The Wisdom of Spam
I'd just like to personally thank one Ms. Wilhemina Judi for her thoughtful email, lovingly entitled "U R STUPID DUMBASS IF YOU PAY RETAIL PRICE FOR SOFTWAREZ".
Gosh, Judi, you're right. I m stupid dumbass. It took your insightful subject line to make me see that. If only more people would truly get to know their target demographic before making the sales "pitch". Other recent emails include "Hey jerkoff gET wAReZ", "U R assHole with tEEny bro", and "Molester of livestock, buy my tasty toner cartridges!". OK, I made that last one up. You can tell because the capitalization made a modicum of sense.
But can you imagine if this surefire strategy branched out into other products? Like Best Foods (Hellmann's East of the Rockies, so I'm told) could have a bold new "Jesus Christ why aren't you buying our mayonnaise you malformed freak?!" campaign. Or "Not a soul exists that doesn't find you odious and repellent -- now drink Miller Lite, chump!"
I can only hope.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Monday, April 19, 2004
I just booked a hotel at an alarmingly cheap rate from a shady looking internet travel site. So cheap and shady I called them to make sure it was on the up and up.
It seems to be both up and up, so I can only assume my room will be HAUNTED!, like in all those terrible shows you see on the Travel Channel where charming Bed and Breakfast owners in Georgia give straight-to-camera accounts of the time that someone dressed in a Civil War uniform massaged their inner thigh in the guest bathroom. Then, they make it perfectly clear that you should under no circumstances come to their Bed and Breakfast and give them lots of your money for the privilege of maybe having your inner thigh ectomplasmically massaged or perhaps getting woken up by a clumsy apparition stumbling to the toilet at three in the morning after a heavy bout of otherworldly beer drinking.
I suspect the HAUNTED! hotel thing only lasts til they get you to the hotel. Once you're there, the hotel staff is not going to want to expend the effort of simulating HAUNTING! They're not going to get up all hours of the night and bang pans or moan and wail or stand outside the window and throw frogs at you.
Anyway, I'll let you know if I get sucked into the television set or anything.
It seems to be both up and up, so I can only assume my room will be HAUNTED!, like in all those terrible shows you see on the Travel Channel where charming Bed and Breakfast owners in Georgia give straight-to-camera accounts of the time that someone dressed in a Civil War uniform massaged their inner thigh in the guest bathroom. Then, they make it perfectly clear that you should under no circumstances come to their Bed and Breakfast and give them lots of your money for the privilege of maybe having your inner thigh ectomplasmically massaged or perhaps getting woken up by a clumsy apparition stumbling to the toilet at three in the morning after a heavy bout of otherworldly beer drinking.
I suspect the HAUNTED! hotel thing only lasts til they get you to the hotel. Once you're there, the hotel staff is not going to want to expend the effort of simulating HAUNTING! They're not going to get up all hours of the night and bang pans or moan and wail or stand outside the window and throw frogs at you.
Anyway, I'll let you know if I get sucked into the television set or anything.
Friday, April 16, 2004
Braking Away
I return to you from bizarre car difficulties.
I drove home at lunch a few days ago, parked in my garage, and pulled up the handbrake. S-N-N-K-K-K! It sounded like something broke! I pulled my hand away from the handle and gingerly pressed in the release button on the brake. Nothing! It wouldn't move.
For half an hour I did battle with my handbrake. I wiggled. I jiggled. I even at one point got a rubber mallet and hit the button like a redheaded stepchild. No dice.
Finally, I sucked in my courage and called AAA. A tow truck guy showed up, and I had to explain that my brake was stuck on. He gave me a look that said "We tow truck drivers live for these moments. We yearn to come to your home and do something incredibly simple, perhaps involving a twilliger rod, and make you feel foolish and lame."
He hopped in the car and wiggled. And jiggled. He cursed and talked to me about the bewilderment he felt at waking up one day and realizing he was a "tow guy". He complimented my bouganvilleas. But he could not get the brake off.
"Don't worry," he said "I'll call my mentor".*
While we waited for his mentor, he explained to me that it was not really possible to tow my car to the dealership (where they would relieve me of several paychecks) because the car was parked head-in in the garage, and to tow it out would wreck the transmission. We, of course, could not roll it out of the garage because the brakes were stuck on. He explained a complex procedure involving a flatbed tow truck and applying soap to the rear wheels. I felt it was best not to question him.
