leaking pipes on a
personal Xanadu
rusted structure
that was once the covet
to an abyss of yesteryears
salvage what is
redeemable to the soul
investor that bought
high yet sold
low
plans on the morrow
are to be changed by
the unseen front
to let the pipes leaking would
rot the blissful vision
to fix the leaking would strip
the opportunity to develop what
is never intended yet is always desired;
Character.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Bermania!
It was all so hush hush. Invite only. Well, evite but that is only because the only people that use invites for their party tend to also give out goodie bags for showing. Fort building, Franzia drinking, and honorary Golden Girl Lily Berman turned 23 this Saturday and she had a private party in Chicago. The guest list included friends old and new, many unemployed- it's been going around.
Incase one is looking for a place that is classy yet keeps the windows open when it is fifty five degrees out should go to Alive One. It was tight. There was another guy watching the doorway to the back room of the bar. Rif raf filter was in full effect.
I walked into the room and was thouroughly amazed by the sight of a packed room. For a moment I began to think that maybe she was going away on a long trip. Never has there been a 95% success rate of invites actually attending. Once again I was the tallest person in the place. That may not seem overly relevant but since I was told that more than a few times I felt it is justified. Hey you are really tall. Thanks I tried to do something that would match my shirt.
Upon the recommendation of one Brian Raczkowski (not at the party, he was busy giving credibility to U of I's electrical engineering department), I drank Blue Moon off the tap. It was really good. The catch was that everyone was on a three hour open bar with the cover to Lily's bash. Almost every ten minutes the guy from Barbados was bringing back four 7 and 7s. What was more captivating than his drinking habits was the unsettling resemblance he has to Donny Osmond. I chose not to mention this since it really is not a cool resemblance to have.
I caught up with a bunch of people that graduated ahead of me at Ripon and that essentially eliminated a need to visit for Homecoming. During the evening we updated eachother on the growing marital epidemic that has been sweeping the nation and claimed the lives of too many friends. One being my RA from freshman year. This guy embodied the smoothness of John Shaft and he got married. His legacy shall live on.
I left the party out of the fear most suburbanites have when visiting the big city at night. I was afraid the car was going to get towed. This paranoia is born even if one parks legally. The cause - the space was a pretty good one. Almost too good to be true. After hesitantly gloating over my space across from Steppenwolf Ben (Lily's fella/hell of a Cranium teammate) told me of his courage/apathy when faced with parking restrictions in Chicago. "Let it play on Maxwell, let it play on." I did. Until it finally consumed my every thought forty minutes later.
I am convinced no one in Chicago drives their car, they just leave it curbside to taunt the bagel-eye suburbanites. Don't stare at the lights too long you'll go blind I hear. By the by, happy birthday Lily.
Incase one is looking for a place that is classy yet keeps the windows open when it is fifty five degrees out should go to Alive One. It was tight. There was another guy watching the doorway to the back room of the bar. Rif raf filter was in full effect.
I walked into the room and was thouroughly amazed by the sight of a packed room. For a moment I began to think that maybe she was going away on a long trip. Never has there been a 95% success rate of invites actually attending. Once again I was the tallest person in the place. That may not seem overly relevant but since I was told that more than a few times I felt it is justified. Hey you are really tall. Thanks I tried to do something that would match my shirt.
Upon the recommendation of one Brian Raczkowski (not at the party, he was busy giving credibility to U of I's electrical engineering department), I drank Blue Moon off the tap. It was really good. The catch was that everyone was on a three hour open bar with the cover to Lily's bash. Almost every ten minutes the guy from Barbados was bringing back four 7 and 7s. What was more captivating than his drinking habits was the unsettling resemblance he has to Donny Osmond. I chose not to mention this since it really is not a cool resemblance to have.
I caught up with a bunch of people that graduated ahead of me at Ripon and that essentially eliminated a need to visit for Homecoming. During the evening we updated eachother on the growing marital epidemic that has been sweeping the nation and claimed the lives of too many friends. One being my RA from freshman year. This guy embodied the smoothness of John Shaft and he got married. His legacy shall live on.
I left the party out of the fear most suburbanites have when visiting the big city at night. I was afraid the car was going to get towed. This paranoia is born even if one parks legally. The cause - the space was a pretty good one. Almost too good to be true. After hesitantly gloating over my space across from Steppenwolf Ben (Lily's fella/hell of a Cranium teammate) told me of his courage/apathy when faced with parking restrictions in Chicago. "Let it play on Maxwell, let it play on." I did. Until it finally consumed my every thought forty minutes later.
I am convinced no one in Chicago drives their car, they just leave it curbside to taunt the bagel-eye suburbanites. Don't stare at the lights too long you'll go blind I hear. By the by, happy birthday Lily.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
I Don't Get It
There are some things that are happening in our world that make little or no sense. Why must we insist on having options if one of them is clearly the best interest for people. If Diet Dr. Pepper tastes just like regular Dr. Pepper why do they even make regular Dr. Pepper? Just put that stuff that is healthier in the regular can and then work on new diet recipe.
Why is there a search for another Partrige Family? They are making the hopefuls actually sing, and act which Danny B noted that they never could sing in the first place. Well the acting is subject as well. VH1 presents this show like it is one of the biggest shows that America wants back in their life. No. We had Hanson in the early 90's and sent them back to their home.
Fat Joe the rapper is well, a very fat man. Ironically he is a vegan. He plays the big tough guy vibe and then you hear him speak and he is just a talking stuffed cabbage. The prolific lyrics of telling all your "n@#%@@^%" to throw the rock away and just lean back, lean back, lean back" keep this man at the forefront of social growth. He is not even black. He is a sun-dried latino. No one should be afraid of this guy, clearly he can be outwitted, and most definitely out ran.
Chip Carey, the commentator for the Chicago Cubs is as inept at play calling as they come. His womanizing alcoholic grandfather was a legend in sports, and more notable after a couple strokes or heart attacks. Steve Stone was saying that one of the players looked incensed. Which means angered or enraged. Chip immediately says, "yeah Steve he also looks pretty angry." How did this dillhole get a job? Was Harry actually sober long enough to refer his grandson? The Carey legacy lives on with fifth grade level of vocabulary and colorful commentating descriptions like "wow" or "he's not batting very well." For the sake of the Cubs I certainly hope this guy falls into the bottle and comes out with over sized blue tinted glasses.
I am not sure if I will ever understand cetain parts of life but my refuge can be taken in the fact that the aforementioned probably won't either.
Why is there a search for another Partrige Family? They are making the hopefuls actually sing, and act which Danny B noted that they never could sing in the first place. Well the acting is subject as well. VH1 presents this show like it is one of the biggest shows that America wants back in their life. No. We had Hanson in the early 90's and sent them back to their home.
Fat Joe the rapper is well, a very fat man. Ironically he is a vegan. He plays the big tough guy vibe and then you hear him speak and he is just a talking stuffed cabbage. The prolific lyrics of telling all your "n@#%@@^%" to throw the rock away and just lean back, lean back, lean back" keep this man at the forefront of social growth. He is not even black. He is a sun-dried latino. No one should be afraid of this guy, clearly he can be outwitted, and most definitely out ran.
Chip Carey, the commentator for the Chicago Cubs is as inept at play calling as they come. His womanizing alcoholic grandfather was a legend in sports, and more notable after a couple strokes or heart attacks. Steve Stone was saying that one of the players looked incensed. Which means angered or enraged. Chip immediately says, "yeah Steve he also looks pretty angry." How did this dillhole get a job? Was Harry actually sober long enough to refer his grandson? The Carey legacy lives on with fifth grade level of vocabulary and colorful commentating descriptions like "wow" or "he's not batting very well." For the sake of the Cubs I certainly hope this guy falls into the bottle and comes out with over sized blue tinted glasses.
I am not sure if I will ever understand cetain parts of life but my refuge can be taken in the fact that the aforementioned probably won't either.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Oh Yeah! Guilty Pleasures
I was driving to improv practice and a certain song came on the radio. Now, this song is not typically embraced by most males- that are straight. Anyway, it got me thinking about the little things in life that bring us joy in such an embarassing manner that we are bewildered by the pleasure. I don't know why I like it but I do. We all have them. Some of us like to share in the humility a guilty pleasure allows.
With the world of music there is one song that I have such an afixiation over that I can't help. The song is (I am sure other men have a concealed appreciation.) Madona's "Like a Prayer." I find the song to be such an upbeat display of irony that lasts near six minutes. A tramp named (by herself mind you) after the virgin mother, sings a song of love/desire by drawing a parallel to prayer. Then throw in the images of the music video. Turns out Madona sees Jesus as a black man, which is crazy since Jesus spent his life in the middle east thus is caucasian as they come. Sorry NAACP. The logic of the Vatican triumphs once again. She then covets a statue of the black Jesus. Their love affair is forbidden so she must watch him locked in a chapel while she dances around a field with burning crosses. I am pretty sure he was digging her until her saw poor taste in ambient lighting. There is even a choir involved somewhere, which is always a winner. Better yet a children's choir would have probably saved her Pepsi deal.
Starbucks. I am most ashamed of this occurence. There is one at Piper's Alley so during break I go spend $6 on coffee and cinnamon swirl coffee cake- reduced fat of course. There is something special about being in a Starbucks. I am compelled to speak ignorantly about politics and the economy. It is my duty as a patron of the robust regime to take conversation out of context and ellaborate on the severity of such dialogue. If there was a battle between Starbucks and Oprah I don't know who would come out on top. Well my money would be pulling for the Chilean espresso over any book club.
My new tv guilty pleasure may be premature to declare. However if it lasts then I may be very well hooked for a long time. It has been years since we have watched such angst between young people while they battle internal demons to become the upstanding person they can be. Move over Dawson, Joey, and Pacey. Here comes Jack and Bobby the new WB drama. I honestly like the concept of witnessing the youth of an American President. Tie it in with the melodrama that would rival any Lifetime program and you have a television gold. Gold I say!
When creating your personal Xanadu, the columns look classy. Just keep in mind that a few lawn ornaments will keep you grounded with the rest of the mortals.
With the world of music there is one song that I have such an afixiation over that I can't help. The song is (I am sure other men have a concealed appreciation.) Madona's "Like a Prayer." I find the song to be such an upbeat display of irony that lasts near six minutes. A tramp named (by herself mind you) after the virgin mother, sings a song of love/desire by drawing a parallel to prayer. Then throw in the images of the music video. Turns out Madona sees Jesus as a black man, which is crazy since Jesus spent his life in the middle east thus is caucasian as they come. Sorry NAACP. The logic of the Vatican triumphs once again. She then covets a statue of the black Jesus. Their love affair is forbidden so she must watch him locked in a chapel while she dances around a field with burning crosses. I am pretty sure he was digging her until her saw poor taste in ambient lighting. There is even a choir involved somewhere, which is always a winner. Better yet a children's choir would have probably saved her Pepsi deal.
Starbucks. I am most ashamed of this occurence. There is one at Piper's Alley so during break I go spend $6 on coffee and cinnamon swirl coffee cake- reduced fat of course. There is something special about being in a Starbucks. I am compelled to speak ignorantly about politics and the economy. It is my duty as a patron of the robust regime to take conversation out of context and ellaborate on the severity of such dialogue. If there was a battle between Starbucks and Oprah I don't know who would come out on top. Well my money would be pulling for the Chilean espresso over any book club.
My new tv guilty pleasure may be premature to declare. However if it lasts then I may be very well hooked for a long time. It has been years since we have watched such angst between young people while they battle internal demons to become the upstanding person they can be. Move over Dawson, Joey, and Pacey. Here comes Jack and Bobby the new WB drama. I honestly like the concept of witnessing the youth of an American President. Tie it in with the melodrama that would rival any Lifetime program and you have a television gold. Gold I say!
When creating your personal Xanadu, the columns look classy. Just keep in mind that a few lawn ornaments will keep you grounded with the rest of the mortals.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
USPS
Just another note. I hate the damn United States Postal System. My package sent out on August 30 still is mia and this woman now tells me that it could have been pushed back a few days because of the holiday. I was about to tell this granny that Labor day is a bullshit holiday, if it were maybe President's Day I could understand. Knobs.
St. Elmo's Fire
At this very moment of writing St. Elmo's Fire is on tv. Commercial free mind you. Watching this movie just lets me know a few things about life. If you look back from a distance, everyone looks like an idiot. Whether it be clothing or hair or simply being named Judd or Emilio. Another thing I have noticed is that although the rise to success is exciting, the pending crash/leveling off is typically more captivating.
Perhaps I will look at my favorite movies of the 90s and realize the acting was lame. Probably not. I watched them while growing more than any other time of my life (mainly since I was born in the 80s). I am trying to compare St. Elmo's Trainwreck to a movie in the 90s. Could Good Will Hunting work? No it was hands down better. Perhaps the reason for the success of Elmo is that it is based on self indulged people during the age of self importance.
Will we ever have another caliber group of actors as the brat pack? All in all they really weren't that great it was that they had great chemistry. I would like to cast Heath Ledger as the next Rob Lowe. Girls dig him and stilll have not caught on to the lack of acting capabilities. Jake Gillenhal (wrong spelling I am sure) embodies Emilio Estevez. Besides the Young Guns series, whenever Emilio or Jake is on screen I am forced to think "How the hell did he get there?"
Kirsten Dunst would make a swell drama queen like Molly did. Ally Sheedy is best represented by Katie Holmes. Not to say if I was aware of 80s movies I would have liked Ally, I just think the crooked smile should be carried on for a new generation. I was unaware of Demi Moore's start. I thank God that I didn't see this movie before she actually became good. That reason alone I choose Julia Stiles. She chooses the biggest bone headed roles that she will have to explode with dramatic integrity. Laws of probability justify my reasoning.
What about Judd Nelson? Aw hell, Judd can stay. FYI this movie blows. It is so bad I could not even watch it to appease a girl. Which by the way I have never seen Pretty in Pink, 16 Candles, or the ever fawned over Dirty Dancing or Grease in their entirety. Yet I still can go on living.
Perhaps I will look at my favorite movies of the 90s and realize the acting was lame. Probably not. I watched them while growing more than any other time of my life (mainly since I was born in the 80s). I am trying to compare St. Elmo's Trainwreck to a movie in the 90s. Could Good Will Hunting work? No it was hands down better. Perhaps the reason for the success of Elmo is that it is based on self indulged people during the age of self importance.
Will we ever have another caliber group of actors as the brat pack? All in all they really weren't that great it was that they had great chemistry. I would like to cast Heath Ledger as the next Rob Lowe. Girls dig him and stilll have not caught on to the lack of acting capabilities. Jake Gillenhal (wrong spelling I am sure) embodies Emilio Estevez. Besides the Young Guns series, whenever Emilio or Jake is on screen I am forced to think "How the hell did he get there?"
Kirsten Dunst would make a swell drama queen like Molly did. Ally Sheedy is best represented by Katie Holmes. Not to say if I was aware of 80s movies I would have liked Ally, I just think the crooked smile should be carried on for a new generation. I was unaware of Demi Moore's start. I thank God that I didn't see this movie before she actually became good. That reason alone I choose Julia Stiles. She chooses the biggest bone headed roles that she will have to explode with dramatic integrity. Laws of probability justify my reasoning.
What about Judd Nelson? Aw hell, Judd can stay. FYI this movie blows. It is so bad I could not even watch it to appease a girl. Which by the way I have never seen Pretty in Pink, 16 Candles, or the ever fawned over Dirty Dancing or Grease in their entirety. Yet I still can go on living.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
What's My Name?
Recently I went to visit my friend has she moved into a new place with her fiance. Both of them are new in their careers and work long days. So what is the logical decision to be made when one is gone for more than a third of the day? Get a puppy. Nothing like rescuing the dog from that cold metal cage and putting him into a carpeted cage that heats well since there are only two windows in the apartment.
That is not even the craziest thing. This dog is a terrier/bulldog mix. They named the dog moose. A dog named moose. Although rather catchy, the naming that goes into pets simply is the names people would name their kids but are afraid to do so.
If animals are as smart as wacko animal shrinks say, then once they learn their name is another animal there will just be a very large identity crisis for the animal. They may have well as named the dog cat. Is there really an inappropriate pet name? If you know any of my step brother's animal names you would say apparently not (Sh!t for brains, etc). The naming just lets know who is in charge.
It works that way for humans. Johnny Cash's a boy named Sue. Nothing sends a message to the kid that says "I'm in charge" like naming a boy Sue. On the other hand the whole junior business is something I have mixed feelings about. I like the honor of a family being passed down through a name. However that is for what the last name is used. I also believe that the junior business is wrong. I feel if the man lead his life right the first time, why would you make a version 2.0 or on? Well I just want my son to be just like me. Well as sick as that sounds let's just hope his emulating of you stops short of sleeping with your wife (his mom).
Family togetherness can start or end with a name. I guess that choice is up to everyone. Just don't always use the first word that pops in your head, like apple.
That is not even the craziest thing. This dog is a terrier/bulldog mix. They named the dog moose. A dog named moose. Although rather catchy, the naming that goes into pets simply is the names people would name their kids but are afraid to do so.
If animals are as smart as wacko animal shrinks say, then once they learn their name is another animal there will just be a very large identity crisis for the animal. They may have well as named the dog cat. Is there really an inappropriate pet name? If you know any of my step brother's animal names you would say apparently not (Sh!t for brains, etc). The naming just lets know who is in charge.
It works that way for humans. Johnny Cash's a boy named Sue. Nothing sends a message to the kid that says "I'm in charge" like naming a boy Sue. On the other hand the whole junior business is something I have mixed feelings about. I like the honor of a family being passed down through a name. However that is for what the last name is used. I also believe that the junior business is wrong. I feel if the man lead his life right the first time, why would you make a version 2.0 or on? Well I just want my son to be just like me. Well as sick as that sounds let's just hope his emulating of you stops short of sleeping with your wife (his mom).
Family togetherness can start or end with a name. I guess that choice is up to everyone. Just don't always use the first word that pops in your head, like apple.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
20 Days til a New Me
Somewhere I heard that if you do something for 20 consecutive days it will become engrained into you daily routine for the rest of your life. Ok well there is a better chance, no garauntees. This is important on many levels. Physical health, professional goals, personal satisfaction can all be satisfied if one drinks a tall glass of determination.
