Friday, January 28, 2011
Monday, October 29, 2007
Notes on Aging
I turned 24 several months ago and have put together a list of my thoughts on aging. I thought this was important to let the world know as I near the quarter-century mark.
- I fart more now.
- I worry about trans fats, and I even considered switching to Lean Pockets.
- note to reader: when I wrote the above point I accidentally wrote “I worry about trans farts more...” I don’t know what a “trans fart” is, but I’ll bet my horse it stinks.
- I don’t think “aging” should be spelled “ageing” – that unecessary e could really piss somebody off.
- I don’t know if I fart more because I haven’t switched to Lean Pockets or because I don’t exercise. Anyway, Chris is the one who has to deal with it, so wtf?
- Some of my students call me “Mr. Klein” - weird
- I wonder what my future children will want to call me: Pop? Dad? Poppy? Papa? My Ol’ Man? Father?
- I still don’t know the first thing about buying a house. This portends ill.
- It’s true that when you get older it becomes more difficult to remember things: just yesterday, I got hit by a car, and then I forgot, and got hit by the same car. Actually, now that I think about, maybe I was the one driving.
- After listening to some new rap music, I thought to myself, “man, Snoop Doggy Dogg was much more articulate and wrote much better music than any of the posers today.” This is something an old person would probably say. ~“sippin on gin and juice…”~
- Speaking of rap music, I read the lyrics to Naughty by Nature’s “OPP,” a song I had heard in middle school, and thence discovered that the song is not about some guy named OPP whom we are all down with.
- I fart more now.
- I worry about trans fats, and I even considered switching to Lean Pockets.
- note to reader: when I wrote the above point I accidentally wrote “I worry about trans farts more...” I don’t know what a “trans fart” is, but I’ll bet my horse it stinks.
- I don’t think “aging” should be spelled “ageing” – that unecessary e could really piss somebody off.
- I don’t know if I fart more because I haven’t switched to Lean Pockets or because I don’t exercise. Anyway, Chris is the one who has to deal with it, so wtf?
- Some of my students call me “Mr. Klein” - weird
- I wonder what my future children will want to call me: Pop? Dad? Poppy? Papa? My Ol’ Man? Father?
- I still don’t know the first thing about buying a house. This portends ill.
- It’s true that when you get older it becomes more difficult to remember things: just yesterday, I got hit by a car, and then I forgot, and got hit by the same car. Actually, now that I think about, maybe I was the one driving.
- After listening to some new rap music, I thought to myself, “man, Snoop Doggy Dogg was much more articulate and wrote much better music than any of the posers today.” This is something an old person would probably say. ~“sippin on gin and juice…”~
- Speaking of rap music, I read the lyrics to Naughty by Nature’s “OPP,” a song I had heard in middle school, and thence discovered that the song is not about some guy named OPP whom we are all down with.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Last Time I Saw Barry
The last time I saw Barry I was no more than a kid who occasionally shaved. I still remember the way he entered the room. There was something about him that brought all conversation and activity to come to a complete, awestricken stand still. His hair tied back modestly, glossy and healthy against the collarless, black silken shirt. I could never forget him.
Here am I, again in the presence of that heralded human. He sits not ten feet from me in a small coffee shop. I wonder, as I try to study, what he is drinking. What is he thinking? Even after graduating from college I know I’m a nobody next to him. I mean, you don’t just walk up and strike up a conversation with a guy like that. You better have something profound to tell him or bring an infant to be blessed by him. I wish I could just look at him, but my head is uncovered and I can’t easily remove my shoes. My breath is short as he heads for the door. The displaced air from his movement is sweet in my nostrils. He is gone.
The last time I saw Barry I didn’t understand him. I still don’t and I probably never will.
Here am I, again in the presence of that heralded human. He sits not ten feet from me in a small coffee shop. I wonder, as I try to study, what he is drinking. What is he thinking? Even after graduating from college I know I’m a nobody next to him. I mean, you don’t just walk up and strike up a conversation with a guy like that. You better have something profound to tell him or bring an infant to be blessed by him. I wish I could just look at him, but my head is uncovered and I can’t easily remove my shoes. My breath is short as he heads for the door. The displaced air from his movement is sweet in my nostrils. He is gone.
The last time I saw Barry I didn’t understand him. I still don’t and I probably never will.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Jeff's Not Unique: Part I
“Was that faux hawk intentional?”
He reddened to the roots of his meticulously styled hair at her cutting remark. He turned on his heels and looked into the freshly polished, full length mirror. “Oh, hell no…I don’t like how the lady cut my hair this time.” He quickly drew the palms of his hands over the piecey tips, destroying the central precipice that just an hour before he’d taken so much pleasure in constructing. “I didn’t tip her.” He let ring a nervous laugh through his chapped lips. Lips that had a lot of potential, he thought, but they were often chapped. One too many times had he left his blistex in the fifth pocket of his jeans and run them through the dryer. That’s how he had ruined his favorite tank top.
