and I'm docking your pay while you're lapping up that charming cocktail of soap-and-crotch water. Cheers."
But what I really appreciate about this story is how it puts into sharp relief the simple reality that people bring different philosophies of management to the workplace. The owners / operators felt that denying these workers their legal rights an expedient shortcut to greater profit at, admittedly, their peons' expense. Meanwhile, their immediate subordinate (the site manager) used a different approach: he is "accused of using a machete and a baton to threaten workers and unionizers." No one's going to accuse this guy of being subtle, but hell, that washing machine is looking better and better, huh? Complain all you want, but you can't argue with results.
So, dear car wash owners and manager, I salute you. And rest assured that the law will evaluate your various infractions with the utmost diligence and scrutiny, resulting in the most equitable decision possible: that go-getter with the machete and baton (the latter, I pray, filled with water and glitter so it caught the light magically as he threatened to sever a hand if you didn't buff that hood like a genie was going to pop out of the exhaust pipe) "faces 2 1/2 years in jail if convicted," while the husband and wife duo (the family that oppresses the proletariat together stays together, right?) are staring down the barrel of "nearly 86 years each in jail if convicted." Bet they're wishing they stuck with the family business and opened a Nike factory right about now.
But what I really appreciate about this story is how it puts into sharp relief the simple reality that people bring different philosophies of management to the workplace. The owners / operators felt that denying these workers their legal rights an expedient shortcut to greater profit at, admittedly, their peons' expense. Meanwhile, their immediate subordinate (the site manager) used a different approach: he is "accused of using a machete and a baton to threaten workers and unionizers." No one's going to accuse this guy of being subtle, but hell, that washing machine is looking better and better, huh? Complain all you want, but you can't argue with results.
So, dear car wash owners and manager, I salute you. And rest assured that the law will evaluate your various infractions with the utmost diligence and scrutiny, resulting in the most equitable decision possible: that go-getter with the machete and baton (the latter, I pray, filled with water and glitter so it caught the light magically as he threatened to sever a hand if you didn't buff that hood like a genie was going to pop out of the exhaust pipe) "faces 2 1/2 years in jail if convicted," while the husband and wife duo (the family that oppresses the proletariat together stays together, right?) are staring down the barrel of "nearly 86 years each in jail if convicted." Bet they're wishing they stuck with the family business and opened a Nike factory right about now.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Texan Zombies Declare Nefarious Political Allegiance...Other Than Being Texan
The liberal media is determined to let the zombies win. One of the fundamental tools we have to avoid - or at least survive - the coming zombie apocalypse is our ever-present vigilance, and thus to present a hero's attempt at warning his community of imminent attack as mere vandalism hurts us all. Of course, it hurts the people who get eaten more, but my ideological pain is nearly as acute, if not so bloody. And it doesn't involve me screaming desperately for mercy that will never come, either. Or rising some time later, an undead mockery of my former self, to maraud the streets for flesh. But they are still reminiscent of each other. On a certain, abstract level.
But I digress. Last Monday, a champion put himself or herself in the line of fire to reprogram two electronic detour signs in Austin, TX with such warnings as CAUTION! ZOMBIES AHEAD! and even more chilling, NAZI ZOMBIES! RUN!!! The "journalist" who reported this incident offered no details on whether the undead have begun dabbling in sinister political ideologies or if these zombies had simply persisted since 1942 Germany, though I imagine the presence or absence of helmets with pointy spikes on top would pretty much answer that one for us.
What did become clear, though, was that the reporter's ignorance of zombies was second only to her ignorance of how difficult it is to reprogram a sign. The author, who I'll call "Katie Petrosky of All Ablog Austin," reports that "the hacker could be a computer genius from UT." Now, I've become accustomed over the years to the imprecise uses to which people put the language, and sadly, I've become relatively resigned. I remain mute when a stranger says a hamburger is "fucking fantastic," when clearly it is neither "extravagantly fanciful" nor do they have their penis in their entree. I smile reassuringly when a student confesses a paper "sucks," knowing that it is less an evaluation of the composition's quality as how reading it drains the light from my life, nay, my very soul. But even the most resigned of men must draw the line somewhere, and so when some Luddite deems the reprogramming of an electronic road sign the work of a "computer genius," I must protest. Just because you think the spirits living inside your laptop are playing pranks when you accidentally erase the email from that Nigerian prince you've been meaning to help out doesn't mean the guy who broke open an orange lock box and entered a pass code is a "genius." It does mean you might be retarded, though.