My physical health is really not good. My height is the perfect facade for an impending heart attack from the aforementioned sausage and cheese products. I need to exercise more. How did I come to this? Before I answer you should do the same test. Run up a flight of stair (more than 7 stairs helps) and take a big hop at the top step. When you land and your chest is still shifting like tides in the ocean ask yourself this question. Am I a woman? NO. Only women should have a chest that moves as liberally as a bobble head doll.
The other test of change is as simple as putting on a pair of pants. To me when my stomach storms and conquers my belt buckle like some anemone I know it is time for a few sit ups and a few less pizza slices. The belt buckle is my fuel gauge, nothing sends chills down my spine like a freezing cold metal pressed upon the navel region.
Being tall allows a grace period that most people are unaware exists. I tell people that I have a ponch and they are quick to say "no way, you're tall." Yes, tall and with a ponch. I used to think that it was never ment for me to be in shape. Let's be honest sexy is rarely funny. If I had a six pack and was doing well in stand up the world would be thrown off its axis. Hell, if I had a six pack I would walk around without a shirt in December. (sorry for the mental image)
Have you ever tried to start a new routine? This 20 day thing is harder than it appears. Currently I am past 20 straight days of not going to work. So the good news there is that I am ready to accept unemployment as long as it runs rampant in my life. Today is day 3 of forcing myself out of bed by 9:30 am. I know most of you just dropped an f-bomb at my general direction, but hey I am trying to better myself here.
Like the saying goes, you can't blame a guy for trying, but you sure can blame him for failing. Good luck on your next 20 days.
My physical health is really not good. My height is the perfect facade for an impending heart attack from the aforementioned sausage and cheese products. I need to exercise more. How did I come to this? Before I answer you should do the same test. Run up a flight of stair (more than 7 stairs helps) and take a big hop at the top step. When you land and your chest is still shifting like tides in the ocean ask yourself this question. Am I a woman? NO. Only women should have a chest that moves as liberally as a bobble head doll.
The other test of change is as simple as putting on a pair of pants. To me when my stomach storms and conquers my belt buckle like some anemone I know it is time for a few sit ups and a few less pizza slices. The belt buckle is my fuel gauge, nothing sends chills down my spine like a freezing cold metal pressed upon the navel region.
Being tall allows a grace period that most people are unaware exists. I tell people that I have a ponch and they are quick to say "no way, you're tall." Yes, tall and with a ponch. I used to think that it was never ment for me to be in shape. Let's be honest sexy is rarely funny. If I had a six pack and was doing well in stand up the world would be thrown off its axis. Hell, if I had a six pack I would walk around without a shirt in December. (sorry for the mental image)
Have you ever tried to start a new routine? This 20 day thing is harder than it appears. Currently I am past 20 straight days of not going to work. So the good news there is that I am ready to accept unemployment as long as it runs rampant in my life. Today is day 3 of forcing myself out of bed by 9:30 am. I know most of you just dropped an f-bomb at my general direction, but hey I am trying to better myself here.
Like the saying goes, you can't blame a guy for trying, but you sure can blame him for failing. Good luck on your next 20 days.
A busy little bee
In the next few days I will be performing more than I could have imagined. Just to keep tabs on the 7 year plan, let me inform you readers of what is going on.
Tonight: 9 pm Holiday Club 4000 N. Sheridan. $5 cover (I think). Comedy showcase. Come by and check out some new material and some classic Maxwell words.
Saturday: Last Night. I am filming my first short movie that I as well wrote. I will be acting in it too aside some great friends that are ready to step into the indy film industry.
Sunday: Audition for an Improv troupe that actually pays. Downtown Chicago.
Monday: Audition for a theater company that as well pays. Downtown Chicago.
Tonight: 9 pm Holiday Club 4000 N. Sheridan. $5 cover (I think). Comedy showcase. Come by and check out some new material and some classic Maxwell words.
Saturday: Last Night. I am filming my first short movie that I as well wrote. I will be acting in it too aside some great friends that are ready to step into the indy film industry.
Sunday: Audition for an Improv troupe that actually pays. Downtown Chicago.
Monday: Audition for a theater company that as well pays. Downtown Chicago.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Better than the Wurst
Labor Day can indeed be embraced and celebrated by such people as the unemployed. See the so called holiday gives the unemployed one more day with the people that they love so much and always ask about the proximity of the next "real job."
I certainly love telling pipedreams to my family and friends about whatever prospects I have. Specifically, I like to apply for a really great job that I don't have a single qualification. That way I can see everyone struggle to utter words of confidence that have the value of a plastic champagne cup.
All in all the unofficial end of summer went rather well. I had my first cheddarwurst and it was delicious. Honestly, have the good folks at Johnsonville made a bad product? I don't think so. They could encase anything and I would eat it. On the other hand their constant pursuit to inject whatever byproduct of the earth into the link is a bit troubling.
I ate brats/sausage products for four straight days. Four days people. I woke up today with the sausage hang over, thinking I should get a pick up truck and start omitting prepositions from my daily vocabulary.
I was able to meet my brother's future mother in law. She is a reserved woman, especially when my brother and I are joking around. It was a fun conversation because everything we tried to talk about she had no desire to really respond. The situation was made harder since she is living in Singapore and seems to dismiss the whole portion of her life as many say "in the states." General conversation was made into a NASA precise topic of golfing - in Malaysia! when she got her hands on the conch. Ooh, golfing in Malaysa that is pretty exotic but have you ever golfed at the LOST MOUNTAIN? My golfing story is more compelling since 1. Anyone can find Malaysia, but not every Tom, Dick or Magellen can find a LOST MOUNTAIN. 2. Standard golf courses are huge allowing for a large margin of error, I conquered a couse where everything is miniaturized. One little elbow twitch and suddenly the ball is on the baby Nile headed to the lagoon. It is harder than it appears to be a mistake free golf diety, or genuinely uniterested intrapersonal growth.
I did not even bother to ask if there were cheddarwursts in Singapore.
I certainly love telling pipedreams to my family and friends about whatever prospects I have. Specifically, I like to apply for a really great job that I don't have a single qualification. That way I can see everyone struggle to utter words of confidence that have the value of a plastic champagne cup.
All in all the unofficial end of summer went rather well. I had my first cheddarwurst and it was delicious. Honestly, have the good folks at Johnsonville made a bad product? I don't think so. They could encase anything and I would eat it. On the other hand their constant pursuit to inject whatever byproduct of the earth into the link is a bit troubling.
I ate brats/sausage products for four straight days. Four days people. I woke up today with the sausage hang over, thinking I should get a pick up truck and start omitting prepositions from my daily vocabulary.
I was able to meet my brother's future mother in law. She is a reserved woman, especially when my brother and I are joking around. It was a fun conversation because everything we tried to talk about she had no desire to really respond. The situation was made harder since she is living in Singapore and seems to dismiss the whole portion of her life as many say "in the states." General conversation was made into a NASA precise topic of golfing - in Malaysia! when she got her hands on the conch. Ooh, golfing in Malaysa that is pretty exotic but have you ever golfed at the LOST MOUNTAIN? My golfing story is more compelling since 1. Anyone can find Malaysia, but not every Tom, Dick or Magellen can find a LOST MOUNTAIN. 2. Standard golf courses are huge allowing for a large margin of error, I conquered a couse where everything is miniaturized. One little elbow twitch and suddenly the ball is on the baby Nile headed to the lagoon. It is harder than it appears to be a mistake free golf diety, or genuinely uniterested intrapersonal growth.
I did not even bother to ask if there were cheddarwursts in Singapore.
Friday, September 03, 2004
I could care less.
I am a huge fan of autumn and whatever wonderful memories may insue during the barrage of holidays and meaningless days for a parade. Fall is wonderful for many reasons. One being it puts an end to the mundane summer sport of baseball. Thank you NFL for having off the field issues that are mroe captivating than any story in baseball. Pro football is great, even when your team is in the cellar you can be cheering for the sport in general. I could care less about college football.
The biggest hang up on the sport is that after a five month season there still is not a unanimous champion. There are so many colleges that play that the NCAA does not know how to regulate a decision. A decision. Make one. Make tournament- like every other damn sport. Who's wonderful idea was it to have a computer rate the quality of a team? Is that not why the games are played?
Secondly, holy excessive sponsorship batman! Almost every game has some mega store sponsoring the every play. That fumble was brought to you in part by Ex-Lax. Come new year's day there is so much football that it takes away from the actual achievements of a good team. Sorry Notre Dame fans, no Sugar Bowl- excuse me Nokia Sugar Bowl, you will have to watch your team play in the Jiffy Lube Bowl or maybe the highly coveted Blockbuster Bowl. Upon hearing that a team is playing in one of the lame bowls I certainly hope they realize that their degree in Agricultural Science might be needed to make a buck or two.
Even though I am not a big fan of college football I still know the most important rule. Beat Michigan. It amazes me how I am so apathetic to the sport yet will revel in any loss by that team. Which is a shame because Michigan is a nice state with a catchy tourism campaign (YES! Michigan).
The biggest hang up on the sport is that after a five month season there still is not a unanimous champion. There are so many colleges that play that the NCAA does not know how to regulate a decision. A decision. Make one. Make tournament- like every other damn sport. Who's wonderful idea was it to have a computer rate the quality of a team? Is that not why the games are played?
Secondly, holy excessive sponsorship batman! Almost every game has some mega store sponsoring the every play. That fumble was brought to you in part by Ex-Lax. Come new year's day there is so much football that it takes away from the actual achievements of a good team. Sorry Notre Dame fans, no Sugar Bowl- excuse me Nokia Sugar Bowl, you will have to watch your team play in the Jiffy Lube Bowl or maybe the highly coveted Blockbuster Bowl. Upon hearing that a team is playing in one of the lame bowls I certainly hope they realize that their degree in Agricultural Science might be needed to make a buck or two.
Even though I am not a big fan of college football I still know the most important rule. Beat Michigan. It amazes me how I am so apathetic to the sport yet will revel in any loss by that team. Which is a shame because Michigan is a nice state with a catchy tourism campaign (YES! Michigan).
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Maintaining the Personal Equilibrium
Not every day is a cup of sweet tea, nor is every day dog gone aweful. Reason being life has a way of balancing itself out. It just seems whenever the day is going swimmingly the night is as good as tv show on PAX. The reality check is something we all need to self induldge in before life inflicts one on us.
There are plenty of things to do as pick me ups. My personal favorite is public transportation. No matter how futile my life seem, no matter how inept I am at romance I know I can turn to the mass transit system to make my worries seem like the b story. Whether it is the train or the bus, upon arrival I learn from the facial expressions alone that my life is not nearly as bad as the people around me. These people are so distant from hope and emotion that you'd think the train was going to Auschwitz.
Public transportation is also good for another boost to your day. Never before in my life have I felt that I was more physically attractive than anyone else. Now I am not saying that everyone on a bus or train has fallen from the ugly tree. Just most of them look like they are coming off a trip induced by a China paper plate of hard core narcotics. If you ever feel like an idiot get on a train/L, wait no more than fifteen minutes before some dufus runs in, and gasps "which line is this? Is this the green line?" Hey Mr. Magoo, I guess you missed the big sign on the side of the train that says GREEN in green (right next to the door of all places). Suddenly common sense beats the plight of a dead end job.
Life is not all sunshine and Will & Grace reruns, so regulating the buzzkill is a large task. When my day seems to be going to well I like to turn on VH1. Chances are that there is an episode of "The Fabulous Life of..." which is an exact take off of E!'s "It's Good to Be..." Both shows would be more appropriately titled "Shi* You'll Never Have" or "Rich People to Live Vicariously Through." Nothing shatters hope like hearing that some ridiculously rich person has 100 $35k watches.
Whether employed or not, try to find a job. Nothing can strip the dignity, self-respect, and inner peace of one like a job hunt. Never since the quest to lose one's virginity are these words uttered - I'm sure you're good but you're just not good enough for me. One story that hits home is when submitting for a position and then get the phone rejection. This is a new tactic for employers to shift leverage further away from the applicant. The call reminds the applicant of such position applied for, then the company says something along the lines of "well the posting you applied for is no longer open, however we do have a lower position availible. How do you fell about less pay?...still interested?"
What comes up must come down, and what goes down will eventually land face up.
There are plenty of things to do as pick me ups. My personal favorite is public transportation. No matter how futile my life seem, no matter how inept I am at romance I know I can turn to the mass transit system to make my worries seem like the b story. Whether it is the train or the bus, upon arrival I learn from the facial expressions alone that my life is not nearly as bad as the people around me. These people are so distant from hope and emotion that you'd think the train was going to Auschwitz.
Public transportation is also good for another boost to your day. Never before in my life have I felt that I was more physically attractive than anyone else. Now I am not saying that everyone on a bus or train has fallen from the ugly tree. Just most of them look like they are coming off a trip induced by a China paper plate of hard core narcotics. If you ever feel like an idiot get on a train/L, wait no more than fifteen minutes before some dufus runs in, and gasps "which line is this? Is this the green line?" Hey Mr. Magoo, I guess you missed the big sign on the side of the train that says GREEN in green (right next to the door of all places). Suddenly common sense beats the plight of a dead end job.
Life is not all sunshine and Will & Grace reruns, so regulating the buzzkill is a large task. When my day seems to be going to well I like to turn on VH1. Chances are that there is an episode of "The Fabulous Life of..." which is an exact take off of E!'s "It's Good to Be..." Both shows would be more appropriately titled "Shi* You'll Never Have" or "Rich People to Live Vicariously Through." Nothing shatters hope like hearing that some ridiculously rich person has 100 $35k watches.
Whether employed or not, try to find a job. Nothing can strip the dignity, self-respect, and inner peace of one like a job hunt. Never since the quest to lose one's virginity are these words uttered - I'm sure you're good but you're just not good enough for me. One story that hits home is when submitting for a position and then get the phone rejection. This is a new tactic for employers to shift leverage further away from the applicant. The call reminds the applicant of such position applied for, then the company says something along the lines of "well the posting you applied for is no longer open, however we do have a lower position availible. How do you fell about less pay?...still interested?"
What comes up must come down, and what goes down will eventually land face up.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Top 10 Fall Fashion Questions Finally Answered
Summer is pretty much over so that means that people will need to do more than show skin to get attention during Fall. The fashion Nazis from the Gap (Hitler wore Khakis too www.adbusters.org) have already launched Lenny and Sarah at us showing which pattern of stripes is in this fall. Well that alone helps many lost souls; but there are some more questions to be answered.
1. Can whites wear dew rags? - Well after seeing Vinny Testeverde wearing one on ESPN, no. First of all, what happened to a sweat band? It works for a NBA players. When a physically strong man says "where is my dew rag?" it just seems that it should be said with a lisp. Typically when a culture takes something from another they look stupid and ackward. However in this case the concept of wearing a tailored panty hose on your head makes you look like a nimrod- no matter the color of skin.
2. Would the boy scout uniform be best worn by lesbians? - Olive green knee high socks and scarfs. That is not a tough call. Yes. Only America's largest organized group of parental homophobes would dress their sons like a lilith fair patron.
3. What percentage of black women can actually pull off wearing a wig? - After watching the MTV video music awards and seeing Alicia Keys in a wig I have decided. 1%. Wearing a wig when you already have hair just screams identity crisis. Soul food good, black booty as well good, wigs or hair extentions from a pony rarely good.
4. Will white women ever learn that they are not Sarah Jessica Parker? - No. I was certainly hoping so but after the latest Gap ad, the dilusion will continue for another six months. Now TBS has her on tv constantly for those who are to cheap to get HBO or rent a dvd. As college is just a memory women need a new cool roommate that they can borrow all of her clothes. Enter SJP. I guess the fashion groundhog has just let us know that stelletos and jeans are still in, as long as you have a hit tv show, in syndication.
5. Would we still tatoo amd pierce ourselves even if there were not sororities? - No. The tattoo and piercing industry has a silent partnership with sororities. How would these young girls feel sexy and most importantly uniformily independent? Highlights and tanning booths just would not cut it. In most piercing cases, they are removed by graduation or removed before the fifth year since the fifth year tends to be a light workload that translates into marooning onto the futon eating Pringles by the tube.
6. If Fashion is cyclical why have in my lifetime I have seen the 60's fashion of bell bottoms three times and yet to have witnessed a braless social movement once? - If the girls think that a seven inch deep v-neck is liberating they really should acknowledge the oppression by males represented by a $30 satin push up bra. Victoria's secret, women don't need her stuff. There is nothing more attractive than a woman that you clearly can tell is not wearing a bra. Plus this way a guy will never have to ask if a girl needs cuddling, they will know before she does.
7. What happened to valeur jumpsuits? - They were made uncool by lawyers' wives. It is hard to maintain street cred when Cyndi has the same jumpsuit that says Gucci on the butt. Fear not I hear twead is the new valeur.
8. Pants or skirt? Why not both? - Look ladies, flat out honesty. You ALL look like idiots with a dress or skirt over a pair of pants. Actually you look like a lamp when you wear that outfit. This fashion trend just shows how afraid women are of making a decision that holds minimal effect to their life. "Where do you want to go out to eat?" "I don't know where do you want to go?
9. Can anything replace the power tie? - Never. The power tie is the best thing the Republican Party has given the U.S.A.
10. Will there ever be a more versitile color than black? - I am sorry to say no. If you are some of the shopoholics that bought the silly lie that both pink and green are in fashion at the same time, well then - sucker, party of one your table is ready. Look, black is the only color that is worn by 14 year olds to be individuals and then can be worn by 30 year olds to appear classy.
1. Can whites wear dew rags? - Well after seeing Vinny Testeverde wearing one on ESPN, no. First of all, what happened to a sweat band? It works for a NBA players. When a physically strong man says "where is my dew rag?" it just seems that it should be said with a lisp. Typically when a culture takes something from another they look stupid and ackward. However in this case the concept of wearing a tailored panty hose on your head makes you look like a nimrod- no matter the color of skin.
2. Would the boy scout uniform be best worn by lesbians? - Olive green knee high socks and scarfs. That is not a tough call. Yes. Only America's largest organized group of parental homophobes would dress their sons like a lilith fair patron.
3. What percentage of black women can actually pull off wearing a wig? - After watching the MTV video music awards and seeing Alicia Keys in a wig I have decided. 1%. Wearing a wig when you already have hair just screams identity crisis. Soul food good, black booty as well good, wigs or hair extentions from a pony rarely good.