He took two smooth steps past the shoe rack and into the small bathroom. He turned the faucet on and began washing the sticky hair product from his hands.
He leaned against the porcelain basin, staring intently into the mirror.
“I’m going to shave my head tomorrow.” he whispered.
But he knew he never would.
He reddened to the roots of his meticulously styled hair at her cutting remark. He turned on his heels and looked into the freshly polished, full length mirror. “Oh, hell no…I don’t like how the lady cut my hair this time.” He quickly drew the palms of his hands over the piecey tips, destroying the central precipice that just an hour before he’d taken so much pleasure in constructing. “I didn’t tip her.” He let ring a nervous laugh through his chapped lips. Lips that had a lot of potential, he thought, but they were often chapped. One too many times had he left his blistex in the fifth pocket of his jeans and run them through the dryer. That’s how he had ruined his favorite tank top.
He took two smooth steps past the shoe rack and into the small bathroom. He turned the faucet on and began washing the sticky hair product from his hands.
He leaned against the porcelain basin, staring intently into the mirror.
“I’m going to shave my head tomorrow.” he whispered.
But he knew he never would.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
My Dream Last Night, or, "My Biological Clock is Ticking"
Upon my return, I was discouraged to find that I couldn't remember "little" Stuart's middle name. I somewhat sheepishly asked a friend – Christine - what it was, but she must have thought I was joking because she just laughed and started talking about something else. Some friend… It turns out that Stuart's middle name was Luke, but I sure didn’t remember naming him that.
Stuart turned out to be a pretty good sport. Since the birth took me totally by surprise, I had no baby clothes on hand; it turns out that old towels keep babies just as warm as effeminate, pastel onesies. I started keeping Stuart in the kitchen sink as I would do the house-cleaning, and he didn’t complain much about that either.
After Stuart's birth, our dinner party conversations invariably turned to Stuart's big, fat head. People don't usually tell new parents this, but big-headed babies are great conversation fodder. Our friends made fun of Stuart with a tenacity that was both humorous and charming; our soirees have never been more intimate. And if that weren’t enough fun, Nick started hiding Stuart in different out-of-the-way places as a joke. After about an hour of Balderdash, Nick would say, “Hey, where’s that balloon-headed baby anyway?! I can see the sun again, because his fat head isn’t obscuring the light, that’s how big his fat head is,” and we would all chuckle. Then we would start looking around for Stuart, and sure enough, he would be nowhere in sight. A rousing game of “Find Stuart” always ensued. Oh, the times we had.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
10:30 am
One stands and sways in torn jeans and a tan jacket.
His paunch hanging under a worn red shirt that appears
Like a junior-high overbite. It is 10:29 am.
The other - a plaid sweater-coat, is calm
And short…collected, cool, knowing the wait
Will be worth the score. It is 10:29 am.
The door is shut but the lights are on –
Movement within. Signs that the first in will receive
His due. It is 10:29 am.
A beard and a bow-tie hover above
On the red-striped brick building, a remnant of
A southern past. It is 10:29 am.
At 10:30, the Colonel opens his doors.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Observations on life as a Hoosier
It’s cold.
I thought about taking up smoking because of the cold – or because of the media.
Our neighbors are quiet – the flayed dog I hung in the doorway seems to be doing the trick.
Noone from the blog but Chris and I honored the blood pact we all made several years ago where we vowed that we would move to Indiana by 2007 and start a cult.
The people who play Settlers here are just as annoying as those in
At the local Afghani restaurant, when the server brings your food, it’s really funny if he has a dish but doesn’t know whose it is and noone tells him. Foreigners.
People on public transportation annoy the living daylights out of me. I rode the bus to campus yesterday morning and for ten minutes an elderly short woman talked with the bus driver about how the mall opens early at 7:30 am so people can take their walks, but its icy out so she can’t make it to the mall, and they should really do something about that ice or...
I actually got off the bus before my stop and walked the rest of the way. It was 12 degrees or something, but the cold was a welcome change.
On the way home she was on the same bus and she became friends with a man in sunglasses who was on his way to the YMCA to get his ID picture taken. They talked loudly about the need to prosecute individuals who don’t shovel the snow from their sidewalks and how there’s a number you can call to alert the local authorities to those negligent bastards. The man in sunglasses told the small woman at least seven times that you can be fined for not shoveling your sidewalk, and the small woman made it entirely clear that if she took one false step and fell on her left hip she would immediately die.
New Balance 574s are common, as are UGG boots. These seem to the reigning footwear paradigms amongst Hoosiers.
I hope you all can visit.
To Disneyland
ahem. . .
oh how great you art
grand land of magic and dreams
salute you I do
or did.
i’m chary of stating so still—
have the vagaries of time and piles of tomes
forced the blush from my cheek?
???
?????
??
the end.
oh how great you art
grand land of magic and dreams
salute you I do
or did.
i’m chary of stating so still—
have the vagaries of time and piles of tomes
forced the blush from my cheek?