His "mentor" showed up. This was the supremo tow guy, who had taught tow guy #1 all he knew. The second guy exploded with derisive laughter and made unkind insinuations about tow guy #1 and his lack of physical prowess. I, as a thirty-two year old man who had called AAA to fix my handbrake, was also referred to as "weak". This new guy, who looked kind of like one of the old circus sideshow strongmen of yore, bald with a handlebar moustache, climbed into the car and began jiggling. He demanded use of my visegrips, which I gladly supplied. **
He gave it a go for another forty minutes, the sweat pouring off him and into my upholstery. He detached things. He bent and deformed things...
But then! The brake was released!
I drove to the car dealership, my handbrake limply hanging. my center panel sadly askew, forever rent asunder.
When I got there, of course, the smarmy service representative lifted his eyebrows in a "I am clearly dealing with an idiot" sort of way when I told him about the problem.
Anyway, long story long, it cost me many, many clams, my car was in the shop for two days and I had to rent the worst car in the world: a bright red Chevy Cavalier, which I believe still holds the title of Official Car of Humility.
At least it said Enterprise on the license plate frame.
* I immediately thought of the old Shazam live action kids' show which for some reason I think of when I hear the word "mentor". Didn't that guy have a "mentor" who used to drive around in an RV or something? He was kind of like the superhero support vehicle, I guess. Maybe he carried spare gold boots in case Shazam lost a heel. Or was it called Captain Marvel? I have got to brush up on this stuff.
** I felt almost manly there for a minute, having visegrips in my toolbox. I didn't mention, of course, that I am terrfiied of the visegrips, and imagine them accidentally vise-gripping on parts of my body, maiming me hideously and leaving me to stagger the darkened streets with visegrips dangling from various body parts, frightening children and maybe becoming the topic of an In Search Of one day.
I return to you from bizarre car difficulties.
I drove home at lunch a few days ago, parked in my garage, and pulled up the handbrake. S-N-N-K-K-K! It sounded like something broke! I pulled my hand away from the handle and gingerly pressed in the release button on the brake. Nothing! It wouldn't move.
For half an hour I did battle with my handbrake. I wiggled. I jiggled. I even at one point got a rubber mallet and hit the button like a redheaded stepchild. No dice.
Finally, I sucked in my courage and called AAA. A tow truck guy showed up, and I had to explain that my brake was stuck on. He gave me a look that said "We tow truck drivers live for these moments. We yearn to come to your home and do something incredibly simple, perhaps involving a twilliger rod, and make you feel foolish and lame."
He hopped in the car and wiggled. And jiggled. He cursed and talked to me about the bewilderment he felt at waking up one day and realizing he was a "tow guy". He complimented my bouganvilleas. But he could not get the brake off.
"Don't worry," he said "I'll call my mentor".*
While we waited for his mentor, he explained to me that it was not really possible to tow my car to the dealership (where they would relieve me of several paychecks) because the car was parked head-in in the garage, and to tow it out would wreck the transmission. We, of course, could not roll it out of the garage because the brakes were stuck on. He explained a complex procedure involving a flatbed tow truck and applying soap to the rear wheels. I felt it was best not to question him.
His "mentor" showed up. This was the supremo tow guy, who had taught tow guy #1 all he knew. The second guy exploded with derisive laughter and made unkind insinuations about tow guy #1 and his lack of physical prowess. I, as a thirty-two year old man who had called AAA to fix my handbrake, was also referred to as "weak". This new guy, who looked kind of like one of the old circus sideshow strongmen of yore, bald with a handlebar moustache, climbed into the car and began jiggling. He demanded use of my visegrips, which I gladly supplied. **
He gave it a go for another forty minutes, the sweat pouring off him and into my upholstery. He detached things. He bent and deformed things...
But then! The brake was released!
I drove to the car dealership, my handbrake limply hanging. my center panel sadly askew, forever rent asunder.
When I got there, of course, the smarmy service representative lifted his eyebrows in a "I am clearly dealing with an idiot" sort of way when I told him about the problem.
Anyway, long story long, it cost me many, many clams, my car was in the shop for two days and I had to rent the worst car in the world: a bright red Chevy Cavalier, which I believe still holds the title of Official Car of Humility.
At least it said Enterprise on the license plate frame.
* I immediately thought of the old Shazam live action kids' show which for some reason I think of when I hear the word "mentor". Didn't that guy have a "mentor" who used to drive around in an RV or something? He was kind of like the superhero support vehicle, I guess. Maybe he carried spare gold boots in case Shazam lost a heel. Or was it called Captain Marvel? I have got to brush up on this stuff.