4. Will white women ever learn that they are not Sarah Jessica Parker? - No. I was certainly hoping so but after the latest Gap ad, the dilusion will continue for another six months. Now TBS has her on tv constantly for those who are to cheap to get HBO or rent a dvd. As college is just a memory women need a new cool roommate that they can borrow all of her clothes. Enter SJP. I guess the fashion groundhog has just let us know that stelletos and jeans are still in, as long as you have a hit tv show, in syndication.
5. Would we still tatoo amd pierce ourselves even if there were not sororities? - No. The tattoo and piercing industry has a silent partnership with sororities. How would these young girls feel sexy and most importantly uniformily independent? Highlights and tanning booths just would not cut it. In most piercing cases, they are removed by graduation or removed before the fifth year since the fifth year tends to be a light workload that translates into marooning onto the futon eating Pringles by the tube.
6. If Fashion is cyclical why have in my lifetime I have seen the 60's fashion of bell bottoms three times and yet to have witnessed a braless social movement once? - If the girls think that a seven inch deep v-neck is liberating they really should acknowledge the oppression by males represented by a $30 satin push up bra. Victoria's secret, women don't need her stuff. There is nothing more attractive than a woman that you clearly can tell is not wearing a bra. Plus this way a guy will never have to ask if a girl needs cuddling, they will know before she does.
7. What happened to valeur jumpsuits? - They were made uncool by lawyers' wives. It is hard to maintain street cred when Cyndi has the same jumpsuit that says Gucci on the butt. Fear not I hear twead is the new valeur.
8. Pants or skirt? Why not both? - Look ladies, flat out honesty. You ALL look like idiots with a dress or skirt over a pair of pants. Actually you look like a lamp when you wear that outfit. This fashion trend just shows how afraid women are of making a decision that holds minimal effect to their life. "Where do you want to go out to eat?" "I don't know where do you want to go?
9. Can anything replace the power tie? - Never. The power tie is the best thing the Republican Party has given the U.S.A.
10. Will there ever be a more versitile color than black? - I am sorry to say no. If you are some of the shopoholics that bought the silly lie that both pink and green are in fashion at the same time, well then - sucker, party of one your table is ready. Look, black is the only color that is worn by 14 year olds to be individuals and then can be worn by 30 year olds to appear classy.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Urban Legends Spilled on the Dance Floor
I went out on Saturday to a suburban club called North Beach. Now two important things to know about the patrons that frequent NB are one the guys dress in the styles from a ten month old GQ and the girls well apparently butt cleav is still in.
Upon my arrival I learned of important music industry news. There was an urban legend that Limp Bizkit was making a come back. Well, Fred Durst has become so desperate for attention that he appeared at North Beach wearing a flaming shirt. No really, the shirt had flames and this dill-hole even had the red ball cap backwards. Like a Limp Bizkit cd on the shelf, he stayed in one place and no one noticed him.
My next myth to dispell is that even the d.d. can get a phone number of an attractive person. As I sat at the I.T.O.S (Intoxicated Table of Sausage) I would make blatant eye contact with a lady caller from across the way. She then would respond. Whether it be a glance, shift of eye brows, or walking away no is probably the only word that never needs to actually be spoken.
The word on the street is that young women bartenders can keep a tab straight from other tabs. If they weren't so worried about the lamp shade of a mini showing the celophane thong. When confronted with the fact that I did not order nearly the price on the tab, sweetness went sour on me for questioning the bill. Fortunately, lady hotpants fixed the tab and apologized for the bitter box.
The last myth is that only lonely, desperate guys stay to near last call hoping to get whatever falls in their lap. The guys are easied to spot as they are typically surrounded by...ok they are just about five feet from a group of girls that they don't know. Slowly they move closer foolishly choosing to execute the worst moves possible- "the creep." There are plenty of lonely gals lingering around for "one more drink." Catching one of these fish is quite possible, finding a clean one is another story.
Upon my arrival I learned of important music industry news. There was an urban legend that Limp Bizkit was making a come back. Well, Fred Durst has become so desperate for attention that he appeared at North Beach wearing a flaming shirt. No really, the shirt had flames and this dill-hole even had the red ball cap backwards. Like a Limp Bizkit cd on the shelf, he stayed in one place and no one noticed him.
My next myth to dispell is that even the d.d. can get a phone number of an attractive person. As I sat at the I.T.O.S (Intoxicated Table of Sausage) I would make blatant eye contact with a lady caller from across the way. She then would respond. Whether it be a glance, shift of eye brows, or walking away no is probably the only word that never needs to actually be spoken.
The word on the street is that young women bartenders can keep a tab straight from other tabs. If they weren't so worried about the lamp shade of a mini showing the celophane thong. When confronted with the fact that I did not order nearly the price on the tab, sweetness went sour on me for questioning the bill. Fortunately, lady hotpants fixed the tab and apologized for the bitter box.
The last myth is that only lonely, desperate guys stay to near last call hoping to get whatever falls in their lap. The guys are easied to spot as they are typically surrounded by...ok they are just about five feet from a group of girls that they don't know. Slowly they move closer foolishly choosing to execute the worst moves possible- "the creep." There are plenty of lonely gals lingering around for "one more drink." Catching one of these fish is quite possible, finding a clean one is another story.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Do All Liberals Sleep in a Swimsuit?
God Bless America. I sure love this election year. There is something specail about the major social movement this time. It seems that almost every group or celebrity is telling people to vote. Puff Daddy has put his Gucci-Ghetto appeal on the MTV crows telling young voters to "VOTE OR DIE!" Apparently if you do not vote you will be sent to either Iraq or Afganistan indefitiely.
Although we should be happy someone is excited to vote, putting a metaphorical Luger to their head is not the best way to get things done. I would have thought Diddy to be a liberal but his scare tactic is clearly a conservative maneuver. The only way this effort can get better is if he teams up with other MTV trophy Jessica Simpson to host a meet and greet with the candidates.
I don't know enough about economics to be considered a Republican so by default I guess I am a liberal. If Bush is to win this election it will be based on the fact that moron liberals won't keep their mouth shut about 90% of the issues they are uneducated about since they were not featured in Rolling Stone. Yes, I note the irony of this very blog entry, and certainly hope you do too.
As follow up to my last entry, the wagon is staying.
Although we should be happy someone is excited to vote, putting a metaphorical Luger to their head is not the best way to get things done. I would have thought Diddy to be a liberal but his scare tactic is clearly a conservative maneuver. The only way this effort can get better is if he teams up with other MTV trophy Jessica Simpson to host a meet and greet with the candidates.
I don't know enough about economics to be considered a Republican so by default I guess I am a liberal. If Bush is to win this election it will be based on the fact that moron liberals won't keep their mouth shut about 90% of the issues they are uneducated about since they were not featured in Rolling Stone. Yes, I note the irony of this very blog entry, and certainly hope you do too.
As follow up to my last entry, the wagon is staying.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Wagons East?
While I was out in Washington D.C. I enjoyed the lifestyle of the east coast. I moved back to hit up the Chicago comedy scene and well school at Second City. I am loving the bittersweet life of the starving/unemployed artist. However I still need a job.
I applied to the school that I studied at in Spain. The position was to recruite students and create a promotional campaign that could increase enrollment blah blah blah. Well they called this morning at 9:30 waking me from a bad dream (no metaphor intended). The message left was the office telling me the position for which I applied for has been filled. I should have known, at least the call was nice. The woman continued that there is another position availible and would like to know if I am interested.
Nothing gets me out of bed faster than a job offer, well maybe a pizza and some onion rings or nachos- ooh nachos. (By the way Rob said I should not get nachos when we went to a bar, even though it was a sausage convention) I have about three business days to decide if I want to live in Massachusetts.
Wagons East? Time will tell. Hey I got bills to you know. Plus side I could get that New England accent I have coveted for years now. Down side, I will be surrounded by Patriot fans. I vow to not bow to Tom Brady if I take this job.
I applied to the school that I studied at in Spain. The position was to recruite students and create a promotional campaign that could increase enrollment blah blah blah. Well they called this morning at 9:30 waking me from a bad dream (no metaphor intended). The message left was the office telling me the position for which I applied for has been filled. I should have known, at least the call was nice. The woman continued that there is another position availible and would like to know if I am interested.
Nothing gets me out of bed faster than a job offer, well maybe a pizza and some onion rings or nachos- ooh nachos. (By the way Rob said I should not get nachos when we went to a bar, even though it was a sausage convention) I have about three business days to decide if I want to live in Massachusetts.
Wagons East? Time will tell. Hey I got bills to you know. Plus side I could get that New England accent I have coveted for years now. Down side, I will be surrounded by Patriot fans. I vow to not bow to Tom Brady if I take this job.
Where My People At?
Life has a peculiar way of educating one about themself. Within the past few months I have learned an all to pressing fact about myself. I tend to omit one word from something that I read, heard, or even said. This became ever-present once again on Tuesday when I went to the Job Fair at Navy Pier. I am sorry that was the Diversity Job Fair.
The news paper said it was just a job fair and the internet said it was a diversity job fair. There was even a pie chart of the race demographic in Chicago. Uncertain of the turn out, I drove into the city and parked for what cost about thirty cents a minute.
I entered Navy Pier with shirt and tie, carrying my new resume and revived hope soon to be crushed. Matters were worsened when I was walking for about half a mile on the pier and still did not see the room. I was also getting these strange looks from people. What I thought was just me being in a tie at a tourist spot was almost right. They were all looking at me strangely because I was the only white guy in a shirt and tie.
Every sign there said "diversity job fair." Upon recieving this bushel of lemons I made lemonade by telling myself that mathematically I can be the most memorable white person there, plus if I were to be questioned about ethnicity I could tell them that I and the other five whites there that couldn't read were technically a minority.
After going to a job fair for college students at Marquette and then this fiasco, I have come to the conclusion that diversity job fair is code for crap job festival. I went over to a hotel's booth and asked what positions were availible. A man with broken English scrolled his finger down a paper passing housekeeper, room attendant, etc. Thankfully this job fair opens avenues that most minorities could not obtain on their own, like becoming a hotel housekeeper.
Before leaving the job fair I realized something else. No matter where you are in life there will always be someone/thing close to you that you simply don't want to associate with. There were two companies that were the pariahs. Terminex and Waste Management. It should not take four years of college to realize that those jobs suck. What do you do? I kill bugs. I work for curbside restoration- uhh garbage man.
Maybe my cinicism stems from the body language of employers that were playing the role of everything but that. I think the $14 penalty for parking for 45 minutes was icing on my multicultural cake. All in all, it was another experience that is helping to revive my apathy for the workplace. Which could only mean that I am close to returning.
The news paper said it was just a job fair and the internet said it was a diversity job fair. There was even a pie chart of the race demographic in Chicago. Uncertain of the turn out, I drove into the city and parked for what cost about thirty cents a minute.
I entered Navy Pier with shirt and tie, carrying my new resume and revived hope soon to be crushed. Matters were worsened when I was walking for about half a mile on the pier and still did not see the room. I was also getting these strange looks from people. What I thought was just me being in a tie at a tourist spot was almost right. They were all looking at me strangely because I was the only white guy in a shirt and tie.
Every sign there said "diversity job fair." Upon recieving this bushel of lemons I made lemonade by telling myself that mathematically I can be the most memorable white person there, plus if I were to be questioned about ethnicity I could tell them that I and the other five whites there that couldn't read were technically a minority.
After going to a job fair for college students at Marquette and then this fiasco, I have come to the conclusion that diversity job fair is code for crap job festival. I went over to a hotel's booth and asked what positions were availible. A man with broken English scrolled his finger down a paper passing housekeeper, room attendant, etc. Thankfully this job fair opens avenues that most minorities could not obtain on their own, like becoming a hotel housekeeper.
Before leaving the job fair I realized something else. No matter where you are in life there will always be someone/thing close to you that you simply don't want to associate with. There were two companies that were the pariahs. Terminex and Waste Management. It should not take four years of college to realize that those jobs suck. What do you do? I kill bugs. I work for curbside restoration- uhh garbage man.
Maybe my cinicism stems from the body language of employers that were playing the role of everything but that. I think the $14 penalty for parking for 45 minutes was icing on my multicultural cake. All in all, it was another experience that is helping to revive my apathy for the workplace. Which could only mean that I am close to returning.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Hey, Give Back That Personal Happiness
I find this topic of society discussed especially in our election year. I let this marinade in my brain for the longest time yet am inspired in this moment (to be explained later) to write about it. I am in awe at humanity with its fascination with driving the bitter bus. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
I suppose on a literal message we are all entitled to pursue happiness. Whom gets to have it is another story. I am thoroughly disgusted by the notion of same sex marriage being political issue. One big honking reason is marriage and politics share such a fragile relationship. The American government was founded with a separation of church and state, which is impossible in this modern era.
If that separation was to be true then it should not matter whether Joan and Dale got married or John and Roy did. Essentially as long as the couple was witnessed then all would be well. Not so quick, "we don't serve your kind here" says ignorant America. I can say that without a doubt because there are many hetero marriages that are interracial and had to fight a hauntingly similar battle earlier. Apparently Alzheimer's hit more people than imagined.
There is one group of people I expected this from, white men. In all fairness I credit most of my hypochondria to pigmentation. White men (historically and with the current political climate) have been behind the ignorance regimes that boast resistance to social change. White men were afraid of any heritage that did not need sun block. Many still are, and many are above the Mason Dixon line. So as sad as it sounds, I expected this sort of cowardly action from many white men.
There is more to the story. How, with one's scarred past of walking into firehoses, burning of bras, eviction from home and work to distant barracks, mass genocide of generations, robbing of sacred land, unending persecution of personal beliefs could many cultures turn their back on a community that is treading a similar path that they tread?
Throughout history discrimination has been everpresent. In this current situation I have the following questions for the homophobic people that read this.
Blacks-Do you not remember when your ancestors were only seen as 2/3 a person?
Women- Did your relatives ever burn their bra? or did they stay in the kitchen because that where they belonged?
Asians- Do relocation camps for Japanese during ww2 not remind you of the hardships a cultire can experience?
I could go on about the major obstacles but I am hoping that my point is clear.
It is quite a shame that Americans think of liberty and happiness like the conch from "Lord of the Flies." Something that is passed around for one to control and then when they are done with it they will pass it to the next party. We are the obese person holding the ladle telling someone else that they can't eat here. Clearly we have had too much too eat and only hold on to the ladle and scoop more food out of fear of what we can't (nor should) control (someone else's wellbeing).
Have another metaphor.
To me this is a fourth and inches situation that never needed to happen. As life advanced, penalties were called, downs were redone and it seemed as though every effort expelled would inevitably be stopped by the steel curtain defense and baised refs. The sacrifice of an entire group sweats, bleads and sacrifice themselves only to move a cause a couple inches when really everyone playing needs to realize that this battle is not the superbowl. It is just a scrimage by the coach to see if we can co-exist. Too many of us are lining up against someone in a fit of unjustified emotion never really asking ourselves "what am I fighting for?" This battle that happens between teams does in fact make groups better- at fighting. Until our fists are unclenched we can never pull them up from the ground, nor can they help us up.
I needed to write that down because if I tried to say all that I would have been stopped much earlier. It may seem over idealistic but I don't think so.
I suppose on a literal message we are all entitled to pursue happiness. Whom gets to have it is another story. I am thoroughly disgusted by the notion of same sex marriage being political issue. One big honking reason is marriage and politics share such a fragile relationship. The American government was founded with a separation of church and state, which is impossible in this modern era.
If that separation was to be true then it should not matter whether Joan and Dale got married or John and Roy did. Essentially as long as the couple was witnessed then all would be well. Not so quick, "we don't serve your kind here" says ignorant America. I can say that without a doubt because there are many hetero marriages that are interracial and had to fight a hauntingly similar battle earlier. Apparently Alzheimer's hit more people than imagined.
There is one group of people I expected this from, white men. In all fairness I credit most of my hypochondria to pigmentation. White men (historically and with the current political climate) have been behind the ignorance regimes that boast resistance to social change. White men were afraid of any heritage that did not need sun block. Many still are, and many are above the Mason Dixon line. So as sad as it sounds, I expected this sort of cowardly action from many white men.
There is more to the story. How, with one's scarred past of walking into firehoses, burning of bras, eviction from home and work to distant barracks, mass genocide of generations, robbing of sacred land, unending persecution of personal beliefs could many cultures turn their back on a community that is treading a similar path that they tread?
Throughout history discrimination has been everpresent. In this current situation I have the following questions for the homophobic people that read this.
Blacks-Do you not remember when your ancestors were only seen as 2/3 a person?
Women- Did your relatives ever burn their bra? or did they stay in the kitchen because that where they belonged?
Asians- Do relocation camps for Japanese during ww2 not remind you of the hardships a cultire can experience?
I could go on about the major obstacles but I am hoping that my point is clear.
It is quite a shame that Americans think of liberty and happiness like the conch from "Lord of the Flies." Something that is passed around for one to control and then when they are done with it they will pass it to the next party. We are the obese person holding the ladle telling someone else that they can't eat here. Clearly we have had too much too eat and only hold on to the ladle and scoop more food out of fear of what we can't (nor should) control (someone else's wellbeing).
Have another metaphor.
To me this is a fourth and inches situation that never needed to happen. As life advanced, penalties were called, downs were redone and it seemed as though every effort expelled would inevitably be stopped by the steel curtain defense and baised refs. The sacrifice of an entire group sweats, bleads and sacrifice themselves only to move a cause a couple inches when really everyone playing needs to realize that this battle is not the superbowl. It is just a scrimage by the coach to see if we can co-exist. Too many of us are lining up against someone in a fit of unjustified emotion never really asking ourselves "what am I fighting for?" This battle that happens between teams does in fact make groups better- at fighting. Until our fists are unclenched we can never pull them up from the ground, nor can they help us up.
I needed to write that down because if I tried to say all that I would have been stopped much earlier. It may seem over idealistic but I don't think so.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Ready to Love Again
It has been quite some time since I have dabled in the romantic arts. Well, I am putting in my 2 week notice for driving the bitter bus and will be rejoining the pool with renewed hope. Some of you are either saying "as long as your sober I believe that." or "good for you, six months is a long enough sabatical." Regardless I have returned my heart to my first love- not pizza by the way.
