"Is There a Ghost" -- Band of Horses
"Little Ghost" -- The White Stripes
"Machine in the Ghost" -- The Faint
"Consider the ghost" -- Good
"Ghost Hardware" -- Burial
"Ghost Train" -- Counting Crows
"Like Ghosts With Steel Shoes" -- The Lights From Here
"The Ghost of You Lingers" -- Spoon
"Grey Ghost" -- Mike Doughty
"Ghost Under Rocks" -- Ra Ra Riot
"Give Up On Ghosts" -- Computer vs. Banjo
"Ghostbusters" -- Ray Parker, Jr.
Friday, October 31, 2008
PSA: NEPCA
I'm at an academic conference today, or I will be by the time you read this -- probably learning something about women in film, or science fiction and medievalism, or what have you.
I'll probably have something to report by Monday.
In the meantime, enjoy these Mix lists.
I'll probably have something to report by Monday.
In the meantime, enjoy these Mix lists.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Confessions XXIV
If McCain wins the presidency, I am mentally planning at least three escape routes: Canada, England and China.
I as frequently choke on my own spit as on all other items.
I sometimes drop things without provocation or explanation: pens when I'm in the middle of writing, especially.
I as frequently choke on my own spit as on all other items.
I sometimes drop things without provocation or explanation: pens when I'm in the middle of writing, especially.
PSA: Govt. to realize KILLING PEOPLE IS WRONG.
The Army and National Institutes of Mental Health are collaborating in a five-year study on "the causes and risk factors of suicide" among soldiers.
One can only hope that this study includes a true control group: that is, a bunch of soldiers not asked to kill other people in the name of nationalism, oil or presidential hubris -- or for any other reason.
See how many of them with their "killing people is wrong" pansy ways want to off themselves. My bet would be "fewer."
Then deal with the consequences.
But the Army can't deal with results saying "killing people goes against humanity and self-worth." They're in the business of killing. They can't afford to admit that the sacrifice soldiers make for their country starts in their souls, with the first break-'em-down-build-'em-up weeks of boot camp, not on the fields where they fall.
The "ultimate sacrifice" they offer is their lives, but it starts long before their deaths.
The Army is not looking for real answers, here. No one is asking themselves whether we should be in the business of making people into killing machines with compartmentalized views of the world that allow for killing "them" but protecting "us," for loving our families while hating and denying the rights of other families. They don't want to know whether this is good for us -- they want to know how to do it better, how to make the transformation more complete. They want to be able to turn soldiers into un-conscienced killing machines.
Soldiers made completely, unambiguously capable of dealing with killing another human being, in my view, are as lost in all ways that really matter, as ones who commit suicide.
I hope the Army fails.
One can only hope that this study includes a true control group: that is, a bunch of soldiers not asked to kill other people in the name of nationalism, oil or presidential hubris -- or for any other reason.
See how many of them with their "killing people is wrong" pansy ways want to off themselves. My bet would be "fewer."
Then deal with the consequences.
But the Army can't deal with results saying "killing people goes against humanity and self-worth." They're in the business of killing. They can't afford to admit that the sacrifice soldiers make for their country starts in their souls, with the first break-'em-down-build-'em-up weeks of boot camp, not on the fields where they fall.
The "ultimate sacrifice" they offer is their lives, but it starts long before their deaths.
The Army is not looking for real answers, here. No one is asking themselves whether we should be in the business of making people into killing machines with compartmentalized views of the world that allow for killing "them" but protecting "us," for loving our families while hating and denying the rights of other families. They don't want to know whether this is good for us -- they want to know how to do it better, how to make the transformation more complete. They want to be able to turn soldiers into un-conscienced killing machines.
Soldiers made completely, unambiguously capable of dealing with killing another human being, in my view, are as lost in all ways that really matter, as ones who commit suicide.
I hope the Army fails.
PSA: Whaa??? Quin Phoenix quits the biz.
Joaquin Phoenix, in a move that proves he's a born actor, has decided to quit doing movies at 34, to pursue a career in music.
He glommed onto this idea after playing Johnny Cash in Walk the Line.
Apparently unaware that he is not, in fact, Johnny Cash, and unwilling to heed the tepid-reception warnings of Scarlett Johansonn's Tom Waits cover album -- one Amazon reviewer titled the critique "Just buy Tom Waits," and she's so cute, she's hard to nay-say -- Joaquin Phoenix has only one career path end ahead of him, that I can see.
Luckily, it will provide him with the perfect blend of acting, pretending to be a popular musician, and actual mediocre-music-playing:
He will become an Elvis impersonator.
He glommed onto this idea after playing Johnny Cash in Walk the Line.
Apparently unaware that he is not, in fact, Johnny Cash, and unwilling to heed the tepid-reception warnings of Scarlett Johansonn's Tom Waits cover album -- one Amazon reviewer titled the critique "Just buy Tom Waits," and she's so cute, she's hard to nay-say -- Joaquin Phoenix has only one career path end ahead of him, that I can see.
Luckily, it will provide him with the perfect blend of acting, pretending to be a popular musician, and actual mediocre-music-playing:
He will become an Elvis impersonator.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
PSA: I'm brave.
My girl, groaning pitifully: "I'm siiiiiiiiiick."
Me: "I know how you feel, but try to do something. It will make you feel better to be active. Here --" I hand her a tissue from her pile.
My girl: "Thanks -- you're brave!"
Me: "Why?"
My girl: "You touched my tissue. You're brave."
Me, laughing: "Thanks."
Me: "I know how you feel, but try to do something. It will make you feel better to be active. Here --" I hand her a tissue from her pile.
My girl: "Thanks -- you're brave!"
Me: "Why?"
My girl: "You touched my tissue. You're brave."
Me, laughing: "Thanks."
Falling Away
Fall is my favorite season.
I've always had it narrowed down to fall and spring, the two seasons with change and a sense of motion in the atmosphere. I haven't really known why fall seemed better to me; I've mostly chalked it up to a macabre obsession with dying. I've always been closer to the Thanatos of fall than Spring's overzealous Eros.
This morning, a TMNT-green leaf (seriously, it reminded me of a Ninja Turtle) zipped straight at my car and got caught in my windshield wipers for a second before flying off again like it had somewhere to go. I thought about how little I would have cared about a green leaf if it were still attached to its tree, or if the other leaves lining the highway were all still green.
It occurred to me that fall is the only time leaves become unique and independent.
Maybe that's why I like it.
I've always had it narrowed down to fall and spring, the two seasons with change and a sense of motion in the atmosphere. I haven't really known why fall seemed better to me; I've mostly chalked it up to a macabre obsession with dying. I've always been closer to the Thanatos of fall than Spring's overzealous Eros.
This morning, a TMNT-green leaf (seriously, it reminded me of a Ninja Turtle) zipped straight at my car and got caught in my windshield wipers for a second before flying off again like it had somewhere to go. I thought about how little I would have cared about a green leaf if it were still attached to its tree, or if the other leaves lining the highway were all still green.
It occurred to me that fall is the only time leaves become unique and independent.
Maybe that's why I like it.
Chinglish career goals
Tenth-grade Chinese student, asked what he'd like to be when he grew up:
"I want to be a various artists."
"I want to be a various artists."
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Movie Review: Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her
Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her is a quiet movie. The minimalist piano tones that carry through the five women’s stories are mostly carrying the quiet, not the sound, through the vaguely interlocking women’s lives.
If you know anything about how and why I love movies, you know I love these interlocking, clever ones. But Things You Can Tell isn’t just clever, and isn’t just interlocking. It doesn’t have that semi-claustrophobic feel of Playing By Heart, or the fragmented but same-themed sense of Nine Lives. It doesn’t even have the mysterious sense of the universe at work that Kieslowski’s Three Colors trilogy has. These women are all alike in how alone they are in their own worlds; their separation is their most common element, even when they’re on screen together.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, which is what I love about this movie – that it’s complicated. It’s not a polemic against loneliness or a reassurance that you won’t always be lonely (like romantic comedies inevitably are), and it’s not a celebration of women’s independence, either (like…well, I can’t think of any movies that are. Girly friend movies? That’s still interdependence. Hmm. I’m going to have to think about this for awhile).
The first woman, Dr. Keener (Glenn Close, who is superb) is staying home with an elderly woman who’s more or less unaware of her surroundings. Dr. Keener cares for this woman conscientiously, so we know she’s a good woman, though we don’t really know why – maybe she lives with this woman and gets free board, or maybe this is her mother.
But Dr. Keener is also obsessed with a man from the office, obsessed enough to check the phone every few minutes and to call in a tarot card reader (Calista Flockhart) to see if they have a chance together. Dr. Keener is obviously conflicted about the choice, and dresses herself up – borrows earrings from the old woman – to meet the card reader, then sits enigmatic as the Sphinx or the Mona Lisa when she comes.
Flockhart tells her she’ll meet a man, but not the man at the office. Dr. Keener takes the news with suppressed disappointment.
The whole movie is like this. There are good things in it, but they’re second-good things, not the things the women originally wanted.
The second story, Rebecca’s, is the most honest, un-propaganda-ed account of a woman getting an abortion that I’ve ever seen.
Before we find out she’s pregnant, we see Rebecca (Holly Hunter) naked (cleverly positioned, though, so sorry guys and Knocked Up fans) in bed, being left – though lovingly – by a man we find out later she’s been seeing for three years. Later, she’s in the bank, and after that, she’s approached while smoking next to her car, by a homeless woman who asks for a cigarette.
Since the movie is set in southern California (and this part mainly outside), an airbrushed, espanished land of perfect people, the homeless woman stands out. Her diction is theater-perfect, too, but her presence is anathema.
Based on her appearance, which is tailored and perfect, you’d expect Rebecca to be put off by this woman, but she isn’t. She gives the woman a cigarette, doesn’t back off when the homeless lady comes close for a light, listens to everything she says and responds, even when the homeless woman calls her a whore. Twice.
To compress the story a bit, Rebecca finds out she’s pregnant, schedules an abortion, tells her boyfriend emotionlessly and gets even less emotion in return – she confirms he doesn’t want her to have the child, though it’s probably her last chance (she’s 39) – rebels against him by sleeping with an underling from the bank, then rejects that underling. As she’s sitting in the car with him in the morning before the afternoon abortion, the homeless woman comes up again.
Rebecca seems to take solace in the woman’s recognition of what she really thinks of herself, but it’s a complicated relationship – much more complicated and honest, despite being thirty seconds long, than any of the other relationships we see Rebecca in. The homeless woman calls her a whore again, and when underling tries to stop her, Rebecca says “no, go on” and listens with rapt attention.
The homeless woman concludes, “It’s not that I don’t like you – I like you, princess. I feel sorry for you.”
Dr. Keener performs the abortion. The antiseptic camerawork keeps the angles on close-ups of Rebecca’s face, Dr. Keener’s, the nurse’s. Rebecca gasps in the middle of the procedure and the nurse’s hand enters the frame and pats her hair. This is the only human contact we see at all.
Rebecca’s lied and said she was being picked up by her boyfriend. As she walks out of the clinic, she wobbles and suddenly bursts out sobbing – she stands by a manicured bush for comfort, then a parking meter. Time passes. She continues down the street and sees the homeless woman on the other side.
This is the only comfort she gets; the scene ends.
You don’t get the impression from this movie that abortion is more wrong than other options this woman had, or that she regrets her choice and wishes she had chosen differently (though either of those themes would sit well with my beliefs); you get the impression instead that there are situations in life that are really, really hard. We’re not victims of them – we get to make choices and often choose wrong – but we’re not completely in control of them, either.
Rebecca’s entire life up to this point is to blame for bringing her to this existential crisis and to a point where only a mentally ill homeless woman can understand her, and she’s both responsible for that life and determined by it.
The next section, in which Kathy Baker's character falls in love with a dwarf, is the one that’s stuck with me since I first saw this movie a few years ago. It’s sweet and strange, and I’ll let you see it for yourself.
I’ll let you see the entire rest of the movie for yourself, in fact – as long as you do. It is, above all, thoughtful. You shouldn’t be disappointed.
If you know anything about how and why I love movies, you know I love these interlocking, clever ones. But Things You Can Tell isn’t just clever, and isn’t just interlocking. It doesn’t have that semi-claustrophobic feel of Playing By Heart, or the fragmented but same-themed sense of Nine Lives. It doesn’t even have the mysterious sense of the universe at work that Kieslowski’s Three Colors trilogy has. These women are all alike in how alone they are in their own worlds; their separation is their most common element, even when they’re on screen together.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, which is what I love about this movie – that it’s complicated. It’s not a polemic against loneliness or a reassurance that you won’t always be lonely (like romantic comedies inevitably are), and it’s not a celebration of women’s independence, either (like…well, I can’t think of any movies that are. Girly friend movies? That’s still interdependence. Hmm. I’m going to have to think about this for awhile).
The first woman, Dr. Keener (Glenn Close, who is superb) is staying home with an elderly woman who’s more or less unaware of her surroundings. Dr. Keener cares for this woman conscientiously, so we know she’s a good woman, though we don’t really know why – maybe she lives with this woman and gets free board, or maybe this is her mother.
But Dr. Keener is also obsessed with a man from the office, obsessed enough to check the phone every few minutes and to call in a tarot card reader (Calista Flockhart) to see if they have a chance together. Dr. Keener is obviously conflicted about the choice, and dresses herself up – borrows earrings from the old woman – to meet the card reader, then sits enigmatic as the Sphinx or the Mona Lisa when she comes.
Flockhart tells her she’ll meet a man, but not the man at the office. Dr. Keener takes the news with suppressed disappointment.
The whole movie is like this. There are good things in it, but they’re second-good things, not the things the women originally wanted.
The second story, Rebecca’s, is the most honest, un-propaganda-ed account of a woman getting an abortion that I’ve ever seen.
Before we find out she’s pregnant, we see Rebecca (Holly Hunter) naked (cleverly positioned, though, so sorry guys and Knocked Up fans) in bed, being left – though lovingly – by a man we find out later she’s been seeing for three years. Later, she’s in the bank, and after that, she’s approached while smoking next to her car, by a homeless woman who asks for a cigarette.
Since the movie is set in southern California (and this part mainly outside), an airbrushed, espanished land of perfect people, the homeless woman stands out. Her diction is theater-perfect, too, but her presence is anathema.
Based on her appearance, which is tailored and perfect, you’d expect Rebecca to be put off by this woman, but she isn’t. She gives the woman a cigarette, doesn’t back off when the homeless lady comes close for a light, listens to everything she says and responds, even when the homeless woman calls her a whore. Twice.
To compress the story a bit, Rebecca finds out she’s pregnant, schedules an abortion, tells her boyfriend emotionlessly and gets even less emotion in return – she confirms he doesn’t want her to have the child, though it’s probably her last chance (she’s 39) – rebels against him by sleeping with an underling from the bank, then rejects that underling. As she’s sitting in the car with him in the morning before the afternoon abortion, the homeless woman comes up again.
Rebecca seems to take solace in the woman’s recognition of what she really thinks of herself, but it’s a complicated relationship – much more complicated and honest, despite being thirty seconds long, than any of the other relationships we see Rebecca in. The homeless woman calls her a whore again, and when underling tries to stop her, Rebecca says “no, go on” and listens with rapt attention.
The homeless woman concludes, “It’s not that I don’t like you – I like you, princess. I feel sorry for you.”
Dr. Keener performs the abortion. The antiseptic camerawork keeps the angles on close-ups of Rebecca’s face, Dr. Keener’s, the nurse’s. Rebecca gasps in the middle of the procedure and the nurse’s hand enters the frame and pats her hair. This is the only human contact we see at all.
Rebecca’s lied and said she was being picked up by her boyfriend. As she walks out of the clinic, she wobbles and suddenly bursts out sobbing – she stands by a manicured bush for comfort, then a parking meter. Time passes. She continues down the street and sees the homeless woman on the other side.
This is the only comfort she gets; the scene ends.
You don’t get the impression from this movie that abortion is more wrong than other options this woman had, or that she regrets her choice and wishes she had chosen differently (though either of those themes would sit well with my beliefs); you get the impression instead that there are situations in life that are really, really hard. We’re not victims of them – we get to make choices and often choose wrong – but we’re not completely in control of them, either.
Rebecca’s entire life up to this point is to blame for bringing her to this existential crisis and to a point where only a mentally ill homeless woman can understand her, and she’s both responsible for that life and determined by it.
The next section, in which Kathy Baker's character falls in love with a dwarf, is the one that’s stuck with me since I first saw this movie a few years ago. It’s sweet and strange, and I’ll let you see it for yourself.
I’ll let you see the entire rest of the movie for yourself, in fact – as long as you do. It is, above all, thoughtful. You shouldn’t be disappointed.
PSA: Women's suffrage
A week before the election, let's take a moment to remember cool women's rights people like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who wrote this "Declaration of Sentiments," which echoes and overwhelms (in its claims of injustice, I feel) the Declaration of Independence.
Right on, E. Cady Stanton. I'm glad you existed.
Right on, E. Cady Stanton. I'm glad you existed.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
PSA: "Oh, I see you've played knifey-spoony before..."