If these warnings were genuine, though, we have little to worry about the reporter passing the idiot gene to what would have undoubtedly been a nigh-Biblical amount of offspring. You see, her parting quip was that "with any luck, Tuesday night’s cold front killed off any undead with ghoulish plans to invade the city." Okay. Calm down. Count to ten. Now: 1) zombies don't really have "plans," so much as an inescapable instinct to gorge themselves on human flesh; and 2) the cold won't do a good God damn thing to them, seeing as how they're already dead. Of course, their fingers may be a little more blackened and stiff as they drag you from your Starbucks laptop station, but I assure you, their jaws are still strong, and their teeth sharp. Would I could say the same about your intellect.
My thanks to Tina for passing this little gem along to me, and to Ryan for giving me dibs at venting my spleen at this poor reporter. I feel considerably better now. Not, you know, about myself, but at least about this whole thing.
But I digress. Last Monday, a champion put himself or herself in the line of fire to reprogram two electronic detour signs in Austin, TX with such warnings as CAUTION! ZOMBIES AHEAD! and even more chilling, NAZI ZOMBIES! RUN!!! The "journalist" who reported this incident offered no details on whether the undead have begun dabbling in sinister political ideologies or if these zombies had simply persisted since 1942 Germany, though I imagine the presence or absence of helmets with pointy spikes on top would pretty much answer that one for us.
What did become clear, though, was that the reporter's ignorance of zombies was second only to her ignorance of how difficult it is to reprogram a sign. The author, who I'll call "Katie Petrosky of All Ablog Austin," reports that "the hacker could be a computer genius from UT." Now, I've become accustomed over the years to the imprecise uses to which people put the language, and sadly, I've become relatively resigned. I remain mute when a stranger says a hamburger is "fucking fantastic," when clearly it is neither "extravagantly fanciful" nor do they have their penis in their entree. I smile reassuringly when a student confesses a paper "sucks," knowing that it is less an evaluation of the composition's quality as how reading it drains the light from my life, nay, my very soul. But even the most resigned of men must draw the line somewhere, and so when some Luddite deems the reprogramming of an electronic road sign the work of a "computer genius," I must protest. Just because you think the spirits living inside your laptop are playing pranks when you accidentally erase the email from that Nigerian prince you've been meaning to help out doesn't mean the guy who broke open an orange lock box and entered a pass code is a "genius." It does mean you might be retarded, though.
If these warnings were genuine, though, we have little to worry about the reporter passing the idiot gene to what would have undoubtedly been a nigh-Biblical amount of offspring. You see, her parting quip was that "with any luck, Tuesday night’s cold front killed off any undead with ghoulish plans to invade the city." Okay. Calm down. Count to ten. Now: 1) zombies don't really have "plans," so much as an inescapable instinct to gorge themselves on human flesh; and 2) the cold won't do a good God damn thing to them, seeing as how they're already dead. Of course, their fingers may be a little more blackened and stiff as they drag you from your Starbucks laptop station, but I assure you, their jaws are still strong, and their teeth sharp. Would I could say the same about your intellect.
My thanks to Tina for passing this little gem along to me, and to Ryan for giving me dibs at venting my spleen at this poor reporter. I feel considerably better now. Not, you know, about myself, but at least about this whole thing.
A Fuzzy Yin to the Pederast's Yang
Alright, I'll admit that the last post wasn't in the best taste, and while one might observe that I had nothing to do with creating that unfortunate design, I suppose one could distort logic in such a way that, in a certain time and place, passing along such images might not be considered "awesome." To that I would simply point out that, strictly speaking, the word means "to inspire awe," and the magnitude of the oversight involved in actually putting that logo on your building most definitely does fill one with awe.