I was laying on my bed while a rather loud storm was happening outside. Amazingly (perhaps a message from God) the Directv still was working. It was 11:30pm and with my heart on my sleave I turned on the WB to watch a "fresh" episode of "Summerland." That was battling against my 15th viewing this summer of Catch Me if You Can.
Perhaps you may not know the premise of Summerland. After watching about three episodes I still don't either. That is the beauty of WB programming. Aingst rules any other cohesive storyline. Why was I watcing a WB drama? Did I not learn love hurts from Dawson, Joey, Pacey, and Felicity (yes I watched it, but not when she got the haircut.)? The answer of course is yes, We all fall off the horse from time to time but if we never get ourselves back on it we are probably laying on a pile of horse apples. Love hurts but emmotionial solitary confinement stinks.
Enter my first love. Lori Laughlin.
The angel that first came into my life as Rebecca in Full House. This woman is a modern Aphrodite. In twenty years she aged like three years tops. Maybe there is a leap-year contingency involved, who knows. What I do know is that Lori is having the same difficulties as myself. (minus the nephew watching and other parental crap). Not a day goes by that I thank God for her relationship with John Stamos to only be fictitious. I would cry like a Cubs fan on October 1st if she was to have been actually associated (romantically/intimately) with the clean cut Carrot Top.
My Full House loyalty is evergreen. However, if I had to choose a future with Lori Laughlin or Jodi Sweeten (Stephanie Tanner) I would be at a loss. Where in the world is Jodi by the way? Everyone else in Full House has resurfaced in one facet of eating disorder or bit role for made for tv movies. I don't think it is naive to say that Jodi and I would hit it off but then again I have not seen how she is doing. Before you put me on the vain train, I just don't want a sweatpant sweetheart. She best be working hard to consistantly fit through a turnstile- without turning to the side.
That is why I must stick to my guns and declare my heart for Lori Laughlin. By chance Lori that you are indeed reading this (shut it Phil- we all have dreams) you are the female version of Dick Clark (ageless wonder), except hot and not balding. One question Lori- what is going on with the teeth? I understand whitening is the thing to do instead of brushing and flossing these days but when the scene fades to black your smile is so bright one would think you swallowed the moon. Tone it down please, a woman with such a golden complexion should not be smiling with teeth whiter than her wedding dress.
Alright, I guess this probably will not work out Lori. Your busy schedule and my eternal search for an uncancelled open mic in Chicago would not allow for much us time. Best of luch Lori, I will have to swallow my pride/5th of scotch and hit the aforementioned scene. Game on.
It has been quite some time since I have dabled in the romantic arts. Well, I am putting in my 2 week notice for driving the bitter bus and will be rejoining the pool with renewed hope. Some of you are either saying "as long as your sober I believe that." or "good for you, six months is a long enough sabatical." Regardless I have returned my heart to my first love- not pizza by the way.
I was laying on my bed while a rather loud storm was happening outside. Amazingly (perhaps a message from God) the Directv still was working. It was 11:30pm and with my heart on my sleave I turned on the WB to watch a "fresh" episode of "Summerland." That was battling against my 15th viewing this summer of Catch Me if You Can.
Perhaps you may not know the premise of Summerland. After watching about three episodes I still don't either. That is the beauty of WB programming. Aingst rules any other cohesive storyline. Why was I watcing a WB drama? Did I not learn love hurts from Dawson, Joey, Pacey, and Felicity (yes I watched it, but not when she got the haircut.)? The answer of course is yes, We all fall off the horse from time to time but if we never get ourselves back on it we are probably laying on a pile of horse apples. Love hurts but emmotionial solitary confinement stinks.
Enter my first love. Lori Laughlin.
The angel that first came into my life as Rebecca in Full House. This woman is a modern Aphrodite. In twenty years she aged like three years tops. Maybe there is a leap-year contingency involved, who knows. What I do know is that Lori is having the same difficulties as myself. (minus the nephew watching and other parental crap). Not a day goes by that I thank God for her relationship with John Stamos to only be fictitious. I would cry like a Cubs fan on October 1st if she was to have been actually associated (romantically/intimately) with the clean cut Carrot Top.
My Full House loyalty is evergreen. However, if I had to choose a future with Lori Laughlin or Jodi Sweeten (Stephanie Tanner) I would be at a loss. Where in the world is Jodi by the way? Everyone else in Full House has resurfaced in one facet of eating disorder or bit role for made for tv movies. I don't think it is naive to say that Jodi and I would hit it off but then again I have not seen how she is doing. Before you put me on the vain train, I just don't want a sweatpant sweetheart. She best be working hard to consistantly fit through a turnstile- without turning to the side.
That is why I must stick to my guns and declare my heart for Lori Laughlin. By chance Lori that you are indeed reading this (shut it Phil- we all have dreams) you are the female version of Dick Clark (ageless wonder), except hot and not balding. One question Lori- what is going on with the teeth? I understand whitening is the thing to do instead of brushing and flossing these days but when the scene fades to black your smile is so bright one would think you swallowed the moon. Tone it down please, a woman with such a golden complexion should not be smiling with teeth whiter than her wedding dress.
Alright, I guess this probably will not work out Lori. Your busy schedule and my eternal search for an uncancelled open mic in Chicago would not allow for much us time. Best of luch Lori, I will have to swallow my pride/5th of scotch and hit the aforementioned scene. Game on.
Monday, August 02, 2004
The Scene (part one)
Loverboy said it best, everybody is working for the weekend. Well, they said nothing about working at a paying job for the weekend. Would you look at that. The second sentence of the blog and I am already on a tangent. back to the matter at hand the scene in Chicago's meat markets.
I went over to Rob's barrio where little Italy meets mini Mexico this past friday night after my improv show. My friend Sarah and her sorority gal pal Kristin came along. While waiting for the girls (Alison too) I asked Rob what the plan was for the night. "So will we be going to a place where we can actually sit down and hear what the person two feet away is saying, or are we going to an obnoxious place like Shennanigans where the walls sweat and the really classy girls dance from brass poles? because I have no preference." Rob replies. "Clearly you have no preference."
So we five greek geeks sit and tell stories of the hay day (Ali refrained- maybe bc she deactivated, who knows?). Let me tell how to bring people together. Tell about an hour of -you had to be there- stories. I am surprised Alison didn't kill us. So we venture over to Hawkeyes, a local tavern that sit, drink, and clearly hear the rejection from unreciprocated lovas.
Besides a ineptitude for dancing, when I go out on the weekend I am not primarily looking for play. This sets my perogatives apart from the groups sometimes. I say that because consistantly I go out looking for a solid buzz and most importantly a nice plate of nachos.
I then had a run in with the waitress named something-oya or what's-it-isha. Apparently when I ordered (mind you) my own plate of nachos I was to consider that not only would my friends be eating them (which was cool with me/expected) but I was to impress the waitress with my cornacoupia of toppings. I told her only salsa, cheese and sour cream would be necessary. She told me "Wow, that is boring. That's not my flavor." I actually replied "I was unaware that I was supposed to take the eating preferences of the waitress into consideration. I am sorry." I ironed things out with her and things were so good that I even let her take the plates in for a nice tip.
Now the night came to a breaking point. Rob and Allison were on a separate page from Sarah and Kristin. I was just happy I got my freaking nachos. Rob and Ali were about to declare the move to another bar when the girls ordered another beer. To break the tensions I reminded Kristin that she still had not won the challenge from earlier. This challenge was to lick her own elbow. She took that 10 second joke and made it into full hour show just about. FYI she could only reach her forearm. God do I love sorority girls who perpetuate a stereotype.
We leave and then the girls leave since they did not want to come along. Where were we going? Well Rob uses the blanket term Wrigleyville and then switches it out as we walk up to Shennanigans. I feel like the dog that is told it is going for a ride to Petsmart but gets out at the vet. So I go in. 1. Because Rob is my friend and he came to my show. 2. Hope- that things won't be nearly as akward this time.
Wrong.
I walk in and there are two docked bouyes in this beer girls tank top. That is the one thing I like about bars. You never verbally have to ask "so how did you get this job?" Every girl has either a fine butt or chest and the guys that work there are all Linkoln Park punk-metras.
So Rob like always courageously buys the first round. As they make their way into dance it up, I assume the tall guy position against the far wall. Although I did not dance, I was entertained by a shaved monkey dancing by himself. No really, imagine a shaven monkey and put on some Old Navy shirt and that is who I saw. The humor there was he was two part. One he was constantly trying to get this trashy girl to dance up on him. She shot him down. Perhaps it was his air boxing dance moves that scared her off. He literally threw jabs and crosses as dance moves. Or so I thought.
He stormed off to get physical with some J.Crew model and well models have friends and monkeys don't so the dude had to back off. He reported back up by his tire swing and was then rejected again by the girl. I laughed, for a long time. He looked at me, I kept laughing until he was met up by another desperate soul by the brass pole. I am sure they had a great night and will be friends for life.
Alison saw my enjoyment level was equal to being at the Field Museum. So we left and eventually went into this other bar. I was at this point drinking water so I could drive home. The bartender mocked me for asking for water. I love Wrigleyville. She later made me cross my heart and swear on my grave that I was really the designated driver so I could have another cup of water. I love Wrigleyville.
Rob soon met a woman.
I say woman because she was clearly thirty which means she could have been over forty. I only stuck around as wingman since she was buying him a beer. I approved anyway of this hook up. Mainly since it happened in front of me and almost on my lap. I then did what any friend does in this case. I checked her friend out. She was a thick Anne Heche meets Susan Powter. At that point I tapped Rob on the shoulder (mid make out) and said I think you're alright. I'm out.
I don't know what it is but that place is not my scene. I am such a buzzkill of late. It could be worse, I could have been that boxing Donkey Kong. I love Wrigleyville.
Loverboy said it best, everybody is working for the weekend. Well, they said nothing about working at a paying job for the weekend. Would you look at that. The second sentence of the blog and I am already on a tangent. back to the matter at hand the scene in Chicago's meat markets.
I went over to Rob's barrio where little Italy meets mini Mexico this past friday night after my improv show. My friend Sarah and her sorority gal pal Kristin came along. While waiting for the girls (Alison too) I asked Rob what the plan was for the night. "So will we be going to a place where we can actually sit down and hear what the person two feet away is saying, or are we going to an obnoxious place like Shennanigans where the walls sweat and the really classy girls dance from brass poles? because I have no preference." Rob replies. "Clearly you have no preference."
So we five greek geeks sit and tell stories of the hay day (Ali refrained- maybe bc she deactivated, who knows?). Let me tell how to bring people together. Tell about an hour of -you had to be there- stories. I am surprised Alison didn't kill us. So we venture over to Hawkeyes, a local tavern that sit, drink, and clearly hear the rejection from unreciprocated lovas.
Besides a ineptitude for dancing, when I go out on the weekend I am not primarily looking for play. This sets my perogatives apart from the groups sometimes. I say that because consistantly I go out looking for a solid buzz and most importantly a nice plate of nachos.
I then had a run in with the waitress named something-oya or what's-it-isha. Apparently when I ordered (mind you) my own plate of nachos I was to consider that not only would my friends be eating them (which was cool with me/expected) but I was to impress the waitress with my cornacoupia of toppings. I told her only salsa, cheese and sour cream would be necessary. She told me "Wow, that is boring. That's not my flavor." I actually replied "I was unaware that I was supposed to take the eating preferences of the waitress into consideration. I am sorry." I ironed things out with her and things were so good that I even let her take the plates in for a nice tip.
Now the night came to a breaking point. Rob and Allison were on a separate page from Sarah and Kristin. I was just happy I got my freaking nachos. Rob and Ali were about to declare the move to another bar when the girls ordered another beer. To break the tensions I reminded Kristin that she still had not won the challenge from earlier. This challenge was to lick her own elbow. She took that 10 second joke and made it into full hour show just about. FYI she could only reach her forearm. God do I love sorority girls who perpetuate a stereotype.
We leave and then the girls leave since they did not want to come along. Where were we going? Well Rob uses the blanket term Wrigleyville and then switches it out as we walk up to Shennanigans. I feel like the dog that is told it is going for a ride to Petsmart but gets out at the vet. So I go in. 1. Because Rob is my friend and he came to my show. 2. Hope- that things won't be nearly as akward this time.
Wrong.
I walk in and there are two docked bouyes in this beer girls tank top. That is the one thing I like about bars. You never verbally have to ask "so how did you get this job?" Every girl has either a fine butt or chest and the guys that work there are all Linkoln Park punk-metras.
So Rob like always courageously buys the first round. As they make their way into dance it up, I assume the tall guy position against the far wall. Although I did not dance, I was entertained by a shaved monkey dancing by himself. No really, imagine a shaven monkey and put on some Old Navy shirt and that is who I saw. The humor there was he was two part. One he was constantly trying to get this trashy girl to dance up on him. She shot him down. Perhaps it was his air boxing dance moves that scared her off. He literally threw jabs and crosses as dance moves. Or so I thought.
He stormed off to get physical with some J.Crew model and well models have friends and monkeys don't so the dude had to back off. He reported back up by his tire swing and was then rejected again by the girl. I laughed, for a long time. He looked at me, I kept laughing until he was met up by another desperate soul by the brass pole. I am sure they had a great night and will be friends for life.
Alison saw my enjoyment level was equal to being at the Field Museum. So we left and eventually went into this other bar. I was at this point drinking water so I could drive home. The bartender mocked me for asking for water. I love Wrigleyville. She later made me cross my heart and swear on my grave that I was really the designated driver so I could have another cup of water. I love Wrigleyville.
Rob soon met a woman.
I say woman because she was clearly thirty which means she could have been over forty. I only stuck around as wingman since she was buying him a beer. I approved anyway of this hook up. Mainly since it happened in front of me and almost on my lap. I then did what any friend does in this case. I checked her friend out. She was a thick Anne Heche meets Susan Powter. At that point I tapped Rob on the shoulder (mid make out) and said I think you're alright. I'm out.
I don't know what it is but that place is not my scene. I am such a buzzkill of late. It could be worse, I could have been that boxing Donkey Kong. I love Wrigleyville.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Dear France, I Found a New International Punching Bag
Let's be upfront here. Ever since studying WWI in school I and many others like to blame shoddy foreign relations upon the French. Let's not forget to perpetuate their stereotype of the most arrogant and equally rancid smelling people. Plus it is fun to poke fun at the first person to leave an planned outing as acting like a true Frenchman. France have no fear, for there is another nation that is the cicada to pop culture. However, something must be in the water for this nation is revisiting our society more than Jennifer Lopez gets engaged.
I can not stand Jamaica.
This country is the most obnoxious country in the Carribbean. Everytime the American society goes to the Jamaican well we come back with such fine characters as Madam Cleo, Shaggy, Sean Paul, a freaking bobsled team, and a low quality shortstop.
Madam Cleo, the carnie that learned to read. She managed to con a bunch of late night lumps on a couch into talking about their future. She is not a genius, it is not hard to predict these patrons to be unemployed, cheated on by a sibling, or simply lonely in a house of eight or so cats. Cleo was the tip of the ice berg of low quality exports from Jamaica.
Shaggy and Sean Paul, Jamaica's rappers that made it huge in the US. Nothing like the GED grammar skills of rap to help resonate the Jamaican accent across many other countries. Jamaican rap is the only type of music that when in English the native speakers actually keep their accent. Have you ever heard a Def Leopard song and then listened to those doped up lab rats try and conjure a thought. They make Ozzy Ozborne sound like an articulate man. So yes, we can say the integrity of Jamaican music is the accent. Frankly though, I am tired of the accent.
I recall when Shaggy had the smash song "it wasn't me." A song about being caught red handed in adultery and just denying the truth. That just proves the level of stupidity down there, well besides wearing those silly rasta hats when it is like 90 degrees outside. Anyway, this song was so well embraced by the Amercian people because the message of infidelity without repercussion just hits home (this was the Clinton administration by the way). Shaggy was on every show possible to promote/saturate his song like any other rapper- since in rap rarely does lightning/hit songs strike more than once. Disney had the gall to have Shaggy perform that very song infront of hundreds of children at Disneyworld. I guess the message that could lead to teen pregnancy is not important as long as those kids come to experience the money trap with a big mouse.
I am sure the country of Jamaica is very nice, but their ambassadors from rap and even astrology have given us reason to believe that all work an no play makes Jamiaca Cuba. Every time I think of Jamiaca, some woman's voice says "Jamiaca? Jamaican-me crazy! Celebration!" and whatever nonsensical pot induced rhymes. "Jamaican-me crazy?" More like "Jamiacan an ass of yourself." We get it ok, yeah Bob Marley was really good, but the recent exports are the hit from the pipe that are so bad that we only take another hoping it will get better, Don' t hold your breath.
Let's be upfront here. Ever since studying WWI in school I and many others like to blame shoddy foreign relations upon the French. Let's not forget to perpetuate their stereotype of the most arrogant and equally rancid smelling people. Plus it is fun to poke fun at the first person to leave an planned outing as acting like a true Frenchman. France have no fear, for there is another nation that is the cicada to pop culture. However, something must be in the water for this nation is revisiting our society more than Jennifer Lopez gets engaged.
I can not stand Jamaica.
This country is the most obnoxious country in the Carribbean. Everytime the American society goes to the Jamaican well we come back with such fine characters as Madam Cleo, Shaggy, Sean Paul, a freaking bobsled team, and a low quality shortstop.
Madam Cleo, the carnie that learned to read. She managed to con a bunch of late night lumps on a couch into talking about their future. She is not a genius, it is not hard to predict these patrons to be unemployed, cheated on by a sibling, or simply lonely in a house of eight or so cats. Cleo was the tip of the ice berg of low quality exports from Jamaica.
Shaggy and Sean Paul, Jamaica's rappers that made it huge in the US. Nothing like the GED grammar skills of rap to help resonate the Jamaican accent across many other countries. Jamaican rap is the only type of music that when in English the native speakers actually keep their accent. Have you ever heard a Def Leopard song and then listened to those doped up lab rats try and conjure a thought. They make Ozzy Ozborne sound like an articulate man. So yes, we can say the integrity of Jamaican music is the accent. Frankly though, I am tired of the accent.