Number of spoons I found in my purse last weekend: 5
Local Trivia: Toss your cookies.
I found out last week that the A Dong Asian supermarket I go to for all my Thai-iced-tea-hot-pot-ingredients-cheap-peanut-oil-and-taro needs, had on its shelves some cookies tainted with melamine.
Good thing Chinese cookies are -- and I say this with all the love in the world -- total crap, or I might have bought some and had something to worry about.
Good thing Chinese cookies are -- and I say this with all the love in the world -- total crap, or I might have bought some and had something to worry about.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
PSA: To Kristina
Hon, I don't know you, which makes it all the more curious that you're emailing me about your quest.
I'm afraid, too, that I can't advise you on "looking for a good men, to love," as the subject line of your email requests. I can tell you that you might want to start singular, and work up to plural once you've got that down.
I can also advise you that good men appreciate proper capitalization, punctuation and article agreement. As a former writing center tutor, I recommend changing your subject line to "I'm looking for a good man to love." They'll know what you mean, and you won't cripple your chances at finding a good man, if you pay attention to these kinds of details.
You may also want to delete the words "bigger PENIS" from the text of your email. I understand that this eliminates all content, but sometimes you've just got to think of something more subtle in your search for a good man. More alarmingly, repeating this phrase with no other content implies either that you, yourself, have a penis -- a turn-off for most hetero men -- or that you are complaining or will complain about the members of the men you are dating or will date, which is no way to win a good man (or men) to love.
Win them over with grammar and a modicum of etiquette, in other words.
Good luck.
Sincerely,
Alicia.
I'm afraid, too, that I can't advise you on "looking for a good men, to love," as the subject line of your email requests. I can tell you that you might want to start singular, and work up to plural once you've got that down.
I can also advise you that good men appreciate proper capitalization, punctuation and article agreement. As a former writing center tutor, I recommend changing your subject line to "I'm looking for a good man to love." They'll know what you mean, and you won't cripple your chances at finding a good man, if you pay attention to these kinds of details.
You may also want to delete the words "bigger PENIS" from the text of your email. I understand that this eliminates all content, but sometimes you've just got to think of something more subtle in your search for a good man. More alarmingly, repeating this phrase with no other content implies either that you, yourself, have a penis -- a turn-off for most hetero men -- or that you are complaining or will complain about the members of the men you are dating or will date, which is no way to win a good man (or men) to love.
Win them over with grammar and a modicum of etiquette, in other words.
Good luck.
Sincerely,
Alicia.
PSA: Sometimes, Christians act like jerks.
Here's an article about a letter from "a Christian in 2012" written by Focus on the Family, enumerating the many disasters that will befall us should Barack Obama win the presidency.
Apparently, Christians in 2012 are allowed to lie, as long as the lies are so mavericking ridiculous that no one would ever believe them, and they're designed to mess up the space-time continuum. Sources are unclear on whether just normal white lies, or lies to people from a concurrent time, are permissible in 2012, or still forbidden.
Among the more baseless and ridiculous claims are that Russia will encroach on Europe because of Obama's "reluctance to send troops overseas" -- as though the man hadn't said we would go into Pakistan, permission or no, to hunt down Al Qaida, a position that frightens me a bit as a pacifist -- and that the Boy Scouts will disband in protest over being forced to sleep in tents with homosexual counselors.
The article says the letter and similar efforts to devil people into voting for McCain (I made up that verb, here, because it seemed ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE) are geared toward young evangelicals.
The article didn't say so, but I'm betting it's because Focus on the Family assumes young people don't know better.
This enrages me. The entire thing enrages me.
And as a young evangelical (recovering), I have a message for Focus on the Family and all similar efforts to scare people, instead of giving them actual facts and letting them decide:
Shame on you. If you had a temple, I don't know what Jesus would do, but I would throw you out of it in anger.
Now go to your rooms and think about what you've done.
Apparently, Christians in 2012 are allowed to lie, as long as the lies are so mavericking ridiculous that no one would ever believe them, and they're designed to mess up the space-time continuum. Sources are unclear on whether just normal white lies, or lies to people from a concurrent time, are permissible in 2012, or still forbidden.
Among the more baseless and ridiculous claims are that Russia will encroach on Europe because of Obama's "reluctance to send troops overseas" -- as though the man hadn't said we would go into Pakistan, permission or no, to hunt down Al Qaida, a position that frightens me a bit as a pacifist -- and that the Boy Scouts will disband in protest over being forced to sleep in tents with homosexual counselors.
The article says the letter and similar efforts to devil people into voting for McCain (I made up that verb, here, because it seemed ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE) are geared toward young evangelicals.
The article didn't say so, but I'm betting it's because Focus on the Family assumes young people don't know better.
This enrages me. The entire thing enrages me.
And as a young evangelical (recovering), I have a message for Focus on the Family and all similar efforts to scare people, instead of giving them actual facts and letting them decide:
Shame on you. If you had a temple, I don't know what Jesus would do, but I would throw you out of it in anger.
Now go to your rooms and think about what you've done.
Friday, October 24, 2008
PSA: Cassettes Won't Listen
This is probably not news to you.
But what might be news is that "Cassettes Won't Listen" is the name of one of those Gorillaz-like bands actually made up of one guy pretending to be several guys – and he's awesome.
You can listen for yourself to his "small answering machine mixtape" track (and others), which is a half-hour-long remix of songs by Midlake, El-P, Asobi Seksu, Pela, Morcheeba, and other CWL tracks. It includes "Paper Float," I believe, and "Freeze and Explode," which is one of those songs you feel unaffected by – until it get stuck in your head for three days and you still don't hate it – which are part of his most recent EP, "Small-Time Machines."
After listening to the mix, I went out on the wild, wild Web looking for the tracks he'd used (except "Flyentology," by El-P, which I already had – yes, I listen to underground rap, suckaz), and expanded from there. I'm still expanding, like CWL was a musical Big Bang.
It's a whole new world of music out there, post-Cassettes. Get into it.
But what might be news is that "Cassettes Won't Listen" is the name of one of those Gorillaz-like bands actually made up of one guy pretending to be several guys – and he's awesome.
You can listen for yourself to his "small answering machine mixtape" track (and others), which is a half-hour-long remix of songs by Midlake, El-P, Asobi Seksu, Pela, Morcheeba, and other CWL tracks. It includes "Paper Float," I believe, and "Freeze and Explode," which is one of those songs you feel unaffected by – until it get stuck in your head for three days and you still don't hate it – which are part of his most recent EP, "Small-Time Machines."
After listening to the mix, I went out on the wild, wild Web looking for the tracks he'd used (except "Flyentology," by El-P, which I already had – yes, I listen to underground rap, suckaz), and expanded from there. I'm still expanding, like CWL was a musical Big Bang.
It's a whole new world of music out there, post-Cassettes. Get into it.
Local Trivia: Great SCOTT.
I got a call from someone campaigning for Scott Saunders today. Thinking it was a political poll, I was glad to hear "it will take less than one minute" -- my opinion gets counted for the good, and is using less than one cell phone unit-of-time, I thought. (Since cell phone "minutes" are actually 58 seconds, at least with Sprint.)
"Are you supportive of your current state representative, Betty Boukus?" the southern-twanged voice asked. (I should have asked him where he was calling from.)
"I'm pretty neutral," I said.
"So you're somewhat supportive or somewhat unsupportive?"
"Somewhat supportive."
He asked if I knew Scott Saunders was running in my state senate district. I said I did. The man's billboards and mailings are everywhere. (EVERYwhere. I'm surprised there aren't stickers on my bathroom mirror when I look at myself in the morning -- or on my face.)
"Would you change your mind if you found out Scott Saunders will create jobs while reducing excess government spending?" the pollster/campaigner asked, and I caught what he was throwing at me. I'd pegged him as an independent poll caller until then.
"I think that's a mischaracterization of his position," I said. (I actually said this.) "I mean, no one's going to argue against more jobs or less government, but I think the issue is actually a lot more complicated than that."
"Okay, thank you," the guy said, wished me a nice day, and hung up.
I have no idea what he would have rated my response on a five-point scale -- but maybe they have some other, N/A answer, like "s/he's onto us."
Scott Saunders' actual position, which I know from the billboards and mailings, is as a gas-tax-cap man. He doesn't seem to have positions on anything else; he just wishes gas was cheaper. (Today I paid $2.69/gallon for gas, so there goes that platform.) If these are his ideas for bringing more jobs and whittling down government, count me out (of the country. Canada, here I come).
"Are you supportive of your current state representative, Betty Boukus?" the southern-twanged voice asked. (I should have asked him where he was calling from.)
"I'm pretty neutral," I said.
"So you're somewhat supportive or somewhat unsupportive?"
"Somewhat supportive."
He asked if I knew Scott Saunders was running in my state senate district. I said I did. The man's billboards and mailings are everywhere. (EVERYwhere. I'm surprised there aren't stickers on my bathroom mirror when I look at myself in the morning -- or on my face.)
"Would you change your mind if you found out Scott Saunders will create jobs while reducing excess government spending?" the pollster/campaigner asked, and I caught what he was throwing at me. I'd pegged him as an independent poll caller until then.
"I think that's a mischaracterization of his position," I said. (I actually said this.) "I mean, no one's going to argue against more jobs or less government, but I think the issue is actually a lot more complicated than that."
"Okay, thank you," the guy said, wished me a nice day, and hung up.
I have no idea what he would have rated my response on a five-point scale -- but maybe they have some other, N/A answer, like "s/he's onto us."
Scott Saunders' actual position, which I know from the billboards and mailings, is as a gas-tax-cap man. He doesn't seem to have positions on anything else; he just wishes gas was cheaper. (Today I paid $2.69/gallon for gas, so there goes that platform.) If these are his ideas for bringing more jobs and whittling down government, count me out (of the country. Canada, here I come).
Thursday, October 23, 2008
PSA: Poll Question, Oct. 23
"Have you ever bought something that didn't was what you think it was?
O yes
O no"
O yes
O no"
Third Dream
I'm not going to tell you about the third dream.
I wrote out a description, which runs about a page, this morning, intending to post it here – then the sense of overexposure began creeping up on me, the idea that I was telling too much. It was set at college, and on a dock with still blue water and several small boats and yachts. It involves a man with a knife, and my friend in Kyrgyzstan, and my high school English teacher; I don't mind telling you about those things.
There's something in this dream that finally relates to me, though – unlike the first or second dreams, which felt like someone else was dreaming them. This dream was more frenetic, more fragmented and generally incoherent than the others, but I think it actually explains a lot more than they do.
The question remaining is why my unconscious is going so far abroad for its material – I’ve been having dreams relating to high school and college more lately than I would expect, and for awhile it made sense, as though these dreams were consolidating things happening to me now and stitching them into my history, but these recent dreams are different. These feel like non sequiturs. Not being able to use my dreams to interpret my emotional state is like suddenly going blind – like I’m an outsider to my own mind.
Now you are, too...again. I'm back inside and leaving you out.
I can tell you that to me this dream made more sense than those did. I’m just not sure I like what it’s telling me.
I wrote out a description, which runs about a page, this morning, intending to post it here – then the sense of overexposure began creeping up on me, the idea that I was telling too much. It was set at college, and on a dock with still blue water and several small boats and yachts. It involves a man with a knife, and my friend in Kyrgyzstan, and my high school English teacher; I don't mind telling you about those things.
There's something in this dream that finally relates to me, though – unlike the first or second dreams, which felt like someone else was dreaming them. This dream was more frenetic, more fragmented and generally incoherent than the others, but I think it actually explains a lot more than they do.
The question remaining is why my unconscious is going so far abroad for its material – I’ve been having dreams relating to high school and college more lately than I would expect, and for awhile it made sense, as though these dreams were consolidating things happening to me now and stitching them into my history, but these recent dreams are different. These feel like non sequiturs. Not being able to use my dreams to interpret my emotional state is like suddenly going blind – like I’m an outsider to my own mind.
Now you are, too...again. I'm back inside and leaving you out.
I can tell you that to me this dream made more sense than those did. I’m just not sure I like what it’s telling me.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
What the Dickens?!?
I learned, googling myself this morning in search of super-dorky old photos of myself as a child, that Charles Dickens has written a story featuring me called "The Magic Fishbone."I'm a princess. (See me in the only non-blond version of myself to the right, performing the "Dance of the Eighteen Cooks" with the other children.)
"The Magic Fishbone" is second in a four-story cycle known as "Holiday Romance" and was, according to Project Gutenberg, originally published in a children's magazine under the assumed identity (Miss Alice Rainbird) of a 7-year-old.
From what I've read, Dickens actually does a pretty good job of copying the vagaries and sudden explanations of storytellers that age: An old woman who wants to speak with the King wasn't recognized by him because "she had been invisible to him," for instance, rather than because he just hadn't looked in that direction or wanted to pay attention to an old poor woman. She turns out to be a Fairy. A particularly hilarious exchange ensues:
“You are right,” said the old lady, answering his thoughts, “I am the Good Fairy Grandmarina. Attend. When you return home to dinner, politely invite the Princess Alicia to have some of the salmon you bought just now.”
“It may disagree with her,” said the King.
The old lady became so very angry at this absurd idea, that the King was quite alarmed, and humbly begged her pardon.
“We hear a great deal too much about this thing disagreeing, and that thing disagreeing,” said the old lady, with the greatest contempt it was possible to express. “Don’t be greedy. I think you want it all yourself.”
The King hung his head under this reproof, and said he wouldn’t talk about things disagreeing, any more.
As you see, Dickens also makes a point of chastising grown-ups -- this goes on for awhile -- adding to the sense that "The Magic Fishbone" may have been written by an actual 7-year-old.
Appropriately, it features me saving the day using a magic fishbone. Just like in real life.
Even more appropriately, it appears to feature me saving the fishbone after dinner, just in case -- exactly like in real life.
After that, the coincidences pile up bizarrely, and I have to say, from my perspective, poignantly:
I mean, my family only has three kids, but you get the picture. The Queen faints away after dinner on the night of the story and Alicia ends up having to care for the kids more than usual:"[The king and queen] had nineteen children, and were always having more. Seventeen of these children took care of the baby; and Alicia, the eldest, took care of them all."
"But that was not the worst of the good Queen’s illness. O, no! She was very ill indeed, for a long time. The Princess Alicia kept the seventeen young Princes and Princesses quiet, and dressed and undressed and danced the baby, and made the kettle boil, and heated the soup, and swept the hearth, and poured out the medicine, and nursed the Queen, and did all that ever she could, and was as busy busy busy, as busy could be."Combined with many of the observations made in Jay Clayton's Charles Dickens in Cyberspace, an excellent reading of postmodernism into nineteenth-century literature (if you believe in that sort of thing), it makes me wonder if Dickens had access to a time machine -- and then how, bizarrely, he came upon my family's story.
It also says I'm beautiful. I'll let you be the judges of that, particularly after I find and post some super-dorky pictures of myself as a kid. I like to think I was pretty cute.
Well, I guess I have to stop hating Charles Dickens now -- too bad. That was my last pure hate left after I had to give up hating Ford Tauruses.
It's worth it, though, to be a princess.
PSA: Essential Oils
Forget what the skin-care-product ads are telling you. These are the only oils you need.
In America:
Extra virgin olive oil
Vegetable oil
Canola oil
Peanut oil
In China:
Rapeseed oil (canola)
Peanut oil
Soybean/salad oil
Sesame oil
La you (hot chili oil)
In America:
Extra virgin olive oil
Vegetable oil
Canola oil
Peanut oil
In China:
Rapeseed oil (canola)
Peanut oil
Soybean/salad oil
Sesame oil
La you (hot chili oil)
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Second dream
I was living in an apartment that took up most of a house, with six other MC people, all women. We had arranged things in a way that pleased me, dividing larger rooms into sections that served as bedrooms and limiting ourselves so that each person had some semblance of privacy. I felt positively about our lives, and mine in particular.
There had been a push from the outside, though, from Aaron and three other MC guys he knew, including David and Luke, to let them live with us. Sharon was Aaron's contact, but she was not able to stop him from pushing his way into our living arrangements.
His pushiness didn't end there. By the time I'd gotten home the day after learning Aaron was moving himself and his friends into our apartment, Aaron had taken over rearranging things in a way that made sense to him. He'd moved all our beds, and some extras he'd brought in, into a long, large room that had originally held partioned areas for four or five of us at a time; there were now nine beds in there, including two bunk bed sets and one bed set across a walking path, skewed in the middle of the room. The partitions and privacy were gone.
I hated the arrangements and tried to point out particular problems with them, including that putting a bed across a walking path in the middle of the room would mean no sleep for the person in that bed, and stepping over it for everyone who wanted to walk through. Aaron didn't listen. David and Luke were around occasionally, but rushed off to attend to more rearrangements whenever I came into the room.
The smaller room off the long, large one held all the books that had once been spread around the house according to their owners. Every wall was covered by bookshelves, but even in that case, our books were being replaced by Aaron's. In the middle of that room was a set of bunk beds.
