Blogging tough when sick.
Foggy head no good for words.
Will write more when well.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Under the influence (of Dayquil)...
Being sick,
It can’t be good,
Some people fake it,
No one should.
Your head is hot,
Your feet are cold,
You stay in bed,
Like you are told.
Those are the first lines to a poem I wrote when I was in seventh grade. I was feeling lousy, and had come to school only because I had a social studies test to take that day. I finished the exam early, and was therefore sitting at my desk, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the period to end. I got bored, and as I often did when I was bored, I started writing. Well, when all was said and done, I had 3 or 4 pages filled front and back with my soliloquy of flu-themed rhyming couplets. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but it amused me, and had thusly served its purpose.
Then, I started to get nervous. My teacher, a cranky, older gentleman who disapproved of anything not directly related to the study of socials, had begun to make his way over to my desk. While making his rounds, he had spotted me scribbling away, and consequently must have assumed I was up to no good.
In typical Junior High style, students in his class who had completed their work early were supposed to sit quietly at their desks and do nothing. Not talk. Not move. Not write. Not anything. Actually, looking back on it now, I think that’s kind of cruel. Asking someone at that age, with that many hormones running rampant through their body, to sit still and not act out in some fashion, is like asking a fat guy to wait in line at the all-you-can-eat buffet.
But I digress...
Upon reaching my desk, the teacher stopped. Angrily, he snatched the papers off my desk and shot me his best “I’m bigger and grumpier than you” look. Then he turned away from me and began to read what I had written.
Then, he began to laugh.
Not a big laugh mind you... we’re not exactly talking guffaws here, but still, it was a laugh nonetheless... and you’d think that might have comforted me, but you have to understand something... I wasn’t used to seeing this man adopt a demeanor that approached anything even resembling pleasant... so seeing him express himself like this wasn’t exactly encouraging... in truth, it just made me wonder about the sadistic thoughts that must be running through his mind... it was all rather unsettling.
And then, it was over.
He finished reading, chuckled one last time, put the papers back on my desk, and walked away. No comment. No look. Nothing.
He never mentioned anything about what I had written to me or anyone else, and today, those two opening stanzas are all I can remember of that poem. I’m sure there’s a copy of it floating around in a notebook somewhere in my parents’ house, but I’ll be darned if I have even the first clue as to where it might be.
So why did I bring all this up?
Did I really need to further illustrate the fact that I have always been a big dork? No. Anyone who has read more than a post or two here already knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt...
No, I brought it up because right now... I’m sick.
And ever since seventh grade, when I get sick, the first think that pops into my head are those first 29 words... they're indelibly imprinted into my cortex... no, they’re not exactly Shakespeare, but they still amuse me, and thusly, they serve their purpose.
It can’t be good,
Some people fake it,
No one should.
Your head is hot,
Your feet are cold,
You stay in bed,
Like you are told.
Those are the first lines to a poem I wrote when I was in seventh grade. I was feeling lousy, and had come to school only because I had a social studies test to take that day. I finished the exam early, and was therefore sitting at my desk, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the period to end. I got bored, and as I often did when I was bored, I started writing. Well, when all was said and done, I had 3 or 4 pages filled front and back with my soliloquy of flu-themed rhyming couplets. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but it amused me, and had thusly served its purpose.
Then, I started to get nervous. My teacher, a cranky, older gentleman who disapproved of anything not directly related to the study of socials, had begun to make his way over to my desk. While making his rounds, he had spotted me scribbling away, and consequently must have assumed I was up to no good.
In typical Junior High style, students in his class who had completed their work early were supposed to sit quietly at their desks and do nothing. Not talk. Not move. Not write. Not anything. Actually, looking back on it now, I think that’s kind of cruel. Asking someone at that age, with that many hormones running rampant through their body, to sit still and not act out in some fashion, is like asking a fat guy to wait in line at the all-you-can-eat buffet.
But I digress...
Upon reaching my desk, the teacher stopped. Angrily, he snatched the papers off my desk and shot me his best “I’m bigger and grumpier than you” look. Then he turned away from me and began to read what I had written.
Then, he began to laugh.
Not a big laugh mind you... we’re not exactly talking guffaws here, but still, it was a laugh nonetheless... and you’d think that might have comforted me, but you have to understand something... I wasn’t used to seeing this man adopt a demeanor that approached anything even resembling pleasant... so seeing him express himself like this wasn’t exactly encouraging... in truth, it just made me wonder about the sadistic thoughts that must be running through his mind... it was all rather unsettling.
And then, it was over.
He finished reading, chuckled one last time, put the papers back on my desk, and walked away. No comment. No look. Nothing.
He never mentioned anything about what I had written to me or anyone else, and today, those two opening stanzas are all I can remember of that poem. I’m sure there’s a copy of it floating around in a notebook somewhere in my parents’ house, but I’ll be darned if I have even the first clue as to where it might be.
So why did I bring all this up?
Did I really need to further illustrate the fact that I have always been a big dork? No. Anyone who has read more than a post or two here already knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt...
No, I brought it up because right now... I’m sick.
And ever since seventh grade, when I get sick, the first think that pops into my head are those first 29 words... they're indelibly imprinted into my cortex... no, they’re not exactly Shakespeare, but they still amuse me, and thusly, they serve their purpose.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Singing the praises of the period...
When it comes to punctuation, most people don’t give much props to the period. Sure it’s symmetrical and dependable and all, but for the most part it lives in the shadow of its flashier cousins. And that’s too bad. Because I think, if you really think about it (and apparently I have), it’s much more versatile then you may be thinking.
Take for example, the following sentence:
I want pie.
It’s a fine sentence. A declarative statement that is readily and easily understood. It’s plain to see that the person speaking would like some pie. No, it doesn’t tell you what KIND of pie they would like, or how much pie they’re planning on consuming, but still, you know the basics, and that’s pretty good.
Now watch what happens when we add in a couple more:
I. Want. Pie.
Quite a change there. By adding those two tiny dots we’ve made the same three words seem more forceful, more impactful. Now, it’s not a statement. It’s a command. This person’s perturbed, and they won’t be put up with a praline or a pudding pop, no siree Bob. This particular person won’t be pleased till they partake in some pie!
And yet there's more. Watch what happens when we move those three little periods around a bit.
I want pie...
Well that shook things up, didn’t it? Now we’ve got a full fledged mystery. A cliffhanger. It’s like grammatical film noir. You know pie is involved, but you feel like there’s more to the story. It could be something seedy... something illicit... something involving meringue.
It could be, but you don’t know, do you?
That my friend, is the power of the period.
Take for example, the following sentence:
I want pie.
It’s a fine sentence. A declarative statement that is readily and easily understood. It’s plain to see that the person speaking would like some pie. No, it doesn’t tell you what KIND of pie they would like, or how much pie they’re planning on consuming, but still, you know the basics, and that’s pretty good.
Now watch what happens when we add in a couple more:
I. Want. Pie.
Quite a change there. By adding those two tiny dots we’ve made the same three words seem more forceful, more impactful. Now, it’s not a statement. It’s a command. This person’s perturbed, and they won’t be put up with a praline or a pudding pop, no siree Bob. This particular person won’t be pleased till they partake in some pie!
And yet there's more. Watch what happens when we move those three little periods around a bit.
I want pie...
Well that shook things up, didn’t it? Now we’ve got a full fledged mystery. A cliffhanger. It’s like grammatical film noir. You know pie is involved, but you feel like there’s more to the story. It could be something seedy... something illicit... something involving meringue.
It could be, but you don’t know, do you?
That my friend, is the power of the period.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Green means go...
It’s funny... ask a person to rate his or her driving skills, and he or she will most likely assure you that they are without a doubt an above average example of vehicular fortitude. Yup, nine times out of ten you’re bound to come across someone who wholeheartedly believes that they are without equal among their respective peers in the driving community. But as anyone who has driven on the streets of Boston will attest, this is, in reality, utterly impossible. And truth be told, most people will probably agree with you on that point too... they’ll just follow it up by reiterating that they ARE in fact above average, and it is EVERYONE ELSE who is misrepresenting their versatility with an ignition key.
Well, let me take a moment here to admit something...
I am NOT an excellent driver.
Ok, that’s probably the wrong way to phrase it... I mean, I’m probably better than rain man, but let’s be honest, that’s not saying too much. Sure, he talks a good game... but when everything’s on the line, I’d be willing to bet he crumbles like a soiled pair of k-mart underwear.
...I’ll give you a minute to get that visual out of your head.
Now, it’s not that I think I’m an exceptionally BAD driver (um... recent events not withstanding). I just wouldn’t call myself exceptionally skilled...
I’m not about to apply make-up in the rearview mirror, or try to outrun a Corvette with my Sentra, or play chicken with a bridge embankment... and I almost never play “top gun,” slamming on my breaks while traveling at high speeds so the people chasing me will “fly right by”
...not anymore anyway.
But gross negligences aside, I have to admit that I am susceptible to a veritable plethora of other distractions... the radio... engaging conversations... shiny objects. Even the daily routine of driving the same paths over and over can force me to lose focus from time to time.
Plus, I probably follow too close, accelerate too much, and generally act like an impatient 4-year-old standing six people deep in line for a sugar fix at the ice cream truck.
No, this isn’t really anything to be proud of (as my insurance premiums continually remind me), and I’m not proud of it... at all. But at least I’m brave enough to stand up and take responsibility for my own ineptitude.
Yes, my name is Flarf... and I am an average driver.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s not really anything to fear... and who knows... now that I’ve admitted it perhaps I’ll even be more attuned to the world around me... maybe now, when I am actually driving, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the task at hand... and maybe I’ll start to see my skills improving... and maybe someday I’ll even get to the point where I attain a level of proficiency at which I can once again legitimately consider myself to be counted among the more elite group of automotive enthusiasts who are truly gifted at their craft.
But in the meantime, if you look over and happen to see a black Nissan Sentra that appears to be missing its driver, don’t worry...
...that’s probably just me trying to find my ipod.
Well, let me take a moment here to admit something...
I am NOT an excellent driver.
