For whatever reasons the synapses in my brain continue to misfire, I've been thinking about children and raising them lately. Rest assured, it's been in a bemused, ironic sort of way. No biological egg timer has gone off inside me, and if it had, I'd wonder how an egg timer found its way into my torso--wound, I might add--when I've never even gotten black-out drunk in Mexico before. On top of that, my wife constantly reminds me that, at least for the foreseeable future, not even a shred of my genetic code is going to find its way into her fallopian tubes. But that's alright. I'm a patient man. And cunning.
I suppose the event that triggered these uncharacteristic thoughts was the USA Cheer competition I attended last Saturday. You see, my wife is the assistant coach for a high school varsity cheer squad, so I drove out to Anaheim to support her, and thus was allowed to watch the routines from the stands like a normal person, rather than from the front seat of my van and through a telescopic lens, as some of you were no doubt imagining. Indeed, that's my very point. At some time in the past (no doubt while I was sleeping, unawares) I passed the line where cheerleaders were an admittedly cliche fetish and instead became just kids. As I was watching their routines, hoping none of them fell in such a way that bones would protrude from their flesh, I couldn't help thinking that their skirts should have been a little longer. I wondered if my daughter, one day in the future, would still be allowed to compete in a similar event when she arrived in a set of mechanic's coveralls, her school letters amaturely sewn to the back by her father, and all her sleeves and pant legs securely duct taped closed. Sure, there might be a minor deduction, but that should just inspire the girls to perform all that much better.
Also, I realized that being the sole male cheerleader during a high school cheer competition presents an interesting paradox. On one side, you inevitably draw bemused smirks from a crowd who, at best, will applaud you like they do the kid who finally managed to find the finish line in the Special Olympics 100m dash. On the other hand, any man even partially honest with himself must admire the cahones necessary to get out there by yourself amidst a gaggle of teenage girls who you are either 1)hopelessly in love with or 2)convinced are bitches because they look so much better in the skirts than you do, and pretend to cheer your non-present school teams to victory.
What compounds matters so much is that a mere day or two later I read that Britney Spears's little sister, at the ripe old age of 16 (much like those damn cheerleaders from above), is pregnant with her first child. Excuse me, but what the fuck? I already realize I'm a bit old fashioned, but this is a first world country and it's the 21st century. It's not like she's finally siring an heir for the 12th century French earl who her parents wed her to for estates in Burgundy. But I digress. I realize my incredulity is symptomatic of my naivete, but I bring this gem to the fore, rather, to circle back to the question of parentage. I want to send some sort of trophy to Lynne Spears for the bang-up job she's done, but I can't find a gold statuette of a mother pounding a 40oz while holding an upturned baby by the ankle. You'd think those would be in more demand. Yes, there's the nature v. nurture debate, and Britney's train-wreck could always be attributed to the corrosive influence of celebrity, but there are still signs to the contrary. I mean, there are photos of her walking in and out of a truck stop bathroom with bare feet. I wouldn't let my dog walk in such a place, and his paws smell funny all the time.
Honestly, at what point did this family so offend the gods, because the needle on the celebrity barometer is slowly creeping toward "Greek Tragedy." If I follow their ancestry back far enough, will I find that at some point a father sacrificed his daughter to ensure fair winds at sea, or was some great-great-great-grandmother raped by a swan? So who does 16 year old Jaime-Lynn's baby have to turn to? In many teen pregnancy situations I relax a bit because there is a strong matriarch there to oversee the child. And who would that be in the Spears clan? They'd better put an add on Craig's List for a competent necromancer, because if the kid's great-grandmother can't be called up from the soil, I can only imagine what kind of disaster will result. Then again, I won't have to imagine at all; she'll be on the cover of every magazine in the supermarket any-damn-way.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
An Obscure Star Trek Reference*
I apologize for being negligent again, but the final weeks of the quarter/semester have finally arrived, which means even the most oblivious and self-absorbed students have raised their heads from the trough, eyes glazed, still senselessly chewing their dining commons cud as the reptilian portion of their brain struggles to buy its host another day. Finally they hear the distant, tolling bell as it peals across the campus, not realizing that it marks their own funeral. When exactly is that hallowed ceremony to begin? On that glorious last day of instruction, when they ask how their constant absences and missing essays will affect their grade. "How?" you ask. "Not unlike how a bullet tearing through a human skull affects brain activity."