I pointed out that we didn't need those beds, since we already had a total of 11 in the long room, and were only attempting to house 11 people. Aaron made up some reason for needing bunk beds in addition -- like that he only liked beds as furniture, and this would eliminate the need for couches or chairs -- and ignored the radical ridiculousness of this stance. So did everyone else.
It was at that point, as I saw my life devolving to a point I could barely contemplate, my bed shoved into an unpleasing location, my books being re-boxed, that the identity of the fourth boy about to move in with us was revealed.
It was, inevitably, Matt.
Rather than begin the keening wail of outrage that would have indicated the psychotic break with reality that would have accompanied this news in real life, I reacted to this news with unwarranted relief. Matt walked in the door, and there I was next to him, asking how his day had gone, smiling and being overly attentive. I disgusted myself even in the dream. This reaction was just another thing I couldn't control.
In the dream, this was all happening second semester of our senior year, and we'd already started classes for the term. Still, as Marc picked me up and drove me to some other apartment building (possibly the old apartment the guys had been living in) where we'd find leftover furniture haphazardly strewn about, I contemplated finding a way to move out.
At the other apartment building, we looked around for a bit before David and Luke showed up. They took over a card game we'd been playing, turning the game into their own, and I got up and left in protest. No one seemed to notice.
After that game was over, Marc, who had been friendly toward my new housemates, asked if I wanted to play a new game they'd pulled out. Barely able to speak, I just stared at him.
"You know what I think you want more than that -- to go home." It wasn't really a question, but I nodded in relief. He drove me back.
Before we got into the car, Debbie appeared and I told her how enraged I was by the series of changes that had been forced on us. She emphasized how acceptance was ultimately necessary and good for the soul, and didn't seem to feel the changes were a catastrophe, as I did.
Sharon hitched a ride back to the house with us, and I tried her, describing the worst grievances resulting from Aaron's moving in and taking over. She smiled at me and said she'd been expecting this, that the final semester of school was going to be tough for me, but that it was all part of the cycles I'd been describing in my emotional life.
I was horrified, in the full sense of the word. I felt the horror so overwhelmingly that I began planning to drop out of school, though I knew it would ruin my life: I'd have to finish with difficulty, one class at a time while working, and I'd never get to grad school. I tried to think of places I could go if I moved out, but the only person I could think of outside of the group was Marc, and I didn't want to intrude on his space anymore than I'd wanted others intruding on mine.
I woke up with the resignation to a ruined life still strong in my mind, though not quite sure what the real-life parallels would be.
I'm still not.
There had been a push from the outside, though, from Aaron and three other MC guys he knew, including David and Luke, to let them live with us. Sharon was Aaron's contact, but she was not able to stop him from pushing his way into our living arrangements.
His pushiness didn't end there. By the time I'd gotten home the day after learning Aaron was moving himself and his friends into our apartment, Aaron had taken over rearranging things in a way that made sense to him. He'd moved all our beds, and some extras he'd brought in, into a long, large room that had originally held partioned areas for four or five of us at a time; there were now nine beds in there, including two bunk bed sets and one bed set across a walking path, skewed in the middle of the room. The partitions and privacy were gone.
I hated the arrangements and tried to point out particular problems with them, including that putting a bed across a walking path in the middle of the room would mean no sleep for the person in that bed, and stepping over it for everyone who wanted to walk through. Aaron didn't listen. David and Luke were around occasionally, but rushed off to attend to more rearrangements whenever I came into the room.
The smaller room off the long, large one held all the books that had once been spread around the house according to their owners. Every wall was covered by bookshelves, but even in that case, our books were being replaced by Aaron's. In the middle of that room was a set of bunk beds.
I pointed out that we didn't need those beds, since we already had a total of 11 in the long room, and were only attempting to house 11 people. Aaron made up some reason for needing bunk beds in addition -- like that he only liked beds as furniture, and this would eliminate the need for couches or chairs -- and ignored the radical ridiculousness of this stance. So did everyone else.
It was at that point, as I saw my life devolving to a point I could barely contemplate, my bed shoved into an unpleasing location, my books being re-boxed, that the identity of the fourth boy about to move in with us was revealed.
It was, inevitably, Matt.
Rather than begin the keening wail of outrage that would have indicated the psychotic break with reality that would have accompanied this news in real life, I reacted to this news with unwarranted relief. Matt walked in the door, and there I was next to him, asking how his day had gone, smiling and being overly attentive. I disgusted myself even in the dream. This reaction was just another thing I couldn't control.
In the dream, this was all happening second semester of our senior year, and we'd already started classes for the term. Still, as Marc picked me up and drove me to some other apartment building (possibly the old apartment the guys had been living in) where we'd find leftover furniture haphazardly strewn about, I contemplated finding a way to move out.
At the other apartment building, we looked around for a bit before David and Luke showed up. They took over a card game we'd been playing, turning the game into their own, and I got up and left in protest. No one seemed to notice.
After that game was over, Marc, who had been friendly toward my new housemates, asked if I wanted to play a new game they'd pulled out. Barely able to speak, I just stared at him.
"You know what I think you want more than that -- to go home." It wasn't really a question, but I nodded in relief. He drove me back.
Before we got into the car, Debbie appeared and I told her how enraged I was by the series of changes that had been forced on us. She emphasized how acceptance was ultimately necessary and good for the soul, and didn't seem to feel the changes were a catastrophe, as I did.
Sharon hitched a ride back to the house with us, and I tried her, describing the worst grievances resulting from Aaron's moving in and taking over. She smiled at me and said she'd been expecting this, that the final semester of school was going to be tough for me, but that it was all part of the cycles I'd been describing in my emotional life.
I was horrified, in the full sense of the word. I felt the horror so overwhelmingly that I began planning to drop out of school, though I knew it would ruin my life: I'd have to finish with difficulty, one class at a time while working, and I'd never get to grad school. I tried to think of places I could go if I moved out, but the only person I could think of outside of the group was Marc, and I didn't want to intrude on his space anymore than I'd wanted others intruding on mine.
I woke up with the resignation to a ruined life still strong in my mind, though not quite sure what the real-life parallels would be.
I'm still not.
First dream
I was at church, at once in service in the balcony -- but this was in the old building, and not even that, but a dream-version of it -- and at lunch with my pastor and a woman who was with a Spanish-speaking church or league of some kind. (La Leche League, perhaps? How Freudian, if so.)
My pastor spoke Spanish with the woman; he wasn't very good at it -- his accent was too American -- but I did not correct or augment him. I knew more Spanish than he did, but was unwilling to use it. I had the sense it would have taken too much work for me to really focus, and too much courage for me to really try. And I would never know everything there was to know about Spanish, never be really fluent, so it seemed like something I could never really start.
But the woman spoke English, too, so it wasn't vital to communicate in Spanish.
I wasn't disturbed by being at church, despite my real-life misgivings, and the dream-height of the balcony from the rest of the sanctuary, which was three times the real-life height. A choir sang, and my pastor gave a sermon, though I don't remember any of its content.
I left a note on the balcony for two younger members; they got it as they were coming up the stairs. I don't know what it said.
In a different scene, Tyler had found a loophole for getting a duplicate ID online by claiming you had just come from Mexico. He'd chosen to get his alternate driver's license issued by Virginia, and it was made into a small burlap sachet he wore around his neck with his picture and ID number printed on the front of the cloth. It had something in it, but didn't seem to smell like potpourri the way you might expect. I decided to have mine issued from Pennsylvania and had just started the application process when I woke up.
My pastor spoke Spanish with the woman; he wasn't very good at it -- his accent was too American -- but I did not correct or augment him. I knew more Spanish than he did, but was unwilling to use it. I had the sense it would have taken too much work for me to really focus, and too much courage for me to really try. And I would never know everything there was to know about Spanish, never be really fluent, so it seemed like something I could never really start.
But the woman spoke English, too, so it wasn't vital to communicate in Spanish.
I wasn't disturbed by being at church, despite my real-life misgivings, and the dream-height of the balcony from the rest of the sanctuary, which was three times the real-life height. A choir sang, and my pastor gave a sermon, though I don't remember any of its content.
I left a note on the balcony for two younger members; they got it as they were coming up the stairs. I don't know what it said.
In a different scene, Tyler had found a loophole for getting a duplicate ID online by claiming you had just come from Mexico. He'd chosen to get his alternate driver's license issued by Virginia, and it was made into a small burlap sachet he wore around his neck with his picture and ID number printed on the front of the cloth. It had something in it, but didn't seem to smell like potpourri the way you might expect. I decided to have mine issued from Pennsylvania and had just started the application process when I woke up.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Local Trivia: Don't, uh, mess with us.
Observed: A Toyota pickup, set high on too-large tires, driving 20 miles over the speed limit and with one side completely covered in dried mud, as though it had just come from -- and, one may assume, won -- some kind of dirt-truck rally.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Guest Mix: Apocalypse is Fun!
Thanks to Carl, the other-me, who had exactly the same idea for a mix CD as I had, the Soundtrack-to-the-Apocalypse has become a 2 disc set!
This is especially fortuitous, since the Apocalypse will likely last long enough for all of us to get sick of R.E.M.'s "The End of the World As We Know It."
And ASTONISHINGLY, despite our same-same ideas, there are no duplicate tracks between these two CDs.
Order now while supplies last.
*****
"The Man Comes Around" -- Johnny Cash
"The Clash" -- London Calling
Track 3
"We Will Become Silhouettes" -- The Postal Service
"99 Red Balloons" -- Nena
"And It Rained All Night" -- Thom Yorke
"Let Down" -- Radiohead
"I Will Follow You Into The Dark" -- Death Cab for Cutie
"At the Bottom of Everything" -- Bright Eyes
"Wild Packs of Family Dogs" -- Modest Mouse
"Gong" -- Sigur Ros
"Everybody Here Is a Cloud" -- Cloud Cult
"No Cars Go" -- Arcade Fire
"Rever" -- Larsen
"Death Will Never Conquer" -- Coldplay
This is especially fortuitous, since the Apocalypse will likely last long enough for all of us to get sick of R.E.M.'s "The End of the World As We Know It."
And ASTONISHINGLY, despite our same-same ideas, there are no duplicate tracks between these two CDs.
Order now while supplies last.
*****
"The Man Comes Around" -- Johnny Cash
"The Clash" -- London Calling
Track 3
"We Will Become Silhouettes" -- The Postal Service
"99 Red Balloons" -- Nena
"And It Rained All Night" -- Thom Yorke
"Let Down" -- Radiohead
"I Will Follow You Into The Dark" -- Death Cab for Cutie
"At the Bottom of Everything" -- Bright Eyes
"Wild Packs of Family Dogs" -- Modest Mouse
"Gong" -- Sigur Ros
"Everybody Here Is a Cloud" -- Cloud Cult
"No Cars Go" -- Arcade Fire
"Rever" -- Larsen
"Death Will Never Conquer" -- Coldplay
Mix: I Heart Road Trips
"Down South, 10 Hours, I-5" -- All Girl Summer Fun Band
"Night Drive" -- The All-American Rejects
"Keep the Car Running" -- Arcade Fire
"D.'s Car Jam / Anxious Mo-Fo" -- Minutemen
"This Wheel's On Fire" -- The Band
"Road Trippin'" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers
"Drive" -- Blind Melon
"Rental Car" -- Beck
"Drive" -- El-P
"Drive Slow" -- Kanye West
"Love Rhymes With Hideous Car Wreck" -- The Blood Brothers
"In the Car" -- Barenaked Ladies
"Chasing Cars" -- Snow Patrol
"American Car" -- Mike Doughty
"Shattered [Turn The Car Around]" -- O.A.R.
"Key To The Highway" -- The Band
"Road to Joy" -- Bright Eyes
"Speeding Cars" -- Imogen Heap
"Three Car Jam" -- Minutemen
"No Cars Go" -- Arcade Fire
"Night Drive" -- The All-American Rejects
"Keep the Car Running" -- Arcade Fire
"D.'s Car Jam / Anxious Mo-Fo" -- Minutemen
"This Wheel's On Fire" -- The Band
"Road Trippin'" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers
"Drive" -- Blind Melon
"Rental Car" -- Beck
"Drive" -- El-P
"Drive Slow" -- Kanye West
"Love Rhymes With Hideous Car Wreck" -- The Blood Brothers
"In the Car" -- Barenaked Ladies
"Chasing Cars" -- Snow Patrol
"American Car" -- Mike Doughty
"Shattered [Turn The Car Around]" -- O.A.R.
"Key To The Highway" -- The Band
"Road to Joy" -- Bright Eyes
"Speeding Cars" -- Imogen Heap
"Three Car Jam" -- Minutemen
"No Cars Go" -- Arcade Fire
Saturday, October 18, 2008
PSA: Muslim Matrimonial
An ad at the top of my email has once again caught my attention -- for muslimmatrimonial.com.
According to the ad, you can "Send Salaams E-mail Chat Online" and "Find a partner of your choice!"
The site does not mention whether it only caters (get it??) to people who are halal.
It does make sure to state, however, that "marriages are forever."
According to the ad, you can "Send Salaams E-mail Chat Online" and "Find a partner of your choice!"
The site does not mention whether it only caters (get it??) to people who are halal.
It does make sure to state, however, that "marriages are forever."
Mix: I'm just sayin'
"You Say" -- Vertical Horizon
"Daddy" -- Sylvia Plath
"Say It Loud" -- Skillet
"A Year From Now" -- Across Five Aprils
"Stay" -- Lisa Loeb
"Fitter Happier" -- Radiohead
"Say It Right" -- Nelly Furtado
"Poem For A Lady Whose Voice I Like" -- Nikki
"Heard 'Em Say" -- Kanye West
"Babiy Yar" -- Yevgeny Yevtushenko (read by Milt Commons)
"Say Hello To The Angels" -- Interpol
"Mrs. Morgan" -- dc Talk
"When You Say Nothing At All" -- Alison Krauss + Union Station
"Thanksgiving Prayer" -- William S. Burroughs
"Say the Words" -- dc Talk
"Screenwriter's Blues" -- Soul Coughing
"She Said" -- Collective Soul
"St. Andrews (This Battle In in the Air)" -- White Stripes
"All The Things She Said" -- T.A.T.U.
"Everything I Said" -- Cranberries
"Nothing Gold Can Stay" -- Lesley Frost and Robert Frost
"Daddy" -- Sylvia Plath
"Say It Loud" -- Skillet
"A Year From Now" -- Across Five Aprils
"Stay" -- Lisa Loeb
"Fitter Happier" -- Radiohead
"Say It Right" -- Nelly Furtado
"Poem For A Lady Whose Voice I Like" -- Nikki
"Heard 'Em Say" -- Kanye West
"Babiy Yar" -- Yevgeny Yevtushenko (read by Milt Commons)
"Say Hello To The Angels" -- Interpol
"Mrs. Morgan" -- dc Talk
"When You Say Nothing At All" -- Alison Krauss + Union Station
"Thanksgiving Prayer" -- William S. Burroughs
"Say the Words" -- dc Talk
"Screenwriter's Blues" -- Soul Coughing
"She Said" -- Collective Soul
"St. Andrews (This Battle In in the Air)" -- White Stripes
"All The Things She Said" -- T.A.T.U.
"Everything I Said" -- Cranberries
"Nothing Gold Can Stay" -- Lesley Frost and Robert Frost
Friday, October 17, 2008
Mix: To all the Homies, in honor of Homecoming
"Homecoming" -- Kanye West
"A House Is Not A Home" -- Tamyra Gray
"We Can't Go Home" -- The Sterling Stitches
"Homesick" -- Train
"Subterranean Homesick Alien" -- Radiohead
"Won't Go Home Without You" -- Maroon 5
"Homeward Bound" -- Simon & Garfunkel
"Taking Me Home" -- Sleater-Kinney
"My Way Home" -- Kanye West
"Follow the Cops Back Home" -- Placebo
"Wide Awake On The Voyage Home" -- Liam Finn
"Home" -- Deep Blue Something
"Go Home" -- Barenaked Ladies
"Lord Willobies Welcome Home" -- Jeremy Summerly
"A House Is Not A Home" -- Tamyra Gray
"We Can't Go Home" -- The Sterling Stitches
"Homesick" -- Train
"Subterranean Homesick Alien" -- Radiohead
"Won't Go Home Without You" -- Maroon 5
"Homeward Bound" -- Simon & Garfunkel
"Taking Me Home" -- Sleater-Kinney
"My Way Home" -- Kanye West
"Follow the Cops Back Home" -- Placebo
"Wide Awake On The Voyage Home" -- Liam Finn
"Home" -- Deep Blue Something
"Go Home" -- Barenaked Ladies
"Lord Willobies Welcome Home" -- Jeremy Summerly
Local Trivia: OUR (New England) trucks
You may remember the observed dump truck in the South or the Georgian tractor-trailer that made its way up to Connecticut a few months ago.
This week I saw a northeastern answer to these: a dump truck with half of the back covered by a giant yellow-with-black-lettering sign that said, simply, "THINK."