Ok, that’s probably the wrong way to phrase it... I mean, I’m probably better than rain man, but let’s be honest, that’s not saying too much. Sure, he talks a good game... but when everything’s on the line, I’d be willing to bet he crumbles like a soiled pair of k-mart underwear.
...I’ll give you a minute to get that visual out of your head.
Now, it’s not that I think I’m an exceptionally BAD driver (um... recent events not withstanding). I just wouldn’t call myself exceptionally skilled...
I’m not about to apply make-up in the rearview mirror, or try to outrun a Corvette with my Sentra, or play chicken with a bridge embankment... and I almost never play “top gun,” slamming on my breaks while traveling at high speeds so the people chasing me will “fly right by”
...not anymore anyway.
But gross negligences aside, I have to admit that I am susceptible to a veritable plethora of other distractions... the radio... engaging conversations... shiny objects. Even the daily routine of driving the same paths over and over can force me to lose focus from time to time.
Plus, I probably follow too close, accelerate too much, and generally act like an impatient 4-year-old standing six people deep in line for a sugar fix at the ice cream truck.
No, this isn’t really anything to be proud of (as my insurance premiums continually remind me), and I’m not proud of it... at all. But at least I’m brave enough to stand up and take responsibility for my own ineptitude.
Yes, my name is Flarf... and I am an average driver.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s not really anything to fear... and who knows... now that I’ve admitted it perhaps I’ll even be more attuned to the world around me... maybe now, when I am actually driving, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the task at hand... and maybe I’ll start to see my skills improving... and maybe someday I’ll even get to the point where I attain a level of proficiency at which I can once again legitimately consider myself to be counted among the more elite group of automotive enthusiasts who are truly gifted at their craft.
But in the meantime, if you look over and happen to see a black Nissan Sentra that appears to be missing its driver, don’t worry...
...that’s probably just me trying to find my ipod.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Random thought #26
When you pass someone in the hall going the opposite direction and they start talking to you... how far away do you have to get before it’s acceptable to stop responding?
...at what point does it just become yelling?
Hmmm... maybe all those people on city streets aren’t really crazy after all. Maybe they just forgot to stop talking.
...at what point does it just become yelling?
Hmmm... maybe all those people on city streets aren’t really crazy after all. Maybe they just forgot to stop talking.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Making right with the world...
It’s unfortunate, but real life is not an ABC after school special...
Cheaters are not always caught (thereby losing their prominent football scholarships)...
Most kids can’t get mom to quit drinking by joining “ala-teen” with Kristy McNichol...
A socially-crippling stutter is not likely to be overcome by learning how to figure skate...
And god help you if you ever decide to confront the mongoloid who keeps taking your lunch money by offering a well-reasoned plea to help resolve his insecurities about being abnormally proportioned by taking him to a baseball game.
...especially if it’s “bat day”
Childhood just doesn’t usually work that way. Often, the same boys that are spitting in other peoples’ food, keying the teachers’ cars, and “pants-ing” the retarded kid in the middle of assembly are the ones dating the cheerleaders and getting jaguars on their 16th birthday.
It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is...
Apparently, the karma-centric idea of being rewarded or punished in life based upon personal responsibility for your actions doesn’t hold jurisdiction over anyone below the age of 20.
But one time... for me... it did.
Doug was an obnoxious little twit who had developed an aptitude for two things: playing soccer, and making my life a living hell (at least in as much as a middle-class white kid’s life CAN be a living hell).
This led to many days of torment and anguish (both on the field and off), the gory details of which I’ll spare you for now. Let’s just say that while he never actually physically abused me, Doug was able to make me heartily resent the fact that my school didn’t have a tighter “anti-dick” policy.
For a while there it seemed like I couldn’t turn a corner without hearing some sort of derisive soliloquy hurled in my direction. Monologues on everything from my clothing and my hair, to my actions, my music, my speech patterns, and even my parents’ car were commonplace. Anything was fair game... it was all but fuel and fodder for Doug’s ever-emotive onslaught of ridicule. Now I can’t say I was the sole recipient of these dishonorable discharges, but if Doug’s insults were Shakespeare, I was his crowning achievement... his Hamlet... only there was no question... the answer was always “To be.”
To put it mildly, I didn’t like the guy very much.
Then, as I made my way into high school, a funny thing happened... I started seeing Doug less and less. I’d like to say it was because he noticed the err of his ways and decided to leave me alone - becoming a reformed man, helping little old ladies cross the street and raising money for UNICEF... but that was hardly the case. The truth was simply that our schedules had drifted apart, and we weren’t crossing paths quite as much anymore. In fact, I probably went an entire year or so without ever running into him.
Then, it happened.
One afternoon in gym class they were short on staff, and they decided to combine a couple of sessions together. There were about 40 of us in the gym that day... 40 of us, including Doug. Now with that many guys in one room, you might think it would be easy enough to stay anonymous, but I’ll tell ya... it sure didn’t take Doug long to find me. And the joy and excitement on his face at that moment could only be likened to that of a cat who has discovered a mouse trapped in the open.
After some early verbal sparring (I was at least starting to get a little indignant by this age if nothing else), we were corralled into groups and instructed that we would be playing handball. Skip ahead 20 minutes, and there’s 4 sets of teams engaging in what some might call a loosely-organized sport, but what more would probably say closely approximates the sight of someone with “terrets” trying to ice skate in a shooting gallery... balls were flying... BALLS were flying... and general unrest was the order of the day.
Then, the gym teacher told us he had to step out for a minute, and my beautiful moment of retribution came...
At the time the teacher walked out, Doug was playing goalie for one of the teams. Then, not 30 seconds after he left the gym, a strange event started to occur. Without direction, without forethought, and without planning, the 38 other kids in the gym spontaneously began to gather around the area where Doug was playing. These 38 kids (including the members of his own team) assembled into a loose semicircle around the goal Doug was defending. And once in place, these 38 kids proceeded to pelt Doug repeatedly, using every one of the 12 or so handballs that were in the gym. It started with the jocks, but eventually almost everyone was taking part. Nerds. Preppies. Heads. Geeks. One by one they threw... harder and harder... until Doug’s arms and legs were red, his voice was hoarse, and a tear was running down his cheek.
And while it was all going on, the 39th kid in the gym was perfectly content to just sat back and quietly watch the whole thing... an enormous smile spreading across his face.
I still have no clue why the planets aligned on that particular day to make that wonderful moment happen. Much to my astonishment Doug had always managed to be a pretty popular guy, so I don’t know if he had pissed off the wrong person that morning, or if the jocks had just thought he might make a fun target (never try too hard to figure out “jock logic”)...
Either way, it was a moment that I knew instantly I would always remember.
One thing did surprise me though... while watching Doug get up close and personal with 8-inch spheres of educationally institutionalized vulcanized rubber, a strange emotion rose up in me... pity.
There he was... receiving exactly what he deserved... and for a moment, I actually felt bad for him.
But only for a moment.
And I never stopped smiling.
Now... a few more words from Hamlet and Uncle Willie:
“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.”
Cheaters are not always caught (thereby losing their prominent football scholarships)...
Most kids can’t get mom to quit drinking by joining “ala-teen” with Kristy McNichol...
A socially-crippling stutter is not likely to be overcome by learning how to figure skate...
And god help you if you ever decide to confront the mongoloid who keeps taking your lunch money by offering a well-reasoned plea to help resolve his insecurities about being abnormally proportioned by taking him to a baseball game.
...especially if it’s “bat day”
Childhood just doesn’t usually work that way. Often, the same boys that are spitting in other peoples’ food, keying the teachers’ cars, and “pants-ing” the retarded kid in the middle of assembly are the ones dating the cheerleaders and getting jaguars on their 16th birthday.
It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is...
Apparently, the karma-centric idea of being rewarded or punished in life based upon personal responsibility for your actions doesn’t hold jurisdiction over anyone below the age of 20.
But one time... for me... it did.
Doug was an obnoxious little twit who had developed an aptitude for two things: playing soccer, and making my life a living hell (at least in as much as a middle-class white kid’s life CAN be a living hell).
This led to many days of torment and anguish (both on the field and off), the gory details of which I’ll spare you for now. Let’s just say that while he never actually physically abused me, Doug was able to make me heartily resent the fact that my school didn’t have a tighter “anti-dick” policy.
For a while there it seemed like I couldn’t turn a corner without hearing some sort of derisive soliloquy hurled in my direction. Monologues on everything from my clothing and my hair, to my actions, my music, my speech patterns, and even my parents’ car were commonplace. Anything was fair game... it was all but fuel and fodder for Doug’s ever-emotive onslaught of ridicule. Now I can’t say I was the sole recipient of these dishonorable discharges, but if Doug’s insults were Shakespeare, I was his crowning achievement... his Hamlet... only there was no question... the answer was always “To be.”
To put it mildly, I didn’t like the guy very much.
Then, as I made my way into high school, a funny thing happened... I started seeing Doug less and less. I’d like to say it was because he noticed the err of his ways and decided to leave me alone - becoming a reformed man, helping little old ladies cross the street and raising money for UNICEF... but that was hardly the case. The truth was simply that our schedules had drifted apart, and we weren’t crossing paths quite as much anymore. In fact, I probably went an entire year or so without ever running into him.
Then, it happened.
One afternoon in gym class they were short on staff, and they decided to combine a couple of sessions together. There were about 40 of us in the gym that day... 40 of us, including Doug. Now with that many guys in one room, you might think it would be easy enough to stay anonymous, but I’ll tell ya... it sure didn’t take Doug long to find me. And the joy and excitement on his face at that moment could only be likened to that of a cat who has discovered a mouse trapped in the open.
After some early verbal sparring (I was at least starting to get a little indignant by this age if nothing else), we were corralled into groups and instructed that we would be playing handball. Skip ahead 20 minutes, and there’s 4 sets of teams engaging in what some might call a loosely-organized sport, but what more would probably say closely approximates the sight of someone with “terrets” trying to ice skate in a shooting gallery... balls were flying... BALLS were flying... and general unrest was the order of the day.
Then, the gym teacher told us he had to step out for a minute, and my beautiful moment of retribution came...