That said, the universe likes balance, and so to even things out, I've decided to post a picture of a koala bear taking a bath. I hope you have a good dentist because this little guy is so sweet he'll give you a cavity. Also, because koala meat is a little tough, so there will be some chewing involved. And while not nearly so delicious as panda, the koala is well worth the effort.
Ha, ha. Stupid photographer. He has his camera set to the 30th month, and everyone knows 2009 isn't a leap year.
That said, the universe likes balance, and so to even things out, I've decided to post a picture of a koala bear taking a bath. I hope you have a good dentist because this little guy is so sweet he'll give you a cavity. Also, because koala meat is a little tough, so there will be some chewing involved. And while not nearly so delicious as panda, the koala is well worth the effort.
Ha, ha. Stupid photographer. He has his camera set to the 30th month, and everyone knows 2009 isn't a leap year.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Did You Ever Get Busted For Boppin?
One of the responsibilities of a high school teacher is to chaperone school dances. One of the responsibilities of a high school teacher's spouse is to be annually dragged to a high school dance in a four hour marathon of revulsion that resembles being exiled to a leper colony, except instead of laying around and dying like a decent human being, all the lepers were dry humping each other off tempo to a Britney Spears song.
I mean, I think we're being a little disingenuous here to be calling this pagan ritual "a dance," because nothing of the sort takes place. For instance, I can't dance at all, but I can slowly rotate in a circle while holding a girl at roughly arm's length. Room was left for the Holy Ghost, and as a result I was able to hold onto God's approval and my virginity well into college. My point is it that whatever else it was, it wasn't dancing. And while I'm happy to see this most sacred of traditions persevere amidst "the youth," one wonders if the little rascals actually think what they're doing is somehow breaking the mold. Hymens and parental illusions, perhaps, if one judges by the proximity with which they writhe, but these kids certainly aren't dancing. All they do is bend their knees slightly and shift their weight from heel to heel with varying degrees of velocity and success. Then they just stack on each other like legos: a few of this, a few more of that, click that last piece in, and you have a perfect model of the herpes simplex virus. Isn't that wonderful? And filthy. Don't forget filthy.
But I doubt you need me to remind you of these things. So let's instead, dearest reader, talk about the particulars of this latest bacchanalia. It was held in a car museum, and....no, that pretty much says it all. Hundreds of teens congregated in a stew of ProActiv, Axe Body spray, and flop sweat, surrounded by millions of dollars of pristine classic and luxury automobiles. Security was on hand, of course, but I'm unsure if the revelers appreciated that additional bodies were hired to see to the cars' safety while they themselves merited no such expenditure. After all, that's what we were there for. But apart from the ass-beating Kelly and I handed out on the Rock Band set up on the premises, at no other time were students in any significant danger.
I could go on and on, so I'll keep it to my top five favorite aspects of the dance, in no particular order:
1) A pack of five freshman boys who wandered around looking like Brendan Frasier in Blast From the Past: utterly fascinated by their surroundings and having no fucking idea how to proceed from there. Among them was a kid my height wearing a purple suit and a bowler hat, and another kid half as tall with feathered hair and a pure white tuxedo. Tre, tre magnifique.
2) The delicious irony that a significant fraction of the attendees were probably conceived in ill-considered bouts of fleeting passion on similar back-seats, hoods, perhaps even trunks, not two decades ago. And that a subsequent generation would be coming along in predictably similar fashion that very night.
3) A group of 43 students showed up in a chartered party bus. Because, you know, sometimes a Hummer limo just isn't ostentatious enough.