This week I saw a northeastern answer to these: a dump truck with half of the back covered by a giant yellow-with-black-lettering sign that said, simply, "THINK."
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Confessions XXIII
Last night, I turned around to walk down the street and immediately ran into a streetlight post, bruising my knee pretty badly -- and stupidly.
In high school, I once walked into the metal post between a set of double doors.
Earlier this year, I cut my eyebrow on my glasses, when they jammed into my face as I hit my head getting into the car.
In high school, I once walked into the metal post between a set of double doors.
Earlier this year, I cut my eyebrow on my glasses, when they jammed into my face as I hit my head getting into the car.
Local Trivia: It's an infestation.
After noting here on CU yesterday that I'd paid the low, low price of $2.97/gallon for gasoline in the Farmington Valley yesterday, I passed several Citgo stations throughout the region surrounding New Britain down to Cheshire, CT, and noted that their prices had also been dropped.
Maybe it wasn't the location, specifically, then, but some bizarre time-related anomaly that I happened to catch onto. (Recall that the price at the same station dropped $.02 in a matter of 3 hours, too.) Some Citgos are charging $2.93 now, and $2.89 with a cash-only discount.
I wonder what effect this will have on Scott Saunders, Republican candidate for state representative, whose main platform issue seems to be a need for a gas tax cap.
Maybe it wasn't the location, specifically, then, but some bizarre time-related anomaly that I happened to catch onto. (Recall that the price at the same station dropped $.02 in a matter of 3 hours, too.) Some Citgos are charging $2.93 now, and $2.89 with a cash-only discount.
I wonder what effect this will have on Scott Saunders, Republican candidate for state representative, whose main platform issue seems to be a need for a gas tax cap.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Quantifiable Living: Cultural miles-geographic dissatisfaction scale
Per Jenny's request (see comments), I have sought the answer to the question of how to measure a quarter-life crisis in terms of dissatisfaction with all the various elements of one's life, intending to quantify each element in such a way as to make them comparable enough to facilitate eliminating most-dissatisfactory elements.
Unfortunately, as is the way in science, on the course to this discovery, I discovered that types of dissatisfaction require different units of measure: i.e., dissatisfaction of distance/proximity may not be measured on the same scale as dissatisfaction of existence/nonexistence [i.e. "I wish I had a boyfriend"], nor as possessing/not possessing [i.e. "I wish I had her boyfriend"].
Instead of a total-life scale, then, I present the cultural miles - geographic dissatisfaction scale, which when combined with other scales of types of dissatisfaction, should present a well-rounded view of quarter-life ennui.
The search for algorithms to combine dissatisfactions effectively is ongoing.
*****
Emotion: Geographic Dissatisfaction
Unit of measure: Absolute Cultural Miles
How it works: Levels of geographic dissatisfaction -- that is, un/happiness with one's geographic location based on proximity to positive factors (friends, cultural institutions, active local "hippie" population [for hippies], ice cream parlors, some family) or negative factors (enemies, Walmarts, active local "hippie" population [for Republicans], town dumps, some family) -- can be measured in absolute cultural miles (cult. mi.) from Trenton, NJ, which is the absolutely most dissatisfying place on the planet.
The geographically dissatisfied should compare their level of dissatisfaction with that they would be feeling if they were living in the exact geographic center of Trenton, NJ.
The more satisfied they are with the positive factors, the farther from the geographic center of Trenton, NJ, they will rate that factor.
The less satisfied, the closer to Trenton, NJ. they will rate that factor.
Example:
All friends within walking distance: 11,500 cult. mi.
Several independent ethnic grocery stores within walking distance: 8,990 cult. mi.
Smithsonian museum within walking distance: 7,500 cult. mi.
15 Walmarts within walking distance: 220 cult. mi.
Town dump, gelatin factory, and several undesirable relatives within walking distance: 3 cult. mi.
Although cultural miles have little in common with miles, being overset on the current globe, cult. mi. can range from 0 (the exact geographic center of Trenton, NJ) to 12,430 (the exact opposite side of the planet from Trenton, NJ).
Positive cult. mi. beyond 12,430 are not allowable, as any number higher than that would necessitate being closer to Trenton, NJ.
Calibration can be achieved by imagining the best possible circumstance in each aspect of life and rendering that possibility equal to 12,430 cult. mi.
The scale is flexible in terms of what aspects of life are to be considered, how those aspects are to be divided, and what values are assigned to each factor in relation to others. This flexibility accounts for individual variances on types and acuteness of dissatisfactions.
Limits: Actual proximity to Trenton, NJ is taken into account naturally by the scale and thus should not be figured in separately.
Similarly, anyone experiencing positive factors to such a great degree that they would rate one as 12,000 cult. mi. away need not figure where they would actually be living if 12,000 miles away from Trenton, NJ. Satisfaction with the geographic location of the alternative to Trenton, NJ, does not need to be measured on this scale.
Elaborations: There are several methods for using cultural miles to measure dis/satisfaction. These methods relate to each other similarly to mathmatical mean, median and mode, and can be used in various circumstances to calculate levels of dis/satisfaction.
Method 1 always produces a valid value; methods 2 and 3 occasionally do not.
The examples above refer to method 1 calculations.
Method 1: Each factor may be accounted for separately, then averaged.
Method 2: Positive factors may be measured and added to a total cult. mi. distance from Trenton, NJ; negative factors may then be rendered in negative cult. mi. (miles closer to Trenton, NJ) and subtracted from the total positive factor cult. mi. (Note: Cultural miles must fall between 0 and 12,430 for valid result.)
Method 3: Positive factors may be measured on a scale considering 12,430 cult. mi. as the absolute limit for cult. mi., keeping each in proportion to that limit. Negative factors may be measured as negatives considering -12,430 cult. mi. as the absolute limit, keeping each in proportion to that limit. Positive and negative cultural miles may then be combined for total cult. mi. (Note: Cultural miles must fall between 0 and 12,430 for valid result.)
Unfortunately, as is the way in science, on the course to this discovery, I discovered that types of dissatisfaction require different units of measure: i.e., dissatisfaction of distance/proximity may not be measured on the same scale as dissatisfaction of existence/nonexistence [i.e. "I wish I had a boyfriend"], nor as possessing/not possessing [i.e. "I wish I had her boyfriend"].
Instead of a total-life scale, then, I present the cultural miles - geographic dissatisfaction scale, which when combined with other scales of types of dissatisfaction, should present a well-rounded view of quarter-life ennui.
The search for algorithms to combine dissatisfactions effectively is ongoing.
*****
Emotion: Geographic Dissatisfaction
Unit of measure: Absolute Cultural Miles
How it works: Levels of geographic dissatisfaction -- that is, un/happiness with one's geographic location based on proximity to positive factors (friends, cultural institutions, active local "hippie" population [for hippies], ice cream parlors, some family) or negative factors (enemies, Walmarts, active local "hippie" population [for Republicans], town dumps, some family) -- can be measured in absolute cultural miles (cult. mi.) from Trenton, NJ, which is the absolutely most dissatisfying place on the planet.
The geographically dissatisfied should compare their level of dissatisfaction with that they would be feeling if they were living in the exact geographic center of Trenton, NJ.
The more satisfied they are with the positive factors, the farther from the geographic center of Trenton, NJ, they will rate that factor.
The less satisfied, the closer to Trenton, NJ. they will rate that factor.
Example:
All friends within walking distance: 11,500 cult. mi.
Several independent ethnic grocery stores within walking distance: 8,990 cult. mi.
Smithsonian museum within walking distance: 7,500 cult. mi.
15 Walmarts within walking distance: 220 cult. mi.
Town dump, gelatin factory, and several undesirable relatives within walking distance: 3 cult. mi.
Although cultural miles have little in common with miles, being overset on the current globe, cult. mi. can range from 0 (the exact geographic center of Trenton, NJ) to 12,430 (the exact opposite side of the planet from Trenton, NJ).
Positive cult. mi. beyond 12,430 are not allowable, as any number higher than that would necessitate being closer to Trenton, NJ.
Calibration can be achieved by imagining the best possible circumstance in each aspect of life and rendering that possibility equal to 12,430 cult. mi.
The scale is flexible in terms of what aspects of life are to be considered, how those aspects are to be divided, and what values are assigned to each factor in relation to others. This flexibility accounts for individual variances on types and acuteness of dissatisfactions.
Limits: Actual proximity to Trenton, NJ is taken into account naturally by the scale and thus should not be figured in separately.
Similarly, anyone experiencing positive factors to such a great degree that they would rate one as 12,000 cult. mi. away need not figure where they would actually be living if 12,000 miles away from Trenton, NJ. Satisfaction with the geographic location of the alternative to Trenton, NJ, does not need to be measured on this scale.
Elaborations: There are several methods for using cultural miles to measure dis/satisfaction. These methods relate to each other similarly to mathmatical mean, median and mode, and can be used in various circumstances to calculate levels of dis/satisfaction.
Method 1 always produces a valid value; methods 2 and 3 occasionally do not.
The examples above refer to method 1 calculations.
Method 1: Each factor may be accounted for separately, then averaged.
Method 2: Positive factors may be measured and added to a total cult. mi. distance from Trenton, NJ; negative factors may then be rendered in negative cult. mi. (miles closer to Trenton, NJ) and subtracted from the total positive factor cult. mi. (Note: Cultural miles must fall between 0 and 12,430 for valid result.)
Method 3: Positive factors may be measured on a scale considering 12,430 cult. mi. as the absolute limit for cult. mi., keeping each in proportion to that limit. Negative factors may be measured as negatives considering -12,430 cult. mi. as the absolute limit, keeping each in proportion to that limit. Positive and negative cultural miles may then be combined for total cult. mi. (Note: Cultural miles must fall between 0 and 12,430 for valid result.)
Local Trivia: There's a nest of them.
Today I paid $2.97 for gas in Farmington, CT.
There were a few gas stations pricing their lowest-grade gas under $3, all in the same area; a Mobil station even went down to $2.99, while all other Mobil stations I saw today ranged from $3.09 to $3.29. When I passed by the Citgo I'd turned around to stop at after seeing the price, a few hours later, the price was down to $2.95.
What is this -- an ultra-local gas tax plan? Are these stations sitting on a hidden derrick or something? Does a member of the Saudi royal family live in the area, or is the Mike Tyson/50 cent mansion's presence enough, somehow, to drive down gas prices?
And why Farmington, of all places?
They have enough money to pay full price.
There were a few gas stations pricing their lowest-grade gas under $3, all in the same area; a Mobil station even went down to $2.99, while all other Mobil stations I saw today ranged from $3.09 to $3.29. When I passed by the Citgo I'd turned around to stop at after seeing the price, a few hours later, the price was down to $2.95.
What is this -- an ultra-local gas tax plan? Are these stations sitting on a hidden derrick or something? Does a member of the Saudi royal family live in the area, or is the Mike Tyson/50 cent mansion's presence enough, somehow, to drive down gas prices?
And why Farmington, of all places?
They have enough money to pay full price.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
In Defense of Poppery, V: "A Year From Now"
Pop example: "A Year From Now" by Across Five Aprils
What redeems it: Okay, at first glance, there's not much redemptive about a teen boy reading bad poetry over an acoustic guitar melody -- I'll grant you that.
And "A Year From Now" is probably not meant to be ironic...but if we take it that way, it becomes a unique and interesting study of (adolescent?) emotion.
The song is spoken by a teenage boy -- not quite the squeaky-voiced teen of the Simpsons, but close enough for the acne problems and obsession with popularity to be obvious -- and is in the form of a letter.
It starts with "complete and total adoration; my gift to you, my heart, was yours."
And you wonder if you should hit the stop button now and walk away.
If you don't, you end up listening to one side of a half-generic, half-detailed account of a relationship gone wrong. The more you hear, the more even the details and metaphors fit into "typical teen angst" genre:
Wow, "short remark," you're thinking. And groaning. Go ahead, take a second and be disgusted.
But be disgusted not just by the awkward phrasing that teens think signifies "poetry"; be disgusted by the cliched "torn from my chest and laid at your feet." Be disgusted by the verb "murdered" applied to a body part, and the fact that "my heart" is the subject.
Be disgusted by the melodrama of feeling torn apart and murdered by a ten-week relationship falling apart.
Be disgusted by yourself -- because you know you were like this, too. We all were.
The melodrama builds through the middle of the under-three-minute song:
The rebuke of "remember, cause that's all you can do" serves both to cut the treacle and to highlight the angry impotence of a broken-up-with teenager. These situations are somehow never mutual for teens: one always ends up with a broken, bleeding, "murdered" heart. Right around this line is where my sympathy kicks in a bit -- not because the teen is right about being better off dead that "wak[ing] without you today," but because he's not right about it. And he doesn't know he's not right.
He keeps on the angry vein for awhile, and makes less and less sense as he goes on.
The last line in this section is delivered with the sarcasm one would expect of a bitter teenager; if he's sorry, it's that you're a douchebag, not that his heart wasn't enough. Obviously, it was, but you were too much of an idiot to see that.
But there's a reminder, here, I think, of the legitimacy of teen angst: He'd shared a side of himself he didn't share with anyone. Whoever he's reading the letter to was the first to hear these thoughts, or share these kinds of moments, with the reader -- the first. And that's something. Not anything to die for, but something.
By the end, the reader agrees that "we'll go our own ways, and hopefully you'll remember the things I've told you." Other than the smidge of condescension, this seems like a decent enough ending to a bad break-up. He's not begging, despite his obvious pain. He's not going to force the issue any farther, or manipulate to get his way. That's something.
This song, in other words, doesn't work as a song, in exactly the way teenagers don't work as people. Neither one makes a lot of sense, both get angry too quickly and are too sensitive to slights, both are too intense for their own good.
But that's the brilliance of the song.
In listening to this song the first time, I found myself laughing -- not at any of the foibles of the song itself, but at my own experiences as a teenager, and especially as a teen writer. I was too intense. I was angry. I was overly sensitive. And (for those reasons) I was a bad writer.
The song offered me a chance, in other words, to react to my own teenagerhood, and that's something that no other not-from-my-teen-years song has done in quite the same way.
There's also an interesting question that occurred to me even as I first listened to the narration: Whose letter is it? Is it fake? Was it written by a band member to an ex-girlfriend? Or was it written to a band member by an ex-girlfriend?
Using a letter written to the band by a girl torn up by a break-up would be a brutal, Machievellian thing to do -- but interesting. Using the band to get the message of hurt out to a girl who's hurt him is also interesting, not just on a song-level, but in terms of how the members view the band and its purpose in relation to its fans and its members. The support system implied in that is a study in itself, I think.
I choose not to find out, if it's possible to, where the letter came from. I suspect I like the questions better than I'd like the answers.
3.64 Gamma Phi Betas
What redeems it: Okay, at first glance, there's not much redemptive about a teen boy reading bad poetry over an acoustic guitar melody -- I'll grant you that.
And "A Year From Now" is probably not meant to be ironic...but if we take it that way, it becomes a unique and interesting study of (adolescent?) emotion.
The song is spoken by a teenage boy -- not quite the squeaky-voiced teen of the Simpsons, but close enough for the acne problems and obsession with popularity to be obvious -- and is in the form of a letter.
It starts with "complete and total adoration; my gift to you, my heart, was yours."
And you wonder if you should hit the stop button now and walk away.
If you don't, you end up listening to one side of a half-generic, half-detailed account of a relationship gone wrong. The more you hear, the more even the details and metaphors fit into "typical teen angst" genre:
In ten weeks you shaped it,
In one night you murdered it.
Torn from my chest and laid at your feet,
That first step you took was the worst.
Since then you've walked a thousand miles in silence and short remark,
Wow, "short remark," you're thinking. And groaning. Go ahead, take a second and be disgusted.
But be disgusted not just by the awkward phrasing that teens think signifies "poetry"; be disgusted by the cliched "torn from my chest and laid at your feet." Be disgusted by the verb "murdered" applied to a body part, and the fact that "my heart" is the subject.
Be disgusted by the melodrama of feeling torn apart and murdered by a ten-week relationship falling apart.
Be disgusted by yourself -- because you know you were like this, too. We all were.
The melodrama builds through the middle of the under-three-minute song:
Remember when we talked about where we'd be a year from now?
Remember when you held my hand like you'd never let it go?
Remember, cause that's all you can do.
We'll never make another memory,
We'll never make another memory.
I wish I'd have died in your arms the last time we were together,
So I wouldn't have to wake without you today.
The rebuke of "remember, cause that's all you can do" serves both to cut the treacle and to highlight the angry impotence of a broken-up-with teenager. These situations are somehow never mutual for teens: one always ends up with a broken, bleeding, "murdered" heart. Right around this line is where my sympathy kicks in a bit -- not because the teen is right about being better off dead that "wak[ing] without you today," but because he's not right about it. And he doesn't know he's not right.
He keeps on the angry vein for awhile, and makes less and less sense as he goes on.
This time I thought things were real.
You said they were, what happened?
You were a priority, was I an option?
I let you see a side of me that I don't share with anyone.
Promises are just words unless they are fulfilled.