???
?????
??
the end.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
MySpace Survery Mother Russia style
Name: Sasha Pavlovich
m/f: m
Current location: Internet café
Birthplace: in the gulag (haha Siberia)
Lenin or Stalin: Lenin was cuter ;p
Favorite band: Deep Purple/Nirvana/Abba
Vodka or beer: both at same time – lof :^>
In the past month have you drank alcohol: yes
In the past month have you been drunk: Only when I take driver test – just kid, me lose eyes when drink mean vodka.
Tolstoy or Dostoevsky: noone, busy drinking mean vodka
Do you want to get married: only to American – http://www.RussianHotties.ru
Age you started smoking: 10
Do you want to go to college: I buy degree instead
Irkutsk or Yakutsk: neither
Paul McCartney or Kurt Cobain: CANT DECIDE
Yesterday or Smells Like Teen Spirit: add in Macarena and make medley – I like boom shake boom
Is Kurt Cobain dead: no!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Metro or bus: both
Summer or winter: Winter – more reason to drink
Number of cd’s you own: I dont technical own… ;)
Favorite movie: Titanic/Pink Floyd’s the Wall
Favorite hang-out: underpass by my hous
First thoughts waking up: where am i?!!!!!!!! where is my wallet???
Age you started drinking: the womb (thanks mama!)
Most overused phrase on instant messenger: loll comrade
Favorite pastime: Russian roulette jk – only sometime
What do you want to be when you grow up: pirate ^ just like my papa
Group dates or single dates: many single date
Coffee or tea: Tea my mamma raised me good
Do you shower daily: i dont have shower…
Been in love: yes every day new girl
Favorite holiday: Women Day haha
Favorite TV show: Santa Barbara
Do you think you’re attractive: have you seen my moustache?! it awesome!!!!!!!!
In the past month have you stolen anything: define “stolen”
What country would you most like to visit: Washington D.C.
Shoes you wore today: ABIBAS
Editors note: I'm sorry to all you intellectuals out there, but I couldn't resist the juvenile stereotypes and hackneyed jokes. Hopefully I got it all out of my system, but I can't make any promises.
m/f: m
Current location: Internet café
Birthplace: in the gulag (haha Siberia)
Lenin or Stalin: Lenin was cuter ;p
Favorite band: Deep Purple/Nirvana/Abba
Vodka or beer: both at same time – lof :^>
In the past month have you drank alcohol: yes
In the past month have you been drunk: Only when I take driver test – just kid, me lose eyes when drink mean vodka.
Tolstoy or Dostoevsky: noone, busy drinking mean vodka
Do you want to get married: only to American – http://www.RussianHotties.ru
Age you started smoking: 10
Do you want to go to college: I buy degree instead
Irkutsk or Yakutsk: neither
Paul McCartney or Kurt Cobain: CANT DECIDE
Yesterday or Smells Like Teen Spirit: add in Macarena and make medley – I like boom shake boom
Is Kurt Cobain dead: no!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Metro or bus: both
Summer or winter: Winter – more reason to drink
Number of cd’s you own: I dont technical own… ;)
Favorite movie: Titanic/Pink Floyd’s the Wall
Favorite hang-out: underpass by my hous
First thoughts waking up: where am i?!!!!!!!! where is my wallet???
Age you started drinking: the womb (thanks mama!)
Most overused phrase on instant messenger: loll comrade
Favorite pastime: Russian roulette jk – only sometime
What do you want to be when you grow up: pirate ^ just like my papa
Group dates or single dates: many single date
Coffee or tea: Tea my mamma raised me good
Do you shower daily: i dont have shower…
Been in love: yes every day new girl
Favorite holiday: Women Day haha
Favorite TV show: Santa Barbara
Do you think you’re attractive: have you seen my moustache?! it awesome!!!!!!!!
In the past month have you stolen anything: define “stolen”
What country would you most like to visit: Washington D.C.
Shoes you wore today: ABIBAS
Editors note: I'm sorry to all you intellectuals out there, but I couldn't resist the juvenile stereotypes and hackneyed jokes. Hopefully I got it all out of my system, but I can't make any promises.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Shitty Skull Sketch Project
I first saw her from across the cafe.
Clothed in black, pen in hand.
Brooding, brooding, brooding.
"It's poetry she's writing," thought I,
As I studied her bent figure scribbling fast.
The June Umbrella then caught my gaze,
Cowboy shirt wearing lead singer killin' it hard.
I stared into his eyes and he stared back,
Was that a wink? No. He must be queer
Bait.
Moving toward the bathroom later,
(the band was takin' a break for ganj),
I passed the poet woman and her pen.
Brooding, brooding, brooding.
And then I saw it, what the hell?
She was sketching, not composing a poem.
I think it was a skull that she was trying to draw,
or was it a baby?
I looked to see if her eyes were closed,
or maybe she was missing several fingers.