There are, of course, the dedicated students, who despite even personal tragedy will still turn papers in on time and attend every lecture. Yet I cannot help but marvel at their polar opposites, their alternate dimension counterparts who emerge on the starship College Education, identical to their antitheses save for the curious goatee perched on each of their chins.* These are the guilty parties most likely to wander into class after being gone for a week, as if having accidentally stumbled into the wrong room on their way to buy a churro, and genuinely ask, "Did we do anything while I was gone?" What do you say to that? "No, we did nothing important. The class spent the hour deciding whether a rabid giraffe would beat a unicorn in a fight. We settled on a tentative 'no,' but only so long as it was a fair fight." Was it too blunt to just ask me if I did my job while you were away? Bloody twits.
I suppose I have simply become tired (as one does every term at about this point) with repeatedly encouraging the students to show up to class and turn in their assignments. You'd think this was obvious, but you'd also think they'd realize that them being absent the day a paper is due doesn't adequately justify its late submission. I wish I were making that up, but even hearing that transpire (it did) made something no doubt delicate and essential to the system quietly snap inside me. And thus, until I find a Swiss watchmaker who dabbles in repairing the human soul, I will be forced to shuffle along with that something rattling impotently inside me. Should it ever be fixed, I may finally decide to tell a class what they should really hear. I don't know precisely what that is, but I have an idea:
"Don't say another Goddamn word. Up until now, I've been polite. If you say anything else -- word one -- I will kill myself. And when my tainted spirit finds its destination, I will topple the master of that dark place. From my black throne, I will lash together a machine of bone and blood, and fueled by my hatred for you this fear engine will bore a hole between this world and that one.
When it begins, you will hear the sound of children screaming -- as though from a great distance. A smoking orb of nothing will grow above your bed, and from it will emerge a thousand starving crows. As I slip through the widening maw in my new form, you will catch only a glimpse of my radiance before you are incinerated. Then, as tears of bubbling pitch stream down my face, my dark work will begin.
I will open one of my six mouths, and I will sing the song that ends the Earth."
Perhaps this is too much. I never know, but I imagine my point will be made. Also, not to dip into the stagnant waters of plagiarism, of which I warn my unheeding students routinely, let me point out that the quoted text above is yet another gem from the writer of Penny Arcade. Can you see he's a bit of an influence? Honestly, if I could write like that at will, I would seriously consider scrapping the Ph.d program and actually making some money in this world.
Then again, if I did dare to tread outside the barren and paper-strewn halls of academia, I fear one of my former students would inevitably be my boss. And then...hating your ignorant boss with every fiber of your being...well, who honestly wants to become a cliche?
There are, of course, the dedicated students, who despite even personal tragedy will still turn papers in on time and attend every lecture. Yet I cannot help but marvel at their polar opposites, their alternate dimension counterparts who emerge on the starship College Education, identical to their antitheses save for the curious goatee perched on each of their chins.* These are the guilty parties most likely to wander into class after being gone for a week, as if having accidentally stumbled into the wrong room on their way to buy a churro, and genuinely ask, "Did we do anything while I was gone?" What do you say to that? "No, we did nothing important. The class spent the hour deciding whether a rabid giraffe would beat a unicorn in a fight. We settled on a tentative 'no,' but only so long as it was a fair fight." Was it too blunt to just ask me if I did my job while you were away? Bloody twits.
I suppose I have simply become tired (as one does every term at about this point) with repeatedly encouraging the students to show up to class and turn in their assignments. You'd think this was obvious, but you'd also think they'd realize that them being absent the day a paper is due doesn't adequately justify its late submission. I wish I were making that up, but even hearing that transpire (it did) made something no doubt delicate and essential to the system quietly snap inside me. And thus, until I find a Swiss watchmaker who dabbles in repairing the human soul, I will be forced to shuffle along with that something rattling impotently inside me. Should it ever be fixed, I may finally decide to tell a class what they should really hear. I don't know precisely what that is, but I have an idea:
"Don't say another Goddamn word. Up until now, I've been polite. If you say anything else -- word one -- I will kill myself. And when my tainted spirit finds its destination, I will topple the master of that dark place. From my black throne, I will lash together a machine of bone and blood, and fueled by my hatred for you this fear engine will bore a hole between this world and that one.
When it begins, you will hear the sound of children screaming -- as though from a great distance. A smoking orb of nothing will grow above your bed, and from it will emerge a thousand starving crows. As I slip through the widening maw in my new form, you will catch only a glimpse of my radiance before you are incinerated. Then, as tears of bubbling pitch stream down my face, my dark work will begin.