You knew from the beginning all I had to offer you was my heart,
I'm sorry that wasn't enough.
The last line in this section is delivered with the sarcasm one would expect of a bitter teenager; if he's sorry, it's that you're a douchebag, not that his heart wasn't enough. Obviously, it was, but you were too much of an idiot to see that.
But there's a reminder, here, I think, of the legitimacy of teen angst: He'd shared a side of himself he didn't share with anyone. Whoever he's reading the letter to was the first to hear these thoughts, or share these kinds of moments, with the reader -- the first. And that's something. Not anything to die for, but something.
By the end, the reader agrees that "we'll go our own ways, and hopefully you'll remember the things I've told you." Other than the smidge of condescension, this seems like a decent enough ending to a bad break-up. He's not begging, despite his obvious pain. He's not going to force the issue any farther, or manipulate to get his way. That's something.
This song, in other words, doesn't work as a song, in exactly the way teenagers don't work as people. Neither one makes a lot of sense, both get angry too quickly and are too sensitive to slights, both are too intense for their own good.
But that's the brilliance of the song.
In listening to this song the first time, I found myself laughing -- not at any of the foibles of the song itself, but at my own experiences as a teenager, and especially as a teen writer. I was too intense. I was angry. I was overly sensitive. And (for those reasons) I was a bad writer.
The song offered me a chance, in other words, to react to my own teenagerhood, and that's something that no other not-from-my-teen-years song has done in quite the same way.
There's also an interesting question that occurred to me even as I first listened to the narration: Whose letter is it? Is it fake? Was it written by a band member to an ex-girlfriend? Or was it written to a band member by an ex-girlfriend?
Using a letter written to the band by a girl torn up by a break-up would be a brutal, Machievellian thing to do -- but interesting. Using the band to get the message of hurt out to a girl who's hurt him is also interesting, not just on a song-level, but in terms of how the members view the band and its purpose in relation to its fans and its members. The support system implied in that is a study in itself, I think.
I choose not to find out, if it's possible to, where the letter came from. I suspect I like the questions better than I'd like the answers.
3.64 Gamma Phi Betas
Unsolicited Advice VII
If you're ever trying to choose a boy's name and narrow it down to Kevin and Evan, choose Evan.
It's simply a much better name.
It's simply a much better name.
Monday, October 13, 2008
PSA: Mushrooms CAN get moldy.
As I sorted through a package of "fresh, clean sliced mushrooms" this evening, trying to pick out the ones that had gone a bit slimy, it occurred to me to wonder what happens to mushrooms when they go bad.
I mean, I think slimy is bad enough, really, and don't want to know what the next step would be -- but I wondered if mushrooms, being a fungus, go moldy. (Like the other junk in my fridge I refuse to throw away until it's way, way, way too late.)
I was going to ask here and wait for a response from you, my super-smart friends, when the voice of my editor popped into my head: "Have Joan Didion and I taught you nothing? You should be getting answers to some of these questions!"
Darn right, I thought, then groaned at the Palin reference. So I looked it up.
They can, according to answerbag.com. Mushrooms can get moldy.
Now we know.
I mean, I think slimy is bad enough, really, and don't want to know what the next step would be -- but I wondered if mushrooms, being a fungus, go moldy. (Like the other junk in my fridge I refuse to throw away until it's way, way, way too late.)
I was going to ask here and wait for a response from you, my super-smart friends, when the voice of my editor popped into my head: "Have Joan Didion and I taught you nothing? You should be getting answers to some of these questions!"
Darn right, I thought, then groaned at the Palin reference. So I looked it up.
They can, according to answerbag.com. Mushrooms can get moldy.
Now we know.
PersonalSA: Personal Ad, the movie
"The Inquisitor"
::A door opens. A casually dressed man enters the room casting a quick glance around at the spartan furnishings. The Interviewer, standing behind a functional looking metal desk, is wearing a grey suit and thin black tie. He gestures to The Man to sit in a straight-backed wooden chair opposite him::
"Please have a seat."
"Thanks." ::The Man replies as they both sit. The Man attempts, with only limited success, to get comfortable in the chair. The Interviewer speaks as he is looking over some papers on a clipboard::
"So, you are here on Craigslist looking for a... " ::There is momentary pause as the eyes of the Interviewer search the paper:: "...a woman, is that right?" ::Inquiring look over the clipboard::
"Yes." ::The Man responds with a hopeful voice and a momentary smile:: "Just so."
"Ah, good." ::The Interviewer grabs a nearby pen off the desk and begins fiddling with it absentmindedly as he leans back in his chair and fixes the Man with a dark-eyed stare::
"You have been reading the ads?"
"Yes, I have."
"So you know what the women there want?" ::The Interviewer leans forward in his chair and raises his brows slightly::
"Uh, yes. I think so. I know what they say they want at least." ::A look of slight nervousness creeps across the Man's features. A brief, mirthless half-grin crosses the Interviewer's face::
"Shall we go down the list?" ::The Man swallows and then nods slightly in reply::
"Are you tall?"
"Yes." ::The Man sits up a bit straighter in his chair with a look of confidence entering his face and voice:: "Indeed I am. Well above average in fact." ::The Man pauses, his brows furrowing momentarily:: "Not freakishly so though. I'm six-three" ::The Interviewer nods and makes a note on his tablet. Without looking up he continues::
"Are you obese, burly, husky, big-boned or any other current euphemisms for fat?" ::The Man shakes his head slightly::
"No. I'm carrying maybe ten to fifteen extra pounds, but I have a big frame to carry them on." ::The Interviewer nods and makes a note::
"Are you buff, cut, have large biceps, rippling muscles and/or washboard abs?"
"Uh, no, but I do have nice muscular calves and thighs." ::The Interviewer looks up at the Man expressionlessly:: "I walk a lot." ::The Man says by way of explanation, adding after a moment:: "I also hike and run occasionally." ::The Interviewer looks down at his clipboard and continues tonelessly::
"Do you love to laugh?" ::A look of genuine puzzlement crosses the Man's face::
"Doesn't everyone?"
"Are you funny? Do you make women laugh?" ::The interviewer asks with uncharacteristic emphasis:: ::The Man looks momentarily out of the computer screen at the reader::
"Well if The Woman gets at least a chuckle out of this then yes, otherwise I guess not." ::The Man pauses and looks back to the Interviewer as he nods slightly while making a note:: "Did I mention that I am tall?" ::The Man asks with a hint of a mischievous smile::
"Yes." ::The Interviewer answers somewhat coldly, shooting a reproachful look at the Man. He then continues::
"Do you love life?"
"Well, usually, but it doesn't always love me back."
"I see. And would you describe your attitude as unwaveringly positive?" ::A small bead of sweat breaks out on the Man's forehead and begins wending its way wetly downward.::
"Uh, no, not really. Don't get me wrong, I don't go around with a personal raincloud trying to soak everyone else with it, but I don't exactly spring out of bed in the morning shouting 'every day in every way I'm getting better and better!' or 'Today is the first day of the rest of my life!' either."
"Not even once?"
"Nope, not even once. I am generally not an exclamation point man." ::The Interviewer nods. The sound of a pen tip methodically scratching on paper emanates from across the desk. The Man surreptitiously strains to get a peak at what is being written::
"Do you like to have fun?" ::The look of genuine puzzlement returns to The Man's face::
"Doesn't that go without saying?" ::The interviewer glances briefly to his papers::
"Apparently it does not."
"Alright. Yes. Yes, I like to have fun."
"And fun would be?"
"Oh, the usual things, movies reading, hiking, traveling. You know, the things which are enjoyable enough to do, but make you seem dull as dirt to list." ::The Interviewer nods without replying::
"Do you have a luxuriant, full head of hair?" ::A long pause ensues. Several more beads of sweat appear. The Man shifts in his chair and clears his throat several times before finally speaking::
"Have I mentioned that I am tall?"
"Several times now." ::The Interviewer says with a hint of irritation in his voice. With a heavy sigh the Man answers::
"No. No, I don't." ::The distinct sound of distant doors opening and the clicking of many high-heeled shoes rapidly receding fills the small room. The Man looks over his shoulder with a concerned expression and asks::
"What was that?" ::The Interviewer does not respond except to quirk his lip slightly upward:: "I have a nice head and my ears don't stick out does that count?" ::The Man asks hopefully. The Interviewer gives him a sardonic look:: "I suppose the cute dimples don't matter either?" ::The Interviewer shakes his head and grimaces slightly before looking back to his papers::
"Let's move on. Do you drink?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"Only if by 'drink' you mean diet soda." ::The Interviewer makes a curt mark on the paper::
"Do you smoke?"
"Only when I am on fire." ::The Man was becoming almost used to the Interviewer's constricted glare::
"Do you smoke?" ::The Interviewer asked again::
"No."
"Do you mind smokers?"
"Do I have to answer that?" ::The Man asks with a sour expression::
"Yes, you do." ::The interviewer insisted steadfastly.::
"Well it doesn't make them more appealing to kiss." ::The Man says finally. The Interviewer nods to the accompaniment of pen scratching::
"Do you dance?"
"Did I mention that I am..." ::The Interviewer surgical voice cuts the Man off at a stroke:: "Yes, they all know now that you are tall, just answer the question."
"No. Not in public anyway."
"Are you rich?"
"No. I would not say so." ::Interviewer makes a mark::
"Are you poor?"
"No." ::Interviewer makes a mark::
"Do you love your job?"
"It pays my bills." ::The Man says evasively::
"Do you have a fulfilling, lucrative career?"
"Not yet. I'll let you know."
"Do you like long walks on the beach?"
"Well you know this is Connecticut not California. There is no shortage of beaches I'll admit, but trying to find a public one big enough for a long walk is a daunting challenge." ::The Interviewer's dark eyes stare steadily at the Man. The Man sighs:: "Alright, I prefer my long walks through the woods preferably ending on mountaintops and walking hand-in-hand on those can be hazardous." ::The Interviewer nods and makes a mark::
"Education?"
"Bachelors degree."
"Christian?"
"No."
"Muslim?"
"No."
"Jew?"
"No, look we could be at that a while." ::The Man gestures to the clipboard:: "Put me down for 'spiritual atheist." ::A look of incredulity crosses the Interviewer's face:: "Someone will know what that means, trust me." ::Without losing his disbelieving expression the interviewer puts down a mark::
"I think that's enough about you for now. Why don't we move on to the woman that you are seeking."
"Alright."
"Do you want her to be intelligent?"
"Yes."
"More intelligent than you?" ::The Man pauses, pondering:: "I'll get back to you on that."
"Funny?"
"A good sense of humor, love of word play and a tolerance for puns would be helpful. Asking for a love of puns would be too much I think."
"Probably." ::The Interviewer agrees with the hint of a wry expression crossing his face::
"Do you want her to be religious?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"A woman who spends a lot of time on the supernatural doesn't live in the same world I do."
"Do you want her to be attractive?"
"Naturally."
"Are you?"
"I've been called that."
"And attractive for you would be?"
"Average to voluptuous build. The sight and feel of ribs has never really done much for me." ::The Man pauses with brow furrowed in thought:: "Let's see - I like long hair better than short although both can look nice." ::The Man shrugs:: "There are many other little details, too numerous to list really."
"Are these required?"
"No, just preferences."
"Racial preference?"
"Human." ::The Interviewer glowers at the Man, saying with additional emphasis::
"Ethnic preference?"
"Caucasian and African top the list, but I like all colors of the rainbow. Except maybe for orange." ::The Man says with a returning mischievous grin:: ::The sound of the Interviewer's pen scratching follows::
"Do you want her to be active?"
"Yes."
"Hyper active?"
"Um, no, not really. Periods of vigorous activity interspersed with periods of relaxation would be nice. If she thinks of a three mile walk on level ground as a herculean undertaking then we would likely be ill matched."
"Sex?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" ::The Interviewer asks pointedly::
"Yes, I'd like sex. I don't think there are many men here who don't want that. Were I looking for a nun, chances are I'd be looking elsewhere."
"Do you want to go into detail about that?"
"No, not right now. I'd be more than happy to discuss it when the time is right."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah, the ability to write a sentence without using 'i' for 'I','u' for 'you' or any other internet shorthand currently in vogue would be nice. That sort of thing just seems lazy." ::The Man considers for a moment and then adds hurriedly:: "Oh, and if the woman is a big sports fan then there is likely no worse match in all the world than me. I didn't get the sports gene." ::The Interviewer nods curtly, makes a final mark and sets his clipboard down with a metallic click. He and the Man rise together and shake hands over the desk. The Interviewer gives the Man a generic businesslike smile::
"Thank you for coming and good luck. They will be in touch."
"Thank you." ::The Man nods, turns and exits through the open door. The Interviewer watches the Man's retreating back expressionlessly for a few moments and then speaks into the empty room::
"Next."
::A door opens. A casually dressed man enters the room casting a quick glance around at the spartan furnishings. The Interviewer, standing behind a functional looking metal desk, is wearing a grey suit and thin black tie. He gestures to The Man to sit in a straight-backed wooden chair opposite him::
"Please have a seat."
"Thanks." ::The Man replies as they both sit. The Man attempts, with only limited success, to get comfortable in the chair. The Interviewer speaks as he is looking over some papers on a clipboard::
"So, you are here on Craigslist looking for a... " ::There is momentary pause as the eyes of the Interviewer search the paper:: "...a woman, is that right?" ::Inquiring look over the clipboard::
"Yes." ::The Man responds with a hopeful voice and a momentary smile:: "Just so."
"Ah, good." ::The Interviewer grabs a nearby pen off the desk and begins fiddling with it absentmindedly as he leans back in his chair and fixes the Man with a dark-eyed stare::
"You have been reading the ads?"
"Yes, I have."
"So you know what the women there want?" ::The Interviewer leans forward in his chair and raises his brows slightly::
"Uh, yes. I think so. I know what they say they want at least." ::A look of slight nervousness creeps across the Man's features. A brief, mirthless half-grin crosses the Interviewer's face::
"Shall we go down the list?" ::The Man swallows and then nods slightly in reply::
"Are you tall?"
"Yes." ::The Man sits up a bit straighter in his chair with a look of confidence entering his face and voice:: "Indeed I am. Well above average in fact." ::The Man pauses, his brows furrowing momentarily:: "Not freakishly so though. I'm six-three" ::The Interviewer nods and makes a note on his tablet. Without looking up he continues::
"Are you obese, burly, husky, big-boned or any other current euphemisms for fat?" ::The Man shakes his head slightly::
"No. I'm carrying maybe ten to fifteen extra pounds, but I have a big frame to carry them on." ::The Interviewer nods and makes a note::
"Are you buff, cut, have large biceps, rippling muscles and/or washboard abs?"
"Uh, no, but I do have nice muscular calves and thighs." ::The Interviewer looks up at the Man expressionlessly:: "I walk a lot." ::The Man says by way of explanation, adding after a moment:: "I also hike and run occasionally." ::The Interviewer looks down at his clipboard and continues tonelessly::
"Do you love to laugh?" ::A look of genuine puzzlement crosses the Man's face::
"Doesn't everyone?"
"Are you funny? Do you make women laugh?" ::The interviewer asks with uncharacteristic emphasis:: ::The Man looks momentarily out of the computer screen at the reader::
"Well if The Woman gets at least a chuckle out of this then yes, otherwise I guess not." ::The Man pauses and looks back to the Interviewer as he nods slightly while making a note:: "Did I mention that I am tall?" ::The Man asks with a hint of a mischievous smile::
"Yes." ::The Interviewer answers somewhat coldly, shooting a reproachful look at the Man. He then continues::
"Do you love life?"
"Well, usually, but it doesn't always love me back."
"I see. And would you describe your attitude as unwaveringly positive?" ::A small bead of sweat breaks out on the Man's forehead and begins wending its way wetly downward.::
"Uh, no, not really. Don't get me wrong, I don't go around with a personal raincloud trying to soak everyone else with it, but I don't exactly spring out of bed in the morning shouting 'every day in every way I'm getting better and better!' or 'Today is the first day of the rest of my life!' either."
"Not even once?"
"Nope, not even once. I am generally not an exclamation point man." ::The Interviewer nods. The sound of a pen tip methodically scratching on paper emanates from across the desk. The Man surreptitiously strains to get a peak at what is being written::
"Do you like to have fun?" ::The look of genuine puzzlement returns to The Man's face::
"Doesn't that go without saying?" ::The interviewer glances briefly to his papers::
"Apparently it does not."
"Alright. Yes. Yes, I like to have fun."
"And fun would be?"
"Oh, the usual things, movies reading, hiking, traveling. You know, the things which are enjoyable enough to do, but make you seem dull as dirt to list." ::The Interviewer nods without replying::
"Do you have a luxuriant, full head of hair?" ::A long pause ensues. Several more beads of sweat appear. The Man shifts in his chair and clears his throat several times before finally speaking::
"Have I mentioned that I am tall?"