But she wasn't and they weren't.
That's one shitty skull sketch,
shittiest ever.
Or perhaps she's drawing with a single piece of 0.7 lead,
cause that's real hard.
But she wasn't and they weren't.
Clothed in black, pen in hand.
Brooding, brooding, brooding.
"It's poetry she's writing," thought I,
As I studied her bent figure scribbling fast.
The June Umbrella then caught my gaze,
Cowboy shirt wearing lead singer killin' it hard.
I stared into his eyes and he stared back,
Was that a wink? No. He must be queer
Bait.
Moving toward the bathroom later,
(the band was takin' a break for ganj),
I passed the poet woman and her pen.
Brooding, brooding, brooding.
And then I saw it, what the hell?
She was sketching, not composing a poem.
I think it was a skull that she was trying to draw,
or was it a baby?
I looked to see if her eyes were closed,
or maybe she was missing several fingers.
But she wasn't and they weren't.
That's one shitty skull sketch,
shittiest ever.
Or perhaps she's drawing with a single piece of 0.7 lead,
cause that's real hard.
But she wasn't and they weren't.
My Life: A Short Poem
Today I shined a tooth.
Yesterday I shined a tooth.
Tomorrow, I will shine another tooth.
Yours truly,
Dr. N.A. Smith DMD
Yesterday I shined a tooth.
Tomorrow, I will shine another tooth.
Yours truly,
Dr. N.A. Smith DMD
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Daniel Radcliffe
“Even the play's producers are surprised at Radcliffe's dramatic transformation. "To have a six-pack like that at that age, when some people try for 25 years to get one ... we were gobsmacked (translation: amazed) at how suddenly he turned into this swan," producer David Pugh tells PEOPLE.”
We at People Magazine recently had the opportunity of interviewing David Pugh, producer of the upcoming play Equus in which Harry Potter (aka Daniel Radcliffe) bares all.
People: I’ll get straight to it David, the people of the world know about the lightning scar, but they want more, tell us about Harry’s body.
David Pugh: Well, I and a number of the other producers were some of the first blokes to get a good gander at Harry during an initial viewing, and well, after we ripped our eyeballs from Daniel’s (aka Harry Potter’s) sumptuouosly peelie-wally (translation: pale) bahookie (translation: bum (translation: buttocks)) and flowering pubescence as seen for our upcoming play Equus, we didn’t stand up…that’s about all I can say, and I’m not even a bugger (translation: a fag that’s a man). Really, I mean really, Daniel views this role as his opportunity to tell the world, “hello world, here I am, I’m all grown-up and I’m producing baby gravy by the lorry-load [chuckles], so take a good hard look.”
People: What do you say to Daniel’s critics that think this play is not appropriate for him as a role model for the world’s youth?
David Pugh: Well, that’s a right good ol’ question…we…well…I don’t want to argue the toss but I’d have to tell them to give the play a chance and wait to see it, I mean, it’s not just about Daniel wiggling his beaver cleaver (translation: we think this is a penis) and deliciously rose-tinged arse all willy-nilly across the stage, it’s about real art and the beauty of life…and it’s about Daniel’s yummy body [licks lips].
People: In one of the pictures recently released we see Harry…I mean Daniel acting coy with a horse, is there any chance of giving the part of the horse to a Hippogriff?
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
How's your walk?
We have clear skies in Portland, good weather for a post. My patient cancelled at 7:30 this morning leaving me free to sit in the library, write in my "Purpose Driven Life" themed journal and stare at the computer screen. I tried to check the blog and was immediately forced to upgrade to the "New Blogger" which is linked to Google as everything seems to be recently. Last week I overheard someone say, "Google has been doing some pretty nefarious things behind the scenes lately." He seemed genuinely concerned.
My message: We need some new posts. Jackie's most recent offering was great and I just read Natalie's thougts on Dante's treatment of the sodomites in her snooty english class blog, so I know she is still alive and capable of writing. We need an update from Chris and Joel; How is Indiana? Have you gotten over the jet lag? How has married life affected your respective dating lives? I'm interested to see if Nick will be able to form coherent sentences after his snowboarding induced concussion. Katie B.-write something deep, Christine L.-write a poem about turtles. Lets make it happen!
My message: We need some new posts. Jackie's most recent offering was great and I just read Natalie's thougts on Dante's treatment of the sodomites in her snooty english class blog, so I know she is still alive and capable of writing. We need an update from Chris and Joel; How is Indiana? Have you gotten over the jet lag? How has married life affected your respective dating lives? I'm interested to see if Nick will be able to form coherent sentences after his snowboarding induced concussion. Katie B.-write something deep, Christine L.-write a poem about turtles. Lets make it happen!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Settlers of Catan
“I’m rolling in the resources!” cried Eric excitedly. “I almost forgot how much I love this game… almost.”