At the time the teacher walked out, Doug was playing goalie for one of the teams. Then, not 30 seconds after he left the gym, a strange event started to occur. Without direction, without forethought, and without planning, the 38 other kids in the gym spontaneously began to gather around the area where Doug was playing. These 38 kids (including the members of his own team) assembled into a loose semicircle around the goal Doug was defending. And once in place, these 38 kids proceeded to pelt Doug repeatedly, using every one of the 12 or so handballs that were in the gym. It started with the jocks, but eventually almost everyone was taking part. Nerds. Preppies. Heads. Geeks. One by one they threw... harder and harder... until Doug’s arms and legs were red, his voice was hoarse, and a tear was running down his cheek.
And while it was all going on, the 39th kid in the gym was perfectly content to just sat back and quietly watch the whole thing... an enormous smile spreading across his face.
I still have no clue why the planets aligned on that particular day to make that wonderful moment happen. Much to my astonishment Doug had always managed to be a pretty popular guy, so I don’t know if he had pissed off the wrong person that morning, or if the jocks had just thought he might make a fun target (never try too hard to figure out “jock logic”)...
Either way, it was a moment that I knew instantly I would always remember.
One thing did surprise me though... while watching Doug get up close and personal with 8-inch spheres of educationally institutionalized vulcanized rubber, a strange emotion rose up in me... pity.
There he was... receiving exactly what he deserved... and for a moment, I actually felt bad for him.
But only for a moment.
And I never stopped smiling.
Now... a few more words from Hamlet and Uncle Willie:
“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! - Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.”
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Random thought #25
72 16-oz. bottles of Poland Springs water... 3 additional one-gallon jugs of H2O... a stick of deodorant (right guard)
...and a six-pack of pudding snacks.
That’s what the guy in line behind me at the supermarket last night was buying.
20 hours or so have passed since then... and I'm still puzzled by it.
...and a six-pack of pudding snacks.
That’s what the guy in line behind me at the supermarket last night was buying.
20 hours or so have passed since then... and I'm still puzzled by it.
InSensitives #1
I don’t understand why they put all those "handicapped only" parking spaces so close to everything. I mean, c'mon... don't most of those people already have chairs?
Friday, December 02, 2005
Justifying the eggnog...
Since we’re heading into December now, I figured I should probably just address this one out in the open...
I have an opinion to share...
And some of you may not like it...
Ok, here goes...
As far as I am concerned, Christmas is not a religious holiday.
There, I said it...
Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas... the whole she bang... swadling, reindeer, angels... chimneys, frankincense, wise men... sugar plums, stockings, fashion-challenged midgets with yellow hair who aspire to be dentists... heck, I’d fully endorse a wider acceptance of the Wassail if you could actually tell me what one was...
Yes sirree, I loves me some Christmas... hands down, it’s my favorite holiday of the year.
But as far as I'm concerned, it aint about the Jesus.
It’s not like I think he was a bad guy or anything... I don’t.
Actually, from what I’ve seen in Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, it seems like he had a pretty good handle on the whole “how to treat your fellow man” thing, and hey, I’ll be the first to admit he rocked a sandal like it was nobody’s business... but I’m just too analytical a guy to wholly (pun intended) accept the idea of anybody as my personal savior without first seeing at least some shred of empirical evidence.
Maybe that’s just my lack of faith... maybe it’s flawed judgment... maybe it’s not... either way, for now, I’m going to cast my vote for evolution... and if I pray for anything, it will be for evolution to hurry up and... well, evolve... cuz there’s nothing I’d like more this year than to gets me some mad gills or wings or something... oh, and it’d be totally kick ass if I could have both.
Don’t worry... I’d only use them for good.
But anyway, where were we? ...oh right, Christmas!
So yeah... me... not so much about the religion... but that doesn’t mean I think any less of those who do embrace this as a time to celebrate the birth of our... or rather, their, lord... after all, they did name the holiday and pick the date and stuff (historians can’t reach any kind of consensus as to when Jesus was actually born... estimates vary in month, date, and even year), and at the end of the day, who am I to judge?
(judge not lest ye be judged and all that)
You see, in my life, Christmas has always been more about family and friends than finding a cake and party hat for the big guy in the sky. For me, Christmas is a time to celebrate the people in your life, not the life of the king of a certain people...
You may think that’s strange, or that I’m missing the point of the holiday entirely, and that’s ok... to me, it’s just normal... it’s Christmas... and I embrace it all...
I get the tree, I do the decorations, I fight with the tinsel, and generally, I make my apartment look like it’s the beachhead for a massive elf invasion (albeit a friendly one filled with knickknacks and scented votives).
And yes, I sing along with the carols too... it doesn’t matter if it’s “Let it Snow” or “O Holy Night”, I’m gonna belt it out with the best of them, and I’m going to do it with a smile on my face... and not the least bit of irony in my heart.
Now, before you start asking how someone who doesn’t appreciate the religious overtones of Christmas can derive such pleasure out of singing songs that reinforce the ideology its based on, I think it’s important to point out that I’m not really a “lyrics” kind of guy...
I don’t mean for that to sound flip, or dismissive, or anything really... it’s just the way I am...
I think of it like this... to this day, I derive great pleasure from songs that feature drug-induced stupors, tales of dragons and wizards, and the romantic entanglements of two men, but that doesn’t exactly make me Timothy Leary, Gandalf the Grey, or that guy on the corner wearing assless chaps who’s fond of asking if you know what a “Lithuanian Trumpfart” is...
It just means I dig the tunes...
And as my somewhat obsessive 900-some-odd song deep Holiday iPod playlist will attest, I certainly do dig them Holiday melodies...
Add in the nostalgia factor of having years and years of memories based around all those songs, and forget about it...
Yup, I’m just as happy to sing about snowmen, reindeer and the jolly guy who doles out the toys as I am to harmonize on the plight of Joseph and Mary. But the way I see it, all I'm doing is refusing to discriminate.
What's more Christian than that?!?!
(heck, ask me nicely, and I'll happily participate in a round or two of "The Dreidel Song")
I know that come this time of year you often see signs and billboards calling for everyone to “put the ‘Christ’ back in Christmas” and hey, if that’s what works for you, go for it.
But as far as I’m concerned, to really make it “Christmas” all you need is some good tunes, a glass of eggnog, and a few friends with which to deck the halls.
Ho, Ho, Ho.
And now that we’ve got that out of the way... BRING ON THE PRESENTS!
(just kidding)
I have an opinion to share...
And some of you may not like it...
Ok, here goes...
As far as I am concerned, Christmas is not a religious holiday.
There, I said it...
Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas... the whole she bang... swadling, reindeer, angels... chimneys, frankincense, wise men... sugar plums, stockings, fashion-challenged midgets with yellow hair who aspire to be dentists... heck, I’d fully endorse a wider acceptance of the Wassail if you could actually tell me what one was...
Yes sirree, I loves me some Christmas... hands down, it’s my favorite holiday of the year.
But as far as I'm concerned, it aint about the Jesus.
It’s not like I think he was a bad guy or anything... I don’t.
Actually, from what I’ve seen in Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, it seems like he had a pretty good handle on the whole “how to treat your fellow man” thing, and hey, I’ll be the first to admit he rocked a sandal like it was nobody’s business... but I’m just too analytical a guy to wholly (pun intended) accept the idea of anybody as my personal savior without first seeing at least some shred of empirical evidence.
Maybe that’s just my lack of faith... maybe it’s flawed judgment... maybe it’s not... either way, for now, I’m going to cast my vote for evolution... and if I pray for anything, it will be for evolution to hurry up and... well, evolve... cuz there’s nothing I’d like more this year than to gets me some mad gills or wings or something... oh, and it’d be totally kick ass if I could have both.
Don’t worry... I’d only use them for good.
But anyway, where were we? ...oh right, Christmas!
So yeah... me... not so much about the religion... but that doesn’t mean I think any less of those who do embrace this as a time to celebrate the birth of our... or rather, their, lord... after all, they did name the holiday and pick the date and stuff (historians can’t reach any kind of consensus as to when Jesus was actually born... estimates vary in month, date, and even year), and at the end of the day, who am I to judge?
(judge not lest ye be judged and all that)
You see, in my life, Christmas has always been more about family and friends than finding a cake and party hat for the big guy in the sky. For me, Christmas is a time to celebrate the people in your life, not the life of the king of a certain people...
You may think that’s strange, or that I’m missing the point of the holiday entirely, and that’s ok... to me, it’s just normal... it’s Christmas... and I embrace it all...
I get the tree, I do the decorations, I fight with the tinsel, and generally, I make my apartment look like it’s the beachhead for a massive elf invasion (albeit a friendly one filled with knickknacks and scented votives).
And yes, I sing along with the carols too... it doesn’t matter if it’s “Let it Snow” or “O Holy Night”, I’m gonna belt it out with the best of them, and I’m going to do it with a smile on my face... and not the least bit of irony in my heart.
Now, before you start asking how someone who doesn’t appreciate the religious overtones of Christmas can derive such pleasure out of singing songs that reinforce the ideology its based on, I think it’s important to point out that I’m not really a “lyrics” kind of guy...
I don’t mean for that to sound flip, or dismissive, or anything really... it’s just the way I am...
I think of it like this... to this day, I derive great pleasure from songs that feature drug-induced stupors, tales of dragons and wizards, and the romantic entanglements of two men, but that doesn’t exactly make me Timothy Leary, Gandalf the Grey, or that guy on the corner wearing assless chaps who’s fond of asking if you know what a “Lithuanian Trumpfart” is...
It just means I dig the tunes...
And as my somewhat obsessive 900-some-odd song deep Holiday iPod playlist will attest, I certainly do dig them Holiday melodies...
Add in the nostalgia factor of having years and years of memories based around all those songs, and forget about it...
Yup, I’m just as happy to sing about snowmen, reindeer and the jolly guy who doles out the toys as I am to harmonize on the plight of Joseph and Mary. But the way I see it, all I'm doing is refusing to discriminate.
What's more Christian than that?!?!
(heck, ask me nicely, and I'll happily participate in a round or two of "The Dreidel Song")
I know that come this time of year you often see signs and billboards calling for everyone to “put the ‘Christ’ back in Christmas” and hey, if that’s what works for you, go for it.
But as far as I’m concerned, to really make it “Christmas” all you need is some good tunes, a glass of eggnog, and a few friends with which to deck the halls.