I recall when Shaggy had the smash song "it wasn't me." A song about being caught red handed in adultery and just denying the truth. That just proves the level of stupidity down there, well besides wearing those silly rasta hats when it is like 90 degrees outside. Anyway, this song was so well embraced by the Amercian people because the message of infidelity without repercussion just hits home (this was the Clinton administration by the way). Shaggy was on every show possible to promote/saturate his song like any other rapper- since in rap rarely does lightning/hit songs strike more than once. Disney had the gall to have Shaggy perform that very song infront of hundreds of children at Disneyworld. I guess the message that could lead to teen pregnancy is not important as long as those kids come to experience the money trap with a big mouse.
I am sure the country of Jamaica is very nice, but their ambassadors from rap and even astrology have given us reason to believe that all work an no play makes Jamiaca Cuba. Every time I think of Jamiaca, some woman's voice says "Jamiaca? Jamaican-me crazy! Celebration!" and whatever nonsensical pot induced rhymes. "Jamaican-me crazy?" More like "Jamiacan an ass of yourself." We get it ok, yeah Bob Marley was really good, but the recent exports are the hit from the pipe that are so bad that we only take another hoping it will get better, Don' t hold your breath.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
...And That's Why the Prom Queen is a Tramp
I watched the nightly news and there was a cover story that was not about a gang shooting that shot a random child. However, this story was about a topic that is near impossible for society to ignore. There are countless juvenile girls dressing like the surgically/eating disorder altered celebs.
Now we as a society love jailbait like no other vice (see twins archive) but this is getting out of control. Girls are dressing like extras from the Lady Marmalade video. I love the sight of a girl (over 18- got that Mr. Kelly ok?) in a pair of low riders but when she turns around, smiles and shows the world her new braces and self waxed brows it just is not kosher.
The segment had young girls admitting that they would buy something on the basis that a celeb wore it on tv or in a magazine. Baaaahhhhh. I guess even sheep need highlights. Never did this piece find a girl that admitted the "pro" look made them feel sexy nor did any girl see anything wrong with the attire. Why would they? Come on, for the first time they are seen as something desireable. Which is all so important in study hall.
The news also reported that there was a game with the gel bracelets. Each gel color represented a specific sex act, that when tugged by a young boy would constitute the grounds for the act to be done by her to him. What happened to spin the bottle? I guess that was just a gateway to this game I call sexlets. Now if this is real grade school girls are easier than gym class. In both cases particpation is the only way to really grade one's intellect. Now if this is not really a game, I give the credit to the youth of America for pulling a fast one their elders. The message of course is if your daughter is wearing gel bracelets you should know if she is just an Avril fan or actually turning tricks at the flag pole.
One way to deal with this is to call the kids' bluff. I say this because this is probably just a fad. In a couple of weeks this will all blow over like a bad storm and will be replaced by something new, like taking pride in being a trophy girl. Adults do one thing the best that keeps the wheel of sensationalistic journalism around. They just draw attention to a conflct and then embellish it only to put blame on teachers, media, and most defintitely rap music. No adult actually follows up with solving the problem, because that means they were about as wrong as a black thong showing from their daughter's white Gap tramp pants. It is exactly like when there was an error in a newspaper. Thousands of people get misinformed on page 2 but they never see a correction for that until the next day on page 44.
With all that drama said, I really don't believe that there is much to worry about this sexlets scandal on the basis that most highschool guys are typically ackward pimple faces that no girl in high school wants. That's why God created community college, so high school girls could finally "date" that mature guy they've been looking so long to love.
It is really hard to say who is to blame on this. We all have our hands in the cookie jar on this case, well except the parents they are out at the neighbors having margaritas. Pedephiles/radio hosts across the nation are in favor of this act because they will always have the countdown to the 18th b-day. Sorry fellas, it's just another generation of rejection. The teachers are in the wrong because the chose the most rewarding position that allows moonlighting but only as a scapegoat. Other adults are in the wrong because they smoke and well that is cool so kids might as well dress the part too. Genetics will always tell more about one than the provactive words stretched across a juvenile's developing chest.
I watched the nightly news and there was a cover story that was not about a gang shooting that shot a random child. However, this story was about a topic that is near impossible for society to ignore. There are countless juvenile girls dressing like the surgically/eating disorder altered celebs.
Now we as a society love jailbait like no other vice (see twins archive) but this is getting out of control. Girls are dressing like extras from the Lady Marmalade video. I love the sight of a girl (over 18- got that Mr. Kelly ok?) in a pair of low riders but when she turns around, smiles and shows the world her new braces and self waxed brows it just is not kosher.
The segment had young girls admitting that they would buy something on the basis that a celeb wore it on tv or in a magazine. Baaaahhhhh. I guess even sheep need highlights. Never did this piece find a girl that admitted the "pro" look made them feel sexy nor did any girl see anything wrong with the attire. Why would they? Come on, for the first time they are seen as something desireable. Which is all so important in study hall.
The news also reported that there was a game with the gel bracelets. Each gel color represented a specific sex act, that when tugged by a young boy would constitute the grounds for the act to be done by her to him. What happened to spin the bottle? I guess that was just a gateway to this game I call sexlets. Now if this is real grade school girls are easier than gym class. In both cases particpation is the only way to really grade one's intellect. Now if this is not really a game, I give the credit to the youth of America for pulling a fast one their elders. The message of course is if your daughter is wearing gel bracelets you should know if she is just an Avril fan or actually turning tricks at the flag pole.
One way to deal with this is to call the kids' bluff. I say this because this is probably just a fad. In a couple of weeks this will all blow over like a bad storm and will be replaced by something new, like taking pride in being a trophy girl. Adults do one thing the best that keeps the wheel of sensationalistic journalism around. They just draw attention to a conflct and then embellish it only to put blame on teachers, media, and most defintitely rap music. No adult actually follows up with solving the problem, because that means they were about as wrong as a black thong showing from their daughter's white Gap tramp pants. It is exactly like when there was an error in a newspaper. Thousands of people get misinformed on page 2 but they never see a correction for that until the next day on page 44.
With all that drama said, I really don't believe that there is much to worry about this sexlets scandal on the basis that most highschool guys are typically ackward pimple faces that no girl in high school wants. That's why God created community college, so high school girls could finally "date" that mature guy they've been looking so long to love.
It is really hard to say who is to blame on this. We all have our hands in the cookie jar on this case, well except the parents they are out at the neighbors having margaritas. Pedephiles/radio hosts across the nation are in favor of this act because they will always have the countdown to the 18th b-day. Sorry fellas, it's just another generation of rejection. The teachers are in the wrong because the chose the most rewarding position that allows moonlighting but only as a scapegoat. Other adults are in the wrong because they smoke and well that is cool so kids might as well dress the part too. Genetics will always tell more about one than the provactive words stretched across a juvenile's developing chest.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
One of the Greats
About two years ago I was in Spain. I returned my text books since the teacher told me to do so. Apparently the return policy of the store is that of my least favorite. Ok sir, you did not need that book afterall. I will reund your money kind of. What do you mean my clerk friend. Well you see mr. consumer, after you spend national currency here you can only get it refunded as store credit.
Store credit screwed me out of about $25 of my own money in this case. Now instead of getting my own money back to spend on whatever I want I have to find interest in some random book store in Spain. Well, cookbooks aside I decide to read one of the "classic" authors. I bought two Hemmingway books.
Two years later, after several fruitless attempts at reading the "Sun Also Rises" I focused myself to read the bloody thing. I came to the realization why I never could get into the book. The plot does not start until page 118. The first 117 pages are all about walking around getting drunk, smoking cigarrettes and wishing some beautiful temptress would stop teasing the main character and simply love him. Apparently Ernest Hemmingway published the first blog himself, because those 117 pages were the most incoherent ramblings of a eternallly frusterated man.
If this was reading for a class of somesort I would have to say the theme is love is not for everyone but being strung along is for everyone. Once the plot started to pick up I felt like I was reading a screen play for the next OC episode. The characters in the story are all rather educated yet all are very trite and image conscious. During reading, all I could think about is how this story really makes me think of the Kennedy family.
The other aspect that bothered me more than it took me two years, and four attempts to read a soft core romance novel is that when I told people that I was reading "The Sun Also Rises" that they told me it was an "easy read." I most definitely do not concure with that. An easy read is a pamphlet. The only easy read that is over 200 pages is the Dr. Suess anthology. 200 pages with and average of ten words per page. That is ease, if you please.
I am sure Hemmingway is a great author. However he even admits to rambling in the story. He has this deep inner monologue of Jake (the main character), only to be concluded by Jake saying "well there is no point to that story." Thanks Ernie, if I wanted rambling I would go to Adams and Wells and listen to the homeless man in front of Walgreens.
I guess this book is a classic because it is about love, rejection, loss, and budding alcoholism. All of which are themes we can relate to. I think it is safe to say that we have all been a sucker for love or a "classic" novel.
About two years ago I was in Spain. I returned my text books since the teacher told me to do so. Apparently the return policy of the store is that of my least favorite. Ok sir, you did not need that book afterall. I will reund your money kind of. What do you mean my clerk friend. Well you see mr. consumer, after you spend national currency here you can only get it refunded as store credit.
Store credit screwed me out of about $25 of my own money in this case. Now instead of getting my own money back to spend on whatever I want I have to find interest in some random book store in Spain. Well, cookbooks aside I decide to read one of the "classic" authors. I bought two Hemmingway books.
Two years later, after several fruitless attempts at reading the "Sun Also Rises" I focused myself to read the bloody thing. I came to the realization why I never could get into the book. The plot does not start until page 118. The first 117 pages are all about walking around getting drunk, smoking cigarrettes and wishing some beautiful temptress would stop teasing the main character and simply love him. Apparently Ernest Hemmingway published the first blog himself, because those 117 pages were the most incoherent ramblings of a eternallly frusterated man.
If this was reading for a class of somesort I would have to say the theme is love is not for everyone but being strung along is for everyone. Once the plot started to pick up I felt like I was reading a screen play for the next OC episode. The characters in the story are all rather educated yet all are very trite and image conscious. During reading, all I could think about is how this story really makes me think of the Kennedy family.
The other aspect that bothered me more than it took me two years, and four attempts to read a soft core romance novel is that when I told people that I was reading "The Sun Also Rises" that they told me it was an "easy read." I most definitely do not concure with that. An easy read is a pamphlet. The only easy read that is over 200 pages is the Dr. Suess anthology. 200 pages with and average of ten words per page. That is ease, if you please.
I am sure Hemmingway is a great author. However he even admits to rambling in the story. He has this deep inner monologue of Jake (the main character), only to be concluded by Jake saying "well there is no point to that story." Thanks Ernie, if I wanted rambling I would go to Adams and Wells and listen to the homeless man in front of Walgreens.
I guess this book is a classic because it is about love, rejection, loss, and budding alcoholism. All of which are themes we can relate to. I think it is safe to say that we have all been a sucker for love or a "classic" novel.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
While You Were Out (Drinking Most Likely)
Ok, so at the early stages of this blog I was updating three or so times a week. Well that is hard to do when one don't have the internet at work anymore. I will update this as much as possible. Here is the skinny on why this is not a long blog.
I just finished the first revisions on my first ever screen play. It is a short film titled "Last Night." Auditions will be held in the Chicagoland area. Look for it at a social gathering in Fall '04.
By the by, July 15th I will be in an open mic contest at the Comedy Spot in Mount Prospect (call 411 for a #/directions). $5 to get in showtime at 8pm. If I progress through the tourney I could win $500. Also, July 30 I am performing improv at the Taste of Orland. Showtime 7pm, I don't think there is a charge to get in. Show is at the outdoor ampitheater.
That's the Reader's Digest of it all.
Ok, so at the early stages of this blog I was updating three or so times a week. Well that is hard to do when one don't have the internet at work anymore. I will update this as much as possible. Here is the skinny on why this is not a long blog.
I just finished the first revisions on my first ever screen play. It is a short film titled "Last Night." Auditions will be held in the Chicagoland area. Look for it at a social gathering in Fall '04.
By the by, July 15th I will be in an open mic contest at the Comedy Spot in Mount Prospect (call 411 for a #/directions). $5 to get in showtime at 8pm. If I progress through the tourney I could win $500. Also, July 30 I am performing improv at the Taste of Orland. Showtime 7pm, I don't think there is a charge to get in. Show is at the outdoor ampitheater.
That's the Reader's Digest of it all.
Friday, July 02, 2004
So Like I was totally at the mall today
"The Mall." The Cocomo of the cheerleader and disposable income. I was there today. Perhaps I should clear up which fine and dandy mall it was. Oak Brook Mall, which happens to be the finest outdoor mall in the tri-state area. I say tri-state because that sounds cooler than DuPage County. All the stores there are very expensive. Oak Brook is the land of lawyers and reallocated child support. I guess since they are all high class stores it vetoes the typical term for an outside mall, strip mall.
So much happened in my hour plus visit at the mall. First of all my stepbrother Craig is back in town from his patriotic stint with the National Guard. Craig has all his piercings in (more than 8 in both ears) and has of course combat boots to match. I am wearing the same pair of shorts I always wear until I spill something on them and a shirt that in English means "Oh F@$%! it's hot!" Everyone else, polos and capris or mini skirt.
Side-note: I love the mini skirt. Nothing puts my world at peace like a size 6 (I guess) shimmying a nice white mini skirt/lampshade. I have not been such a fan of women's fashion since they removed the pockets on the back of their pants. Thank you fashion designers!
Anyway, so back to the mall. I love this mall for the reasons people loved to go when they were in high school. I never really went then so I guess today was my walk in the Abercrombie clouds. Upon parking, there are countless luxury automobiles, my sex magnet 2003 Malibu and one more car I will not forget. It was a white Hyundai with the whole freaking back end and rear passenger door smashed in. Oak Brook may be 80% gated communities but it still let's its image guard down to make a buck.
My purpose to going to this mall was to get an airport extreme card for the G5. Well as luck would have it (and the mall directory indicated) I parked completely on the other side of the mall from the Apple store. So I stand there planning. Ok, store number 554 is northwest from Sears by about forty yards. In this moment I propose a question for the designer of such a fine shopping complex. What good does it do to assign a number to each store if those store do not display there numbers for those chaps with a poor sense of direction? It would be the same if we had addresses only in the phone book not on the buildings themselves. "Where's Pete's house?" "Well it should be near 220, which I think was about a quarter of a mile ago. Who puts the address only in the directory? This just reeks of organized crime."
So after following the north star and a worldly gal named Sacajewa, we made it to the store. I should mention that this mall is more than a target rich environment. There were plenty of girls to be in Hef's harem and quite a few Mrs. Robinson sightings. I remained focused, after all I could be rejected anywhere this mall was just not in the cards today.
Enter the Apple store. Some art deco freak opened a computer store and now everyone that shops there immediately thinks they are from Seattle and were the first to wear those rectangle beatnik framed glasses. Another sociological finding that pertains to the Apple community. If you are to work there it is unwritten law that you must be either bald or talk with permanently clogged sinuses. Ehhng, this is Joe sir. Yes you are wrong. Sorry that is Apple's policy, otherwise I would consider kissing your ass.
Now the set up of Apple stores are just like their on-line and phone support systems. It will take some serious effort and perseverance to actually talk to a human about your own needs. At Apple they would much prefer you to get confused, cry and go back to crawling in PCville.
After much deliberation on my purchase, I bought the card. Earlier in the day I was told it cost $19.95. When I got to the store, it cost $79.99. At one time I was on the phone with SBC about the DSL connection and what I needed to buy while knowing the $60 increase. Tom Brokaw calls it the fleecing of America, I call it the vasectomy of American. I bought it and left promptly before I heard Frodo's girlfriend say "come on, i-pods around."
I left the store, looked at my receipt and it said for support go to apple.com, no really don't try calling us. We have better things to do like mock the new XP upgrades. If I don't figure this machine out soon, I am sure Apple will order a code red on me. In the night there will be a Honda Pilot full of techies coming to commandeer my G5 and take it to a good home, one that knows how to use it.
Once I know how to be mac savvy, I am sure I will be one with the mini skirts and the techies. We can all sit in a park and listen to Beyonce's latest single on our i-pod and talk about how "fresh" her samples are of Tina Turner's archives
"The Mall." The Cocomo of the cheerleader and disposable income. I was there today. Perhaps I should clear up which fine and dandy mall it was. Oak Brook Mall, which happens to be the finest outdoor mall in the tri-state area. I say tri-state because that sounds cooler than DuPage County. All the stores there are very expensive. Oak Brook is the land of lawyers and reallocated child support. I guess since they are all high class stores it vetoes the typical term for an outside mall, strip mall.
So much happened in my hour plus visit at the mall. First of all my stepbrother Craig is back in town from his patriotic stint with the National Guard. Craig has all his piercings in (more than 8 in both ears) and has of course combat boots to match. I am wearing the same pair of shorts I always wear until I spill something on them and a shirt that in English means "Oh F@$%! it's hot!" Everyone else, polos and capris or mini skirt.
Side-note: I love the mini skirt. Nothing puts my world at peace like a size 6 (I guess) shimmying a nice white mini skirt/lampshade. I have not been such a fan of women's fashion since they removed the pockets on the back of their pants. Thank you fashion designers!
Anyway, so back to the mall. I love this mall for the reasons people loved to go when they were in high school. I never really went then so I guess today was my walk in the Abercrombie clouds. Upon parking, there are countless luxury automobiles, my sex magnet 2003 Malibu and one more car I will not forget. It was a white Hyundai with the whole freaking back end and rear passenger door smashed in. Oak Brook may be 80% gated communities but it still let's its image guard down to make a buck.
My purpose to going to this mall was to get an airport extreme card for the G5. Well as luck would have it (and the mall directory indicated) I parked completely on the other side of the mall from the Apple store. So I stand there planning. Ok, store number 554 is northwest from Sears by about forty yards. In this moment I propose a question for the designer of such a fine shopping complex. What good does it do to assign a number to each store if those store do not display there numbers for those chaps with a poor sense of direction? It would be the same if we had addresses only in the phone book not on the buildings themselves. "Where's Pete's house?" "Well it should be near 220, which I think was about a quarter of a mile ago. Who puts the address only in the directory? This just reeks of organized crime."
So after following the north star and a worldly gal named Sacajewa, we made it to the store. I should mention that this mall is more than a target rich environment. There were plenty of girls to be in Hef's harem and quite a few Mrs. Robinson sightings. I remained focused, after all I could be rejected anywhere this mall was just not in the cards today.