** I felt almost manly there for a minute, having visegrips in my toolbox. I didn't mention, of course, that I am terrfiied of the visegrips, and imagine them accidentally vise-gripping on parts of my body, maiming me hideously and leaving me to stagger the darkened streets with visegrips dangling from various body parts, frightening children and maybe becoming the topic of an In Search Of one day.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Solitary
Things have been lonely and sad in the Kafkaesque household. The wife is out of town for days at a time on business. I eat solitary dinners, chatting with the cat about the 9/11 hearings. I watch movies. I make terrible sounds on the gueetar. I put off the chores.
But something happened this morning that showed me I am truly losing it, that my isolation has turned to some sort of sickness: I was leaving for work and realized that I forgot to drink coffee. That's right. I forgot to grind the beans, get out the filter, heat the water. All that stuff. I mean, if I had just forgot one step, like putting the filter in the little Melitta cone, that would be understandable, but totally missing the entire coffee element of my morning? It's worrying.
It's like forgetting to unzip your pants before going to the bathroom. Or wondering why you're not at work, when you forgot to drive your car there.
I fear for my mind.
Things have been lonely and sad in the Kafkaesque household. The wife is out of town for days at a time on business. I eat solitary dinners, chatting with the cat about the 9/11 hearings. I watch movies. I make terrible sounds on the gueetar. I put off the chores.
But something happened this morning that showed me I am truly losing it, that my isolation has turned to some sort of sickness: I was leaving for work and realized that I forgot to drink coffee. That's right. I forgot to grind the beans, get out the filter, heat the water. All that stuff. I mean, if I had just forgot one step, like putting the filter in the little Melitta cone, that would be understandable, but totally missing the entire coffee element of my morning? It's worrying.
It's like forgetting to unzip your pants before going to the bathroom. Or wondering why you're not at work, when you forgot to drive your car there.
I fear for my mind.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Oh, also, and for no reason: Cthulhu v. The Superheroes Lenticular
What are lenticulars? Those crazy plastic thingies that seem to change or move as you look at them from one angle or another. Very popular with religious novelties, as I'm sure you are well aware. Like from one angle Jesus is giving the sermon on the mount or something, and then from the other angle -- Bam! Crucifixion!
What are lenticulars? Those crazy plastic thingies that seem to change or move as you look at them from one angle or another. Very popular with religious novelties, as I'm sure you are well aware. Like from one angle Jesus is giving the sermon on the mount or something, and then from the other angle -- Bam! Crucifixion!
On the Loss of Opportunity
We just got a new roof put on our house. That means we are no longer roofless people, as we were for a couple of days there while people who really looked a lot like carnies tore off our shingles. That sounds like a terribly miscalculated budget surgery, doesn't it? "People who look like carnies tore off my shingles!"
I know, gross.
Anyway, we got this new roof, which is very nice and made of steel and isn't thirty years old. Also, It doesn't send shakes flying off every time there's a wind over twenty miles an hour. So that's nice.
But it struck me today, as I was watching these faux-carnies up there wielding nailguns and drinking alarming quantities of Squirt (alarming because where do these guys pee? Are they peeing in my yard? Can I detect that in some way? Is there a pee-sniffing dog I can rent? But then, aren't all dogs really pee-sniffing dogs, when you come right down to it?). These guys are almost done with the job, and I missed out on a great opportunity: if I had paid them just a little bit more, and roofs are already pretty pricey so another few clams wasn't going to make much difference, I wonder if they would have worn big fluffy animal costumes while they worked on my roof.
Can you imagine how great it would be to be driving down a street and see a six foot frog nailing flashing to a skylight? Maybe a giant fluffy raccoon tiptoeing along the patio covering, teetering at the edge of the atrium?
Hindsight is 20-20 I guess.
We just got a new roof put on our house. That means we are no longer roofless people, as we were for a couple of days there while people who really looked a lot like carnies tore off our shingles. That sounds like a terribly miscalculated budget surgery, doesn't it? "People who look like carnies tore off my shingles!"
I know, gross.
Anyway, we got this new roof, which is very nice and made of steel and isn't thirty years old. Also, It doesn't send shakes flying off every time there's a wind over twenty miles an hour. So that's nice.