Ho, Ho, Ho.
And now that we’ve got that out of the way... BRING ON THE PRESENTS!
(just kidding)
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Today's headlines #4
Doctors in France Perform First Partial Face Transplant
Woman desperately wanted 2nd nose to snub at the rest of the world.
Bush Again Rejects Calls for a Withdrawal Timetable in Iraq
Names “abstinence” as the only choice a Christian should make.
Bongo Stays in Power in Gabon
Citizens reelect small piece of stretched cowide running on platform of “thump” and “thwack”.
Mexico's Leader Says He'll Persevere on Migration
Vows to have entire population across US border by 2012.
TSA to allow sharp objects on planes
Institutes mandatory “mitten-wearing” policy for all passengers while in-flight.
New Orleans launches free wireless Internet network
Said a spokesperson: “now all we need is power, running water and sewage service and we’ll be good as new!”
Gregory Peck's star stolen from Walk of Fame
Inexplicably, Patrick Swayze’s remains.
Woman desperately wanted 2nd nose to snub at the rest of the world.
Bush Again Rejects Calls for a Withdrawal Timetable in Iraq
Names “abstinence” as the only choice a Christian should make.
Bongo Stays in Power in Gabon
Citizens reelect small piece of stretched cowide running on platform of “thump” and “thwack”.
Mexico's Leader Says He'll Persevere on Migration
Vows to have entire population across US border by 2012.
TSA to allow sharp objects on planes
Institutes mandatory “mitten-wearing” policy for all passengers while in-flight.
New Orleans launches free wireless Internet network
Said a spokesperson: “now all we need is power, running water and sewage service and we’ll be good as new!”
Gregory Peck's star stolen from Walk of Fame
Inexplicably, Patrick Swayze’s remains.
Monday, November 28, 2005
The number of the least...
I have decided that “one thousand six hundred and eight” is now officially my LEAST favorite number...
That’s right, I’m making a bold proclamation. And I have a strong feeling I’ll be sticking to it. “One thousand six hundred and eight” just holds no joy for me any longer... It’s not a fair decision to make I’m sure, but all the same, from this day forth, simply mentioning “one thousand six hundred and eight” will encourage me to do nothing but mutter and shudder... as i'm doing right now...
[shudder]
Yes, even as I write this, it is painful to THINK about the number “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...much less type “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...or, god forbid, dare to speak “one thousand six hundred and eight”
Which of course means that I should probably stop repeating it over and over and over.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
...
Ooooo... Do it again
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“But why Flarf” you may ask, “why does this number hold itself in such ill-favor with you?”
Ok, so you probably wouldn't ask that using such a convoluted and mismatched set of words and phrases, but cut me some slack... i'm angry.
And it is a fair question, so to begin to answer it, I offer the following evidence...
In computerspeak, 1608 is the error number assigned to an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance... an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance?!?!?! That’s some pretty pure hatred right there...
It also marks the birth year of poet John Milton... the man who wrote Paradise Lost... the work that, among other things, goes into great detail about the origins of a real bad dude... THE bad dude in fact... the baddest dude of them all... no, I don't mean Darth Vader (though he's pretty fickin' badass)... I’m talking about Satan here... Lucifer... Beelzebub... The Dark Lord of all that is Oogilly Boogilly.
And I might add, it’s also the number of bed spaces for on-campus students at the University of North Florida...
Ok, so that in and of itself isn't actually a BAD thing...
But... but... how bout this one? ...in the year of the Greeks one thousand six hundred and eight (A.D. 1296--97), the victorious king came down to pass the winter in the city of BAGHDAD, and Mar Catholicus remained in MARAGHAH. And it fell out that a certain man, who was called by the name of SHENAKH EL-TAMUR (or SHAING EL-TAIMUR, or SHAKH EL-TAIMUR) came into MARAGHAH, and he cast about a report that he had with him an Edict ordering that every one who not abandon Christianity and deny his Faith should be killed.
Killed?!?!?
Hey, not that I’m the world’s leading proponent of organized religion or anything, but promoting closin’ up shop on some dude just cuz of how he gets his groove on, well that seems wrong man...
So you see what I mean?
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
It’s just a bad, bad number.
Oh, and it also just so happens to be the appraised cost of repairs to my six-month-old car...
Repairs that I have a $1,000 deductible on...
Repairs that are necessary due to an accident that a policeman thought was too minor (and involving so little damage) that it wasn’t even worth writing up...
Repairs that I don’t really have the funds to pay for or the inclination to undertake.
...not that I’m bitter or anything.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
...the joy is gone.
[shudder]
That’s right, I’m making a bold proclamation. And I have a strong feeling I’ll be sticking to it. “One thousand six hundred and eight” just holds no joy for me any longer... It’s not a fair decision to make I’m sure, but all the same, from this day forth, simply mentioning “one thousand six hundred and eight” will encourage me to do nothing but mutter and shudder... as i'm doing right now...
[shudder]
Yes, even as I write this, it is painful to THINK about the number “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...much less type “one thousand six hundred and eight” ...or, god forbid, dare to speak “one thousand six hundred and eight”
Which of course means that I should probably stop repeating it over and over and over.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
...
Ooooo... Do it again
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
“But why Flarf” you may ask, “why does this number hold itself in such ill-favor with you?”
Ok, so you probably wouldn't ask that using such a convoluted and mismatched set of words and phrases, but cut me some slack... i'm angry.
And it is a fair question, so to begin to answer it, I offer the following evidence...
In computerspeak, 1608 is the error number assigned to an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance... an inability to Create InstallDriver Instance?!?!?! That’s some pretty pure hatred right there...
It also marks the birth year of poet John Milton... the man who wrote Paradise Lost... the work that, among other things, goes into great detail about the origins of a real bad dude... THE bad dude in fact... the baddest dude of them all... no, I don't mean Darth Vader (though he's pretty fickin' badass)... I’m talking about Satan here... Lucifer... Beelzebub... The Dark Lord of all that is Oogilly Boogilly.
And I might add, it’s also the number of bed spaces for on-campus students at the University of North Florida...
Ok, so that in and of itself isn't actually a BAD thing...
But... but... how bout this one? ...in the year of the Greeks one thousand six hundred and eight (A.D. 1296--97), the victorious king came down to pass the winter in the city of BAGHDAD, and Mar Catholicus remained in MARAGHAH. And it fell out that a certain man, who was called by the name of SHENAKH EL-TAMUR (or SHAING EL-TAIMUR, or SHAKH EL-TAIMUR) came into MARAGHAH, and he cast about a report that he had with him an Edict ordering that every one who not abandon Christianity and deny his Faith should be killed.
Killed?!?!?
Hey, not that I’m the world’s leading proponent of organized religion or anything, but promoting closin’ up shop on some dude just cuz of how he gets his groove on, well that seems wrong man...
So you see what I mean?
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
[shudder]
It’s just a bad, bad number.
Oh, and it also just so happens to be the appraised cost of repairs to my six-month-old car...
Repairs that I have a $1,000 deductible on...
Repairs that are necessary due to an accident that a policeman thought was too minor (and involving so little damage) that it wasn’t even worth writing up...
Repairs that I don’t really have the funds to pay for or the inclination to undertake.
...not that I’m bitter or anything.
“One thousand six hundred and eight”
...the joy is gone.
[shudder]
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Hey, I wrote a joke #1
[It helps if you imagine this being told by Mitch Hedberg... if the name doesn't ring a bell, then go google him right now... trust me, it will be funnier if you know who he is]
I do not understand people who wear puffy vests...
It’s like:
“Hey, I want a jacket that will make my torso warm... and my arms jealous.”
I do not understand people who wear puffy vests...
It’s like:
“Hey, I want a jacket that will make my torso warm... and my arms jealous.”
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Random thought #24
Have you ever stared intently at something... and I mean REALLY stared... just to see if you could get it to move... or lift up... or burst into flames?
...ok, maybe it's just me.
I'd swear I almost did it the other morning... I could tell... the toaster was scared.
...ok, maybe it's just me.
I'd swear I almost did it the other morning... I could tell... the toaster was scared.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Varifying Newton's research...
So... I learned something new today.
There’s a reason why the Nissan Sentra only costs around $13,000... and it’s not because their accountants lack the ability to count properly.
No... I'm wagering it's because they’ve created a vehicle made solely out of balsa wood and Styrofoam.
Or at least that's what comprises the front sections, as I unfortunately discovered this morning.
Yup that’s right, at approximately 8:30am, whilst making the journey to my current place of employment, my front bumper decided to engage in a rather intimate and somewhat humiliating “bonding” experience with the back of a Honda Civic.
Ya know, I really didn’t need a blog topic this badly...
Ok, so there’s a particular on-ramp to Storrow Drive down by the BU campus here in Boston that has been the source of much acrimony for me since my commute found its way to include said on-ramp in its path. Technically, it’s a yield... but the cars already ON the main road are traditionally traveling between 55-105 mph, so really the only thing you can do is accelerate slowly and try to merge when someone looks the other way...
Or at least I THOUGHT that was the only thing you could do.
Apparently, you can also start to accelerate into the merge and then change your mind at the last minute and slam on the brakes.
Who knew?
The guy traveling in front of me sure didn’t... taken completely by surprise at the lead car's, um... "spontaniety," he was forced to slam on his brakes... luckily, he stopped just short of making contact with the offending vehicle (who then, blissfully ignorant of the carnage he was causing, took off into traffic).
I however, wasn’t so lucky.
The first car stopped... the second car stopped... the third car (yours truly), tried to stop, but instead slid forward until it’s front bumper was conducting a rather impromptu proctology screening on a surprised piece of Japanese machinery.
Did I mention it was raining this morning?
I hit the brakes... the brakes hit wet wheels... the wheels hit wet pavement, and the car hit the wet Honda.
Thankfully I resisted the urge to wet myself.
The minivan behind me had come to the conclusion that aggresive braking might be its best course of action as well, and with luck, goodwill and a little bit of physics on it's side was able to stop a few feet short of hitting my vehicle... the car behind HIM however must have been operating with a high quotient of negative karma (no pun intended), because it decided to join me in my endeavor of attempting an amateur automotive colonoscopy, and thus was busy bumping bumpers with the minivan.