"Several times now." ::The Interviewer says with a hint of irritation in his voice. With a heavy sigh the Man answers::
"No. No, I don't." ::The distinct sound of distant doors opening and the clicking of many high-heeled shoes rapidly receding fills the small room. The Man looks over his shoulder with a concerned expression and asks::
"What was that?" ::The Interviewer does not respond except to quirk his lip slightly upward:: "I have a nice head and my ears don't stick out does that count?" ::The Man asks hopefully. The Interviewer gives him a sardonic look:: "I suppose the cute dimples don't matter either?" ::The Interviewer shakes his head and grimaces slightly before looking back to his papers::
"Let's move on. Do you drink?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"Only if by 'drink' you mean diet soda." ::The Interviewer makes a curt mark on the paper::
"Do you smoke?"
"Only when I am on fire." ::The Man was becoming almost used to the Interviewer's constricted glare::
"Do you smoke?" ::The Interviewer asked again::
"No."
"Do you mind smokers?"
"Do I have to answer that?" ::The Man asks with a sour expression::
"Yes, you do." ::The interviewer insisted steadfastly.::
"Well it doesn't make them more appealing to kiss." ::The Man says finally. The Interviewer nods to the accompaniment of pen scratching::
"Do you dance?"
"Did I mention that I am..." ::The Interviewer surgical voice cuts the Man off at a stroke:: "Yes, they all know now that you are tall, just answer the question."
"No. Not in public anyway."
"Are you rich?"
"No. I would not say so." ::Interviewer makes a mark::
"Are you poor?"
"No." ::Interviewer makes a mark::
"Do you love your job?"
"It pays my bills." ::The Man says evasively::
"Do you have a fulfilling, lucrative career?"
"Not yet. I'll let you know."
"Do you like long walks on the beach?"
"Well you know this is Connecticut not California. There is no shortage of beaches I'll admit, but trying to find a public one big enough for a long walk is a daunting challenge." ::The Interviewer's dark eyes stare steadily at the Man. The Man sighs:: "Alright, I prefer my long walks through the woods preferably ending on mountaintops and walking hand-in-hand on those can be hazardous." ::The Interviewer nods and makes a mark::
"Education?"
"Bachelors degree."
"Christian?"
"No."
"Muslim?"
"No."
"Jew?"
"No, look we could be at that a while." ::The Man gestures to the clipboard:: "Put me down for 'spiritual atheist." ::A look of incredulity crosses the Interviewer's face:: "Someone will know what that means, trust me." ::Without losing his disbelieving expression the interviewer puts down a mark::
"I think that's enough about you for now. Why don't we move on to the woman that you are seeking."
"Alright."
"Do you want her to be intelligent?"
"Yes."
"More intelligent than you?" ::The Man pauses, pondering:: "I'll get back to you on that."
"Funny?"
"A good sense of humor, love of word play and a tolerance for puns would be helpful. Asking for a love of puns would be too much I think."
"Probably." ::The Interviewer agrees with the hint of a wry expression crossing his face::
"Do you want her to be religious?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"A woman who spends a lot of time on the supernatural doesn't live in the same world I do."
"Do you want her to be attractive?"
"Naturally."
"Are you?"
"I've been called that."
"And attractive for you would be?"
"Average to voluptuous build. The sight and feel of ribs has never really done much for me." ::The Man pauses with brow furrowed in thought:: "Let's see - I like long hair better than short although both can look nice." ::The Man shrugs:: "There are many other little details, too numerous to list really."
"Are these required?"
"No, just preferences."
"Racial preference?"
"Human." ::The Interviewer glowers at the Man, saying with additional emphasis::
"Ethnic preference?"
"Caucasian and African top the list, but I like all colors of the rainbow. Except maybe for orange." ::The Man says with a returning mischievous grin:: ::The sound of the Interviewer's pen scratching follows::
"Do you want her to be active?"
"Yes."
"Hyper active?"
"Um, no, not really. Periods of vigorous activity interspersed with periods of relaxation would be nice. If she thinks of a three mile walk on level ground as a herculean undertaking then we would likely be ill matched."
"Sex?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" ::The Interviewer asks pointedly::
"Yes, I'd like sex. I don't think there are many men here who don't want that. Were I looking for a nun, chances are I'd be looking elsewhere."
"Do you want to go into detail about that?"
"No, not right now. I'd be more than happy to discuss it when the time is right."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah, the ability to write a sentence without using 'i' for 'I','u' for 'you' or any other internet shorthand currently in vogue would be nice. That sort of thing just seems lazy." ::The Man considers for a moment and then adds hurriedly:: "Oh, and if the woman is a big sports fan then there is likely no worse match in all the world than me. I didn't get the sports gene." ::The Interviewer nods curtly, makes a final mark and sets his clipboard down with a metallic click. He and the Man rise together and shake hands over the desk. The Interviewer gives the Man a generic businesslike smile::
"Thank you for coming and good luck. They will be in touch."
"Thank you." ::The Man nods, turns and exits through the open door. The Interviewer watches the Man's retreating back expressionlessly for a few moments and then speaks into the empty room::
"Next."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
PersonalSA: He's NOT a superhero, though. That part was a joke.
Superhero P.I. seeks Rockstar crimefighter - 26 (Manchester)
So first off, I'm not in any way a superhero. I apologize if I've offended you by luring you into my ad under false pretenses. Second, I'm not really looking for a supermodel rocker who knows 8 forms of martial arts and uses them to fight crime while running her ethically clean pharmaceutical company. If that's you and you're reading this ad, nothing against you I'm sure you're pretty awesome, but if you manage to do all that without fostering a sense of self-entitlement that demands the immediate and total fealty of every person bearing a Y chromosome... well I hate to break this to you but you're fictional. Discuss this further with your alien psychotherapist sidekick.Don't ask me how I wrote an entire paragraph on a lame comic book joke, apparently if I start something with the term "superhero" I just can't stop myself. I'd really like to meet a woman someone who is kind and warm while still strong enough to not let life kick her around. I'm really active and have alot of different interests which include philosophy/spirituality, mountain biking, dogs, motorcycles, sailing, interior decoration (don't go wild with this one), the law and politics, the art and science of intimacy and cuddling, ultimate frisbee, karaoke, and fiction... ok so I really do enjoy comic books. I'm also tall, romantic, in good shape and can fly (that last one was a joke, I already said I'm NOT a superhero)
You might be asking yourself, "why is he posting on here then?" and my response to that would be something along the lines, "I don't know how the universe connects people, but I still believe that it does (source of endless debate that I would be happy to engage in). So to shut down one open avenue of connection would seem to be a little foolish." If you're looking for someone who can not only keep up, but challenge you to go further while still appreciating you for being yourself, we're probably looking for each other.
PersonalSA: And you're wrong, again.
Personal ad, Craigslist in Hartford, men seeking women, 25 yrs. old:
"....last time i posted i met a drop dead gorgeous boricua woman who said i was amazing and smart but she told me she isnt ready for a guy like me????ladies....what the fuck is wrong with ya'll...i'm 25 single no children and i'm fucking gorgeous..why can i not find a decent "sane" woman to spend sometime with maybe idk COMMITT TO HER!!!..wow..its not wonder there are so many fags running around the world...ya'll be turning men gay its ya'll fault...and vice versa with us...so dont think i'm hatin on women...but damn ya'll all i ask is for a woman around my age whos sexy height weight portianate..that means no fat no skinny women...sorry i know ur great the way you are...but its just not gonna work if u are not attractive...what you want from? its the way it is...anyway...if you wanna get to know me...hit me up..please reply with a pic and info about you...and we'll take it from there i guess...not really giving my hopes up..but who knows i been wrong before.."
Saturday, October 11, 2008
PersonalSA: I read this one because it referenced an 'Out of Eden' song
Looking for love in all the wrong places (until I found CL) - 20 (New Britain)
Over the past seven years, CL has been a huge benefactor to me. Over that span, have acquired a great couch that accents any room its in, a used mountain bike that can really hold its own in my garage and some fabulous British imports featuring impossible to find in the U.S. records of my favorite band, The Beautiful South.In the latter years, CL has also afforded me the opportunity to meet some great people of the opposite sex, some of whom have become great and dear friends of mine. Others totally did me.
For a time, I took the advice of my parents and other trusted advisers who were keen on telling me that meeting people off the Internet was "not something I should be doing" and "weird" and "socially abhorrent." OK, they said it was fucked up. But socially abhorrent sounds much more palatable.
So, I did what any insecure twentysomething would. I went to bars and malls and baseball games and senior proms, looking for the right combination of chemistry, sex appeal and reasonable curfew that is the foundation for any working relationship.
This didn't end well, and so I fled back into the loving, accepting, non-judgmental arms of the best free classified Web site known to man. And I have to admit, I'm glad I did.
Given my particular employment situation (which allows me to work out of my apartment), I have been able to immerse myself in the unique subculture that populates CL's more intimate offerings.
And I'm glad I did, because it has given me a newfound hope that keeps me weirdly optimistic on a daily basis. Clearly, there are cute, smart, quirky, horny and put-together girls that have leaned on CL to find a mate. Unfortunately, most of these specimens seems to live in the Seattle-Tacoma, San Francisco Bay or New York City area.
But, I remain undeterred. New England has long been known for its fiercely independent streak and a citizenry that abides by its own set of rules. According to my calculations, at least some of these individuals most possess the qualities that I'm looking for.
Namely:
-social ineptness
-individuality
-breasts
-a willingness to watch George Cukor or Preston Sturges films from the comfort of my bed
-long hair and a devastatingly cute ass
-a fondness for dirty words and the ability to speak them loud and proud in public
-spontaneity or attention deficit disorder
-a secret craving for porn
-relatively good hygiene and soft skin
That's it in a nutshell. However, I should add a few more things. In my advancing age (and thanks to the 20 milligrams of Lexapro taken orally every day), it's only natural that my standards have somewhat eroded. Please don't exploit this forgiving facet of my personality.
There are many more fascinating aspects of my psyche I'm sure you're eager to explore. And I am ready to share. Interested parties should inquire within for more information. Pictures are helpful too.
Cheers.
PSA: Free Good music
I considered doing a Defense of Poppery on Good, the band whose EP I've most recently, freely and legally downloaded, except that "poppery" was always meant to refer to popular culture -- emphasis on popular -- to show that just because something's popular doesn't make it automatically artistically reprehensible. But I'm pretty sure Good isn't "popular"; the fact that their music lists itself as "avantgarde" in my Windows Media Player is a pretty good indication of their limited following, I think.
They are interesting, though, and more interesting the more you listen to them.
The EP can be downloaded at the Deconomics Records website, which gives away all its music. So far, there are three albums up, representing the solo efforts of each Mike and Paul, and the Good EP, which is their collaboration.
"Good" the album is approximately to music what The Forbidden Zone is to movies; you don't necessarily like it while it's on, but afterward you find yourself laughing and quoting it, and relating a bizarre number of things that happen to you subsequently, back to this experience.
How did I ever organize my experience before having this point of reference? you begin to wonder.
Well, in the case of "Good," that's an easy answer. The EP is "Donkey Kong" themed -- so presumably, you used the Donkey Kong game itself to make sense of those barrel-throwing, banana-peel-slipping, ladder-climbing moments in life when you thought you'd just never get ahead.
"Good" transcends Donkey Kong, though, in that way that all things meta transcend their subjects.
The lyrics of the opening song, "Kongsturn," include the lines "Music must drink the blood of those we have sacrificed" and "one two three your palace is just another place" and a dramatic, self-conscious evil laugh.
"Consider the ghost" includes the sound from an original Star Trek episode in the background of an ethereal ambient harp-ish music. Eventually, voices join the two sounds (which work in a bizarre harmony with each other), singing "I'm hung over" in equally ethereal tones.
Add to all of this mysterious postmodern comment on, well, whatever, the fact that the band's singing voices just aren't that good. In fact, you kind of wish they would stop singing and let the music speak for them sometimes. (But even the bad singing is addictive, a la Squeezit Henderson's incessant arm-flapping in The Forbidden Zone.)
What are they trying to say here?
Well, in what is either an excellent reason to completely dismiss the band as crazy, or an excellent follow-through to complete unintelligibility on their part, or both, the write-up for "Good" says of itself that "the Good EP is the noise that our subconscious minds recognize as the shuffling feet of an empty-handed band presiding over the interment of power pop's unoccupied casket."
I can kind of see the casket thing, actually, and definitely the empty-handed band -- I mean, the original Star Trek as "music"; very interesting -- but the "unoccupied casket"? Does that mean power pop isn't dead, but should be? Is it running around zombie-like out there, preying on other genres or media?
Isn't that exactly what "Good" is doing, though?
You go ahead and decide for yourself. I've listened to the EP three times through while writing this review and become more convinced by it every time...then find myself inevitably asking convinced of what?
Besides, it's free, and that's always Good.
They are interesting, though, and more interesting the more you listen to them.
The EP can be downloaded at the Deconomics Records website, which gives away all its music. So far, there are three albums up, representing the solo efforts of each Mike and Paul, and the Good EP, which is their collaboration.
"Good" the album is approximately to music what The Forbidden Zone is to movies; you don't necessarily like it while it's on, but afterward you find yourself laughing and quoting it, and relating a bizarre number of things that happen to you subsequently, back to this experience.
How did I ever organize my experience before having this point of reference? you begin to wonder.
Well, in the case of "Good," that's an easy answer. The EP is "Donkey Kong" themed -- so presumably, you used the Donkey Kong game itself to make sense of those barrel-throwing, banana-peel-slipping, ladder-climbing moments in life when you thought you'd just never get ahead.
"Good" transcends Donkey Kong, though, in that way that all things meta transcend their subjects.
The lyrics of the opening song, "Kongsturn," include the lines "Music must drink the blood of those we have sacrificed" and "one two three your palace is just another place" and a dramatic, self-conscious evil laugh.
"Consider the ghost" includes the sound from an original Star Trek episode in the background of an ethereal ambient harp-ish music. Eventually, voices join the two sounds (which work in a bizarre harmony with each other), singing "I'm hung over" in equally ethereal tones.
Add to all of this mysterious postmodern comment on, well, whatever, the fact that the band's singing voices just aren't that good. In fact, you kind of wish they would stop singing and let the music speak for them sometimes. (But even the bad singing is addictive, a la Squeezit Henderson's incessant arm-flapping in The Forbidden Zone.)
What are they trying to say here?
Well, in what is either an excellent reason to completely dismiss the band as crazy, or an excellent follow-through to complete unintelligibility on their part, or both, the write-up for "Good" says of itself that "the Good EP is the noise that our subconscious minds recognize as the shuffling feet of an empty-handed band presiding over the interment of power pop's unoccupied casket."
I can kind of see the casket thing, actually, and definitely the empty-handed band -- I mean, the original Star Trek as "music"; very interesting -- but the "unoccupied casket"? Does that mean power pop isn't dead, but should be? Is it running around zombie-like out there, preying on other genres or media?
Isn't that exactly what "Good" is doing, though?
You go ahead and decide for yourself. I've listened to the EP three times through while writing this review and become more convinced by it every time...then find myself inevitably asking convinced of what?
Besides, it's free, and that's always Good.
Friday, October 10, 2008
PSQ: "Every single time"...??
Public Service Question:
Excerpt from a personal ad titled "Need you to overlook my wealth!!!! - 37"
Excerpt from a personal ad titled "Need you to overlook my wealth!!!! - 37"
The following are some things i would like in someone.... Someone caring, bubbly and energetic. Also, it would be nice if you DONT like smoking, however....., if you like smoking, as long as you don't smoke every single time.Here's the question: Is there any other way to interpret the phrase "every single time"??
PSA: Micro Machines guy gets Robot Chicken
Honestly, who has never stopped in a dark parking lot sometime after midnight, keys in hand, shivering, and wondered "whatever happened to that Micro Machines guy?"
Well, John Moschitta, Jr., the tied-for-first fastest talker in recorded history (that's RECorded history -- as in Guinness Book), has done some stuff since Micro Machines, including the voice of Blurr in Transformers, and appearing in the episode "Shoe" on Adult Swim's Robot Chicken.
Also, according to Wikipedia, "John "Mightymouth" Moschitta recorded a humorous take on 10 classic novels in which he summarizes each book's entire story in approximately one minute. Included in this collection, entitled Ten Classics in Ten Minutes, is Herman Melville's Moby-Dick; William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet; F Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby; Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind; and John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath."
Apparently, these came out on CD in 2004, so I suspect they're available for any of us to hear. I know I'D like to hear them. I may even consider putting them on an infinite loop in the E.T. room.
I'm glad to hear he's getting work, and especially awesome work like this. It can't be easy, being the world's "-est" anything.
There are probably other fast talkers out there, and some of them may have caught our fancies on occasion.
Just remember: If he doesn't say Micro Machines, he's not the real thing.
Well, John Moschitta, Jr., the tied-for-first fastest talker in recorded history (that's RECorded history -- as in Guinness Book), has done some stuff since Micro Machines, including the voice of Blurr in Transformers, and appearing in the episode "Shoe" on Adult Swim's Robot Chicken.