But it struck me today, as I was watching these faux-carnies up there wielding nailguns and drinking alarming quantities of Squirt (alarming because where do these guys pee? Are they peeing in my yard? Can I detect that in some way? Is there a pee-sniffing dog I can rent? But then, aren't all dogs really pee-sniffing dogs, when you come right down to it?). These guys are almost done with the job, and I missed out on a great opportunity: if I had paid them just a little bit more, and roofs are already pretty pricey so another few clams wasn't going to make much difference, I wonder if they would have worn big fluffy animal costumes while they worked on my roof.
Can you imagine how great it would be to be driving down a street and see a six foot frog nailing flashing to a skylight? Maybe a giant fluffy raccoon tiptoeing along the patio covering, teetering at the edge of the atrium?
Hindsight is 20-20 I guess.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
The End of Days
In high school, a couple of friends and I would stay up all night playing insanely long games of RISK* until, inevitably, fisticuffs would ensue or someone would freak out and ruin the game.
One particularly exciting game featured my friend T massing an army too large to be held by the relatively small confines of Siam. He had not just the Vs, my friends, but the Xs. He must have had seventy armies on Siam.
Another friend, K, had retreated into Australia, perhaps hoping to live out his days peacefully in New Zealand or Western Australia, with his paltry five or ten armies. Maybe they would take up subsistence farming, or film a blockbuster fantasy trilogy with Orlando Bloom there one day in the future.
But T was at the border, with a vast force. And the dice came down in judgment.
You may have read in history books about the battle that day, how ten or so plastic Roman numerals held off the onslaught of far superior numbers, how K again and again rolled sixes to T's fours, threes to his ones, impossibly whittling down the juggernaut force until victory was in sight, and his ragtag band of plastic started to believe they could win the day. T's plastic warriors were strewn about the board, crying "Medic!". And no medic arrived.
But a rumbling began in the skies when T was down to thirty or so Roman numerals.
Every victory for K was rewarded with a punch in the arm. K laughed these glancing blows off and the dice rolling continued. These two gladiators pushed Is, Vs and Xs to their fate, demanded them up and over the trench wall into the face of a rain of bullets and fire. And every turn, K beat T. Again and again.
And the punches came harder now, with more venom. The laughter in return had an edge of ire.
No-one can now say exactly who was ahead when T launched the doomsday attack, for no-one survived that day. Somehow, Roman numerals started again after that, ekeing out an existence on a cardboard world that had seen the visitation of the perfect weapon. But no crops would grow; the land was ruined and diseased.
And in hushed tones, the legend would be passed from grandfather to grandson, that they may remember the past and not repeat its folly: The Day The Board Was Flipped.
* Yes, friends and neighbors. I was not the coolest kid in high school. I know, your illusions are shattered.
In high school, a couple of friends and I would stay up all night playing insanely long games of RISK* until, inevitably, fisticuffs would ensue or someone would freak out and ruin the game.
One particularly exciting game featured my friend T massing an army too large to be held by the relatively small confines of Siam. He had not just the Vs, my friends, but the Xs. He must have had seventy armies on Siam.
Another friend, K, had retreated into Australia, perhaps hoping to live out his days peacefully in New Zealand or Western Australia, with his paltry five or ten armies. Maybe they would take up subsistence farming, or film a blockbuster fantasy trilogy with Orlando Bloom there one day in the future.
But T was at the border, with a vast force. And the dice came down in judgment.
You may have read in history books about the battle that day, how ten or so plastic Roman numerals held off the onslaught of far superior numbers, how K again and again rolled sixes to T's fours, threes to his ones, impossibly whittling down the juggernaut force until victory was in sight, and his ragtag band of plastic started to believe they could win the day. T's plastic warriors were strewn about the board, crying "Medic!". And no medic arrived.
But a rumbling began in the skies when T was down to thirty or so Roman numerals.
Every victory for K was rewarded with a punch in the arm. K laughed these glancing blows off and the dice rolling continued. These two gladiators pushed Is, Vs and Xs to their fate, demanded them up and over the trench wall into the face of a rain of bullets and fire. And every turn, K beat T. Again and again.
And the punches came harder now, with more venom. The laughter in return had an edge of ire.
No-one can now say exactly who was ahead when T launched the doomsday attack, for no-one survived that day. Somehow, Roman numerals started again after that, ekeing out an existence on a cardboard world that had seen the visitation of the perfect weapon. But no crops would grow; the land was ruined and diseased.
And in hushed tones, the legend would be passed from grandfather to grandson, that they may remember the past and not repeat its folly: The Day The Board Was Flipped.