“You’re always like this when you’re winning.” I sullenly replied. Eric already had six points to my two and we hadn’t even started counting the sevens yet. “Just wait, once the the twelves start rolling I’ll have a monopoly on the rock and you’ll be in a world of hurt.”
“Ha! Good luck with that! Twelves? Seriously.”
Eric was always like this. If he was losing he was a pill but if he was winning, oh man was he excited, continuously making cutting comments to every other player. He could definitely dish it out but he couldn’t take it.
We continued playing and my mind wandered. Why was I with Eric? He was only fun when it was just the two of us and it hadn’t been just the two of us for a long time. His new best friend Cindy was a permanent fixture on weekends and holidays. I thought back to my last birthday:
“Hey Jack, d’you mind if Cindy comes to dinner with us. Her sister’s working again and she’s gonna be all alone tonight. I just feel sorry for her, ya know?”
Of course I minded. Cindy was a beautiful blonde, with sparkling blue eyes and a waist about the size of my left thigh. But I couldn’t let him know how much it bothered me. He would say that I should just relax. He was in love with me and had no romantic feelings for her whatsoever. I didn’t believe him, I saw the way he looked at her but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of breaking up with him. Who did she think she was, always hanging out with my boyfriend? Didn’t she have any other friends? I mustered up a cheerful voice and replied, “Well, the reservation is just for two and we haven’t been able to have a night alone together for quite awhile.”
“I actually thought we could maybe go to Applebee’s, Cindy doesn’t really like fish especially raw fish.”
It was my birthday for God sake, but that didn’t change the fact that the world revolved around the goddess Cindy. I had been looking forward to trying the new sushi place for weeks and Eric had been telling me that we’d have a night to ourselves for what seemed like months. I was fed up. I didn’t know if I wanted to go anymore. Even when we were alone the conversation would continually return to the woman I loved to hate. When I didn’t respond Eric enthusiastically continued. “Guess what Cindy told me today? A giraffe’s tongue is so long it can lick it’s own ear! Isn’t that hilarious? I mean, can you imagine a giraffe licking it’s own ear? The mental picture gets me every time.” Eric was in hysterics. Eric was always in hysterics.
“Seriously Eric, it’s not that funny.” I bitterly replied. “Ya know, I’m actually not feeling that well. I don’t think I want to go to dinner after all. Maybe we can just stay in tonight.”
“Are you sure? Alright, I’ll call Cindy and have her bring over Raising Helen, she says it’s one of the best chick flicks she’s ever seen and that we have to see it! She’s gonna be bummed we’re not going to Applebee’s though. She was really craving a mandarin salad.”
I was too pissed to remind him that we had gone to see Raising Helen together and we had both agreed that it was awful.
“It’s your turn Jack, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do! I’m up to seven points now! And Cindy’s got six.”
“Yeah Jack, you’re like checked out tonight! I suck and I’m even beating you! Beginner’s luck I guess!” Cindy obnoxiously laughed and Eric laughed along with her for far too long.
Did she just call me Jack?! I hated being called Jack. Eric had picked it up years before just to bug me and I had never really gotten use to it. To hear it coming out of her little cherry lips was almost perverse. I had been mechanically going through the motions, special builds and all. I had built two roads but nothing to get me points and my roads were headed straight for Eric’s fifth settlement. I was obviously going to lose, even to Cindy. Eric and Cindy were now going through a series of memories that the rest of the players and I hadn’t been a part of. I’d heard about the time Eric tripped on a curb about a million times before. “Eric, you’re face was so hilarious! I wish you could’ve seen his face Jack. You would’ve laughed for days!”
There it was again, the name that she knew I hated and only Eric used. Twice in one sitting was too much to handle. I slowly stood up, purse in hand, and walked out into the pouring rain. My Geo Tracker was parked next to Cindy’s apple red 2005 BMW. As I slowly pulled the key along the driver’s side of her beemer I had a queer sense of satisfaction. She could have him. I didn’t even think he was that attractive and he certainly wasn’t a comic genius. I comforted myself by listing all of Eric’s faults and concluded that I would be settling if I stayed with him. I really hated settling which explains why I didn’t enjoy that stupid game that Eric was so obsessed with. I hated them both. Their piercing laughter was still ringing in my ears. I could see through the window that Eric and Cindy were stunned. They had finally stopped laughing.
“You’re always like this when you’re winning.” I sullenly replied. Eric already had six points to my two and we hadn’t even started counting the sevens yet. “Just wait, once the the twelves start rolling I’ll have a monopoly on the rock and you’ll be in a world of hurt.”
“Ha! Good luck with that! Twelves? Seriously.”
Eric was always like this. If he was losing he was a pill but if he was winning, oh man was he excited, continuously making cutting comments to every other player. He could definitely dish it out but he couldn’t take it.
We continued playing and my mind wandered. Why was I with Eric? He was only fun when it was just the two of us and it hadn’t been just the two of us for a long time. His new best friend Cindy was a permanent fixture on weekends and holidays. I thought back to my last birthday:
“Hey Jack, d’you mind if Cindy comes to dinner with us. Her sister’s working again and she’s gonna be all alone tonight. I just feel sorry for her, ya know?”