4) Amidst the many limos, a minivan drove up with a bemused father at the wheel. As he cued up behind a limo to drop off his young passengers, his head whipped around to the back seat, as if a shrill voice was asking him at that very moment why he was so determined to commit social suicide on his son / daughter's behalf. Looking mildly abashed, he quickly began to reverse in an attempt to leave the queue, and in so doing nearly hit a young couple walking behind him. The remainder of his time in my field of view was spent grimly staring ahead, knuckles white at the wheel, conducting an impromptu investigation into if a man might actually will himself from existence entirely through sheer force of determination. Much to his chagrin, he survived.
5) The venue also contained a horse made from melted down bumpers and proudly stood, its metallic hide glowing golden in the dim light, conspicuously between the boys' and girls' bathrooms. If any intrepid students had taken a page from their classical literature and stowed away inside the beast to avoid paying the price for admission, their desperate, muffled screams for release were obscured by the DJ's "dope-ass mix."
Kelly and I always take a picture together at these things, both because they're free for the chaperones, and because I have to do what she tells me, especially on her turf (and the earf is her turf). This time, however, despite her best efforts to maintain the tradition, we weren't able to do so. As a compensation, I have instead scanned and posted pictures of others at their high school dances. Yes, I still have these. No, I don't know exactly why. Yes, it is a good thing others of you didn't know me thirteen years ago. A damn good thing.
I wish I knew who started the rumor that any high school dance was a magical night. If you want a magical night, go see a Harry Potter movie or huff some paint. And if you want a terrifyingly magical night, do both.
I mean, I think we're being a little disingenuous here to be calling this pagan ritual "a dance," because nothing of the sort takes place. For instance, I can't dance at all, but I can slowly rotate in a circle while holding a girl at roughly arm's length. Room was left for the Holy Ghost, and as a result I was able to hold onto God's approval and my virginity well into college. My point is it that whatever else it was, it wasn't dancing. And while I'm happy to see this most sacred of traditions persevere amidst "the youth," one wonders if the little rascals actually think what they're doing is somehow breaking the mold. Hymens and parental illusions, perhaps, if one judges by the proximity with which they writhe, but these kids certainly aren't dancing. All they do is bend their knees slightly and shift their weight from heel to heel with varying degrees of velocity and success. Then they just stack on each other like legos: a few of this, a few more of that, click that last piece in, and you have a perfect model of the herpes simplex virus. Isn't that wonderful? And filthy. Don't forget filthy.
But I doubt you need me to remind you of these things. So let's instead, dearest reader, talk about the particulars of this latest bacchanalia. It was held in a car museum, and....no, that pretty much says it all. Hundreds of teens congregated in a stew of ProActiv, Axe Body spray, and flop sweat, surrounded by millions of dollars of pristine classic and luxury automobiles. Security was on hand, of course, but I'm unsure if the revelers appreciated that additional bodies were hired to see to the cars' safety while they themselves merited no such expenditure. After all, that's what we were there for. But apart from the ass-beating Kelly and I handed out on the Rock Band set up on the premises, at no other time were students in any significant danger.
I could go on and on, so I'll keep it to my top five favorite aspects of the dance, in no particular order:
1) A pack of five freshman boys who wandered around looking like Brendan Frasier in Blast From the Past: utterly fascinated by their surroundings and having no fucking idea how to proceed from there. Among them was a kid my height wearing a purple suit and a bowler hat, and another kid half as tall with feathered hair and a pure white tuxedo. Tre, tre magnifique.
2) The delicious irony that a significant fraction of the attendees were probably conceived in ill-considered bouts of fleeting passion on similar back-seats, hoods, perhaps even trunks, not two decades ago. And that a subsequent generation would be coming along in predictably similar fashion that very night.
3) A group of 43 students showed up in a chartered party bus. Because, you know, sometimes a Hummer limo just isn't ostentatious enough.
4) Amidst the many limos, a minivan drove up with a bemused father at the wheel. As he cued up behind a limo to drop off his young passengers, his head whipped around to the back seat, as if a shrill voice was asking him at that very moment why he was so determined to commit social suicide on his son / daughter's behalf. Looking mildly abashed, he quickly began to reverse in an attempt to leave the queue, and in so doing nearly hit a young couple walking behind him. The remainder of his time in my field of view was spent grimly staring ahead, knuckles white at the wheel, conducting an impromptu investigation into if a man might actually will himself from existence entirely through sheer force of determination. Much to his chagrin, he survived.