Enter the Apple store. Some art deco freak opened a computer store and now everyone that shops there immediately thinks they are from Seattle and were the first to wear those rectangle beatnik framed glasses. Another sociological finding that pertains to the Apple community. If you are to work there it is unwritten law that you must be either bald or talk with permanently clogged sinuses. Ehhng, this is Joe sir. Yes you are wrong. Sorry that is Apple's policy, otherwise I would consider kissing your ass.
Now the set up of Apple stores are just like their on-line and phone support systems. It will take some serious effort and perseverance to actually talk to a human about your own needs. At Apple they would much prefer you to get confused, cry and go back to crawling in PCville.
After much deliberation on my purchase, I bought the card. Earlier in the day I was told it cost $19.95. When I got to the store, it cost $79.99. At one time I was on the phone with SBC about the DSL connection and what I needed to buy while knowing the $60 increase. Tom Brokaw calls it the fleecing of America, I call it the vasectomy of American. I bought it and left promptly before I heard Frodo's girlfriend say "come on, i-pods around."
I left the store, looked at my receipt and it said for support go to apple.com, no really don't try calling us. We have better things to do like mock the new XP upgrades. If I don't figure this machine out soon, I am sure Apple will order a code red on me. In the night there will be a Honda Pilot full of techies coming to commandeer my G5 and take it to a good home, one that knows how to use it.
Once I know how to be mac savvy, I am sure I will be one with the mini skirts and the techies. We can all sit in a park and listen to Beyonce's latest single on our i-pod and talk about how "fresh" her samples are of Tina Turner's archives
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Crazy Old People
The elderly are some really great people that have all done something spectacular. In the last ten to twenty years they have stopped accepting social change and simply ask us all to follow the rules of the road circa their childhood. I attribute grandparents for imperatively informing the younger generations that there are certain rules for every situation, commonly called etiquette.
It does not take someone long to realize the silliness of having three different forks or trying to set a platter down amongst the personal set of glassware in front of you. A lot of these issues are brought up in a wedding. Why, because when two groups of people that have a minimal level of comfort with each other there a level playing field is needed. It is like the Geneva Convention of social exchange. (With the same success rate)
I am midway into witnessing my second wedding planning. I enjoy it to this point, like all other spectator sports. Once it becomes an interactive experience I am sure my views and blood pressure will change. There are so many old relatives that just need to see traditions upheld that the bride and groom’s visions are at best, second on the list. So it seems, once your old, then you get to see what you really wanted to see when you got married forty years ago.
The phrase “the etiquette says…” is almost as obnoxious as listening to someone with a Cambridge accent. The rules of etiquette are just like our motor vehicle laws. No one follows them until they know they are being watched, or they see somebody else break them. Shame on them! One can not plead ignorance when they claim to be so proper. I find it to be tragically humorous when people argue over who should assume the bill/responsibility.
My favorite rule of etiquette is the bride’s family is to pay for the wedding. THE WEDDING. The groom’s family gets the rehearsal dinner. That’s huge. It’s like having to buy a new tux and then someone else chimes in “hey, I’ll buy your shoes.” It helps but really in the grand scheme of things it is a drop in the bucket. What is expected is that since the bride’s family fronts the bill, they get first dibs on everything.
The rules are much more closely watched during a meal of a formal event. Pass the salt and the pepper. Glasses to the left and when you finish your plate put the fork and knife at 4:00 to let the help know you are done. Only cut three pieces from your entrée at a time. Either back in England around 1200 somebody had too much time on their hands or they went to a reception where children were allowed.
Perhaps my least favorite rule is the thank you letter. I understand the written appreciation for a gift is nice. However I feel that my initial thank you was much more sincere and personable than a 4x5 card saying “thank you for the card and gift it was much appreciated. I also enjoyed getting to see you at the (fill in event).” When people read those blatantly insincere messages they still somehow feel better. “Oh, he really appreciated the gift. I thought his smile and hugs were all show. Now I can rest easily knowing that he truly was pleased with the gift.”
I want to start sending “you’re welcome” cards. This may take some time to catch on but I strongly feel that this gesture will let them sincerely know that I sincerely appreciate their sincerest gratitude for whatever gift to which I bestowed. As of now, it is the only load of crap occasion Hallmark has not guilt tripped us into.
I respect elderly people, most of the time. As long as they bathe and try to listen to the conversation I will most definitely let them sit down and enter a room first. Maybe the elderly hold onto etiquette since it is an excessive display of decadence. Decadence for them since it made them feel like aristocrats, fussing over the dire importance of such items as salad forks and butter knives.
The old world mentality manages to still survive decades of social change. Etiquette has long outlasted its good friend chivalry. Chivalry was a noble concept that eroded when women wanted more than a coat over a puddle or a chair tucked in for them. These social guidelines that are still in place are only still here for the same reason some families still have fine china from many generations ago. Both are only brought out when there is a special occasion amongst people with a special bond.
The elderly are some really great people that have all done something spectacular. In the last ten to twenty years they have stopped accepting social change and simply ask us all to follow the rules of the road circa their childhood. I attribute grandparents for imperatively informing the younger generations that there are certain rules for every situation, commonly called etiquette.
It does not take someone long to realize the silliness of having three different forks or trying to set a platter down amongst the personal set of glassware in front of you. A lot of these issues are brought up in a wedding. Why, because when two groups of people that have a minimal level of comfort with each other there a level playing field is needed. It is like the Geneva Convention of social exchange. (With the same success rate)
I am midway into witnessing my second wedding planning. I enjoy it to this point, like all other spectator sports. Once it becomes an interactive experience I am sure my views and blood pressure will change. There are so many old relatives that just need to see traditions upheld that the bride and groom’s visions are at best, second on the list. So it seems, once your old, then you get to see what you really wanted to see when you got married forty years ago.
The phrase “the etiquette says…” is almost as obnoxious as listening to someone with a Cambridge accent. The rules of etiquette are just like our motor vehicle laws. No one follows them until they know they are being watched, or they see somebody else break them. Shame on them! One can not plead ignorance when they claim to be so proper. I find it to be tragically humorous when people argue over who should assume the bill/responsibility.
My favorite rule of etiquette is the bride’s family is to pay for the wedding. THE WEDDING. The groom’s family gets the rehearsal dinner. That’s huge. It’s like having to buy a new tux and then someone else chimes in “hey, I’ll buy your shoes.” It helps but really in the grand scheme of things it is a drop in the bucket. What is expected is that since the bride’s family fronts the bill, they get first dibs on everything.
The rules are much more closely watched during a meal of a formal event. Pass the salt and the pepper. Glasses to the left and when you finish your plate put the fork and knife at 4:00 to let the help know you are done. Only cut three pieces from your entrée at a time. Either back in England around 1200 somebody had too much time on their hands or they went to a reception where children were allowed.
Perhaps my least favorite rule is the thank you letter. I understand the written appreciation for a gift is nice. However I feel that my initial thank you was much more sincere and personable than a 4x5 card saying “thank you for the card and gift it was much appreciated. I also enjoyed getting to see you at the (fill in event).” When people read those blatantly insincere messages they still somehow feel better. “Oh, he really appreciated the gift. I thought his smile and hugs were all show. Now I can rest easily knowing that he truly was pleased with the gift.”
I want to start sending “you’re welcome” cards. This may take some time to catch on but I strongly feel that this gesture will let them sincerely know that I sincerely appreciate their sincerest gratitude for whatever gift to which I bestowed. As of now, it is the only load of crap occasion Hallmark has not guilt tripped us into.
I respect elderly people, most of the time. As long as they bathe and try to listen to the conversation I will most definitely let them sit down and enter a room first. Maybe the elderly hold onto etiquette since it is an excessive display of decadence. Decadence for them since it made them feel like aristocrats, fussing over the dire importance of such items as salad forks and butter knives.
The old world mentality manages to still survive decades of social change. Etiquette has long outlasted its good friend chivalry. Chivalry was a noble concept that eroded when women wanted more than a coat over a puddle or a chair tucked in for them. These social guidelines that are still in place are only still here for the same reason some families still have fine china from many generations ago. Both are only brought out when there is a special occasion amongst people with a special bond.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Girls, Girls, Girls
As many of you know, I tend to declare and embrace my perpetual bachelorhood. The truth behind the matter is I tend to dig my own grave more than I would prefer. In the past few weeks I have stepped up to the plate and took the pitches given and then walked my lame self back to the dugout in defeat.
Sometimes my motives are no more than maintaining simple dialogue. It must be simple for the reason of loud music or those meddling friends nearby, and who really goes out to have a profound conversation. I am sure people do have the immediately deep connection, just rarely is it one that is sporting the ever so exquisite mini skirt.
Occasionally I don’t even know I am hitting on a girl, and she goes and says she is not interested. Apparently when one is within a five foot radius of a young woman it is taken as a sexual advancement. Intentional or not, it is always good to know rejection could happen at any second. When accused of making advancements, I usually am unappreciative (most likely because they were unsuccessful). Example, she was in a band and I was intrigued (no, seriously), I asked a few too many questions and she dropped the line. “Well, my boyfriend…” Amazing. Boyfriend you say, he must be the drummer.
Another night in the city I was en route with my friend. For identity reasons let’s refer to him as Rohn Jossi. It is important to know he was the driver of the 95 Subaru Legacy. Anyway, we were approaching a parking lot near some bars and I noticed a black VW. I looked at the driver to make sure she was an attractive girl. Her story checked out. I purposely looked longer than normal to get her to notice me (I figured what would happen? I am in a car). I forgot I was in a 95 Subaru Legacy. She looks at me with disbelief that I, a mere peasant am looking at her Gucciness. I give back the nod indicating, yes I know I have no chance but at least I did not waste a beer on you. Meanwhile, Rohn saw this budding vehicular romance and chose to roll the window down. Forced to talk, (as she too amazingly rolled her window down) I muttered “yeah…that’s all I got.” “Yeah, right” she said. Then she looked at the passenger door of the Legacy, her face became repulsed with the sight of a non-German import. Rohn sees this and screams “don’t be dogging the Legacy. The Legacy lives on!!!” We then parked to go strike out with more girls.
I remember being in trouble with my mom when she had her back to me. “I have eyes in the back of my head” she always told me. Well I think there are other girls with those same powers. It has come to my attention mainly on long straight-aways when I am behind a girl for more than ten seconds. Yes, by nature I have looked at the trunk. However, the few times I am not, these girls catch my attention by unnaturally tugging their shirts past their butt. In moments like those I stand wrongly accused of gawking.
Then there was the job offer I just could not refuse or could I? Desperate for work, I called anything that seemed remotely respectable. The offer was to work for a public interest group that focuses on environmental policies. The term “canvassing” was used liberally. What that really meant was standing around street corners like a knob and asking people to care about the Earth they are destroying. I was interested.
The sole reason why I did not walk out of the interview was almost as amazing as the reasons to leave. I walked into a small room with folding chairs and eight people. Guess who was the only person dressed professionally? The rest of the tree huggers were wearing shorts, backwards hats, and sandals. Clearly, I was the only environmentalist there that was not representing the persona of pot head extraordinaire. One of the guys was fixing his sock and I noticed his house arrest anklet. This was a high caliber pool of applicants.
Then she walked in. Suddenly getting paid $300-500 a week seemed ok as long as Kat was my boss. She is tall, tan complexion; she was wearing an orange tank top, and her knock out punch- orange eye shadow. Kat is a beautiful girl, so beautiful that I would have willingly sacrificed my credit rating to take her out. I chose to try and make more money. I want to call her back and let her know that I will not be taking the position but was wondering if she was free to get together.
There is an old saying when you fall off the horse get back up on it. No one ever considers that maybe the horse is not interested in having you try and ride them. (Maybe the horse had someone try bareback and is hesitant to ride altogether) Nor do they mention that the horse will take joy in your fall and retell the story to all their horse friends as they chuckle by the oat bag.
As many of you know, I tend to declare and embrace my perpetual bachelorhood. The truth behind the matter is I tend to dig my own grave more than I would prefer. In the past few weeks I have stepped up to the plate and took the pitches given and then walked my lame self back to the dugout in defeat.
Sometimes my motives are no more than maintaining simple dialogue. It must be simple for the reason of loud music or those meddling friends nearby, and who really goes out to have a profound conversation. I am sure people do have the immediately deep connection, just rarely is it one that is sporting the ever so exquisite mini skirt.
Occasionally I don’t even know I am hitting on a girl, and she goes and says she is not interested. Apparently when one is within a five foot radius of a young woman it is taken as a sexual advancement. Intentional or not, it is always good to know rejection could happen at any second. When accused of making advancements, I usually am unappreciative (most likely because they were unsuccessful). Example, she was in a band and I was intrigued (no, seriously), I asked a few too many questions and she dropped the line. “Well, my boyfriend…” Amazing. Boyfriend you say, he must be the drummer.
Another night in the city I was en route with my friend. For identity reasons let’s refer to him as Rohn Jossi. It is important to know he was the driver of the 95 Subaru Legacy. Anyway, we were approaching a parking lot near some bars and I noticed a black VW. I looked at the driver to make sure she was an attractive girl. Her story checked out. I purposely looked longer than normal to get her to notice me (I figured what would happen? I am in a car). I forgot I was in a 95 Subaru Legacy. She looks at me with disbelief that I, a mere peasant am looking at her Gucciness. I give back the nod indicating, yes I know I have no chance but at least I did not waste a beer on you. Meanwhile, Rohn saw this budding vehicular romance and chose to roll the window down. Forced to talk, (as she too amazingly rolled her window down) I muttered “yeah…that’s all I got.” “Yeah, right” she said. Then she looked at the passenger door of the Legacy, her face became repulsed with the sight of a non-German import. Rohn sees this and screams “don’t be dogging the Legacy. The Legacy lives on!!!” We then parked to go strike out with more girls.
I remember being in trouble with my mom when she had her back to me. “I have eyes in the back of my head” she always told me. Well I think there are other girls with those same powers. It has come to my attention mainly on long straight-aways when I am behind a girl for more than ten seconds. Yes, by nature I have looked at the trunk. However, the few times I am not, these girls catch my attention by unnaturally tugging their shirts past their butt. In moments like those I stand wrongly accused of gawking.
Then there was the job offer I just could not refuse or could I? Desperate for work, I called anything that seemed remotely respectable. The offer was to work for a public interest group that focuses on environmental policies. The term “canvassing” was used liberally. What that really meant was standing around street corners like a knob and asking people to care about the Earth they are destroying. I was interested.
The sole reason why I did not walk out of the interview was almost as amazing as the reasons to leave. I walked into a small room with folding chairs and eight people. Guess who was the only person dressed professionally? The rest of the tree huggers were wearing shorts, backwards hats, and sandals. Clearly, I was the only environmentalist there that was not representing the persona of pot head extraordinaire. One of the guys was fixing his sock and I noticed his house arrest anklet. This was a high caliber pool of applicants.
Then she walked in. Suddenly getting paid $300-500 a week seemed ok as long as Kat was my boss. She is tall, tan complexion; she was wearing an orange tank top, and her knock out punch- orange eye shadow. Kat is a beautiful girl, so beautiful that I would have willingly sacrificed my credit rating to take her out. I chose to try and make more money. I want to call her back and let her know that I will not be taking the position but was wondering if she was free to get together.
There is an old saying when you fall off the horse get back up on it. No one ever considers that maybe the horse is not interested in having you try and ride them. (Maybe the horse had someone try bareback and is hesitant to ride altogether) Nor do they mention that the horse will take joy in your fall and retell the story to all their horse friends as they chuckle by the oat bag.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Rumors, Oooh Nasty Rumors
A short while back I ran into someone I went to high school with. Now the precursor to this tale is that I have no qualms with my tenure there but I do remember which people were maturely stated, dill holes.
I have not reached the ten year reunion time, nor am I that close. The lesson many people must know is that which lies ahead. Whenever I run into someone from high school, they usually were not my best friends. As logic would have it, I actually talk to my friends once in a while.
So when they come into my plane of vision, it is just like in the terminator with that red screen with the shifting cross-hair. Their id is matched. A run down follows in my head;
First name: Jag
Last name: Off
Last seen: class of 99
Description: big fan of Dr. Martins, spitting chew on the carpet, excessive levels of cologne, Napoleon’s complex.
That’s how it goes. Do I say hi to these schmoes? Sometimes, but really they would only expect me to stroke their ego. It’s not a matter of who’s better than whom, or who dated the librarian’s daughter (which she was oh so hot- until the make up came off), this is about common respect. Which is sometimes just comes in second to good old school spirit.
Why do we have such an animosity towards people we went with to high school? Is it the 327 votes short of homecoming queen? Finally hitting puberty in our junior year? Or maybe it is an even more pressing matter like residual prom hangover/bitterness. I won’t deny mine. The reason why I went to prom as a junior, in case it sucks at least I can redo it the following year. Well, junior year was just the appetizer for the main course of betrayal and for desert how about what most people had, sexual frustration.
The people I am most interested remain to be the same. What exactly are the dance team girls up to? How many finished cosmetology school? Which one actually did not join a sorority? Most importantly, I want to make sure their ideals are still the same. Do they still appreciate the ugly? For without the ugly the dance girls would not look nearly as stunning.
We use to have pep rallied for the dance team going to the state competition. They danced against two other teams. One time we had to actually celebrate them getting second; out of three teams. I heard their spirit fingers just weren't jazzy enough.
Back to the moral of the story, keep your mouth shut. (I know I should talk) The reason for that being the more you talk the more get embellished by some dumb box when really you meant nothing more than “wow, I would not have expected.” Remember these were the same people that assumed anyone new to the school was probably gay. Yeah, because you know those homosexuals, can’t just commit to one thing they’re always so flighty.
So, one of the guys I graduated with is now in prison. It is easy for some to say he was mixed up with the wrong people and strayed from the path of the righteous Catholic he never was. This may just be a blessing in disguise. The parochial system couldn’t teach this air head how to read so maybe some special one on one instruction is needed. Please, if you are getting upset about the air head remark let me support it once more. When you forget what page the class is on that is normal. When you forget what chapter the class is on you are an official blockhead.
In other news, many of the teachers that taught me have been caught in love affairs. The allegations were always there, office flirting. Laziness sets in and before they knew it, the private detentions were deemed unacceptable barring doctor’s note. All that happened just when the Catholic community was celebrating their five week anniversary of no sexual conduct cases.