* Yes, friends and neighbors. I was not the coolest kid in high school. I know, your illusions are shattered.
Friday, March 26, 2004
No-One Ever Complains About Airlines
I never get the headphones on flights, because the movies are awful.
I remember watching silently some of Pay It Forward. I wished terrible and surprisingly graphic torture on Helen Hunt and Kevin Spacey, my eyes drifting up to the tiny screen as I watched from my tiny chair. I think the airlines should just pull out all the stops and show Beastmaster 2 on every flight.
"Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking...today we'll be cruising at an altitude of 12,000 feet...we'll be serving something hideous for your inflight meal...and after we level out we'll start our feature film...it's a special treat for you today...Akira Kurosawa directs Toshiro Mifune in Rasho-- just kidding! It's Beastmaster 2."
There also seems to be a certain despondency or inappropriateness to some of the film choices. Once, on a transatlantic flight, they showed us a couple of movies, one of which was that awful Anthony Hopkins movie about killing monkeys for fun and profit, and the other was some terrible teevee movie about a single mother dying of breast cancer. It was awful. People were crying in the aisles.
First the monkeys getting turned into ashtrays and wastebaskets, then the single mom languishing away in her hospital bed. Jesus.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the incredibly depressing films featured on this flight...now, Beastmaster 2."
I never get the headphones on flights, because the movies are awful.
I remember watching silently some of Pay It Forward. I wished terrible and surprisingly graphic torture on Helen Hunt and Kevin Spacey, my eyes drifting up to the tiny screen as I watched from my tiny chair. I think the airlines should just pull out all the stops and show Beastmaster 2 on every flight.
"Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking...today we'll be cruising at an altitude of 12,000 feet...we'll be serving something hideous for your inflight meal...and after we level out we'll start our feature film...it's a special treat for you today...Akira Kurosawa directs Toshiro Mifune in Rasho-- just kidding! It's Beastmaster 2."
There also seems to be a certain despondency or inappropriateness to some of the film choices. Once, on a transatlantic flight, they showed us a couple of movies, one of which was that awful Anthony Hopkins movie about killing monkeys for fun and profit, and the other was some terrible teevee movie about a single mother dying of breast cancer. It was awful. People were crying in the aisles.
First the monkeys getting turned into ashtrays and wastebaskets, then the single mom languishing away in her hospital bed. Jesus.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the incredibly depressing films featured on this flight...now, Beastmaster 2."
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
I picked up the wifely friend's wedding ring a few days ago from our dubious jeweler. I'll call him Mo (because that's his real name). He's a giant Persian guy who is clearly on a large variety of drugs. We are trusting him for reasons that are unclear even to us to recast a significant amount of platinum into the right size for the wifely friend's dainty finger. The ring has never fit just right in our three years of marriage.
The last time I saw him, he was putting tiny slivers of sapphire into a water-fountain night-light. As he tried to pick up the little jewels, his hand was shaking like it was possessed by Pzuzu and engaged in a little ecstatic dancing. He glanced up at me and his eyes looked like the Man From Atlantis, or at least The Man Who Has Either Been Swimming in a Hyperchlorinated Pool or Has Smoked Large Amount of Pot.
Also, putting sapphires into an intrinsically worthless piece of plastic like a night-light is something that would only occur to somebody who's really, really high.
"Oh wow, man. I just thought of something. What if we took the goo out of a Renuzit air freshener and filled it with 12 year old Scotch?"
That sort of thing.
Anyway, I was thinking it might be fun to ask my wife to marry me several times throughout the course of the day, in really inappropriate places. Like waiting in line at the Subway, at the bus stop or at Hot Dog on a Stick. Maybe stroll into her work with a big bunch of those crappy tinfoil balloons you see at the grocery store checkout stand and a silk rose and loudly proclaim that I want to make an honest woman of her.
As it turned out, I decided not embarrass her in this fashion, as I am embarrassing enough to her in your garden variety ways. I just got down on one knee on our patio and said "You know I love you, right?", causing just the right amount of panic in her eyes as she thought "Oh no, you've killed someone/slept with an animal/broken my precious cat with wings sculpture," and then slipped the ring on her finger.
In the moment of doing that I realized a couple of things.
One, I will never again get that heartsickeningly worried moment of "Will she say yes?"
Two, that it is important to ask her to marry me every couple of years, just to keep her on her toes.
It's so romantic, it might make her forget that I did, in fact, break her "cat with wings" sculpture.