Of course I minded. Cindy was a beautiful blonde, with sparkling blue eyes and a waist about the size of my left thigh. But I couldn’t let him know how much it bothered me. He would say that I should just relax. He was in love with me and had no romantic feelings for her whatsoever. I didn’t believe him, I saw the way he looked at her but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of breaking up with him. Who did she think she was, always hanging out with my boyfriend? Didn’t she have any other friends? I mustered up a cheerful voice and replied, “Well, the reservation is just for two and we haven’t been able to have a night alone together for quite awhile.”
“I actually thought we could maybe go to Applebee’s, Cindy doesn’t really like fish especially raw fish.”
It was my birthday for God sake, but that didn’t change the fact that the world revolved around the goddess Cindy. I had been looking forward to trying the new sushi place for weeks and Eric had been telling me that we’d have a night to ourselves for what seemed like months. I was fed up. I didn’t know if I wanted to go anymore. Even when we were alone the conversation would continually return to the woman I loved to hate. When I didn’t respond Eric enthusiastically continued. “Guess what Cindy told me today? A giraffe’s tongue is so long it can lick it’s own ear! Isn’t that hilarious? I mean, can you imagine a giraffe licking it’s own ear? The mental picture gets me every time.” Eric was in hysterics. Eric was always in hysterics.
“Seriously Eric, it’s not that funny.” I bitterly replied. “Ya know, I’m actually not feeling that well. I don’t think I want to go to dinner after all. Maybe we can just stay in tonight.”
“Are you sure? Alright, I’ll call Cindy and have her bring over Raising Helen, she says it’s one of the best chick flicks she’s ever seen and that we have to see it! She’s gonna be bummed we’re not going to Applebee’s though. She was really craving a mandarin salad.”
I was too pissed to remind him that we had gone to see Raising Helen together and we had both agreed that it was awful.
“It’s your turn Jack, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do! I’m up to seven points now! And Cindy’s got six.”
“Yeah Jack, you’re like checked out tonight! I suck and I’m even beating you! Beginner’s luck I guess!” Cindy obnoxiously laughed and Eric laughed along with her for far too long.
Did she just call me Jack?! I hated being called Jack. Eric had picked it up years before just to bug me and I had never really gotten use to it. To hear it coming out of her little cherry lips was almost perverse. I had been mechanically going through the motions, special builds and all. I had built two roads but nothing to get me points and my roads were headed straight for Eric’s fifth settlement. I was obviously going to lose, even to Cindy. Eric and Cindy were now going through a series of memories that the rest of the players and I hadn’t been a part of. I’d heard about the time Eric tripped on a curb about a million times before. “Eric, you’re face was so hilarious! I wish you could’ve seen his face Jack. You would’ve laughed for days!”
There it was again, the name that she knew I hated and only Eric used. Twice in one sitting was too much to handle. I slowly stood up, purse in hand, and walked out into the pouring rain. My Geo Tracker was parked next to Cindy’s apple red 2005 BMW. As I slowly pulled the key along the driver’s side of her beemer I had a queer sense of satisfaction. She could have him. I didn’t even think he was that attractive and he certainly wasn’t a comic genius. I comforted myself by listing all of Eric’s faults and concluded that I would be settling if I stayed with him. I really hated settling which explains why I didn’t enjoy that stupid game that Eric was so obsessed with. I hated them both. Their piercing laughter was still ringing in my ears. I could see through the window that Eric and Cindy were stunned. They had finally stopped laughing.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Why I am Harry Potter
I am Harry Potter.
No-one told me that I would be going to graduate school at Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but I do, and now I am Harry Potter. “Why is that?” you ask. Well, friend, sit down a spell and let me educate you.
First, we in the entering class are called “first-years,” and supposedly that is supposed to make us feel like we are welcome. It’s not uncommon to hear a professor shout, “Hey, first year… yeah!” We first-years don’t mind much, I mean, we are first years, and I guess that has some kind of meaning when you are a second-year, or dare I say it without genuflecting (ok, ok, I’ll genuflect), third-years.
Second, I spend half my time studying people who are insane, and I doubt any other graduate student studies the kind of insane people I study, thus providing more evidence that I am Harry Potter. I mean, listen to this sentence that was in my reading: “The spirit of this earth is the fire in which Pontanus digests his feculent matter, the blood of infants in which the gold and silver bathe themselves, the unclean Green Lyon.” Do you see now why I am Harry Potter? Who else but little Harry would be reading crap like that?! And you don’t even know yet who wrote that, and I haven’t told you because I know it is going to cause you to flip your lid, man. You’re gonna go nuts right when I tell you, I know it, man. Seriously. Watch out, man, because you aren’t ready for this. Ok, ok, get ready…it was Sir Isaac Newton.