Also, according to Wikipedia, "John "Mightymouth" Moschitta recorded a humorous take on 10 classic novels in which he summarizes each book's entire story in approximately one minute. Included in this collection, entitled Ten Classics in Ten Minutes, is Herman Melville's Moby-Dick; William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet; F Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby; Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind; and John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath."
Apparently, these came out on CD in 2004, so I suspect they're available for any of us to hear. I know I'D like to hear them. I may even consider putting them on an infinite loop in the E.T. room.
I'm glad to hear he's getting work, and especially awesome work like this. It can't be easy, being the world's "-est" anything.
There are probably other fast talkers out there, and some of them may have caught our fancies on occasion.
Just remember: If he doesn't say Micro Machines, he's not the real thing.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
PersonalSA: A new kind of scholarship available.
* * Businessman seeking College/Grad Student to Sponsor * * - 43 (Hartford Area)
This is a real listing, not CL spam :)
I'm tall, fit, white (Italian), clean and a lot of fun.
I'm looking for a fun, cute friend with a pleasant disposition on the slender/athletic side. Interested in fun, negotiable as to the terms of our arrangement.
I'm not looking for anything long-term or committed, and I don't even care if you get a boyfriend, just as long as there's no drama.
Send me an email. You'll be glad you did.
HFCB Information letter, re: comment, 8/17/08
Mr. Levy,
Thank you for your request for more information on the Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft. For the past six years, HFCB has sought to be a force for good in a world low on roommates, low on quality time, and most recently (with the national deficit at an all-time high), painfully low on paying for stuff.
The HFCB philosophy has as its foundation two of the world's most tried-and-true relational principles: 1. men like to pay for stuff, and 2. roommates deprived of each other's company require compensatory quality time. All monies provided by the privileged men allowed to "pay for stuff" into the Hulkamania Fund go directly toward providing the kind of quality time associated with the women of Mellinger C101. Their low-key creativity often leads to spending days in, such as Jane Austen Weekend, or to taking their friendships on the road, to the moderately priced El Sombrero Mexican Restaurant or to Ocean City, MD.
It is their frugality that allows HFCB to keep costs, and rates, miraculously low. For each hour of deprivation, roommates request only $.05 in compensatory fees. This rate has remained stable throughout the history of HFCB and even despite the recent market fluctuations, and there are no plans to raise it.
If the rate of $.05/hour sounds too low to fulfill your desire to pay for stuff, never fear; HFCB can provide you with an exciting new opportunity to empty your wallet. Thanks to a tragic fall from atop a high bookshelf three years ago, the beloved Hulkamania Stein -- both symbol and bank for HFCB -- shattered into several pieces. The damage was irreparable. HFCB members, grieved over the loss, recently declared the period of mourning over and formed the Restore-the-Stein Fund, a nonprofit entity within our all-for-profit organization, intended to raise money for the purchase of a new Hulkamania Stein.
Little did we know when the original Hulkamania Stein came into our lives, what the future would hold. Now, six years later, the Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft is stronger than ever: instituting annual business meetings, ensuring that all roommates are able to engage in quality time with each other, and helping men everywhere -- or at least in our little corners of the world -- to fulfill their desire to pay for stuff.
Peace, and may the Hulk be with you.
Alicia Watkins
President
Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft
P.S. -- Per your question of August, Mr. Levy, the hourly rate may never be doubled by the presence of two roommates at once. The compensatory fee is rendered unnecessary in that instance since the roommates are together.
Thank you for your request for more information on the Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft. For the past six years, HFCB has sought to be a force for good in a world low on roommates, low on quality time, and most recently (with the national deficit at an all-time high), painfully low on paying for stuff.
The HFCB philosophy has as its foundation two of the world's most tried-and-true relational principles: 1. men like to pay for stuff, and 2. roommates deprived of each other's company require compensatory quality time. All monies provided by the privileged men allowed to "pay for stuff" into the Hulkamania Fund go directly toward providing the kind of quality time associated with the women of Mellinger C101. Their low-key creativity often leads to spending days in, such as Jane Austen Weekend, or to taking their friendships on the road, to the moderately priced El Sombrero Mexican Restaurant or to Ocean City, MD.
It is their frugality that allows HFCB to keep costs, and rates, miraculously low. For each hour of deprivation, roommates request only $.05 in compensatory fees. This rate has remained stable throughout the history of HFCB and even despite the recent market fluctuations, and there are no plans to raise it.
If the rate of $.05/hour sounds too low to fulfill your desire to pay for stuff, never fear; HFCB can provide you with an exciting new opportunity to empty your wallet. Thanks to a tragic fall from atop a high bookshelf three years ago, the beloved Hulkamania Stein -- both symbol and bank for HFCB -- shattered into several pieces. The damage was irreparable. HFCB members, grieved over the loss, recently declared the period of mourning over and formed the Restore-the-Stein Fund, a nonprofit entity within our all-for-profit organization, intended to raise money for the purchase of a new Hulkamania Stein.
Little did we know when the original Hulkamania Stein came into our lives, what the future would hold. Now, six years later, the Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft is stronger than ever: instituting annual business meetings, ensuring that all roommates are able to engage in quality time with each other, and helping men everywhere -- or at least in our little corners of the world -- to fulfill their desire to pay for stuff.
Peace, and may the Hulk be with you.
Alicia Watkins
President
Hulkamania Fund for Compensating the Bereft
P.S. -- Per your question of August, Mr. Levy, the hourly rate may never be doubled by the presence of two roommates at once. The compensatory fee is rendered unnecessary in that instance since the roommates are together.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Local Trivia: Charles River, Waltham
Sunday, as Sharon and I walked along the lovely Charles River -- no, wait, let me start over.
Sunday, as Sharon and I walked along the opaque black Charles River running through Waltham -- past the brown-watered dam and over a bridge that gave us a great view of Charles' soapy, foamy surface sliding over said oily blackness, we began to see miniature icebergs making their way to wherever the Charles River goes.
The apparent ice floes, we decided, couldn't be actually ice, since it was at least 60 degrees outside. The alternative was some kind of foam.
But what kind of foam? And what was it doing there?
Sharon conjectured that the foamy residue near the dam area built up on tree branches or rocks until it had formed these large cumulus-like masses, which then drifted down the river at random but steady intervals. We watched probably 20 of them pass us on a small dock along the riverside.
Anyone sciency or lousy with Charles-River-knowledge (that is, full of it, not bad at it), please tell us all whether this is a sign of the Apocalypse.
Sunday, as Sharon and I walked along the opaque black Charles River running through Waltham -- past the brown-watered dam and over a bridge that gave us a great view of Charles' soapy, foamy surface sliding over said oily blackness, we began to see miniature icebergs making their way to wherever the Charles River goes.
The apparent ice floes, we decided, couldn't be actually ice, since it was at least 60 degrees outside. The alternative was some kind of foam.
But what kind of foam? And what was it doing there?
Sharon conjectured that the foamy residue near the dam area built up on tree branches or rocks until it had formed these large cumulus-like masses, which then drifted down the river at random but steady intervals. We watched probably 20 of them pass us on a small dock along the riverside.
Anyone sciency or lousy with Charles-River-knowledge (that is, full of it, not bad at it), please tell us all whether this is a sign of the Apocalypse.
PersonalSA: I know it's long, but it's worth it.
I am in a handsome mood today................... - 30 (Connecticut )
Hi Ladies,My name is Steffan but my friends call me Mike... and I am a model for precision grooming products. I drive a hot BMW and I want to meet a lady to take for a ride in my nice car maybe we can go to a nice restaurant like applebee's I like to eat steak and I will buy you a steak too.....Then we can go for another ride to my mother's house and she can make us flan for desert. I am a nice guy I won't hit you if I get upset, we can talk out our problems. I don't have kids. I have my own place with a dishwasher and a pulsesating shower head I want a nice honest loyal woman. I have many interesting friends. Maybe we can be friends I like cars and I can fix your car if it breaks. Other than being a superstar precision grooming products model my other skill is handyman-ness I can fix alsmost anything. i also know a lot about everything and can answer almost any question that you have. i am very smart. so if you are a sweet girl I would like to go out on a date with you and maybe in the future we can get married and go on a honeymoon to florida were it is sunny all the time. I like my car a lot but if you are pretty and sweet maybe i will let you drive it. maybe i will even let you drive it to your job so you can show it off to all your co-workers and then maybe i can come visit you at work so you can show me off to all your co-workers and then i can take you places with me so i can show you off to all friends and co- precision grooming products models and make them jelous because i got such a hot car and a sweet girl by my side. I like to meet you so lets go out on a date and have fun i would like to see your picture to. I would like to know what kind of car you drive and send me pictures too. I dont care if it is a ugly with dents and and a broken windsheild I have auto-body tools and i can fix and paint the car for you. I like to go the beach in my car too. so if you like the beach we will have fun in the summer time too. maybe we can go to fun places like amusement parks and ride the carousel and i'll yell weeeee weeee at the top of my lungs and maybe i'll get luck and you will give me a kiss on my cheek and then we can go out for pizza and if we are lucky they will have a juke box and we can play mars volta viva l'viaquez 3 times in a row everybody will love us and they will pay for our pizza. thank you for reading my ad .........maybe we can go for a bike ride
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
PSA: PSA!
This is easily the best online-dating PSA I've ever read. If only this guy weren't so into World of Warcraft. Anyway, what better way to start off the string of sad/witty/pithy/spam Craigslist personals than this? I can't think of one.
A couple things though, and this is for your own good. I am a relatively well-adjusted, non-psychotic, non-ugly, intelligent, funny, caring and sexual guy. The sweet spot of CL love seekers. So take this advice on its own merits.
Don't kid yourselves. This is a competition. Not all of you are the unique, beautiful, smart things you say you are. Not all of us would be lucky to have you. Following these five simple steps should lead into a world of CL bliss where the sky is made of gold and the ground you walk on is paved with orgasms.
1. Punctuation matters. Syntax is your friend. If the man of your dreams considers a Tom Brady jersey and backward Red Sox hat to be formal attire for a night on the town, things such as comma splices and proper use of dependent clauses probably don't matter. But many of you have made it known you are seeking a "smart, sexy, guy" who is "interesting" and can "prove to me that their not all alike." That is the incorrect usage of "their," and that says a lot about you. Trust me. Smart, sexy guys notice shit like that.
2. Busch Light + single mother = Jerry Springer. I know, it's hard. Our economy is melting down before our eyes. There's a war on. Icebergs are disappearing at a record pace and the Red Sox are slumping. Life's difficult, and beer sometimes helps.
But if you are a single mother turning to CL for a companion and include a picture of yourself clutching some form of shitty bottom shelf beer in one hand and your adorable child in the other, chances are you have a lot more nights ahead of you that involve drinking alone.
3. Lose the attitude. I can't emphasize this enough. So many of you act like there's an armed bandit behind you, forcing you to post a CL ad. Uh, WTF? This shit is voluntary. So if you're a "BBW" don't follow that up with "yeah I'm fat and if you don't like it fuck you I got no time for haters." Whoa, calm down bitch. You only get one chance at making a good first impression.
And by the way, some men just aren't down with the soft girls, and no amount of linguistic manipulation can change that. We're computer nerds. When you say "voluptuous, curvy, a few extra pounds, more to love or beautiful on the inside," you come off sounding totally pathetic and desperate. I say this because I care. Life is better with honesty. Honesty leads to an inbox full of gushing CL missives.
4. We know that picture is not you. As much as we'd love to imagine a flat-stomached, tanned sex goddess is interested in getting into our sweat pants, we know better.
I have had sex with girls like that. I have not met them on CL. That's not to say cute girls don't inhabit the more intimate sections of Craig, but we know the signs.
5. Temper your expectations. Gerard Butler, George Clooney and Justin Timberlake are busy fellows. Their time is already taken up. Please don't wait for them to accept your offer of cruising around greater Connecticut on a motorcycle or you're going to be one disappointed gal.
If you are lucky enough to receive a thought-out, well-crafted and genuine response from a guy and his picture doesn't have one of those cheesy late 80s laser backdrops or Epcot in it, take a chance. See what happens.
Happy hunting.
A handy guide to snag the CL man of your dreams... - 28 (around Hartford)
OK, ladies. We really need to talk. Over the past few months, I have become something of a CL enthusiast because it provides a fascinating glimpse into the human (female) psyche. No doubt many of the lessons I've learned will come in handy the next time I meet a PYT while in a World Of Warcraft chat room.A couple things though, and this is for your own good. I am a relatively well-adjusted, non-psychotic, non-ugly, intelligent, funny, caring and sexual guy. The sweet spot of CL love seekers. So take this advice on its own merits.
Don't kid yourselves. This is a competition. Not all of you are the unique, beautiful, smart things you say you are. Not all of us would be lucky to have you. Following these five simple steps should lead into a world of CL bliss where the sky is made of gold and the ground you walk on is paved with orgasms.
1. Punctuation matters. Syntax is your friend. If the man of your dreams considers a Tom Brady jersey and backward Red Sox hat to be formal attire for a night on the town, things such as comma splices and proper use of dependent clauses probably don't matter. But many of you have made it known you are seeking a "smart, sexy, guy" who is "interesting" and can "prove to me that their not all alike." That is the incorrect usage of "their," and that says a lot about you. Trust me. Smart, sexy guys notice shit like that.
2. Busch Light + single mother = Jerry Springer. I know, it's hard. Our economy is melting down before our eyes. There's a war on. Icebergs are disappearing at a record pace and the Red Sox are slumping. Life's difficult, and beer sometimes helps.
But if you are a single mother turning to CL for a companion and include a picture of yourself clutching some form of shitty bottom shelf beer in one hand and your adorable child in the other, chances are you have a lot more nights ahead of you that involve drinking alone.
3. Lose the attitude. I can't emphasize this enough. So many of you act like there's an armed bandit behind you, forcing you to post a CL ad. Uh, WTF? This shit is voluntary. So if you're a "BBW" don't follow that up with "yeah I'm fat and if you don't like it fuck you I got no time for haters." Whoa, calm down bitch. You only get one chance at making a good first impression.
And by the way, some men just aren't down with the soft girls, and no amount of linguistic manipulation can change that. We're computer nerds. When you say "voluptuous, curvy, a few extra pounds, more to love or beautiful on the inside," you come off sounding totally pathetic and desperate. I say this because I care. Life is better with honesty. Honesty leads to an inbox full of gushing CL missives.
4. We know that picture is not you. As much as we'd love to imagine a flat-stomached, tanned sex goddess is interested in getting into our sweat pants, we know better.
I have had sex with girls like that. I have not met them on CL. That's not to say cute girls don't inhabit the more intimate sections of Craig, but we know the signs.
5. Temper your expectations. Gerard Butler, George Clooney and Justin Timberlake are busy fellows. Their time is already taken up. Please don't wait for them to accept your offer of cruising around greater Connecticut on a motorcycle or you're going to be one disappointed gal.
If you are lucky enough to receive a thought-out, well-crafted and genuine response from a guy and his picture doesn't have one of those cheesy late 80s laser backdrops or Epcot in it, take a chance. See what happens.
Happy hunting.
Personally...
Dear CU readers,
I was trolling the Craigslist personals last night, which I almost never do (see my previous post on the Hartford Advocate's personals section -- that was the last time I read any), in search of fodder for blog posts.
I know. It's cheating.
But you'll like what I found. You'll read it and you'll like it, you betcha.
Besides, I think we all need a break from all this political stuff.
So over the next few days, I'll post some of the best of the Joe Sixpacks' ads from the "men seeking women" section...the only section I read because what I found there was enough. Good Lord, was it enough.
If you're interested in responding to any of these ads, which are all for men in the Hartford, CT area, you'll have to look it up on craigslist yourself. I'm in the business of amusement here, people, not matchmaking.
Darn right.
Alicia.
I was trolling the Craigslist personals last night, which I almost never do (see my previous post on the Hartford Advocate's personals section -- that was the last time I read any), in search of fodder for blog posts.
I know. It's cheating.
But you'll like what I found. You'll read it and you'll like it, you betcha.
Besides, I think we all need a break from all this political stuff.
So over the next few days, I'll post some of the best of the Joe Sixpacks' ads from the "men seeking women" section...the only section I read because what I found there was enough. Good Lord, was it enough.
If you're interested in responding to any of these ads, which are all for men in the Hartford, CT area, you'll have to look it up on craigslist yourself. I'm in the business of amusement here, people, not matchmaking.
Darn right.
Alicia.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Go ahead, heart them. You know you want to.
Recently a spoof trailer of the to-be-released-in-December movie Twilight caught my eye on youtube. I, along with up to 1.3 million other people, watched it. I don't know what those other people thought, but I failed to stifle my laughter despite being in a semi-crowded newsroom and ended up sounding like a dying hyena.
The spoof, put up by Evil Iguana Productions -- a group of college-age guys in the Chicago area -- was one of several. The Dark Knight spoof had over 4.5 million hits as of yesterday. (Which is good, because as I learned from the first cast-member Q&A, the Batman suit cost $500. Probably why they did that other video on how lazy Aquaman is.)
Chasing the high of the Twilight trailer, I visited Evil Iguana's channel, or whatever youtube calls homepages, and found their magnum opus, "The Allen and Craig Show."