I will open one of my six mouths, and I will sing the song that ends the Earth."
Perhaps this is too much. I never know, but I imagine my point will be made. Also, not to dip into the stagnant waters of plagiarism, of which I warn my unheeding students routinely, let me point out that the quoted text above is yet another gem from the writer of Penny Arcade. Can you see he's a bit of an influence? Honestly, if I could write like that at will, I would seriously consider scrapping the Ph.d program and actually making some money in this world.
Then again, if I did dare to tread outside the barren and paper-strewn halls of academia, I fear one of my former students would inevitably be my boss. And then...hating your ignorant boss with every fiber of your being...well, who honestly wants to become a cliche?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Killing Joke
Just wanted to share with you this cover shot of Heath Ledger as the Joker. I'd probably prefer to have him giving a full-on grin, or at least a smile, but the smirk is appropriate for the somewhat "darker" tone the movie is shooting for. Then again, anyone who thinks the Joker isn't a dark character to begin with hasn't read the comics, so maybe it's more accurate to say The Dark Knight is aiming for a truer representation of the Joker, rather than the absurd or the camp versions we are typically subjected to. We shall see, but until then, feast your eyes on this.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Why can't I think of catchy names like that?
Ryan over at More Rants than Raves has once again birthed a charmingly unique and fascinating idea. While it's not nearly as funny as the DMV picture project, this one has considerably more potential. Sorry unibrow Ryan from the last license. Anyway, he's christened it "The Invisiblog," and since the glass from the broken champagne bottle is still strewn across the docks, you might yet catch the project's maiden voyage as it slips gleefully out to sea.
The premise behind the project is a blog where the host posts only titles, leaving the remainder of the post blank. The post is then (re)constructed through visitor's comments on whatever title they choose. Essentially, it's a sort of group, found-text piece, where subsequent visitors can elaborate and redirect the shape of the original "post," thereby making the blog visitors the actual "bloggers." For instance, today's title (he posts them almost daily) was simply "Aliens," so I left a somewhat incredulous comment where I insist I still believe him, but since he was driving home from a winery at the time, he may have imagined the whole thing. I didn't consult Ryan at all, of course; that's not the nature of the project. But now someone can begin, from reading my comment, to reconstruct what the original post might have been, and should they in turn leave a remark, the invisible post grows from there. So check it out here--if you have even a shred of creativity in your body, you can help write an invisible blog post today.
P.S. For those of you who might recognize the nature of my invisipost, it's based on an actual story. My high school geometry teacher, the vampire Lezot (or so we called him), insisted that he was buzzed by a low flying UFO one night while, you guessed it, driving home from wine tasting. Why he would open himself up to such potential ridicule is beyond me, but the man was a high school math teacher, so I suppose it goes with the territory.
The premise behind the project is a blog where the host posts only titles, leaving the remainder of the post blank. The post is then (re)constructed through visitor's comments on whatever title they choose. Essentially, it's a sort of group, found-text piece, where subsequent visitors can elaborate and redirect the shape of the original "post," thereby making the blog visitors the actual "bloggers." For instance, today's title (he posts them almost daily) was simply "Aliens," so I left a somewhat incredulous comment where I insist I still believe him, but since he was driving home from a winery at the time, he may have imagined the whole thing. I didn't consult Ryan at all, of course; that's not the nature of the project. But now someone can begin, from reading my comment, to reconstruct what the original post might have been, and should they in turn leave a remark, the invisible post grows from there. So check it out here--if you have even a shred of creativity in your body, you can help write an invisible blog post today.
P.S. For those of you who might recognize the nature of my invisipost, it's based on an actual story. My high school geometry teacher, the vampire Lezot (or so we called him), insisted that he was buzzed by a low flying UFO one night while, you guessed it, driving home from wine tasting. Why he would open himself up to such potential ridicule is beyond me, but the man was a high school math teacher, so I suppose it goes with the territory.
I Rolled a 4 on my Concentration Check
To be honest, I've always been somewhat ambivalent about the whole mainstream appropriation of geek culture. I'm not too concerned, since certain things like role-playing (particularly D&D) remain rather taboo, which allows me the luxury of believing I still know something they don't. To be more specific, I know the sweet joy of rolling a natural twenty when you're just about to be killed by the evil ninja Jubei, and in turn running him through with your own sword; I know the satisfaction of talking your way past a guard by bluffing him into thinking you have even an speck of clout with the local duke; and, of course, there's the mixed feelings about not knowing the touch of a woman for probably too long because of all-night gaming sessions fueled by Dr. Pepper and crippling social anxiety. But I digress...