The last time I saw him, he was putting tiny slivers of sapphire into a water-fountain night-light. As he tried to pick up the little jewels, his hand was shaking like it was possessed by Pzuzu and engaged in a little ecstatic dancing. He glanced up at me and his eyes looked like the Man From Atlantis, or at least The Man Who Has Either Been Swimming in a Hyperchlorinated Pool or Has Smoked Large Amount of Pot.
Also, putting sapphires into an intrinsically worthless piece of plastic like a night-light is something that would only occur to somebody who's really, really high.
"Oh wow, man. I just thought of something. What if we took the goo out of a Renuzit air freshener and filled it with 12 year old Scotch?"
That sort of thing.
Anyway, I was thinking it might be fun to ask my wife to marry me several times throughout the course of the day, in really inappropriate places. Like waiting in line at the Subway, at the bus stop or at Hot Dog on a Stick. Maybe stroll into her work with a big bunch of those crappy tinfoil balloons you see at the grocery store checkout stand and a silk rose and loudly proclaim that I want to make an honest woman of her.
As it turned out, I decided not embarrass her in this fashion, as I am embarrassing enough to her in your garden variety ways. I just got down on one knee on our patio and said "You know I love you, right?", causing just the right amount of panic in her eyes as she thought "Oh no, you've killed someone/slept with an animal/broken my precious cat with wings sculpture," and then slipped the ring on her finger.
In the moment of doing that I realized a couple of things.
One, I will never again get that heartsickeningly worried moment of "Will she say yes?"
Two, that it is important to ask her to marry me every couple of years, just to keep her on her toes.
It's so romantic, it might make her forget that I did, in fact, break her "cat with wings" sculpture.
I'm not one to complain about such things (which of course means "I am definitely, unequivocally and irrefutably one to complain about such things, and even some other things that really aren't even all that related to the first thing even in the most tangential way."), but I saw a Hummer commercial today featuring Mojave 3 music. I don't think it's the end of days, but it just seems a little incongruous. Not as bad as Godspeed You! Black Emperor advertising for Raytheon or General Dynamics or anything, but just a little off.
Monday, March 22, 2004
The New Shirt
I wore a new shirt today. It's nice.
Maybe too nice.
All day people have been stopping by my cubicle and saying things like "Wow, silk?" and "That's the kind of shirt I want to get." and "I am no longer feel worthy to be working in the same building as you." I'll be working along happily (in this case happily is a decidedly relative term), when all of a sudden, I'll become aware of a presence off to my left.
I turn quickly and catch the entire engineering staff eyeing my shirt, cautiously tiptoeing closer like squirrels shyly approaching an offered peanut. Their eyes light on the shirt, and just for a moment, they are spirited away from their humdrum existence, lifted up from the soul-crushing banality of AutoCAD. They are given wings and hope by my shirt, freed from the constraints of their lonely and meaningless existences.
In this shirt, they see their destiny. They want to become better than they are. A mere yard of cotton blend has given them a renewed gusto.
Maybe they will take up rock climbing tonight. Or learn the saxophone.
I wore a new shirt today. It's nice.
Maybe too nice.
All day people have been stopping by my cubicle and saying things like "Wow, silk?" and "That's the kind of shirt I want to get." and "I am no longer feel worthy to be working in the same building as you." I'll be working along happily (in this case happily is a decidedly relative term), when all of a sudden, I'll become aware of a presence off to my left.
I turn quickly and catch the entire engineering staff eyeing my shirt, cautiously tiptoeing closer like squirrels shyly approaching an offered peanut. Their eyes light on the shirt, and just for a moment, they are spirited away from their humdrum existence, lifted up from the soul-crushing banality of AutoCAD. They are given wings and hope by my shirt, freed from the constraints of their lonely and meaningless existences.
In this shirt, they see their destiny. They want to become better than they are. A mere yard of cotton blend has given them a renewed gusto.
Maybe they will take up rock climbing tonight. Or learn the saxophone.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Monday, March 15, 2004
The Sizzler Seduction Scenario
Notes for possible short story/novel/rock opera/religious master narrative:
- A man, Julio, lounges by the all-you-can-eat salad bar of a Sizzler, making lurid suggestions to women using a langostino and drawn butter for visual aid.
- possible love scene involving sex on the salad bar, awkward moment with sneeze guard. Could strategically place pickled beets for propriety/ R rating.
- Educational song explaining that chickpeas and garbanzos are essentially the same thing. Note: Make chickpeas represent the struggle of Native Americans in the last century. What rhymes with garbanzo?