5) The venue also contained a horse made from melted down bumpers and proudly stood, its metallic hide glowing golden in the dim light, conspicuously between the boys' and girls' bathrooms. If any intrepid students had taken a page from their classical literature and stowed away inside the beast to avoid paying the price for admission, their desperate, muffled screams for release were obscured by the DJ's "dope-ass mix."
Kelly and I always take a picture together at these things, both because they're free for the chaperones, and because I have to do what she tells me, especially on her turf (and the earf is her turf). This time, however, despite her best efforts to maintain the tradition, we weren't able to do so. As a compensation, I have instead scanned and posted pictures of others at their high school dances. Yes, I still have these. No, I don't know exactly why. Yes, it is a good thing others of you didn't know me thirteen years ago. A damn good thing.
I wish I knew who started the rumor that any high school dance was a magical night. If you want a magical night, go see a Harry Potter movie or huff some paint. And if you want a terrifyingly magical night, do both.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
DY - NO - MYTE ! ! !
I've actually been sitting on this one for a while, what with the survey results laying bare my inherent disdain for anyone who doesn't have to coat themselves in SPF 30 before walking through the dappled sunlight in their own living room. But thanks to this movie trailer, I've realized I'm just being a jive honkey.
Yes, you read that right: I've reached an existential turning point. No more will I and my white brothers (probably not the right noun in this context, come to think of it) destroy urban communities by selling drugs to, what appears to be, a nine year old boy. No more will I use my insidious contacts to hire egregious stereotypes of Chinese kung fu masters and, confusingly, ninja to assassinate the glorious, play-by-his-own-rules-with-an-afro-that-won't-quit protagonist who seeks to thwart my dastardly Caucasian plans. No more will I....
I'm going to practice a shred of self restraint and stop right there, but trust me when I say I could have gone on a lot longer than that (not something I'm able to say in other areas of my social life). Besides, nothing I say could speak nearly so eloquently as the blacksploitation satire Black Dynamite, or at least, the red-band trailer for said opus. Be warned, there are boobies and egregious racial stereotypes in here, but as it's all conspicuously self-aware, I'm told that makes it okay. Did I mention I was self-aware when I failed that racism test?
This post is dedicated to Anthony "Pudding" Alvarez, who, if boiled down to his liquid essence and then injected into the tear duct of a talented filmmaker, would invariably create a movie exactly like this one. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to see his name in the credits somewhere. Okay, actually, I would; he's a mattress salesman and spends all his time with degenerates, so yes, I would be surprised if he somehow was involved in a major motion picture.
Yes, you read that right: I've reached an existential turning point. No more will I and my white brothers (probably not the right noun in this context, come to think of it) destroy urban communities by selling drugs to, what appears to be, a nine year old boy. No more will I use my insidious contacts to hire egregious stereotypes of Chinese kung fu masters and, confusingly, ninja to assassinate the glorious, play-by-his-own-rules-with-an-afro-that-won't-quit protagonist who seeks to thwart my dastardly Caucasian plans. No more will I....
I'm going to practice a shred of self restraint and stop right there, but trust me when I say I could have gone on a lot longer than that (not something I'm able to say in other areas of my social life). Besides, nothing I say could speak nearly so eloquently as the blacksploitation satire Black Dynamite, or at least, the red-band trailer for said opus. Be warned, there are boobies and egregious racial stereotypes in here, but as it's all conspicuously self-aware, I'm told that makes it okay. Did I mention I was self-aware when I failed that racism test?