Who would have thought a Catholic high school Melrose place could exist? What would Jesus do? Most likely not the biology teacher, the music teacher, or the health teacher. (Side note: Teaching health is a blatant sign that all efforts to avoid all academic realms of the school have failed and now one must choose a curriculum they can understand. Chapter 1: Why showering daily is important)
I believe we are on the verge of another golden age for our own social circles. I also believe that these golden ages are the results of when people with genuine concerns for the integrity of man need a vacation from all the drama we bring onto ourselves.
A short while back I ran into someone I went to high school with. Now the precursor to this tale is that I have no qualms with my tenure there but I do remember which people were maturely stated, dill holes.
I have not reached the ten year reunion time, nor am I that close. The lesson many people must know is that which lies ahead. Whenever I run into someone from high school, they usually were not my best friends. As logic would have it, I actually talk to my friends once in a while.
So when they come into my plane of vision, it is just like in the terminator with that red screen with the shifting cross-hair. Their id is matched. A run down follows in my head;
First name: Jag
Last name: Off
Last seen: class of 99
Description: big fan of Dr. Martins, spitting chew on the carpet, excessive levels of cologne, Napoleon’s complex.
That’s how it goes. Do I say hi to these schmoes? Sometimes, but really they would only expect me to stroke their ego. It’s not a matter of who’s better than whom, or who dated the librarian’s daughter (which she was oh so hot- until the make up came off), this is about common respect. Which is sometimes just comes in second to good old school spirit.
Why do we have such an animosity towards people we went with to high school? Is it the 327 votes short of homecoming queen? Finally hitting puberty in our junior year? Or maybe it is an even more pressing matter like residual prom hangover/bitterness. I won’t deny mine. The reason why I went to prom as a junior, in case it sucks at least I can redo it the following year. Well, junior year was just the appetizer for the main course of betrayal and for desert how about what most people had, sexual frustration.
The people I am most interested remain to be the same. What exactly are the dance team girls up to? How many finished cosmetology school? Which one actually did not join a sorority? Most importantly, I want to make sure their ideals are still the same. Do they still appreciate the ugly? For without the ugly the dance girls would not look nearly as stunning.
We use to have pep rallied for the dance team going to the state competition. They danced against two other teams. One time we had to actually celebrate them getting second; out of three teams. I heard their spirit fingers just weren't jazzy enough.
Back to the moral of the story, keep your mouth shut. (I know I should talk) The reason for that being the more you talk the more get embellished by some dumb box when really you meant nothing more than “wow, I would not have expected.” Remember these were the same people that assumed anyone new to the school was probably gay. Yeah, because you know those homosexuals, can’t just commit to one thing they’re always so flighty.
So, one of the guys I graduated with is now in prison. It is easy for some to say he was mixed up with the wrong people and strayed from the path of the righteous Catholic he never was. This may just be a blessing in disguise. The parochial system couldn’t teach this air head how to read so maybe some special one on one instruction is needed. Please, if you are getting upset about the air head remark let me support it once more. When you forget what page the class is on that is normal. When you forget what chapter the class is on you are an official blockhead.
In other news, many of the teachers that taught me have been caught in love affairs. The allegations were always there, office flirting. Laziness sets in and before they knew it, the private detentions were deemed unacceptable barring doctor’s note. All that happened just when the Catholic community was celebrating their five week anniversary of no sexual conduct cases.
Who would have thought a Catholic high school Melrose place could exist? What would Jesus do? Most likely not the biology teacher, the music teacher, or the health teacher. (Side note: Teaching health is a blatant sign that all efforts to avoid all academic realms of the school have failed and now one must choose a curriculum they can understand. Chapter 1: Why showering daily is important)
I believe we are on the verge of another golden age for our own social circles. I also believe that these golden ages are the results of when people with genuine concerns for the integrity of man need a vacation from all the drama we bring onto ourselves.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Only the Good Die Young, so I Retired at 23
It seems not too long ago I was leading a prosperous corporate life. Then I had a revelation. What would I rather do than go to central Georgia? Answers: a) join a health club b) live back at home c) drink Coors Light or d) anything. Well, I will let you decide the answer I chose.
So I cashed in my hundreds of dollars in my former 401k and headed off to Arizona for an early retirement. As luck would have it, my money ran out around the Midwest. Which is a blessing in disguise since I would prefer frostbite over sweating from the back of my knees. I still managed to wake up and take my vitamins (2 hot pockets) and start my day like any other walking heart attack.
Somewhere between the chuckles of Cosby and Golden Girl reruns on TV Land I got the nerve to play tennis again. After the mid-day set, I liked to go home and watch the people drive back from work and say to myself, phew! I am glad I got myself out of that when I did.
Sleeping late was great, but there was still a lingering problem. Sometimes it's hard to stay up past 9:30 when you know you'll just end up sleeping through Regis and Kelly. Plus, what about my income? Some may think I am naive to retire at 23 but when you know that the government has your back with such fine programs as social security and Medicare it's just down right silly to worry about nickels and dimes.
I started to give back to the community in the past month. I did some projects like cleaning the gutters and dewinterizing (yes it is a word) the pool. Both tasks easily cleaned my sinuses.
If you ever, ever are thinking of getting a pool- don't unless you can afford for some other schlub to clean it for you. Even with a cover on it, our pool turned into the largest freaking bird bath in the county. A week later and the former floating compost heap is ready for summertime fun.
It is not a heated pool, so I love to invite people over for the first time to swim and tell them it is warm. "Are you sure it's warm?" "Oh, yeah I was in it yesterday. If you never have seen the face of instantaneous shrinkage, I recommend it is quite humorous.
People asked me if I regret my retirement decision. No I do not. That all may very well change if I run out of money. I have a lot ahead of me this summer. There are festivals pretty much every weekend. And where there is a festival there most definitely is a church bingo tent. Maybe I'll go play and amaze them with my unbrittle bones and perhaps pick a recipe or two on how to make a good casserole.
If you don't slow down sometimes you may realize that life already woke up, shuffled to the elevator, rode the bus to the pharmacy and just passed you by without you even knowing what you missed out on.
It seems not too long ago I was leading a prosperous corporate life. Then I had a revelation. What would I rather do than go to central Georgia? Answers: a) join a health club b) live back at home c) drink Coors Light or d) anything. Well, I will let you decide the answer I chose.
So I cashed in my hundreds of dollars in my former 401k and headed off to Arizona for an early retirement. As luck would have it, my money ran out around the Midwest. Which is a blessing in disguise since I would prefer frostbite over sweating from the back of my knees. I still managed to wake up and take my vitamins (2 hot pockets) and start my day like any other walking heart attack.
Somewhere between the chuckles of Cosby and Golden Girl reruns on TV Land I got the nerve to play tennis again. After the mid-day set, I liked to go home and watch the people drive back from work and say to myself, phew! I am glad I got myself out of that when I did.
Sleeping late was great, but there was still a lingering problem. Sometimes it's hard to stay up past 9:30 when you know you'll just end up sleeping through Regis and Kelly. Plus, what about my income? Some may think I am naive to retire at 23 but when you know that the government has your back with such fine programs as social security and Medicare it's just down right silly to worry about nickels and dimes.
I started to give back to the community in the past month. I did some projects like cleaning the gutters and dewinterizing (yes it is a word) the pool. Both tasks easily cleaned my sinuses.
If you ever, ever are thinking of getting a pool- don't unless you can afford for some other schlub to clean it for you. Even with a cover on it, our pool turned into the largest freaking bird bath in the county. A week later and the former floating compost heap is ready for summertime fun.
It is not a heated pool, so I love to invite people over for the first time to swim and tell them it is warm. "Are you sure it's warm?" "Oh, yeah I was in it yesterday. If you never have seen the face of instantaneous shrinkage, I recommend it is quite humorous.
People asked me if I regret my retirement decision. No I do not. That all may very well change if I run out of money. I have a lot ahead of me this summer. There are festivals pretty much every weekend. And where there is a festival there most definitely is a church bingo tent. Maybe I'll go play and amaze them with my unbrittle bones and perhaps pick a recipe or two on how to make a good casserole.
If you don't slow down sometimes you may realize that life already woke up, shuffled to the elevator, rode the bus to the pharmacy and just passed you by without you even knowing what you missed out on.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
A Visit to Phat Camp, I mean Fat Camp
Not too long ago I ordered a pizza. I know, shocking news to many of you that know my diet. To my surprise there was a flyer for a pizza-eating contest that weekend. Now besides a contest for tallest person that can’t dunk, I figure this competition that was made for me. I managed to draw my roommates to the event as spectators. Yes, spectators. Gluttony is not just an individual activity anymore.
Now when I signed up for this I had to be one of the first fifty people to call. I ripped that flyer off the box and called like I was the last future fatty wanting to chomp my way to infamy. “Hi, yeah I am just calling to see if there is still space available to be in the contest. Is there room?” Just for a visual effect imagine a six foot five inch guy hovering over the phone just waiting for his big break to becoming an official loser. Believe it or not, there was still space available on the list, phew.
I get to the venue/carryout parking lot and sign in. Apparently my competition is not as large as originally thought. There was speculation that I would be a contender that lost to either a 300-pound man or a 100-pound Asian girl. That was not the case this time.
For those youth sympathizers you should be pleased and worried that there in fact was an “under 12” division. Parents actually brought there eleven, ten, eight, six and even four year olds to compete in this event. I don’t know if I ever have witnessed one specific event that can cause such a psychological complex like urging a little four-year-old girl to “eat as much as you can sweetie.”
Two rows ahead of little Suzy, there was Peter and Omar. These two kids were almost as entertaining as their parents. See these boys were at the age where they can actually hold onto a piece of pizza, sorry Suzy. Omar’s dad was chanting at him to eat as much as he can before the sunsets. Dad was reminding him, “free pizza for a year, chew, chew swallow.” Apparently the father did not have a large enough opportunity to heckle his own son in little league. Li’l Omar brought home the title of junior pizza king of the Washington area. Moments like that should keep us all striving for parental acceptance.
Now by the time the heavy weights came to rumble, my roommates were persuaded to compete. A major reason for this was when the store manager told us “I need all of you to play. I don’t care if you win. Just beat Habib. He has been here for two hours and keeps demanding a chair. Really, you have to beat him, please.”
Let me introduce you to Habib (no joke it was his name). He was about sixty years old, gray hair, big frame glasses with the librarian rope around his neck, maroon pants, and a blue-gray shirt. If that doesn’t paint a picture, let me give the rest. Habib has a brown tie that stops a third short of the belt buckle. In his ears he had orange earplugs as to muffle the words people said when they commented on the two overflowing suitcases he carried every step he walked. It is very possible that he is the quintessential grand opening contestant that goes from contest to contest scavenging on whatever is free.
When the whistled blew I had three minutes to eat as much cheese pizza I could. The first minute I was nearly choking due to Habib sitting down with six cokes and opening three immediately to wash the pizza down. My roommates then turn on me and demand me to eat faster, I quickly reminded them that I was sober I could not eat just cheese pizza so quickly.
The end tally had me at four pieces in three minutes, which is respectable in some bloated circles around the globe. It turns out that my roommate actually won. He tied this portly man that could floss with a drinking straw. The title was shared because both chose to not go for an “eat off.” I totally understand, don’t want people thinking you’re a pig (which my roommate is definitely not). Two champions were named, the title belt under joint custody with elastic band.
In a world where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, this stayed true here. Everyone got to walk home with their pizza that was left over and also one free pizza voucher. So the losers kept slim with a pizza, and the winner stays another diet coke away from Atkins by getting twenty-six pizzas.
When it comes to free food in the American society there is no happy medium, just an extra large with a side of wings.
Not too long ago I ordered a pizza. I know, shocking news to many of you that know my diet. To my surprise there was a flyer for a pizza-eating contest that weekend. Now besides a contest for tallest person that can’t dunk, I figure this competition that was made for me. I managed to draw my roommates to the event as spectators. Yes, spectators. Gluttony is not just an individual activity anymore.
Now when I signed up for this I had to be one of the first fifty people to call. I ripped that flyer off the box and called like I was the last future fatty wanting to chomp my way to infamy. “Hi, yeah I am just calling to see if there is still space available to be in the contest. Is there room?” Just for a visual effect imagine a six foot five inch guy hovering over the phone just waiting for his big break to becoming an official loser. Believe it or not, there was still space available on the list, phew.
I get to the venue/carryout parking lot and sign in. Apparently my competition is not as large as originally thought. There was speculation that I would be a contender that lost to either a 300-pound man or a 100-pound Asian girl. That was not the case this time.
For those youth sympathizers you should be pleased and worried that there in fact was an “under 12” division. Parents actually brought there eleven, ten, eight, six and even four year olds to compete in this event. I don’t know if I ever have witnessed one specific event that can cause such a psychological complex like urging a little four-year-old girl to “eat as much as you can sweetie.”
Two rows ahead of little Suzy, there was Peter and Omar. These two kids were almost as entertaining as their parents. See these boys were at the age where they can actually hold onto a piece of pizza, sorry Suzy. Omar’s dad was chanting at him to eat as much as he can before the sunsets. Dad was reminding him, “free pizza for a year, chew, chew swallow.” Apparently the father did not have a large enough opportunity to heckle his own son in little league. Li’l Omar brought home the title of junior pizza king of the Washington area. Moments like that should keep us all striving for parental acceptance.
Now by the time the heavy weights came to rumble, my roommates were persuaded to compete. A major reason for this was when the store manager told us “I need all of you to play. I don’t care if you win. Just beat Habib. He has been here for two hours and keeps demanding a chair. Really, you have to beat him, please.”
Let me introduce you to Habib (no joke it was his name). He was about sixty years old, gray hair, big frame glasses with the librarian rope around his neck, maroon pants, and a blue-gray shirt. If that doesn’t paint a picture, let me give the rest. Habib has a brown tie that stops a third short of the belt buckle. In his ears he had orange earplugs as to muffle the words people said when they commented on the two overflowing suitcases he carried every step he walked. It is very possible that he is the quintessential grand opening contestant that goes from contest to contest scavenging on whatever is free.
When the whistled blew I had three minutes to eat as much cheese pizza I could. The first minute I was nearly choking due to Habib sitting down with six cokes and opening three immediately to wash the pizza down. My roommates then turn on me and demand me to eat faster, I quickly reminded them that I was sober I could not eat just cheese pizza so quickly.
The end tally had me at four pieces in three minutes, which is respectable in some bloated circles around the globe. It turns out that my roommate actually won. He tied this portly man that could floss with a drinking straw. The title was shared because both chose to not go for an “eat off.” I totally understand, don’t want people thinking you’re a pig (which my roommate is definitely not). Two champions were named, the title belt under joint custody with elastic band.
In a world where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, this stayed true here. Everyone got to walk home with their pizza that was left over and also one free pizza voucher. So the losers kept slim with a pizza, and the winner stays another diet coke away from Atkins by getting twenty-six pizzas.
When it comes to free food in the American society there is no happy medium, just an extra large with a side of wings.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
The Five Senses of Spring
The snow is long gone and now we are on the verge of nights in the beer gardens and days at the ball game. Spring tells us a lot about ourselves. Take the first time you put your shorts on. Wow, I guess eggnog is really fattening, or I did not think it was possible to get any paler. Regardless, its time to roll down the windows and embrace the tell tale signs that embody how our five senses know its spring.
Close your eyes. Well metaphorically, I still would like you to read on. It is only a matter of time before we all give each of our sentences the precursor of “what?” Until then the sounds of spring can lift one’s spirits like saline implants. In the middle of winter we hear nothing, maybe the sloshing of snow onto the curb. Come spring, we have the birds chirping, children without court supervision laughing, and of course some yahoo blasting his car stereo from five blocks away.
It really does not matter when the birds chirp, it is when Raul slows down and you can hear the bass from his Ford Festiva reverberate over the tactfully sexual lyrics. The neighborhood is going to hell in a low riding bike’s hand basket.
The sounds perhaps are ever-present but it is when we roll down our windows or ride our bikes. I can fondly recall the time when I heard some children laughing uncontrollably in a front yard. I looked over my shoulder to witness their joy only for it to end abruptly when attempted my first unintentional summersault from a bike over a parked car. It was a failure.
Contrary to popular belief, the feeling of spring is not love. Spring is not the season of monogamy. The way the flowers solicit their pistils to the bees, well let’s not talk about that. The feeling of spring is irritation.
There is nothing better than breathing through one nostril for ten weeks. Allergies are fascinating to me. How is it that I can be sick yet still go out and socialize? I always find it funny how people walking down the street, sneeze into their hand (don’t spread the germs) and inconspicuously brush their hip.
Snot aside, rubbing one’s eyes is another tell tale sign of irritation. How does something called ragweed control so many people? Allergies are getting out of control nowadays. I am allergic to hay fever. I don’t think it is right for one to be effected by something they cannot explain.
I grew up with one of my friends being allergic to everything. Whenever we had a cub scout outing we had a laundry list of things that Greg couldn’t do. It basically came to us making him unofficial photographer. The kid was allergic to egg, milk, bees, work, but when I heard he was allergic to grass that baffled me. “How can that be possible? You walk to school. You walk to school by walking on grass. How long does it take you to get down the driveway and pass the hedges? Are you really allergic or do you just not want to dive for the ball in the outfield?”
The scent of a freshly mowed lawn is very refreshing, to many folk except the aforementioned allergy king. Before the lawn is mowed, there is other work to do. Spring-cleaning outside is one of the biggest chores for a kid. Never will you see a kid negotiate for either money or extended curfew more than at this time. Parents know too, that these tasks smell horrendously, that is why for twenty bucks and two movie tickets they hire out their migrant children.
No longer than ten minutes into it I grab underneath some dead leaves and discover a “missing” toy. “Oh, that’s where my baseball went. Why does it smell like death?” It really is strange how the dead leaves of last fall make for a coffin to anything beneath it. I never have gone grave robbing but raking the back yard is close enough.
I always knew it was springtime when mom would come back from the grocery store with some Popsicles. Those things were like gold on a stick for kids. Remember the day you had your first dreamsicle? The name alone, dreamsicle just embodies the attitude of the youth. “What’s in a dreamsicle?” I said. “Well Mike, its an orange Popsicle (score) with vanilla ice cream inside.” “WHAT?!! You can do that? Who was this person to make my dreams into a tasty smooth confectionary treat? I would like to meet them and proclaim them to be the greatest person to walk this green, rash causing grass.