Ha, I knew you weren’t ready for that. Isaac “I invented Calculus” Newton. He wrote that, and it wasn’t just some joke he put up on his blog for all his friends to read. He was serious, and now I am Harry Potter, destined to save the world from the evil Lord Voldewhatever. It sucks, but I’m ready. I’ve been practicing real hard and it’s not making me a better wizard, but these things take time. Stop rushing me. I don’t see you blasting little kids’ out of their drawers or turning old ladies into weasels or bears or things like weasels and bears like cats or beavers. I mean, come on man. That doesn’t happen until, like, late third year at least.
I can hear you scoffing, and it’s true, I don’t have the lighting scar, but so what the bleep? I’ve got a mole right on my forehead, and if that’s just a coincidence then you will have to convince me so, my friend, because I just don’t see how it’s possible. I am Harry Potter.
No-one told me that I would be going to graduate school at Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but I do, and now I am Harry Potter. “Why is that?” you ask. Well, friend, sit down a spell and let me educate you.
First, we in the entering class are called “first-years,” and supposedly that is supposed to make us feel like we are welcome. It’s not uncommon to hear a professor shout, “Hey, first year… yeah!” We first-years don’t mind much, I mean, we are first years, and I guess that has some kind of meaning when you are a second-year, or dare I say it without genuflecting (ok, ok, I’ll genuflect), third-years.
Second, I spend half my time studying people who are insane, and I doubt any other graduate student studies the kind of insane people I study, thus providing more evidence that I am Harry Potter. I mean, listen to this sentence that was in my reading: “The spirit of this earth is the fire in which Pontanus digests his feculent matter, the blood of infants in which the gold and silver bathe themselves, the unclean Green Lyon.” Do you see now why I am Harry Potter? Who else but little Harry would be reading crap like that?! And you don’t even know yet who wrote that, and I haven’t told you because I know it is going to cause you to flip your lid, man. You’re gonna go nuts right when I tell you, I know it, man. Seriously. Watch out, man, because you aren’t ready for this. Ok, ok, get ready…it was Sir Isaac Newton.
Ha, I knew you weren’t ready for that. Isaac “I invented Calculus” Newton. He wrote that, and it wasn’t just some joke he put up on his blog for all his friends to read. He was serious, and now I am Harry Potter, destined to save the world from the evil Lord Voldewhatever. It sucks, but I’m ready. I’ve been practicing real hard and it’s not making me a better wizard, but these things take time. Stop rushing me. I don’t see you blasting little kids’ out of their drawers or turning old ladies into weasels or bears or things like weasels and bears like cats or beavers. I mean, come on man. That doesn’t happen until, like, late third year at least.
I can hear you scoffing, and it’s true, I don’t have the lighting scar, but so what the bleep? I’ve got a mole right on my forehead, and if that’s just a coincidence then you will have to convince me so, my friend, because I just don’t see how it’s possible. I am Harry Potter.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Da Vinci Code
What can I say that has not already been said? All I can do is reiterate what the venerable Nelson DeMille said so truthfully: “This is pure genius.”
America’s most powerful and beautiful literary gem succeeds where other attempts have failed: Not only has symbology become sexy again (finally!), but literature as we know it has been revolutionized. Move aside Homer, Shakespeare, Austen, Conrad, and Steele – your works seem paltry and contrived in comparison with Brown’s literary effortlessness. There is a new genius in town and his name is Dan Brown.
With the indelible and potent words, “Robert Langdon awoke slowly,” the wild ride that is The Da Vinci Code begins. With every sentence the plot builds, and my mind is stretched. Brown is a master of the English language, expertly using the common vernacular to create artistic wonder, leading to poetic transcendence. As Brown’s intriguing protagonist wonders “Where the hell am I?” the reader is forced to ask the question: What the hell is this writer doing with literary conventions? The answer: he’s throwing them out the window! That’s right, Brown’s genius lies not only in his ability to depict the nuances of character presented in the figures of Robert and the rest of the stunningly brilliant and conflicted cast (Silas the Albino moved me to tears), but also in his ability to throw grammatical and literary caution to the wind. An almost inhuman dependence upon italics, a preternatural understanding of the modern attention span, and an unbridled affection for unabashedly mixing fact with fiction – all these things contribute to Brown’s masterpiece and the world is changed irrevocably.
Let me be the first to say, on behalf of humanity, that I am forever grateful Brown condescended to lay aside his budding musical career in order to pursue his true calling. Although children everywhere will undoubtedly miss his post-modern musical lullabies, I for one am thankful that after his hit “Happy Frogs” from his album “Synthanimals,” Brown deigned to make his foray into the annals of literary history (or herstory as the case may be).
Knowing full well that I will be unable to do Brown’s talent justice, let me just say that when I finished The Da Vinci Code I ended up in much the same position as Langdon on the last page – on my knees. Only in my case, the Sacred Feminine takes second place to the sacred genius of the world’s most renowned author since John and Stasi Eldredge.