This post is dedicated to Anthony "Pudding" Alvarez, who, if boiled down to his liquid essence and then injected into the tear duct of a talented filmmaker, would invariably create a movie exactly like this one. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to see his name in the credits somewhere. Okay, actually, I would; he's a mattress salesman and spends all his time with degenerates, so yes, I would be surprised if he somehow was involved in a major motion picture.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Kickin' It Like It's 1399
So it seems a go-getter in central California made international news this week when he, according to the headlines, sold his 14 year old daughter for $16,000, over a hundred cases of beer, and an undisclosed amount of meat. If you're anything like me, two things flashed through your brain in quick succession upon hearing this: 1) That's awesome! and 2) Wait a minute....what kind of beer are we talking about here? While I applaud the quantity, I won't pretend that there were any surprises in the list: 100 cases of Corona, 50 cases of Negro Modelo, and six bottles of wine. I know, I know: why so much wine?
Of course, anyone with a high school education should recognize this as the dowry that it is, barring the minor detail that dowries typically come from the bride's family to the groom's, but the fact remains that marriage arrangements have historically involved far more than the transfer of children. Secondly, the meat and drink was clearly for the wedding reception. And the $16,000....well, yeah, now you're selling your kid.
As ever, though, the devil's in the details. The groom who was expected to pay all this is only 18 years old, and when, not surprisingly, he didn't deliver in full, the father complained to the police and that's how he got himself arrested. And maybe it's just me, but I particularly enjoy the article's fumbling grasp at political correctness. The father, they write, "is a member of an indigenous Mexican Trique community. Greenfield police Chief Joe Grebmeier said the case highlights an issue confronting local authorities in that arranged marriages with girls as young as 12 are not uncommon among the Trique." Actually, asshole, it's not uncommon for any culture on the face of the planet; this isn't just something that brown people do. Sure, it was far more explicit in centuries past, but where do you think our little tradition about the bride's family paying for the wedding comes from?
But despite all this - even the obscene quantities of wine at play, not seen by mortal man since the vomitoriums of ancient Rome - this story spoke to me because it hits so close to home. Greenfield, CA, ground zero for this hilarity, is a mere 12.6 miles from King City, CA, the hometown of a dear friend's bride. We all see now that this friend - we'll call him Schmeg Schmallagher - really dodged a bullet on this one. He could have very well been stuck paying off his father-in-law for years to come, pulling off the road during family vacations to see if the local butcher has anything on sale. Come to think of it, they have recently gotten into home-brewing beer...a lot. Oh no. Dearest Schmeg, do you suffer under the oppressive yoke of a delicious "meat and mead" debt? Do you spend long nights staring blankly at the receipt creeping from an old-timey calculator, wondering how you'll hit next month's quota? Must you buy the largest Christmas goose in the shop window, not because you are filled with holiday spirit like a rejuvenated Scrooge, but because you hear the ghostly chains of debt rattling in the distance?
Persevere, you Prince of Harlem, you king of New York. Persevere.
Of course, anyone with a high school education should recognize this as the dowry that it is, barring the minor detail that dowries typically come from the bride's family to the groom's, but the fact remains that marriage arrangements have historically involved far more than the transfer of children. Secondly, the meat and drink was clearly for the wedding reception. And the $16,000....well, yeah, now you're selling your kid.
As ever, though, the devil's in the details. The groom who was expected to pay all this is only 18 years old, and when, not surprisingly, he didn't deliver in full, the father complained to the police and that's how he got himself arrested. And maybe it's just me, but I particularly enjoy the article's fumbling grasp at political correctness. The father, they write, "is a member of an indigenous Mexican Trique community. Greenfield police Chief Joe Grebmeier said the case highlights an issue confronting local authorities in that arranged marriages with girls as young as 12 are not uncommon among the Trique." Actually, asshole, it's not uncommon for any culture on the face of the planet; this isn't just something that brown people do. Sure, it was far more explicit in centuries past, but where do you think our little tradition about the bride's family paying for the wedding comes from?