- Can one commit suicide by drinking a gallon of Thousand Island Dressing? Must research or final revelation will be meaningless.
- A gang of langostinos save Julio the salad bar Romeo at crucial moment, teaching him about forgiveness and the redeeming power of love.
- Big closing musical number during which the entire cast pelt each other with Texas Bread and cheap steak.
Notes for possible short story/novel/rock opera/religious master narrative:
- A man, Julio, lounges by the all-you-can-eat salad bar of a Sizzler, making lurid suggestions to women using a langostino and drawn butter for visual aid.
- possible love scene involving sex on the salad bar, awkward moment with sneeze guard. Could strategically place pickled beets for propriety/ R rating.
- Educational song explaining that chickpeas and garbanzos are essentially the same thing. Note: Make chickpeas represent the struggle of Native Americans in the last century. What rhymes with garbanzo?
- Can one commit suicide by drinking a gallon of Thousand Island Dressing? Must research or final revelation will be meaningless.
- A gang of langostinos save Julio the salad bar Romeo at crucial moment, teaching him about forgiveness and the redeeming power of love.
- Big closing musical number during which the entire cast pelt each other with Texas Bread and cheap steak.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Thanks to the moderate urging of astute and friendly person Waxy, I have added an RSS Feed, which you will see a link to over there on the left somewhere.
God only knows if it works.
God only knows if it works.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Professional Rememberers
A few nights ago as I desultorily flipped channels, desperately seaching for the 90 minute Knife Auction paid program, I came upon the latest in the string of "wasn't that decade great, you know with the things that we all kind of remember?" show. This one was about the 90s. People were reminiscing about such sweet and distant memories as Britney Spears. It seems so long ago now.
I don't mind these shows, really. At least the 70s and 80s ones were understandable. Maybe there would be a sense of community, and that must be what the viewers are searching for in these programs, where they know they are not the only ones that remember Catch That Pigeon or Funky Phantom lunchboxes or something. And then there's that moment of "oh yeah! Those thing were great/shitty/potentially lethal to toddlers." and that's pretty much it. We move on.
When you're flashing back to the 90s, it's just not the same. Like "Oh wow, you remember PlayStation ONE?! I can't believe we were such fools! And what were those things on that show with the creepy babyhead in the sun? Tellybubbles?"
It's all lost now. We were so innocent, in those days of mobile phones that were marginally larger than the ones we have now. Movies were backwards freakshows like Toy Story, as opposed to Finding Nemo. And according to the program, there were animated television icons named Beavis and Butthead.
Who was doing this goldfish-memory reminiscing? That carpenter guy from Trading Spaces, among others. He was the only one I recognized, anyway. What was the carpenter guy doing during the 90s? Learning to lathe? I don't care about this person and his opinion of U2's Zooropa.
Make me a finely detailed coffee table and be quiet, you bastard.
A few nights ago as I desultorily flipped channels, desperately seaching for the 90 minute Knife Auction paid program, I came upon the latest in the string of "wasn't that decade great, you know with the things that we all kind of remember?" show. This one was about the 90s. People were reminiscing about such sweet and distant memories as Britney Spears. It seems so long ago now.
I don't mind these shows, really. At least the 70s and 80s ones were understandable. Maybe there would be a sense of community, and that must be what the viewers are searching for in these programs, where they know they are not the only ones that remember Catch That Pigeon or Funky Phantom lunchboxes or something. And then there's that moment of "oh yeah! Those thing were great/shitty/potentially lethal to toddlers." and that's pretty much it. We move on.
When you're flashing back to the 90s, it's just not the same. Like "Oh wow, you remember PlayStation ONE?! I can't believe we were such fools! And what were those things on that show with the creepy babyhead in the sun? Tellybubbles?"
It's all lost now. We were so innocent, in those days of mobile phones that were marginally larger than the ones we have now. Movies were backwards freakshows like Toy Story, as opposed to Finding Nemo. And according to the program, there were animated television icons named Beavis and Butthead.
Who was doing this goldfish-memory reminiscing? That carpenter guy from Trading Spaces, among others. He was the only one I recognized, anyway. What was the carpenter guy doing during the 90s? Learning to lathe? I don't care about this person and his opinion of U2's Zooropa.
Make me a finely detailed coffee table and be quiet, you bastard.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Body found in East River Identified as Spalding Gray
Sad.