[no, I have no idea why I’m so fascinated with anally-fixated automobile metaphors today]
So there we were, four cars stuck on the side of the ramp, exchanging information, and waiting for a policeman to come and tell us if we had misbehaved.
I looked around at the other cars and noticed that they didn’t seem to be all that damaged... a few scratches here and there, but all in all it didn’t look that bad... we were on an onramp after all... we really hadn’t been traveling all that fast... then of course, I saw my poor pathetic little vehicle.
Imagine if you will, what it might look like if you punched a muffin in the face...
Now, I realize muffins don’t have faces per se... and, even if you could assume that they might, you may not be able to conjure up any reason why you would be inclined to punch one in that face, but work with me here, i'm painting a metaphor...
Basically, the front of my car currently looks like someone hooked a vacuum cleaner up to the tailpipe and set it on übersuck.
The grill is all mushed in, the emblem is hanging by a (cheap) thread, and the bumper has been split in the middle, revealing the all-too-disconcerting fact that a very thin plastic coating has been giving me a false sense of security in the safety of my vehicle, when in fact, all that lies between me and certain death is a piece a generic, run of the mill, “good for packing the teevee on a long trip to Rhode Island”, Styrofoam.
Joy.
So the policeman shows up and decides that quote:
“since there’s no real damage, I’m not going to bother writing this one up,”
and tells us that we should just work it out with our respective insurance companies.
I look back at the parts of my car that appear to have just suffered a severe nervous breakdown and contemplate alerting the policeman to his subtle inaccuracies, but in light of the fact that technically I was the one doing the rear-ending (and because I have a New York Jets cap prominently displayed in my back window) I decide against it.
With a heavy sigh, and a rolling of the eyes, I climb back in my bruised vehicle and head off to work...
Now the fun begins...
The calling of the insurance company.
The filing of the paperwork.
The raising of the rates.
And of course, the open weeping at the fact that I own a 6-month-old car that probably couldn't stand up to a Vespa.
...and I have a $1,000 deductible.
There’s a reason why the Nissan Sentra only costs around $13,000... and it’s not because their accountants lack the ability to count properly.
No... I'm wagering it's because they’ve created a vehicle made solely out of balsa wood and Styrofoam.
Or at least that's what comprises the front sections, as I unfortunately discovered this morning.
Yup that’s right, at approximately 8:30am, whilst making the journey to my current place of employment, my front bumper decided to engage in a rather intimate and somewhat humiliating “bonding” experience with the back of a Honda Civic.
Ya know, I really didn’t need a blog topic this badly...
Ok, so there’s a particular on-ramp to Storrow Drive down by the BU campus here in Boston that has been the source of much acrimony for me since my commute found its way to include said on-ramp in its path. Technically, it’s a yield... but the cars already ON the main road are traditionally traveling between 55-105 mph, so really the only thing you can do is accelerate slowly and try to merge when someone looks the other way...
Or at least I THOUGHT that was the only thing you could do.
Apparently, you can also start to accelerate into the merge and then change your mind at the last minute and slam on the brakes.
Who knew?
The guy traveling in front of me sure didn’t... taken completely by surprise at the lead car's, um... "spontaniety," he was forced to slam on his brakes... luckily, he stopped just short of making contact with the offending vehicle (who then, blissfully ignorant of the carnage he was causing, took off into traffic).
I however, wasn’t so lucky.
The first car stopped... the second car stopped... the third car (yours truly), tried to stop, but instead slid forward until it’s front bumper was conducting a rather impromptu proctology screening on a surprised piece of Japanese machinery.
Did I mention it was raining this morning?
I hit the brakes... the brakes hit wet wheels... the wheels hit wet pavement, and the car hit the wet Honda.
Thankfully I resisted the urge to wet myself.
The minivan behind me had come to the conclusion that aggresive braking might be its best course of action as well, and with luck, goodwill and a little bit of physics on it's side was able to stop a few feet short of hitting my vehicle... the car behind HIM however must have been operating with a high quotient of negative karma (no pun intended), because it decided to join me in my endeavor of attempting an amateur automotive colonoscopy, and thus was busy bumping bumpers with the minivan.
[no, I have no idea why I’m so fascinated with anally-fixated automobile metaphors today]
So there we were, four cars stuck on the side of the ramp, exchanging information, and waiting for a policeman to come and tell us if we had misbehaved.
I looked around at the other cars and noticed that they didn’t seem to be all that damaged... a few scratches here and there, but all in all it didn’t look that bad... we were on an onramp after all... we really hadn’t been traveling all that fast... then of course, I saw my poor pathetic little vehicle.
Imagine if you will, what it might look like if you punched a muffin in the face...
Now, I realize muffins don’t have faces per se... and, even if you could assume that they might, you may not be able to conjure up any reason why you would be inclined to punch one in that face, but work with me here, i'm painting a metaphor...
Basically, the front of my car currently looks like someone hooked a vacuum cleaner up to the tailpipe and set it on übersuck.
The grill is all mushed in, the emblem is hanging by a (cheap) thread, and the bumper has been split in the middle, revealing the all-too-disconcerting fact that a very thin plastic coating has been giving me a false sense of security in the safety of my vehicle, when in fact, all that lies between me and certain death is a piece a generic, run of the mill, “good for packing the teevee on a long trip to Rhode Island”, Styrofoam.
Joy.
So the policeman shows up and decides that quote:
“since there’s no real damage, I’m not going to bother writing this one up,”
and tells us that we should just work it out with our respective insurance companies.
I look back at the parts of my car that appear to have just suffered a severe nervous breakdown and contemplate alerting the policeman to his subtle inaccuracies, but in light of the fact that technically I was the one doing the rear-ending (and because I have a New York Jets cap prominently displayed in my back window) I decide against it.
With a heavy sigh, and a rolling of the eyes, I climb back in my bruised vehicle and head off to work...
Now the fun begins...
The calling of the insurance company.
The filing of the paperwork.
The raising of the rates.
And of course, the open weeping at the fact that I own a 6-month-old car that probably couldn't stand up to a Vespa.
...and I have a $1,000 deductible.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Random observation #5
It seems very odd, that this, a classic symbol of anti-consumerist Holiday sentiment, is now being sold at Urban Outfitters... for $24 no less.
Of course, that that being said, it’s also kinda neat....
Of course, that that being said, it’s also kinda neat....
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Random paragraph #24
After 217 days of ingesting nothing but fish sticks and warm orange juice, Frank thought he might need to shake things up... it just didn’t feel right anymore... sure, the fish sticks made him smile every time he snapped one in half with his front teeth while pretending he was a bear foraging for food in the great northwest... and let’s face it, you just couldn’t beat a tall, pulpy glass of slightly lower than room temperature OJ, but still... he wasn’t feeling that “zest” anymore. He needed something new. Something exciting. He headed into the kitchen and begin to work his magic... 4 hours later, Frank emerged with what he thought could be the perfect addition to his formidable nutritional arsenal... With great jubilation he had discovered that, when mixed in a blender (for 14 seconds on “frappe” to be precise), partially defrosted chicken nuggets, chocolate pudding mix and extra-firm, spicy cajun tofu combined to form a new substance that, while having the consistency of a slightly past date cod, and a smell that one might accurately relate to spoiled milk, tasted pretty darn close to a hearty head-cheese risotto.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Today's headlines #4
Pilot injured after plane crashes into Wal-Mart
Receives multiple cuts and abrasions... not from crash, but from encounter with smiley-faced “rollback man” busy “slashing prices.”
Ship Blasts Pirates With Sonic Weapon
Gains +3 experience, +2 magic, level 9 scimitar of Andernol
Female Amputee Completes Ironman Triathlon
Random guy named Frank claims similar achievement – spends 37th consecutive day sprawled out on barcalounger subsisting on nothing but orange glazed donuts and yoo-hoo.
Penguin evolution linked to shifting icebergs
Flightless birds apparently had no choice but to “go with the flow”.
Study: Women Expect Less When It Comes to Humor
Unrelated study shows women boast higher levels of exposure to ABC sitcom “Full House” during formative years.
Today: Chocolate lovers invade New York!
Attacks easily thwarted when unexpected warm front moves in, melting confectionary arsenal.
Two Drunken Moose Invade Home for Elderly
One of the facility’s 15 “Senior Residents” responds: “We were happy to have the company... positively lovely fellows... a little hairy though... didn’t talk much... and I think one of them might have pooped in the cafeteria.”
Tom Cruise hires new publicist to replace sister
Newly-hired Paul Bloch promises to “tone down that crazy little bugger”
Receives multiple cuts and abrasions... not from crash, but from encounter with smiley-faced “rollback man” busy “slashing prices.”
Ship Blasts Pirates With Sonic Weapon
Gains +3 experience, +2 magic, level 9 scimitar of Andernol
Female Amputee Completes Ironman Triathlon
Random guy named Frank claims similar achievement – spends 37th consecutive day sprawled out on barcalounger subsisting on nothing but orange glazed donuts and yoo-hoo.
Penguin evolution linked to shifting icebergs
Flightless birds apparently had no choice but to “go with the flow”.
Study: Women Expect Less When It Comes to Humor
Unrelated study shows women boast higher levels of exposure to ABC sitcom “Full House” during formative years.
Today: Chocolate lovers invade New York!
Attacks easily thwarted when unexpected warm front moves in, melting confectionary arsenal.
Two Drunken Moose Invade Home for Elderly
One of the facility’s 15 “Senior Residents” responds: “We were happy to have the company... positively lovely fellows... a little hairy though... didn’t talk much... and I think one of them might have pooped in the cafeteria.”
Tom Cruise hires new publicist to replace sister
Newly-hired Paul Bloch promises to “tone down that crazy little bugger”
Friday, November 04, 2005
Random thought #23
It's odd. When "Supernanny" Jo Frost mispronounces a word*, I actually find it endearing... but when the President of the United States does it**, it just makes me want to pretend I’m Canadian.
* "acceptable" as uh-sep-ta-bull.
** take your pick.
* "acceptable" as uh-sep-ta-bull.