But despite all this - even the obscene quantities of wine at play, not seen by mortal man since the vomitoriums of ancient Rome - this story spoke to me because it hits so close to home. Greenfield, CA, ground zero for this hilarity, is a mere 12.6 miles from King City, CA, the hometown of a dear friend's bride. We all see now that this friend - we'll call him Schmeg Schmallagher - really dodged a bullet on this one. He could have very well been stuck paying off his father-in-law for years to come, pulling off the road during family vacations to see if the local butcher has anything on sale. Come to think of it, they have recently gotten into home-brewing beer...a lot. Oh no. Dearest Schmeg, do you suffer under the oppressive yoke of a delicious "meat and mead" debt? Do you spend long nights staring blankly at the receipt creeping from an old-timey calculator, wondering how you'll hit next month's quota? Must you buy the largest Christmas goose in the shop window, not because you are filled with holiday spirit like a rejuvenated Scrooge, but because you hear the ghostly chains of debt rattling in the distance?
Persevere, you Prince of Harlem, you king of New York. Persevere.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Phun Wif Wordz!!!
Any teacher who comes into contact with student writing is routinely treated to new and exciting ways to brutalize our poor language. I realize that the academy offers merely one style of communication and that my job is, in no small part, rather an exercise in helping these neophytes code switch. That said, a number of these students have the English language cast down in a well, filthy and scared, and are threatening it with the hose if it doesn't put the lotion in the basket. Which, come to think of it, kinda makes me Clarice in this little metaphor, which in turns ends with me being stalked by students wearing night vision goggles in a pitch-black meth den...and then I shoot them? With....knowledge?
While I stare aghast at the tattered remnants of my unraveled metaphor encircling my feet, console yourself with the fact that this post isn't about freshman composition. Rather, it's about adventures in reading, or to be more precise, adventures in reading others' mistakes.
Exhibit A:
And to think the man from Galilee would take the time to ensure my dinner was served delicious, hot, and in a timely manner. I've been told all my life that Jesus loves me (well, all of us, actually - except Spencer of Hills fame, loathed of God, who is clearly an emissary of Satan), but I didn't know it was in a "Mom making sure you've had a good meal" sort of way. Of course, his last act with all his disciples together was a supper, so I suppose I shouldn't have let that one sneak up on me. Of course, in retrospect, I maybe should have become a little more suspicious when the delivery guy told me that visiting that one internet site was most definitely a sin. You know...the one Greg's on.
That, however, was merely the appetizer, my friends. Allow me to pull back my (faux) silver tray cover in a dramatic fashion to reveal your main course:
I had this little gem waiting for me on the wall outside my office when I got to campus Tuesday morning. My eyes lit up as they did when I charged into the living room on Christmas morning so many years ago, and just like that beloved holiday ritual, I wasn't quite sure I'd been a good enough boy all year to deserve this. In their defense, there's no false advertising at play here; ever since we determined keeping an attack monkey in the Writing Center was a violation of virtually every University health statute (even after we took back the knife and gave that vicious simian a week to let the Wild Turkey leech out of its system), there have been only human breasts in and around the University Writing Program. Of course, I can't speak for the Creative Writing department.
If I were compelled to glean some sort of lesson from all this, I suppose it would be this: if you're going to commit something to print, make sure it says what the hell you want it to say. Otherwise you're going to look like a jackoff, and nobody wants that.
Wait...who the hell is Hannibal Lector then?
While I stare aghast at the tattered remnants of my unraveled metaphor encircling my feet, console yourself with the fact that this post isn't about freshman composition. Rather, it's about adventures in reading, or to be more precise, adventures in reading others' mistakes.
Exhibit A:
And to think the man from Galilee would take the time to ensure my dinner was served delicious, hot, and in a timely manner. I've been told all my life that Jesus loves me (well, all of us, actually - except Spencer of Hills fame, loathed of God, who is clearly an emissary of Satan), but I didn't know it was in a "Mom making sure you've had a good meal" sort of way. Of course, his last act with all his disciples together was a supper, so I suppose I shouldn't have let that one sneak up on me. Of course, in retrospect, I maybe should have become a little more suspicious when the delivery guy told me that visiting that one internet site was most definitely a sin. You know...the one Greg's on.