America’s most powerful and beautiful literary gem succeeds where other attempts have failed: Not only has symbology become sexy again (finally!), but literature as we know it has been revolutionized. Move aside Homer, Shakespeare, Austen, Conrad, and Steele – your works seem paltry and contrived in comparison with Brown’s literary effortlessness. There is a new genius in town and his name is Dan Brown.
With the indelible and potent words, “Robert Langdon awoke slowly,” the wild ride that is The Da Vinci Code begins. With every sentence the plot builds, and my mind is stretched. Brown is a master of the English language, expertly using the common vernacular to create artistic wonder, leading to poetic transcendence. As Brown’s intriguing protagonist wonders “Where the hell am I?” the reader is forced to ask the question: What the hell is this writer doing with literary conventions? The answer: he’s throwing them out the window! That’s right, Brown’s genius lies not only in his ability to depict the nuances of character presented in the figures of Robert and the rest of the stunningly brilliant and conflicted cast (Silas the Albino moved me to tears), but also in his ability to throw grammatical and literary caution to the wind. An almost inhuman dependence upon italics, a preternatural understanding of the modern attention span, and an unbridled affection for unabashedly mixing fact with fiction – all these things contribute to Brown’s masterpiece and the world is changed irrevocably.
Let me be the first to say, on behalf of humanity, that I am forever grateful Brown condescended to lay aside his budding musical career in order to pursue his true calling. Although children everywhere will undoubtedly miss his post-modern musical lullabies, I for one am thankful that after his hit “Happy Frogs” from his album “Synthanimals,” Brown deigned to make his foray into the annals of literary history (or herstory as the case may be).
Knowing full well that I will be unable to do Brown’s talent justice, let me just say that when I finished The Da Vinci Code I ended up in much the same position as Langdon on the last page – on my knees. Only in my case, the Sacred Feminine takes second place to the sacred genius of the world’s most renowned author since John and Stasi Eldredge.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
10 things I miss about Nat (in no particular order)
1) Her rendition of Joy to the World/ Jesus, Lover of my Soul
2) Her unfailing tardiness (especially when the activity involves the whole family)
3) Her gigantic "hazel" eyes
4) The laugh that you think is sincere until it lasts just long enough to make you feel uncomfortable and realize she's actually making fun of you. (Often followed by "Now that's what I call comedy!")
5) Her eclectic style and messy hair
6) Her tasteful usage of explitives in every story she writes
7) Her usual morning "Dragon Breath" and bad attitude
8) Her huge purse half filled with garbage (e.g. candy wrappers, old receipts, church bulletins, etc.)
9) Watching her confuse every crusade boy that musters up the courage to approach her with a single sentence.
10) "I want to see that!!!"
2) Her unfailing tardiness (especially when the activity involves the whole family)
3) Her gigantic "hazel" eyes
4) The laugh that you think is sincere until it lasts just long enough to make you feel uncomfortable and realize she's actually making fun of you. (Often followed by "Now that's what I call comedy!")
5) Her eclectic style and messy hair
6) Her tasteful usage of explitives in every story she writes
7) Her usual morning "Dragon Breath" and bad attitude
8) Her huge purse half filled with garbage (e.g. candy wrappers, old receipts, church bulletins, etc.)
9) Watching her confuse every crusade boy that musters up the courage to approach her with a single sentence.
10) "I want to see that!!!"
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Friscalathon XXXIIVVIIX
In homage to the dainty deities of Spring, I propose a literary and comedic commemoration on this second day of the fifth month in this six-and-two-thousandth year. Here be the terms: each able participant shall forthwith inscribe on the walls of this blog the funniest words ever heard by them in the laboratory or the classroom.
Thus, my inaugural sacrifice:
"Nice Pour," spoken to me while pouring 2000 mL of water without the use of a funnel.
Thus, my inaugural sacrifice:
"Nice Pour," spoken to me while pouring 2000 mL of water without the use of a funnel.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Un Petit Dejeuner
"Patty´s signing bitch," John informed me over the phone, and then went on to explain that Patty and he had a complex signaling system that they often used to express vulgarities across the room. The checker woman at the grocery store was indeed being a bitch, as John could plainly see as he observed the scene from the cereal aisle, where he was debating between original Captain Crunch or the peanut butter kind. He asked me which I would choose and I told him that Captain Crunch is disgusting and that he should get Oh´s instead. He laughed loudly back into the phone and for about five seconds longer than the joke warranted. I felt annoyed. He was always laughing at everything. And always laughing for way too long. He´s the kind of guy that laughs uneasily at bad jokes and makes the joke teller wish they had never said the joke at all. No one can fake laugh for as long as John does, so everyone else in the room eventually stops laughing and just looks on with fake smiles at the joke teller and John, feeling embarassed and uncomfortable for the pair of them. John´s a good guy, but come on, someone really ought to tell him about that laughing thing.
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