** take your pick.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Insider ego trading...
I am not what you call an overly confident individual.
As one who typically eschews the conventionally sought after self-esteem mandate for a more masochistic approach to life rooted in self-doubt, self-deprecation, and self-effacement, the idea of a positive self-image is one that on the whole, is wholly foreign to me.
I say all that not to illicit sympathy or reassurance, but to give you a sound basis and frame of reference for what I am about to say...
I am much, much, much, much, much more stable and well adjusted now than I ever was as a kid.
Yes, I know, all kids are emotionally, shall we say, unstable? But trust me, at times I was quite the special case... I didn’t grasp the way the “world” worked back then... I never really understood what it would take to fit in with most of my peers... or if I did understand it, it certainly didn’t make enough sense to me for me to justify playing along (I equate this as the reason I’d be positively lousy as a salesman).
Now, this lack of understanding probably did more to fuel what would eventually become my somewhat creative personality than just about anything else, so today I am grateful and appreciative of my somewhat altered perspective, but at the time... well, let’s just say I didn't appreciate that it solidified my fate... or that any and all desperate attempts to BE cool (of which I made many) basically did nothing but reaffirm the fact that I never WOULD be cool.
As a child, you really don’t appreciate the fact that your burgeoning addiction to television and books will serve as a sound pop culture basis for dominating the “pink” category in future trivial pursuit games... when the “cool” kids are talking about clothing labels and fancy cars, your affinity for Stephen King seems more like a personality defect than an attribute.
Anyway, there IS an actual reason why I’m giving you all this setup...
You see, at the age of 11, I became the subject of a bizarre sociological experiment... one that utterly confused and degraded me, while simultaneously causing me to become a potential source of income for any lucky soul who happened to be riding my bus to school.
But first, a little background...
When I got to sixth grade, I was at a crossroads. I was just starting to develop my own impressions of things... but I hadn’t really developed an identity yet. I had discovered that girls seemed to possess the potential to be entertaining in ways that boys couldn’t, but I had yet to evolve into the suave metrosexual lady-killer that types before you now...
In short, I knew I should be starting to make things happen for myself, but I had absolutely no clue what those things should be... or how to make them happen. Most of my peers however, seemed to have everything under control (at least that’s what I thought at the time).
And they did it all the same way...
They looked the same.
They dressed the same.
They acted the same.
And I just didn’t get it.
Now... I grew up in a fairly nice neighborhood and went to one of the area’s nicer public elementary schools, so you can probably imagine what these guys were like...
Affluence had truly run amok in my community, and this crew fit the archetype to a “T”: preppy, pretty, and self-assured.
Basically, they were the Johnny Lawrences to my Daniel LaRusso.
Only I didn’t know karate...
Or date Elisabeth Shue...
Or have a little Asian man to teach me how to prune and catch flies with chopsticks.
Heck, I never even painted a fence.
But I digress...
Ok, so that's the setup... let's move on and add to the picture my older brother. 3 years my senior, and to me, an enigma. I had no clue what made him tick, but in fulfillment of the traditional “little brother” job description, I had dutifully copied his every move from the time I could walk... hey, I was the little brother... that was what you did.
As I was beginning Junior High, he was starting to make his way through High School, and I don’t know if he hadn’t seen the other kids, or if he didn’t get the memo, or if things were different once you had actually started going through puberty, but he had apparently made a conscious decision to adopt a different approach to... well, to just about everything.
Whereas the “cool” kids I was surrounded by on a daily basis were dressing in Polo shirts and listening to Wham!, he was donning concert t-shirts and suede fringe jackets, growing his hair, and buying cassettes by bands with names like Iron Maiden, Ratt and Motley Crue.
This put me in quite the precarious position.
More than anything else at the time, I wanted people to like me (or at the very least, ignore me)... I’m a people pleaser after all, and the last thing I wanted was to be ridiculed...
This simple request soon became the Holy Grail to my 11th year of life.
At first, I tried to fit in with the cool kids.
I got a few Izod shirts (not quite as good as Polo, but hopefully still acceptable enough to get through the school day unscathed) and layered them appropriately... green with yellow... red with blue... etc... and much to my amazement it appeared to work. Kids that had previously mocked and teased me for wearing what I thought were perfectly acceptable t-shirts and jeans now generally left me alone... on occasion, they even spoke to me like I was human.
Then I came home from school... where my brother caught a glimpse of me.
To say that he was less than pleased with my particular choice of wardrobe would be an underestimation on par with saying that Rosie O’Donnell likes her some Ho Hos.
He let loose a string of insults like I had never heard before, working up into quite the fervor, and going so far as to bring my Mother into the situation so he could explain to her in great detail the dangers in my becoming a “Prep.”
The next day I went back to wearing a t-shirt and jeans...
You see where this is going?
Yes, the kids at school (now having seen that I actually owned clothing they considered passable) were relentless... I got off the bus at the end of the day feeling like someone who had gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson (even though I wouldn’t have any clue who he was for another 2 years)
So the next day it was back to the collar shirts...
And back to the brotherly abuse.
And that was how it went.
Back and forth and back and forth.
Some days I wore Izod... Some days I didn’t. After a while, it got so I was picking my clothes in the morning based on who I wanted to make fun of me less...
hmmm... should I go with the obnoxious preppy rich rids, or the angst ridden older brother?
It was much fun, let me tell you...
Then, something even more strange started happening.
As I would get on the bus in the morning, about half of the “cool” kids would break into spontaneous applause, while the other half would immediately appear angered with me. Who was happy and who was mad seemed to vary by the day, but without fail, as I stepped foot up the stairs and passed the yellow line, I would be greeted by both cheers and boos. For a while I almost enjoyed it... I mean, at least SOMEONE seemed pleased with whatever I was doing...
And then the other shoe started its slow decline...
One day, as the bell was getting ready to ring at the end of the day, one of the “cool” kids pulled me aside and asked what I planned on wearing the next day. When I told him I didn’t know, he asked if I could please try to wear a t-shirt. I was perplexed to say the least, but being the schmuck that I was (and just being happy that he was showing an interest) I gleefully complied. The next day, the scenario repeated itself.
As it did the next day...
And the next.
And the next.
I’ll spare you the drama in the details of what progressed next, but remember how I mentioned earlier that I became a “potential source of income for any lucky soul who happened to be riding my bus to school”?
Yeah, well it turns out that people had begun wagering on what I would wear to school. It was a big joke that the entire bus was in on, and only after I informed some of the other kids that I was tipping off one of their compatriots on my potential wardrobe choices did it stop (inexplicably, they weren’t mad with the kid who swindled them out of their money... they were however quite mad with me for telling him what I might wear).
Yup, that's it... I layed out that big whole rambling scenerio just so I could put into context a story from my childhood that i'm only going to devote one paragraph to explaining.
Hey, it's my blog... I can do things like that.
But ya know, it’s funny how kids are sometimes...
Heck, it’s funny how adults are sometimes...
And sometimes, there doesn’t seem to be all that much difference between the two.
I don’t really know why I decided to relate this little adolescent anecdote today. It’s not a particularly painful memory or one that bothers me or anything.
And to tell the truth, I think it conjures up a pretty funny mental image.
Me, the conquering hero, striding onto the bus to cheers and boos of my adoring constituency.
That’s funny stuff!
But maybe it's only funny because now I have the hindsight of knowing that I’ve (mostly) gotten over those old insecurities...
And I know that I’m much, much, much, much, much more stable and well adjusted now than I ever was as a kid...
And of course, I also know damn well that if we ever played trivial pursuit, I would totally kick those guys’ asses in the “pink” category.
As one who typically eschews the conventionally sought after self-esteem mandate for a more masochistic approach to life rooted in self-doubt, self-deprecation, and self-effacement, the idea of a positive self-image is one that on the whole, is wholly foreign to me.
I say all that not to illicit sympathy or reassurance, but to give you a sound basis and frame of reference for what I am about to say...
I am much, much, much, much, much more stable and well adjusted now than I ever was as a kid.
Yes, I know, all kids are emotionally, shall we say, unstable? But trust me, at times I was quite the special case... I didn’t grasp the way the “world” worked back then... I never really understood what it would take to fit in with most of my peers... or if I did understand it, it certainly didn’t make enough sense to me for me to justify playing along (I equate this as the reason I’d be positively lousy as a salesman).
Now, this lack of understanding probably did more to fuel what would eventually become my somewhat creative personality than just about anything else, so today I am grateful and appreciative of my somewhat altered perspective, but at the time... well, let’s just say I didn't appreciate that it solidified my fate... or that any and all desperate attempts to BE cool (of which I made many) basically did nothing but reaffirm the fact that I never WOULD be cool.
As a child, you really don’t appreciate the fact that your burgeoning addiction to television and books will serve as a sound pop culture basis for dominating the “pink” category in future trivial pursuit games... when the “cool” kids are talking about clothing labels and fancy cars, your affinity for Stephen King seems more like a personality defect than an attribute.
Anyway, there IS an actual reason why I’m giving you all this setup...
You see, at the age of 11, I became the subject of a bizarre sociological experiment... one that utterly confused and degraded me, while simultaneously causing me to become a potential source of income for any lucky soul who happened to be riding my bus to school.
But first, a little background...
When I got to sixth grade, I was at a crossroads. I was just starting to develop my own impressions of things... but I hadn’t really developed an identity yet. I had discovered that girls seemed to possess the potential to be entertaining in ways that boys couldn’t, but I had yet to evolve into the suave metrosexual lady-killer that types before you now...
In short, I knew I should be starting to make things happen for myself, but I had absolutely no clue what those things should be... or how to make them happen. Most of my peers however, seemed to have everything under control (at least that’s what I thought at the time).
And they did it all the same way...
They looked the same.
They dressed the same.
They acted the same.
And I just didn’t get it.
Now... I grew up in a fairly nice neighborhood and went to one of the area’s nicer public elementary schools, so you can probably imagine what these guys were like...
Affluence had truly run amok in my community, and this crew fit the archetype to a “T”: preppy, pretty, and self-assured.
Basically, they were the Johnny Lawrences to my Daniel LaRusso.
Only I didn’t know karate...
Or date Elisabeth Shue...
Or have a little Asian man to teach me how to prune and catch flies with chopsticks.