I saw Spalding Gray live a couple of times, and he still ranks as the celebrity I have had brushes with the most often. The first time was when I was working at a coffee shop in Northern California. I was about eighteen or twenty I guess, and the coffee shop was catering live performances at an old estate in the hills above town. I made sure I was on hand for Gray's performance of Monster In a Box, having seen Swimming to Cambodia some time before.
I smoked a lot back then. Unfiltered Lucky Strikes. Maybe two packs a day. And if I finished a pack while I was driving, I'd fling the wrapper down in the car. As a result, I had a carpet of empty Lucky Strike packs all over the floor of my car.
Before the show I pulled my car up to the very front of the venue, where I'd be serving coffee before the start of the show and at intermission. I opened the passenger side door and pulled out one of the giant coffee urns I'd be using, took it over to the refreshments area. When I got back to the car to grab the decaf urn, a BMW was parked next to my car, and Spalding Gray was looking in the open passenger door, goggle-eyed.
"Thank goodness!" he said. "I thought you'd died from too many Lucky Strikes!"
"Spalding mon!" I cried in a poor imitation of one of the characters from Swimming to Cambodia "Never too many!"
That was it.
A few years later, the wifely friend and I saw him at UCSC, reading Gray's Anatomy, and the next day he was sitting at the next table at our favorite breakfast place. I remember thinking of walking up and saying hello, maybe mentioning something about the incident with the Lucky Strikes, but of course, he wouldn't have remembered.
So now Spalding Gray has washed up on the river's edge in Mahattan. Maybe there just weren't enough perfect moments, or they were too long in coming.
I didn't know him, but I admired his work. And what else can you say, really?
Sad.
I saw Spalding Gray live a couple of times, and he still ranks as the celebrity I have had brushes with the most often. The first time was when I was working at a coffee shop in Northern California. I was about eighteen or twenty I guess, and the coffee shop was catering live performances at an old estate in the hills above town. I made sure I was on hand for Gray's performance of Monster In a Box, having seen Swimming to Cambodia some time before.
I smoked a lot back then. Unfiltered Lucky Strikes. Maybe two packs a day. And if I finished a pack while I was driving, I'd fling the wrapper down in the car. As a result, I had a carpet of empty Lucky Strike packs all over the floor of my car.
Before the show I pulled my car up to the very front of the venue, where I'd be serving coffee before the start of the show and at intermission. I opened the passenger side door and pulled out one of the giant coffee urns I'd be using, took it over to the refreshments area. When I got back to the car to grab the decaf urn, a BMW was parked next to my car, and Spalding Gray was looking in the open passenger door, goggle-eyed.
"Thank goodness!" he said. "I thought you'd died from too many Lucky Strikes!"
"Spalding mon!" I cried in a poor imitation of one of the characters from Swimming to Cambodia "Never too many!"
That was it.
A few years later, the wifely friend and I saw him at UCSC, reading Gray's Anatomy, and the next day he was sitting at the next table at our favorite breakfast place. I remember thinking of walking up and saying hello, maybe mentioning something about the incident with the Lucky Strikes, but of course, he wouldn't have remembered.
So now Spalding Gray has washed up on the river's edge in Mahattan. Maybe there just weren't enough perfect moments, or they were too long in coming.
I didn't know him, but I admired his work. And what else can you say, really?
Friday, March 05, 2004
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Live action Photoshopped Far Side cartoons
[via my friend Durundal, who has no site and thus no link]
[via my friend Durundal, who has no site and thus no link]
Monday, March 01, 2004
I did watch the Oscars last night for the first time in many years, and was glad to see Peter Jackson and The Return of the King get so much recognition.
But the thing I'll remember most from the Oscars is this: actresses are shiny.
Charlize Theron? Super shiny. Sandra Bullock? Extra shiny. Nicole Kidman? Not so shiny, but did look like the Martian commander from Mars Attacks!
I think this is going to be an exciting new trend in actress status, with the more famous expensive actresses trying to outshiny each other, until in the end the greatest actresses will be virtually unfilmable and only viewable through smoked glass, at the risk of severe retinal damage.
But the thing I'll remember most from the Oscars is this: actresses are shiny.
Charlize Theron? Super shiny. Sandra Bullock? Extra shiny. Nicole Kidman? Not so shiny, but did look like the Martian commander from Mars Attacks!
I think this is going to be an exciting new trend in actress status, with the more famous expensive actresses trying to outshiny each other, until in the end the greatest actresses will be virtually unfilmable and only viewable through smoked glass, at the risk of severe retinal damage.
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