There is only one way for spring to get better than a dreamsicle, women’s fashion. No, I don’t wear it, sober. Once I hit adolescence, dreamsicles where a thing of the past. I now had noticed the ever so wonderful, sundress. People always say bad things only happen to good people. Hello, there is not an article of clothing that better shows the ease and relaxation of the spring season like a sundress. Now for the not so philosophical truth. I think girls in sundresses are so so so attractive.
It’s the little things in life that are important. During these months it is how it should be metaphorically, impossible to sweat the small stuff.
The snow is long gone and now we are on the verge of nights in the beer gardens and days at the ball game. Spring tells us a lot about ourselves. Take the first time you put your shorts on. Wow, I guess eggnog is really fattening, or I did not think it was possible to get any paler. Regardless, its time to roll down the windows and embrace the tell tale signs that embody how our five senses know its spring.
Close your eyes. Well metaphorically, I still would like you to read on. It is only a matter of time before we all give each of our sentences the precursor of “what?” Until then the sounds of spring can lift one’s spirits like saline implants. In the middle of winter we hear nothing, maybe the sloshing of snow onto the curb. Come spring, we have the birds chirping, children without court supervision laughing, and of course some yahoo blasting his car stereo from five blocks away.
It really does not matter when the birds chirp, it is when Raul slows down and you can hear the bass from his Ford Festiva reverberate over the tactfully sexual lyrics. The neighborhood is going to hell in a low riding bike’s hand basket.
The sounds perhaps are ever-present but it is when we roll down our windows or ride our bikes. I can fondly recall the time when I heard some children laughing uncontrollably in a front yard. I looked over my shoulder to witness their joy only for it to end abruptly when attempted my first unintentional summersault from a bike over a parked car. It was a failure.
Contrary to popular belief, the feeling of spring is not love. Spring is not the season of monogamy. The way the flowers solicit their pistils to the bees, well let’s not talk about that. The feeling of spring is irritation.
There is nothing better than breathing through one nostril for ten weeks. Allergies are fascinating to me. How is it that I can be sick yet still go out and socialize? I always find it funny how people walking down the street, sneeze into their hand (don’t spread the germs) and inconspicuously brush their hip.
Snot aside, rubbing one’s eyes is another tell tale sign of irritation. How does something called ragweed control so many people? Allergies are getting out of control nowadays. I am allergic to hay fever. I don’t think it is right for one to be effected by something they cannot explain.
I grew up with one of my friends being allergic to everything. Whenever we had a cub scout outing we had a laundry list of things that Greg couldn’t do. It basically came to us making him unofficial photographer. The kid was allergic to egg, milk, bees, work, but when I heard he was allergic to grass that baffled me. “How can that be possible? You walk to school. You walk to school by walking on grass. How long does it take you to get down the driveway and pass the hedges? Are you really allergic or do you just not want to dive for the ball in the outfield?”
The scent of a freshly mowed lawn is very refreshing, to many folk except the aforementioned allergy king. Before the lawn is mowed, there is other work to do. Spring-cleaning outside is one of the biggest chores for a kid. Never will you see a kid negotiate for either money or extended curfew more than at this time. Parents know too, that these tasks smell horrendously, that is why for twenty bucks and two movie tickets they hire out their migrant children.
No longer than ten minutes into it I grab underneath some dead leaves and discover a “missing” toy. “Oh, that’s where my baseball went. Why does it smell like death?” It really is strange how the dead leaves of last fall make for a coffin to anything beneath it. I never have gone grave robbing but raking the back yard is close enough.
I always knew it was springtime when mom would come back from the grocery store with some Popsicles. Those things were like gold on a stick for kids. Remember the day you had your first dreamsicle? The name alone, dreamsicle just embodies the attitude of the youth. “What’s in a dreamsicle?” I said. “Well Mike, its an orange Popsicle (score) with vanilla ice cream inside.” “WHAT?!! You can do that? Who was this person to make my dreams into a tasty smooth confectionary treat? I would like to meet them and proclaim them to be the greatest person to walk this green, rash causing grass.
There is only one way for spring to get better than a dreamsicle, women’s fashion. No, I don’t wear it, sober. Once I hit adolescence, dreamsicles where a thing of the past. I now had noticed the ever so wonderful, sundress. People always say bad things only happen to good people. Hello, there is not an article of clothing that better shows the ease and relaxation of the spring season like a sundress. Now for the not so philosophical truth. I think girls in sundresses are so so so attractive.
It’s the little things in life that are important. During these months it is how it should be metaphorically, impossible to sweat the small stuff.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Selling Your Soul to the Devil/Michael Eisner
Believe it or not the majority of young Americans get their news from two sources; Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show” and “Sportcenter.” ESPN, which apparently stands for “everything sports network” has fallen further from greatness than the Chicago Bulls. However, both are laughing stocks that think they are doing the right thing for their fans.
In the late 90’s (I think) ESPN merged with Disney and the rest is history. Sportcenter went from a solid newscast with entertaining anchors to a broadcast for flunky comics who like a sport.
During a broadcast you can watch such segments as “fact or fiction.” This segment is where the so-called analyst/washed up athlete gives insight that any half sober mind could derive. They spend about five to eight minutes speculating everything that could possibly happen while dropping cliché sports metaphor after metaphor. “They are just going to have to play this series one at a time.” Can you play more than one at a time? Take your University of Georgia sprots degree back home bucko.
What is the most frustrating thing is that the analyst many times just doesn’t know which to pick, fact or fiction. Say either fact or fiction. The longer you take the more you perpetuate your dumb jock stereotype. If ESPN knew anything (ha!) they would realize the audience already knows that the analysts are only reading what someone wrote for them.
Our broadcasting talent is at the stage of passing the torch. Tom Brokaw is leaving the nightly news and whom is he passing off to, Brian Williams (an appropriate name for a monotone generic fill in). The same goes for Sportcenter. Dan Patrick and Keith Olberman were the Smothers Brothers of sports. They were smart, passionate, and tactful with their humor. Who do they leave us with? John Kruk, John Clayton (Perdue chicken man), and some other nameless yaps neither of whom probably own a pair of shoes that tie.
In a society where the only people on a newscast that actually demonstrate a personality is the weather and sports anchor these chaps have overlooked moderation like a freshman at their first party. The news desk has turned into that lunch table next to the cool kids. Saying any and everything to fit in and be liked by the rest of us. Think about it, why else would they say “Shaq-Daddy?”
Recently on SC they had the “sportcenter final exam.” For those uninformed this is where some athlete are asked tough questions about current events with the catch being all different types of sports. I am sure some charity gets money out of this because if they were being lame for the sake of being lame well that would be rather Disney now wouldn’t it?
Apparently Mickey Mouse likes to kick back with a cold one now and again. A beer maker sponsors just about every segment in Sportcenter. I have two favorite spots. The Coors Silver Bullet – Six-pack of questions. Wow, I don’t know who was the savvy mind that drew the connection between beer and a six-pack. I am glad somebody in the advertising world has the gall to direct market to the sororities across our nation.
My other favorite segment on the show is the Budweiser Hot Seat. Remember the adage of being in the hot seat meaning you were basically going to be verbally crucified? Well a journalist with integrity would ask tough questions and since there are none at ESPN they ask a handful of high school level questions. I could be wrong, maybe some athletes dread someone asking them “do you think the Cubs will go all the way this year?” Excuse me Troy Wingo do you have a towel? That question just made me sweat my fellas off.
Maybe I should not blame the journalists; maybe they are a direct reflection of the sports world. Born upon the principles of honor, integrity, and pure, bloody, tearful, joyous competition we have soiled all prosperity with ties of tragedy, scandal, and arrogance. There comes a transition in which we grow young to old, ignorant to wise, and in this case a transition from sport to business.
Sports have not been simply a game for quite some time. We used to let the game speak for itself and there was really no point to post game interviews. Fortunately Michael Eisner has given the sports world his herpetic touch to the industry. From here on out we’ll have our champions acquitted from all charges, brought to you by a frothy beer, and the understudy for Goofy will tell it only like the high glam diva of the sports world could.
We could only hope that the next malfunction at a sport broadcast involves the microphones.
Believe it or not the majority of young Americans get their news from two sources; Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show” and “Sportcenter.” ESPN, which apparently stands for “everything sports network” has fallen further from greatness than the Chicago Bulls. However, both are laughing stocks that think they are doing the right thing for their fans.
In the late 90’s (I think) ESPN merged with Disney and the rest is history. Sportcenter went from a solid newscast with entertaining anchors to a broadcast for flunky comics who like a sport.
During a broadcast you can watch such segments as “fact or fiction.” This segment is where the so-called analyst/washed up athlete gives insight that any half sober mind could derive. They spend about five to eight minutes speculating everything that could possibly happen while dropping cliché sports metaphor after metaphor. “They are just going to have to play this series one at a time.” Can you play more than one at a time? Take your University of Georgia sprots degree back home bucko.
What is the most frustrating thing is that the analyst many times just doesn’t know which to pick, fact or fiction. Say either fact or fiction. The longer you take the more you perpetuate your dumb jock stereotype. If ESPN knew anything (ha!) they would realize the audience already knows that the analysts are only reading what someone wrote for them.
Our broadcasting talent is at the stage of passing the torch. Tom Brokaw is leaving the nightly news and whom is he passing off to, Brian Williams (an appropriate name for a monotone generic fill in). The same goes for Sportcenter. Dan Patrick and Keith Olberman were the Smothers Brothers of sports. They were smart, passionate, and tactful with their humor. Who do they leave us with? John Kruk, John Clayton (Perdue chicken man), and some other nameless yaps neither of whom probably own a pair of shoes that tie.
In a society where the only people on a newscast that actually demonstrate a personality is the weather and sports anchor these chaps have overlooked moderation like a freshman at their first party. The news desk has turned into that lunch table next to the cool kids. Saying any and everything to fit in and be liked by the rest of us. Think about it, why else would they say “Shaq-Daddy?”
Recently on SC they had the “sportcenter final exam.” For those uninformed this is where some athlete are asked tough questions about current events with the catch being all different types of sports. I am sure some charity gets money out of this because if they were being lame for the sake of being lame well that would be rather Disney now wouldn’t it?
Apparently Mickey Mouse likes to kick back with a cold one now and again. A beer maker sponsors just about every segment in Sportcenter. I have two favorite spots. The Coors Silver Bullet – Six-pack of questions. Wow, I don’t know who was the savvy mind that drew the connection between beer and a six-pack. I am glad somebody in the advertising world has the gall to direct market to the sororities across our nation.
My other favorite segment on the show is the Budweiser Hot Seat. Remember the adage of being in the hot seat meaning you were basically going to be verbally crucified? Well a journalist with integrity would ask tough questions and since there are none at ESPN they ask a handful of high school level questions. I could be wrong, maybe some athletes dread someone asking them “do you think the Cubs will go all the way this year?” Excuse me Troy Wingo do you have a towel? That question just made me sweat my fellas off.
Maybe I should not blame the journalists; maybe they are a direct reflection of the sports world. Born upon the principles of honor, integrity, and pure, bloody, tearful, joyous competition we have soiled all prosperity with ties of tragedy, scandal, and arrogance. There comes a transition in which we grow young to old, ignorant to wise, and in this case a transition from sport to business.
Sports have not been simply a game for quite some time. We used to let the game speak for itself and there was really no point to post game interviews. Fortunately Michael Eisner has given the sports world his herpetic touch to the industry. From here on out we’ll have our champions acquitted from all charges, brought to you by a frothy beer, and the understudy for Goofy will tell it only like the high glam diva of the sports world could.
We could only hope that the next malfunction at a sport broadcast involves the microphones.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Ahh, Twins
Twins are the biological redo of our species and for many reasons we are fascinated by the way they really look alike in the same outfit (but different color). It all became cuter than all heck with Patty Duke. Then we got a special treat called the Olsen twins.
Their big breaks came when they were only nine months old. How does a set of nine-month-old infants look/act the part more than any other set of twins? Was the audition more than a session at Olen Mills photography studio? “Smile for the birdie.” “I think she grinned. Now, that’s our baby.”
Having a baby on a show makes as much as owning fish, as much as you would like they really do nothing besides take up space waiting for you to feed or change them. When the Olsen twins actually were able to speak (not have a voice dubbed over them) they were the icons of sugar substitutes.
I wonder this. At the age of nine months why do you need a set of twins? What exactly could Ashley do that made Mary-Kate a third down kind of twin? Could only one of them say “way to go dude!”? I am surprised that there was no complex to come from this. On the set of a family show not only does the show end perfectly but also so does the lives of all within…Blehh.
Mary-Kate and Ashley were so perfect for the era of family programming. When ABC gave them the start they were on TGIF (Tipper Gore’s Installation of Family values). Who else was on? Well, Urckle in “Family Matters.” That show took no more than a couple seasons to immortalize an American ideal- writing off a child. If you recall there was another daughter but ABC already had the ugly card with Urckle and he got laughs.
Full House brought many ideals back to the home. Many of those ideals were already mentioned, written, and played out in “The Brady Bunch”, “Family Ties” and even “The Cosby Show.”
I thank the Olsen’s for being the lone set of child stars not to be waking up and washing their faces in the gutter. They are reportedly worth almost a billion dollars. That is fascinating how they fleeced America’s allowances on such lame straight to video movies fluffy magazines, and wearing Osh Kosh B’Gosh for seven years. In a world of hard core, these two are the anti-viagra; they keep our lives soft and our ideals flirting with actual morals. Until they turn eighteen.
Here’s the issue with America talking about these girls in a sexual manner. Legally, it soon will be acceptable. Ethically, still wrong. Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are making the nation talk like they were on “Girls Gone Wild.” I am disappointed in us. This case alone makes America a bunch of hillbillies. Can a child not grow up before we have the urge to go R. Kelly on them? We watched them grow up. It is like raising a calf, naming and nurturing it only to send it to slaughter instead of milking the wholesomeness it provides.
There are a select group of horn balls that vocalize their inner thoughts as one (usually a girl) turns eighteen. “Man, I can’t wait until she is eighteen, finally legal.” Yeah, I am sure the only benefit of her turning legal is now that you will only be classified as a sex offender not a sex offender and a pedophile, creep.
On a brighter note, the twins got their star on the Hollywood walk of fame. The stars are actually bought by the stars proving that only in California are people dumb enough to pay for millions of people to walk all over them, well there is also the presidency.
I used to think took a lot of time and success to get on the walk of fame (Bob Hope, Humphrey Bogart, Lucile Ball) but I guess in the weeks between another comic book movie opening Hollywood needed something to waste our time with.
Mary Kate and Ashley are doing to greatest thing, going to college. Maybe then they will finally “find themselves” and stop mooching off their parents. I understand they are looking to study business and fashion. If all goes well for them they will be the first child stars to be thirty that can afford Applebees and not look like fallen GAP models.
Good luck girls, I’ll give you a call sometime before my morals return.
Twins are the biological redo of our species and for many reasons we are fascinated by the way they really look alike in the same outfit (but different color). It all became cuter than all heck with Patty Duke. Then we got a special treat called the Olsen twins.
Their big breaks came when they were only nine months old. How does a set of nine-month-old infants look/act the part more than any other set of twins? Was the audition more than a session at Olen Mills photography studio? “Smile for the birdie.” “I think she grinned. Now, that’s our baby.”
Having a baby on a show makes as much as owning fish, as much as you would like they really do nothing besides take up space waiting for you to feed or change them. When the Olsen twins actually were able to speak (not have a voice dubbed over them) they were the icons of sugar substitutes.
I wonder this. At the age of nine months why do you need a set of twins? What exactly could Ashley do that made Mary-Kate a third down kind of twin? Could only one of them say “way to go dude!”? I am surprised that there was no complex to come from this. On the set of a family show not only does the show end perfectly but also so does the lives of all within…Blehh.
Mary-Kate and Ashley were so perfect for the era of family programming. When ABC gave them the start they were on TGIF (Tipper Gore’s Installation of Family values). Who else was on? Well, Urckle in “Family Matters.” That show took no more than a couple seasons to immortalize an American ideal- writing off a child. If you recall there was another daughter but ABC already had the ugly card with Urckle and he got laughs.
Full House brought many ideals back to the home. Many of those ideals were already mentioned, written, and played out in “The Brady Bunch”, “Family Ties” and even “The Cosby Show.”
I thank the Olsen’s for being the lone set of child stars not to be waking up and washing their faces in the gutter. They are reportedly worth almost a billion dollars. That is fascinating how they fleeced America’s allowances on such lame straight to video movies fluffy magazines, and wearing Osh Kosh B’Gosh for seven years. In a world of hard core, these two are the anti-viagra; they keep our lives soft and our ideals flirting with actual morals. Until they turn eighteen.
Here’s the issue with America talking about these girls in a sexual manner. Legally, it soon will be acceptable. Ethically, still wrong. Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are making the nation talk like they were on “Girls Gone Wild.” I am disappointed in us. This case alone makes America a bunch of hillbillies. Can a child not grow up before we have the urge to go R. Kelly on them? We watched them grow up. It is like raising a calf, naming and nurturing it only to send it to slaughter instead of milking the wholesomeness it provides.
There are a select group of horn balls that vocalize their inner thoughts as one (usually a girl) turns eighteen. “Man, I can’t wait until she is eighteen, finally legal.” Yeah, I am sure the only benefit of her turning legal is now that you will only be classified as a sex offender not a sex offender and a pedophile, creep.
On a brighter note, the twins got their star on the Hollywood walk of fame. The stars are actually bought by the stars proving that only in California are people dumb enough to pay for millions of people to walk all over them, well there is also the presidency.
I used to think took a lot of time and success to get on the walk of fame (Bob Hope, Humphrey Bogart, Lucile Ball) but I guess in the weeks between another comic book movie opening Hollywood needed something to waste our time with.
Mary Kate and Ashley are doing to greatest thing, going to college. Maybe then they will finally “find themselves” and stop mooching off their parents. I understand they are looking to study business and fashion. If all goes well for them they will be the first child stars to be thirty that can afford Applebees and not look like fallen GAP models.
Good luck girls, I’ll give you a call sometime before my morals return.
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