Heck, I never even painted a fence.
But I digress...
Ok, so that's the setup... let's move on and add to the picture my older brother. 3 years my senior, and to me, an enigma. I had no clue what made him tick, but in fulfillment of the traditional “little brother” job description, I had dutifully copied his every move from the time I could walk... hey, I was the little brother... that was what you did.
As I was beginning Junior High, he was starting to make his way through High School, and I don’t know if he hadn’t seen the other kids, or if he didn’t get the memo, or if things were different once you had actually started going through puberty, but he had apparently made a conscious decision to adopt a different approach to... well, to just about everything.
Whereas the “cool” kids I was surrounded by on a daily basis were dressing in Polo shirts and listening to Wham!, he was donning concert t-shirts and suede fringe jackets, growing his hair, and buying cassettes by bands with names like Iron Maiden, Ratt and Motley Crue.
This put me in quite the precarious position.
More than anything else at the time, I wanted people to like me (or at the very least, ignore me)... I’m a people pleaser after all, and the last thing I wanted was to be ridiculed...
This simple request soon became the Holy Grail to my 11th year of life.
At first, I tried to fit in with the cool kids.
I got a few Izod shirts (not quite as good as Polo, but hopefully still acceptable enough to get through the school day unscathed) and layered them appropriately... green with yellow... red with blue... etc... and much to my amazement it appeared to work. Kids that had previously mocked and teased me for wearing what I thought were perfectly acceptable t-shirts and jeans now generally left me alone... on occasion, they even spoke to me like I was human.
Then I came home from school... where my brother caught a glimpse of me.
To say that he was less than pleased with my particular choice of wardrobe would be an underestimation on par with saying that Rosie O’Donnell likes her some Ho Hos.
He let loose a string of insults like I had never heard before, working up into quite the fervor, and going so far as to bring my Mother into the situation so he could explain to her in great detail the dangers in my becoming a “Prep.”
The next day I went back to wearing a t-shirt and jeans...
You see where this is going?
Yes, the kids at school (now having seen that I actually owned clothing they considered passable) were relentless... I got off the bus at the end of the day feeling like someone who had gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson (even though I wouldn’t have any clue who he was for another 2 years)
So the next day it was back to the collar shirts...
And back to the brotherly abuse.
And that was how it went.
Back and forth and back and forth.
Some days I wore Izod... Some days I didn’t. After a while, it got so I was picking my clothes in the morning based on who I wanted to make fun of me less...
hmmm... should I go with the obnoxious preppy rich rids, or the angst ridden older brother?
It was much fun, let me tell you...
Then, something even more strange started happening.
As I would get on the bus in the morning, about half of the “cool” kids would break into spontaneous applause, while the other half would immediately appear angered with me. Who was happy and who was mad seemed to vary by the day, but without fail, as I stepped foot up the stairs and passed the yellow line, I would be greeted by both cheers and boos. For a while I almost enjoyed it... I mean, at least SOMEONE seemed pleased with whatever I was doing...
And then the other shoe started its slow decline...
One day, as the bell was getting ready to ring at the end of the day, one of the “cool” kids pulled me aside and asked what I planned on wearing the next day. When I told him I didn’t know, he asked if I could please try to wear a t-shirt. I was perplexed to say the least, but being the schmuck that I was (and just being happy that he was showing an interest) I gleefully complied. The next day, the scenario repeated itself.
As it did the next day...
And the next.
And the next.
I’ll spare you the drama in the details of what progressed next, but remember how I mentioned earlier that I became a “potential source of income for any lucky soul who happened to be riding my bus to school”?
Yeah, well it turns out that people had begun wagering on what I would wear to school. It was a big joke that the entire bus was in on, and only after I informed some of the other kids that I was tipping off one of their compatriots on my potential wardrobe choices did it stop (inexplicably, they weren’t mad with the kid who swindled them out of their money... they were however quite mad with me for telling him what I might wear).
Yup, that's it... I layed out that big whole rambling scenerio just so I could put into context a story from my childhood that i'm only going to devote one paragraph to explaining.
Hey, it's my blog... I can do things like that.
But ya know, it’s funny how kids are sometimes...
Heck, it’s funny how adults are sometimes...
And sometimes, there doesn’t seem to be all that much difference between the two.
I don’t really know why I decided to relate this little adolescent anecdote today. It’s not a particularly painful memory or one that bothers me or anything.
And to tell the truth, I think it conjures up a pretty funny mental image.
Me, the conquering hero, striding onto the bus to cheers and boos of my adoring constituency.
That’s funny stuff!
But maybe it's only funny because now I have the hindsight of knowing that I’ve (mostly) gotten over those old insecurities...
And I know that I’m much, much, much, much, much more stable and well adjusted now than I ever was as a kid...
And of course, I also know damn well that if we ever played trivial pursuit, I would totally kick those guys’ asses in the “pink” category.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Have faith, will shuffle...
I'm not sure what amuses me more, the fact that this exists:
http://www.devoted1.com/
Or, the fact that in order to have the buttons lined up correctly, you need to invert it.
This product seems to lack intelligent design.
Ha!
Get it? Intelligent design!
OK, so it's not my best work, but still...
http://www.devoted1.com/
Or, the fact that in order to have the buttons lined up correctly, you need to invert it.
This product seems to lack intelligent design.
Ha!
Get it? Intelligent design!
OK, so it's not my best work, but still...
Friday, October 28, 2005
Silver linings #14
BLACK CLOUD :(
Once you’re a “grown-up,” it’s considered improper to dress up and go house-to-house trick-or-treating on Halloween.
SILVER LINING :)
All faux pas aside, as long as you have a pretty good costume and you kneel down when you’re actually receiving said treats you can probably get away with it. Plus, once the door is closed, you'll totally be able to get the jump on the other kids and bully them into giving you a cut of their stash.
Once you’re a “grown-up,” it’s considered improper to dress up and go house-to-house trick-or-treating on Halloween.
SILVER LINING :)
All faux pas aside, as long as you have a pretty good costume and you kneel down when you’re actually receiving said treats you can probably get away with it. Plus, once the door is closed, you'll totally be able to get the jump on the other kids and bully them into giving you a cut of their stash.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Today's headlines #3
U.N. draft demands Syrian cooperation
Invokes rare (but menacing) “or else” clause...
Wal-Mart memo: Unhealthy need not apply
Big box giant claims to have already surpassed quota of disease ridden workers. Says one exec, “just look at our cashiers for Christ’s sake!”
Eritrea launches tourism drive with new hotel
An excited public responds: “Where the #@%& Is Eritrea?”
Tensions mount as probe nears completion
35 year old men worldwide frightened
Voice of Jolly Green Giant dies
Family priest to perform special Ho, Ho, Homily
India 2.0: Growing Pains in Bangalore
Kirk Cameron declares missionary work tough sell with Richard "Boner" Stabone along for the ride
Cabbie Accused of Tainting Food With Feces
...and in a (un)related story
McDonalds To Post Nutrition Information On Packaging
I’m just saying...
Galapagos Volcano Erupts for Third Day
Vows “Never to eat Mexican again.”
Invokes rare (but menacing) “or else” clause...
Wal-Mart memo: Unhealthy need not apply
Big box giant claims to have already surpassed quota of disease ridden workers. Says one exec, “just look at our cashiers for Christ’s sake!”
Eritrea launches tourism drive with new hotel
An excited public responds: “Where the #@%& Is Eritrea?”
Tensions mount as probe nears completion
35 year old men worldwide frightened
Voice of Jolly Green Giant dies
Family priest to perform special Ho, Ho, Homily
India 2.0: Growing Pains in Bangalore
Kirk Cameron declares missionary work tough sell with Richard "Boner" Stabone along for the ride
Cabbie Accused of Tainting Food With Feces
...and in a (un)related story
McDonalds To Post Nutrition Information On Packaging
I’m just saying...
Galapagos Volcano Erupts for Third Day
Vows “Never to eat Mexican again.”
Friday, October 21, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Random paragraph #24
Sitting alone in his cubicle, Jack gnawed on a stale overpriced muffin while staring at the weathered “word of the day” calendar. He couldn’t believe it... not three days ago he had been lying on a beach in San Tropez, feeling the waves beat against his toes... a margarita in each hand and a bevy of beautiful women parading by wearing only slightly more than what one might use to floss one’s teeth. Now, stripped of his beloved sunshine and scenery, and burdened by the weight of knowing he wouldn’t be able to take anymore time off until at least the next fiscal quarter, he sighed. Slumping in his dilapidated aluminum-backed chair, a lukewarm cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of the “Primotech Interoffice Gazette” in the other, he glanced back at the calendar and began to chuckle... after all, he couldn’t help but find it ironic... today’s word of the day: “mulct”.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Random thought #22
I wonder what S'mores were originally called.
...or was their original creator really just THAT cocky?
...or was their original creator really just THAT cocky?
Friday, October 14, 2005
Today's headlines #2
Mary-Kate Olsen Drops Out of NYU
NEW YORK (AP) — What would Bob Saget say about this? Mary-Kate Olsen, who shared the role of Michelle with her twin sister, Ashley, on the '80s comedy Full House, has dropped out of college, early in her sophomore year, according to a published report.
----------
Guidance counselor: “I really wish you’d reconsider Miss Olsen”
Mary-Kate: “I just don’t see the purpose in it.”
Guidance counselor: “A college education is very important for young women nowadays... it can help prepare you for the real world”
Mary-Kate: “But I already have 150 million dollars... I don’t have to LIVE in the real world.”
Guidance counselor: “Oh... right... very well then... good day.”
----------
New Orleans Cafe Prepares To Reopen
Owner plans exciting “Grand Reopening/Going Out of Business” sale.
Sea Turtle Returns To N.O. Aquarium
Blasts FEMA for poor Cheloniidae evacuation strategy.
Are Modern Americans A Rude, Boorish Lot?
Yes. ...you got a problem with that?!?!?
University Of Alabama’s First Black Grad Dies
School promises to admit 2 or 3 more “sometime soon”
Bush holds video rally for Iraq troops
Vows to play Duran Duran’s “Rio” over and over again until “everyone but saddam’s a smilin’!”