That, however, was merely the appetizer, my friends. Allow me to pull back my (faux) silver tray cover in a dramatic fashion to reveal your main course:
I had this little gem waiting for me on the wall outside my office when I got to campus Tuesday morning. My eyes lit up as they did when I charged into the living room on Christmas morning so many years ago, and just like that beloved holiday ritual, I wasn't quite sure I'd been a good enough boy all year to deserve this. In their defense, there's no false advertising at play here; ever since we determined keeping an attack monkey in the Writing Center was a violation of virtually every University health statute (even after we took back the knife and gave that vicious simian a week to let the Wild Turkey leech out of its system), there have been only human breasts in and around the University Writing Program. Of course, I can't speak for the Creative Writing department.
If I were compelled to glean some sort of lesson from all this, I suppose it would be this: if you're going to commit something to print, make sure it says what the hell you want it to say. Otherwise you're going to look like a jackoff, and nobody wants that.
Wait...who the hell is Hannibal Lector then?
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Buy Me a Double-Wide and Hand Me a Pabst
Shortly before the holiday break, a friend of mine in the department took a moment to say how glad he was that I came to our school and how much he appreciates our friendship. I was rather taken aback, as the culture I come from is built upon the idea that such sentiment, or any such expression of emotion, is never voiced aloud. I've always felt this works in my favor in matters of psychological duress, when I simply push things deep down and idly wonder how it'll manage to work it's way out (lately, it's been swearing in my sleep, if you're curious), but genuine affection or appreciation for anyone must be communicated solely through the gaze...which, unfortunately, usually earns me the adjective "squinty." Like an amorous pirate, I like to think, but the point remains I don't communicate affection well.
Perhaps the reason is because, it turns out, I am utterly without it. Yes, according to the flyspeck institutions of Harvard, Yale, and the National Institute of Mental Health, I am a seething cauldron of hate waiting to attack my African American brothers and sisters. You see, they have created an online test on racism you can take, and my end result was that I "strongly prefer people of European descent." "Strongly" isn't all that bad, you might (insincerely) say, but let me give you the scale: No preference, Minor Preference; Moderate Preference; Strong Preference. Yup. And to think I've always been such a good test taker otherwise.
I don't mean to make light of this result, but I just don't think it's all that accurate. I mean, I genuinely fear or dislike every creature on God's green earth; no one demographic really has a lock on my special attentions. More to the point, I've always found such tests a novelty more than anything else. Still, the majority of you are probably sagely nodding your heads, having expected nothing less, and I'm sure a choir of Irish ancestors are smiling apologetically in Purgatory for having pushed me down this dark path. I wish I had the good grace to feel more embarrassed about the results, but I really don't have time for that amidst my frantic campaign to prove Obama's Hawaiian birth certificate is a fake. In the meantime, pop over to More Rants than Raves to find the link and take this test yourself. I solemnly pray you'll all do better than I did.
Perhaps the reason is because, it turns out, I am utterly without it. Yes, according to the flyspeck institutions of Harvard, Yale, and the National Institute of Mental Health, I am a seething cauldron of hate waiting to attack my African American brothers and sisters. You see, they have created an online test on racism you can take, and my end result was that I "strongly prefer people of European descent." "Strongly" isn't all that bad, you might (insincerely) say, but let me give you the scale: No preference, Minor Preference; Moderate Preference; Strong Preference. Yup. And to think I've always been such a good test taker otherwise.
I don't mean to make light of this result, but I just don't think it's all that accurate. I mean, I genuinely fear or dislike every creature on God's green earth; no one demographic really has a lock on my special attentions. More to the point, I've always found such tests a novelty more than anything else. Still, the majority of you are probably sagely nodding your heads, having expected nothing less, and I'm sure a choir of Irish ancestors are smiling apologetically in Purgatory for having pushed me down this dark path. I wish I had the good grace to feel more embarrassed about the results, but I really don't have time for that amidst my frantic campaign to prove Obama's Hawaiian birth certificate is a fake. In the meantime, pop over to More Rants than Raves to find the link and take this test yourself. I solemnly pray you'll all do better than I did.
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