Of late, World of Warcraft has been running commercials featuring celebrities (a term I bandy about rather loosely, as you'll see) talking about their WoW characters. I realize that they probably have absolutely no idea what the hell they're actually saying, and yes, I do find the idea that you can pay someone enough money to say things in front of a camera that, to them, sound like gibberish to be utterly delicious. So delicious that I could eat it with a spoon. I can only hope that one day I will be in a position where I can decide what these trained chimps/parrots (perhaps a chimparrot? a colorfully plumed but flightless simian?) will say for their camera. I have no doubt that when this day arrives, I will be sitting in a lair, lazily stroking a pug that is sleeping lazily on my lap. Oh, and the pug will be wearing a Yoda costume. But I continue to digress...
I've posted a clip from youtube that splices the two commercials together. Both are fun in their own way, though the second does have William Shatner dressed essentially like a Jedi. You'll see what I mean.
Of late, World of Warcraft has been running commercials featuring celebrities (a term I bandy about rather loosely, as you'll see) talking about their WoW characters. I realize that they probably have absolutely no idea what the hell they're actually saying, and yes, I do find the idea that you can pay someone enough money to say things in front of a camera that, to them, sound like gibberish to be utterly delicious. So delicious that I could eat it with a spoon. I can only hope that one day I will be in a position where I can decide what these trained chimps/parrots (perhaps a chimparrot? a colorfully plumed but flightless simian?) will say for their camera. I have no doubt that when this day arrives, I will be sitting in a lair, lazily stroking a pug that is sleeping lazily on my lap. Oh, and the pug will be wearing a Yoda costume. But I continue to digress...
I've posted a clip from youtube that splices the two commercials together. Both are fun in their own way, though the second does have William Shatner dressed essentially like a Jedi. You'll see what I mean.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Really? Again!?
I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't bring myself to post for over two weeks, and now I make three posts in the course of an hour (or so). Although, I don't know if these last two even count as posts, since I'm basically just poaching "the funny" (the judges would also have accepted 'bogarting the funny,' 'Winona Rydering the funny' or 'Juno, Alaska' as acceptable alternatives) from another site. Ah well. I never pretended to originality. Anyway, here are my top five favorite bad ice-breakers, once again shamelessly taken from our friends at RADAR online.
"You might recognize me from your window."
"Do you come to this hospital chapel often?"
"Want to hear a joke? Okay, first I have to know if anyone here is Jewish, gay, or a raccoon that's recently been drugged or sodomized."
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the guy who took the last Zima."
"The Muppets are bullshit, and let me tell you why."
"You might recognize me from your window."
"Do you come to this hospital chapel often?"
"Want to hear a joke? Okay, first I have to know if anyone here is Jewish, gay, or a raccoon that's recently been drugged or sodomized."
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the guy who took the last Zima."
"The Muppets are bullshit, and let me tell you why."
Speaking of Self-Help
As the tail end of my previous post seemed to dip into the well of self-help (advertising, at least), I thought I'd pass along some of the more obscure self-help titles out there. You probably won't find them on the shelf at your local Borders, but that's probably a good thing. Here are my top ten favorites, but you can read the other ninety by following this link.
1. Everything You Always Wanted to Know about the Opposite Sex but were Tasered for Asking Previously
2. Shut Up About your Dead Wife! Dating after 60
3. Controlling Your Rage with Arson
4. Anal Only: Raising your Christian Teen as a Technical Virgin
5. Suck it Up: No one in the Sudan has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
6. The Child of your Field Hockey Coach has Two Mommies
7. YOU: Grimly Eating Lunch Alone in your Car
8. Some Women are Also from Mars: Learning to Love a She-Male
9. I Think Def Leppard is Pretty Rad, Too: Communicating with Today's Teenager
10. So You're Attracted to Grandma
1. Everything You Always Wanted to Know about the Opposite Sex but were Tasered for Asking Previously
2. Shut Up About your Dead Wife! Dating after 60
3. Controlling Your Rage with Arson
4. Anal Only: Raising your Christian Teen as a Technical Virgin
5. Suck it Up: No one in the Sudan has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
6. The Child of your Field Hockey Coach has Two Mommies
7. YOU: Grimly Eating Lunch Alone in your Car
8. Some Women are Also from Mars: Learning to Love a She-Male
9. I Think Def Leppard is Pretty Rad, Too: Communicating with Today's Teenager
10. So You're Attracted to Grandma
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