WHO Urges Calm On Bird Flu
Claim “it's only teenage wasteland”
Businesses Crack Down On Gas Use
Ban employees from eating at Chi Chi’s, Chili’s or Taco Bell.
NEW YORK (AP) — What would Bob Saget say about this? Mary-Kate Olsen, who shared the role of Michelle with her twin sister, Ashley, on the '80s comedy Full House, has dropped out of college, early in her sophomore year, according to a published report.
----------
Guidance counselor: “I really wish you’d reconsider Miss Olsen”
Mary-Kate: “I just don’t see the purpose in it.”
Guidance counselor: “A college education is very important for young women nowadays... it can help prepare you for the real world”
Mary-Kate: “But I already have 150 million dollars... I don’t have to LIVE in the real world.”
Guidance counselor: “Oh... right... very well then... good day.”
----------
New Orleans Cafe Prepares To Reopen
Owner plans exciting “Grand Reopening/Going Out of Business” sale.
Sea Turtle Returns To N.O. Aquarium
Blasts FEMA for poor Cheloniidae evacuation strategy.
Are Modern Americans A Rude, Boorish Lot?
Yes. ...you got a problem with that?!?!?
University Of Alabama’s First Black Grad Dies
School promises to admit 2 or 3 more “sometime soon”
Bush holds video rally for Iraq troops
Vows to play Duran Duran’s “Rio” over and over again until “everyone but saddam’s a smilin’!”
WHO Urges Calm On Bird Flu
Claim “it's only teenage wasteland”
Businesses Crack Down On Gas Use
Ban employees from eating at Chi Chi’s, Chili’s or Taco Bell.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
To the "Fluffy's" of the world...
Naming a pet is a personal thing. It’s a subjective question really, one that has no right or wrong answer. And truth be told, there’s absolutely no sound logic or reasoning behind making the decision to criticize or poke fun at what anyone chooses to call their beloved pile of fur, fins or scales.
...but I’m still going to do it.
Don’t get me wrong, I like animals, and I don’t wish to inflict upon them any additional measure of embarrassment above and beyond that which they already suffer at our hands, but you see... often, by looking at a pet’s name, you can tell just as much (or more) about the owner as you can about the pet. So really, when you get right down to it, I’m not actually mocking any animals here at all... I’m mocking people.
...and that’s something I have absolutely no problem doing.
For example, if a 6 foot 2 inch tall, 345 pound, bald behemoth named Brutus adopts a 3 pound Pekinese and affectionately starts referring to it as “princess snookems” Well, you’ve just learned something about Brutus. Namely, that even with all appearances pointing to the contrary, he is most likely a tough man with a tender soul who enjoys fresh daisies, the Gilmore Girls, and long walks through dewy meadows. That being said, I still wouldn’t even think of approaching said behemoth in a dark alley with a smile, a dewy daisy, and a freshly minted copy of season 4 on DVD, but still... you can pretty much guess that if you did... after pummeling you about the head and neck, Mr. Brutus would probably be willing to sit down with you and watch at least a few of the bonus features.
It’s an extreme example, but you get my drift... and hey, at least it would be somewhat original.
I think what bothers me the most about pet names is the lack of creativity. There should really be a moratorium on certain names at this point...
Ok, so your cat is black... we can see that... by LOOKING at it... there’s really no need to reinforce the matter by naming the little buddy “midnight.”
...or “shadow.”
...or “licorice”
And the same holds true if your feline friend happens to be white. Names such as “snowball,” “popcorn,” and “ivory” are not cute... they’re lazy.
In the interest of full disclosure, I feel compelled to reveal the following tidbits about my own life:
When I was a child, my brother got a hamster. A brown hamster. And when given the task of naming him, he thought long and hard... and then decided to call him “Brownie.”
Yes... “Brownie.”
I would mock him further, and rightfully, I should, but for one juicy nugget of information... you see, my brother’s supreme lack of creative thought is topped by the fact that shortly after “Brownie” entered our world, I acquired my own hamster. A black one. And when given the task of naming him, I thought long and hard, and decided to call him...
wait for it...
Yes... “Blackie.”
I know, I know... it’s sad, but the way I see it, children have to be excluded from creative judgment. As a child, when you get a pet, you’re so overwhelmed by the fact that you’re actually being entrusted with the care and companionship of another living creature, that you can’t possibly be called upon to process anything complex or creative. Basically, you should be applauded for even being able to ratchet up the brain power high enough to shout out the name of what’s in front of you. And I believe wholeheartedly that this very phenomena is what has led to countless cats and dogs across the country being given names such as “tiger,” “spot,” “chocolate,” “cocoa,” “oreo,” or “marshmallow”
...apparantly, our nation’s children are very hungry
In any event, children excluded, I feel we have an obligation to be a little more inventive with what we call our pets...
Some people take the responsibility of naming quite seriously... weighing the pros and cons of various names before eventually settling on a particular sentiment – something that says something about them, their pet, and their view of the world. Hey, if that’s your bag, then go for it...
Then again, some people see it as an excuse to be absurd. To point out something silly, or poke fun at the conventions of the modern world, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s cool too.
At the end of the day, it’s up to you... and whatever you choose will be fine. We are just talking about your pet here... So whether you go with “Princess Snookems,” “Gnarfblat the Impaler,” or even just “Chuck,” it’s all good.
But please... if you ever decide to get a python... I’m begging you... don’t name it “Monty.”
Trust me... it’s been done.
...but I’m still going to do it.
Don’t get me wrong, I like animals, and I don’t wish to inflict upon them any additional measure of embarrassment above and beyond that which they already suffer at our hands, but you see... often, by looking at a pet’s name, you can tell just as much (or more) about the owner as you can about the pet. So really, when you get right down to it, I’m not actually mocking any animals here at all... I’m mocking people.
...and that’s something I have absolutely no problem doing.
For example, if a 6 foot 2 inch tall, 345 pound, bald behemoth named Brutus adopts a 3 pound Pekinese and affectionately starts referring to it as “princess snookems” Well, you’ve just learned something about Brutus. Namely, that even with all appearances pointing to the contrary, he is most likely a tough man with a tender soul who enjoys fresh daisies, the Gilmore Girls, and long walks through dewy meadows. That being said, I still wouldn’t even think of approaching said behemoth in a dark alley with a smile, a dewy daisy, and a freshly minted copy of season 4 on DVD, but still... you can pretty much guess that if you did... after pummeling you about the head and neck, Mr. Brutus would probably be willing to sit down with you and watch at least a few of the bonus features.
It’s an extreme example, but you get my drift... and hey, at least it would be somewhat original.
I think what bothers me the most about pet names is the lack of creativity. There should really be a moratorium on certain names at this point...
Ok, so your cat is black... we can see that... by LOOKING at it... there’s really no need to reinforce the matter by naming the little buddy “midnight.”
...or “shadow.”
...or “licorice”
And the same holds true if your feline friend happens to be white. Names such as “snowball,” “popcorn,” and “ivory” are not cute... they’re lazy.
In the interest of full disclosure, I feel compelled to reveal the following tidbits about my own life:
When I was a child, my brother got a hamster. A brown hamster. And when given the task of naming him, he thought long and hard... and then decided to call him “Brownie.”
Yes... “Brownie.”
I would mock him further, and rightfully, I should, but for one juicy nugget of information... you see, my brother’s supreme lack of creative thought is topped by the fact that shortly after “Brownie” entered our world, I acquired my own hamster. A black one. And when given the task of naming him, I thought long and hard, and decided to call him...
wait for it...
Yes... “Blackie.”
I know, I know... it’s sad, but the way I see it, children have to be excluded from creative judgment. As a child, when you get a pet, you’re so overwhelmed by the fact that you’re actually being entrusted with the care and companionship of another living creature, that you can’t possibly be called upon to process anything complex or creative. Basically, you should be applauded for even being able to ratchet up the brain power high enough to shout out the name of what’s in front of you. And I believe wholeheartedly that this very phenomena is what has led to countless cats and dogs across the country being given names such as “tiger,” “spot,” “chocolate,” “cocoa,” “oreo,” or “marshmallow”
...apparantly, our nation’s children are very hungry
In any event, children excluded, I feel we have an obligation to be a little more inventive with what we call our pets...
Some people take the responsibility of naming quite seriously... weighing the pros and cons of various names before eventually settling on a particular sentiment – something that says something about them, their pet, and their view of the world. Hey, if that’s your bag, then go for it...
Then again, some people see it as an excuse to be absurd. To point out something silly, or poke fun at the conventions of the modern world, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s cool too.
At the end of the day, it’s up to you... and whatever you choose will be fine. We are just talking about your pet here... So whether you go with “Princess Snookems,” “Gnarfblat the Impaler,” or even just “Chuck,” it’s all good.
But please... if you ever decide to get a python... I’m begging you... don’t name it “Monty.”
Trust me... it’s been done.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Random thought #21
If “hell” is described as an eternity spent in horrendous pain, with a constant barrage of white-hot flames biting at your heals... then what exactly is “heck?" I'd guess, given its far less aggresive verbiage, that it must be along the lines of a slightly musty room where the thermostat is permanently set at around 86 degrees.
...and there’s also probably never anything good on tv.
...and there’s also probably never anything good on tv.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Random paragraph #23
Even though George had never seen a real-life alien in person (like his cousin Lester), he was pretty sure they weren’t this big... or this covered in rust. So when the previously unidentified ‘74 ford trailblazer surprised him by slamming into his solar plexus at 35 miles an hour, and he found himself broken, bloodied, and hurtling through the air toward a rather ominous and unwelcome-looking patch of asphalt, he was at least happy that he’d be able to take solace in the fact that he had been right about that alien after all... not that he actually knew what solace meant.
Random thought #20
I really think that when you get right down to it... the differences between the typical kid and the typical grown-up can best be summed up with the following dessert analogy:
Kids eat pudding.
Grown-ups eat mousse.
Personally, I like both... but given the way I act on a daily basis, I don’t think this does anything to damage the credibility of my theory.
Kids eat pudding.
Grown-ups eat mousse.
Personally, I like both... but given the way I act on a daily basis, I don’t think this does anything to damage the credibility of my theory.
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