The show features Allen, a relatively normal guy who "can't think with [his] shirt on" and wears an Army helmet (with straps dangling perpetually/endearingly/hilariously from both sides) in his quest to become youtube-famous. Craig, whose only friend is Allen, has been drafted into the show, mostly to do Allen's scutwork, and stunts Allen doesn't want to do; Craig is shy, especially around girls (he vomits every time he attempts to talk to one), and doesn't even want to be on the show.
Though "The Allen and Craig Show" -- first episode titled "Probably going to be called 'The Allen Show'" -- is listed improv, each of the first six or seven episodes actually follows a coherent and slowly building narrative revolving around whatever Allen's current plot to become youtube-famous is.
As with most comedy, the small moments in between the big jokes are priceless: as when Craig asks Allen what his "safety word" will be if the Diet-Coke-and-Mentos experiment goes awry, followed by the inevitable going-awry and Allen's sputtered "Rumplestiltskin." ("Are you okay, Allen? You said the safety word," then-cameraman Craig says.) Or when Allen wants to prove himself better than Craig and begins a button-eating contest, alone. (He gets up to four.)
Over time, Craig comes out of his shell and Allen shows his more vulnerable side. But it doesn't take any time at all to be charmed by these two guys, who after all are "everyman" -- or every man that can produce a well-crafted, well-edited, self-referential-yet-fresh look into small-time, small-town foibles.
In Episode 10, Craig gets a new apartment in Chicago and begins film school.
I can't wait to see what low-key hijinks ensue.
The spoof, put up by Evil Iguana Productions -- a group of college-age guys in the Chicago area -- was one of several. The Dark Knight spoof had over 4.5 million hits as of yesterday. (Which is good, because as I learned from the first cast-member Q&A, the Batman suit cost $500. Probably why they did that other video on how lazy Aquaman is.)
Chasing the high of the Twilight trailer, I visited Evil Iguana's channel, or whatever youtube calls homepages, and found their magnum opus, "The Allen and Craig Show."
The show features Allen, a relatively normal guy who "can't think with [his] shirt on" and wears an Army helmet (with straps dangling perpetually/endearingly/hilariously from both sides) in his quest to become youtube-famous. Craig, whose only friend is Allen, has been drafted into the show, mostly to do Allen's scutwork, and stunts Allen doesn't want to do; Craig is shy, especially around girls (he vomits every time he attempts to talk to one), and doesn't even want to be on the show.
Though "The Allen and Craig Show" -- first episode titled "Probably going to be called 'The Allen Show'" -- is listed improv, each of the first six or seven episodes actually follows a coherent and slowly building narrative revolving around whatever Allen's current plot to become youtube-famous is.
As with most comedy, the small moments in between the big jokes are priceless: as when Craig asks Allen what his "safety word" will be if the Diet-Coke-and-Mentos experiment goes awry, followed by the inevitable going-awry and Allen's sputtered "Rumplestiltskin." ("Are you okay, Allen? You said the safety word," then-cameraman Craig says.) Or when Allen wants to prove himself better than Craig and begins a button-eating contest, alone. (He gets up to four.)
Over time, Craig comes out of his shell and Allen shows his more vulnerable side. But it doesn't take any time at all to be charmed by these two guys, who after all are "everyman" -- or every man that can produce a well-crafted, well-edited, self-referential-yet-fresh look into small-time, small-town foibles.
In Episode 10, Craig gets a new apartment in Chicago and begins film school.
I can't wait to see what low-key hijinks ensue.
New word: AMpty-headed
adj. vapid, meaningless and tyrranical speech or person, as with badly reasoned arguments gained from listening to right-wing talk radio; Rush-Limbaugh-like
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Guest Mix: Fascism familiar
Okay, this isn't mine, it's Marc's -- and yes, I suppose it's technically cheating -- but it's such a good mix, and includes the finally acquired "Daddy" reading by Sylvia Plath. I had to post it. I HAD to.
"Daddy" -- Sylvia Plath
"Destroy Everything You Touch" --Ladytron
"Battle Without Honor Or Humanity" -- Tomayasu Hotei
"Let's Go Kill That Bastard" -- Damon Albarn and Michael Nyman
"No Self Control" -- Peter Gabriel
"She's Lost Control" -- Joy Division
"Out of Control" -- She Wants Revenge
"The Future" -- Leonard Cohen
"To Germany With Love" -- Alphaville
"Hurt" -- Johnny Cash
"Hurt" -- New Order
"Control" -- Poe
"Standing In The Way Of Control" -- The Gossip
"Gravity's Angel" -- Laurie Anderson
"Y Control" -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs
"Daddy" -- Sylvia Plath
"Destroy Everything You Touch" --Ladytron
"Battle Without Honor Or Humanity" -- Tomayasu Hotei
"Let's Go Kill That Bastard" -- Damon Albarn and Michael Nyman
"No Self Control" -- Peter Gabriel
"She's Lost Control" -- Joy Division
"Out of Control" -- She Wants Revenge
"The Future" -- Leonard Cohen
"To Germany With Love" -- Alphaville
"Hurt" -- Johnny Cash
"Hurt" -- New Order
"Control" -- Poe
"Standing In The Way Of Control" -- The Gossip
"Gravity's Angel" -- Laurie Anderson
"Y Control" -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Confessions XXII
I never get all my dishes done -- there are always more to do than I have space on my dish rack.
I pile my dirty clothes on the end of my bed and try to never have to do laundry more than once a month.
I leave newspapers and ads meant for recycling splayed on the back shared porch near my door instead of putting them in a nice paper bag.
I pile my dirty clothes on the end of my bed and try to never have to do laundry more than once a month.
I leave newspapers and ads meant for recycling splayed on the back shared porch near my door instead of putting them in a nice paper bag.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
PSA: I don't have cancer.
Biopsy of the mole came back negative.
Gifts of money, candy and DVDs will be gladly accepted.
Gifts of money, candy and DVDs will be gladly accepted.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Battle of the Who-would-you-rathers
On learning of The Veronicas, Marc asked if there was a rival band called The Bettys.
I can't find one, though I have found a band called just plain Betty.
I would like to go beyond the Veronica-Betty Archie rivalry, though. I would like to get bands named The Gingers and The Maryannes, and also a band called Marsha Marsha Marsha, together.
I would like to see them all in a giant concert venue, battling it out for supremacy.
That is all.
*I can't tell, but I think the Marsha Marsha Marsha are a satirical band. All the better, really.
I can't find one, though I have found a band called just plain Betty.
I would like to go beyond the Veronica-Betty Archie rivalry, though. I would like to get bands named The Gingers and The Maryannes, and also a band called Marsha Marsha Marsha, together.
I would like to see them all in a giant concert venue, battling it out for supremacy.
That is all.
*I can't tell, but I think the Marsha Marsha Marsha are a satirical band. All the better, really.
Beyond the Virgonicas
Okay.
I frequently am so offended by the flashiness and over-the-top(of my email)ness of the ads that appear on my professional unpaid-for email that when one appears that doesn't offend, I click on it in an attempt to encourage less offensive ads.
So I clicked on an ad from Yahoo! New Music "Beyond the Veronicas presented by YAZ Beyond Birth Control."
I was equally interested in the three parts of the ad.
Yahoo! has a "new music" site?
Who are the Veronicas, and who is beyond them?
What could they possibly mean by "beyond birth control"? (A hysterectomy? YAZ-brand hysterectomies??)
The Veronicas, it turns out, are a band that sings "Teen Pop, Australian, Pop," and they're trying to make it big in the U.S. -- starting with getting exposure for their lead single, it seems, "Untouched."
Ooh. Okay, this is getting interesting. (Abstinence is beyond birth control? But how could you brand that?)
The video for untouched, which you can see here, eliminates any thoughts that the Veronicas might be advocating abstinence. She feels "untouched," she says, but that's because she just wants it so bad.
[Editor's note: If you're offended by the phrase "wants it so bad," please don't watch the video.]
Sadly, I found myself liking the music, which has a nice orchestral-electronica feel to it; if only the lyrics and whole thrust of the song weren't so sophomoric.
But I have to admire the collaboration, now, between whatever this YAZ birth control is, and the Veronicas; it's clear the Veronicas are in the market for it and can probably speak authoritatively on the subject. Additionally admirable is the fact that I've watched three videos of theirs, including an interview, and have yet to hear them plug for YAZ. So it's a low-profile association.
Why don't we see more of this intelligent product placement?
I frequently am so offended by the flashiness and over-the-top(of my email)ness of the ads that appear on my professional unpaid-for email that when one appears that doesn't offend, I click on it in an attempt to encourage less offensive ads.
So I clicked on an ad from Yahoo! New Music "Beyond the Veronicas presented by YAZ Beyond Birth Control."
I was equally interested in the three parts of the ad.
Yahoo! has a "new music" site?
Who are the Veronicas, and who is beyond them?
What could they possibly mean by "beyond birth control"? (A hysterectomy? YAZ-brand hysterectomies??)
The Veronicas, it turns out, are a band that sings "Teen Pop, Australian, Pop," and they're trying to make it big in the U.S. -- starting with getting exposure for their lead single, it seems, "Untouched."
Ooh. Okay, this is getting interesting. (Abstinence is beyond birth control? But how could you brand that?)
The video for untouched, which you can see here, eliminates any thoughts that the Veronicas might be advocating abstinence. She feels "untouched," she says, but that's because she just wants it so bad.
[Editor's note: If you're offended by the phrase "wants it so bad," please don't watch the video.]
Sadly, I found myself liking the music, which has a nice orchestral-electronica feel to it; if only the lyrics and whole thrust of the song weren't so sophomoric.
But I have to admire the collaboration, now, between whatever this YAZ birth control is, and the Veronicas; it's clear the Veronicas are in the market for it and can probably speak authoritatively on the subject. Additionally admirable is the fact that I've watched three videos of theirs, including an interview, and have yet to hear them plug for YAZ. So it's a low-profile association.
Why don't we see more of this intelligent product placement?
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Local Trivia: That's not for SITTING ON.
A few months ago, now, my girl and I were in downtown New Britain, walking around. She likes to go into shops, so we went into one that was full of dollar store items on one side and furniture on the other.
She wanted to sit on a daybed she'd looked at the previous week, so we went over there and sat down.
Five minutes later, a Polish woman*, presumably one of the store owners, came over and asked us to leave.
"What are you doing," she said. (Said, not asked.)
"We're just sitting here," I said in that cheerful/polite tone that, if I'd ever been threatened with one, would get me out of a traffic ticket with a warning.
"Well, you can't do that. That's not for --" she said, and let her sentence go as she pointed us to the door.
No word yet on what the purpose of that particular daybed is.
*I mention that she's Polish because her demeanor and expectations for people visiting her store -- potential customers -- seemed particularly rooted in her culture. Whereas most Americans would consider sitting on the furniture a sign of a possible sale, or at least an opportunity for creating good word-of-mouth, eastern-European-Americans understand that this is the kind of nonsense no store owner should tolerate. Serious buyers don't sit. They pay.
She wanted to sit on a daybed she'd looked at the previous week, so we went over there and sat down.
Five minutes later, a Polish woman*, presumably one of the store owners, came over and asked us to leave.
"What are you doing," she said. (Said, not asked.)
"We're just sitting here," I said in that cheerful/polite tone that, if I'd ever been threatened with one, would get me out of a traffic ticket with a warning.
"Well, you can't do that. That's not for --" she said, and let her sentence go as she pointed us to the door.
No word yet on what the purpose of that particular daybed is.
*I mention that she's Polish because her demeanor and expectations for people visiting her store -- potential customers -- seemed particularly rooted in her culture. Whereas most Americans would consider sitting on the furniture a sign of a possible sale, or at least an opportunity for creating good word-of-mouth, eastern-European-Americans understand that this is the kind of nonsense no store owner should tolerate. Serious buyers don't sit. They pay.
PSA: Touched (in the head)
If I don't have some kind of legitimate human physical contact today, I might go crazy.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Things George said
"You're too normal to change the world." (black shoe / In which I have lived like a foot)
That was probably the most hurtful, taken singly, out of the context of everything else he said. He said it flippantly at the beginning of the year, as he entered his house. I stopped dead on the step and watched him shut the door.
He apologized later, months later. He couldn't remember saying it.
"No, I'll just find someone else." (So I could never tell where / You put your foot, your root, / I never could talk to you.)
I'd asked, at the end of the year, what he would do without me; I suggested he'd be lost without me to listen, talk, play, stay up late with him. He'd miss my climbing on the number 4 bus in Chengdu with him, flagging down taxis into Dujiangyan, joking about the Messiah Community Covenant. He'd miss my knowing things no one else on the team knew, that he tried to keep to himself: his middle name, his birthdate, what he thought about technological progression versus geography, how he felt when teammates stepped in to correct or augment his halting Chinese.
He'd miss the inventions of a year together, the alternate weekday list that included first and second Saturday, the comfort of knowing he could break out into a swing-dance move and only encounter encouraging laughter. He'd miss the solemn talks about spiritual things and absurd discussions of which movie stars were obsession-worthy. Surely he would miss...well, me.
"No," he said. "I'll just find someone else."
"I only have a year with you" -- (with my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck) -- he said in an end-of-the-year talk, when he'd hurt me (again) by saying I hadn't told him the teacher's party was the coming Tuesday (I had, twice). He'd used the opening (the wound) to get at other things. (I may be a bit of a Jew.)
He lectured on what I refused to see. I was capable of understanding reality, of opening my mind, he said, but wouldn't. (I began to talk like a Jew.) It frustrated him.
I could feel, but didn't know, what he was talking about. He came over and held me when I cried, but my tears stopped instantly, awkwardly, at his touch.
He knew he was hurting me. He did it deliberately -- the way a surgeon does. (I think I may well be a Jew.)
"You're a nurse," he said at mid-year, explaining why I couldn't get at the real problem with my student. (Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.)
He cut things out of people; I bound them up again. We worked at odds with each other. We'd undo each other. We couldn't work together.
"I'm a surgeon," he said. (Marble-heavy, a bag full of God)
He worked on me all year.
I loved him for it.
"He's psycho," my friends said.
("I know," I said.)
"It's like if I said 'my wife says bad things about me, and is always negative, and steal stuff from the store -- but I really respect her for it'," my youth leader said.
("I see what you mean," I said.)
"I don't understand why you care so much," my pastor said.
("That's why I'm here," I said. "Neither do I.")
*****
"Every woman adores a Fascist," Sylvia says.
Huh, I think, mulling it over a bit.
Maybe she's right.
That was probably the most hurtful, taken singly, out of the context of everything else he said. He said it flippantly at the beginning of the year, as he entered his house. I stopped dead on the step and watched him shut the door.
He apologized later, months later. He couldn't remember saying it.
"No, I'll just find someone else." (So I could never tell where / You put your foot, your root, / I never could talk to you.)
I'd asked, at the end of the year, what he would do without me; I suggested he'd be lost without me to listen, talk, play, stay up late with him. He'd miss my climbing on the number 4 bus in Chengdu with him, flagging down taxis into Dujiangyan, joking about the Messiah Community Covenant. He'd miss my knowing things no one else on the team knew, that he tried to keep to himself: his middle name, his birthdate, what he thought about technological progression versus geography, how he felt when teammates stepped in to correct or augment his halting Chinese.
He'd miss the inventions of a year together, the alternate weekday list that included first and second Saturday, the comfort of knowing he could break out into a swing-dance move and only encounter encouraging laughter. He'd miss the solemn talks about spiritual things and absurd discussions of which movie stars were obsession-worthy. Surely he would miss...well, me.
"No," he said. "I'll just find someone else."
"I only have a year with you" -- (with my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck) -- he said in an end-of-the-year talk, when he'd hurt me (again) by saying I hadn't told him the teacher's party was the coming Tuesday (I had, twice). He'd used the opening (the wound) to get at other things. (I may be a bit of a Jew.)
He lectured on what I refused to see. I was capable of understanding reality, of opening my mind, he said, but wouldn't. (I began to talk like a Jew.) It frustrated him.
I could feel, but didn't know, what he was talking about. He came over and held me when I cried, but my tears stopped instantly, awkwardly, at his touch.
He knew he was hurting me. He did it deliberately -- the way a surgeon does. (I think I may well be a Jew.)
"You're a nurse," he said at mid-year, explaining why I couldn't get at the real problem with my student. (Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.)
He cut things out of people; I bound them up again. We worked at odds with each other. We'd undo each other. We couldn't work together.
"I'm a surgeon," he said. (Marble-heavy, a bag full of God)
He worked on me all year.
I loved him for it.
"He's psycho," my friends said.
("I know," I said.)
"It's like if I said 'my wife says bad things about me, and is always negative, and steal stuff from the store -- but I really respect her for it'," my youth leader said.
("I see what you mean," I said.)
"I don't understand why you care so much," my pastor said.
("That's why I'm here," I said. "Neither do I.")
*****
"Every woman adores a Fascist," Sylvia says.
Huh, I think, mulling it over a bit.
Maybe she's right.
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