Dan: "We've been over this, Phyllis. I don't want to go through a whole song and dance with you."
Phyllis: "Wait, I've been missing out on songs and dances?!"
Phyllis: "Wait, I've been missing out on songs and dances?!"
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Insects.
You know that thing people always say about how many spiders we eat in our sleep every year? I'm okay with that.
I know that insects are going to be crawling on me while I'm asleep, walking around and exploring. That's fine with me. I figure it's inevitable so I might as well welcome it, and them, to my bed. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do, guys!
The one thing that I ask is that everyone be cool, and don't do anything gross. Don't bite me excessively or lay eggs on me or anything. Let's all just do our best to maintain a comfortable relationship.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Mika.
Mika liked to sit on Grandpa's lap when he was visiting. I think it was his ability to hold perfectly still that appealed to her. She would try to sit on other people's laps as well, but those people would either be too fidgety for her to ever get settled, or (and this was worse for everyone involved) they would hold still long enough for Mika to get comfortable, and then they would move, causing her to start awake suddenly in a fit of growling and biting. She would heave herself up, grumbling, and go look for a vacant pillow or Grandpa.
Unfortunately, Grandpa was never around at bedtime. Mika liked to sleep with me and Pat, on one of our beds, probably because we three all smelled about the same. But she would beat us to bed, and had a keen sense of positioning on the mattress. Whichever brother was lucky enough to have been chosen as Mika's sleeping companion for the night would arrive at his bedside to find her sound asleep in the direct center of his blanket. This made it impossible to pull back the covers without rousing her and creating an ugly situation.
We eventually got wise enough to never make our beds, so that Mika couldn't pin our covers down (yes, Mom, that is why we didn't make our beds). But her instinctive drive to sleep right in the middle of the bed remained unaffected by our clever planning. So then it was simply a matter of easing ourselves into bed around Mika without disturbing her. There were two basic methods for completing this delicate operation. One was to pick a side of the dog, and then resign yourself to an uncomfortable night of trying to sleep on half of a twin mattress.
The other method, for the bolder young man, was to carefully slide yourself down with one leg on either side of the dog, straddling her, until you were settled. It should be obvious why this maneuver required a bold operator, but I will expound for the sake of thoroughness. To be far enough under the covers to lay down on the bed, you had to slide down until Mika's slumbering form was nestled right against your crotch. This meant that your movements had to be delicate to the point of steely-eyed precision. If you could move nimbly enough, you could set yourself up for a night of relative comfort, since you could at least occupy the full width of your mattress. You could not, however, move at all without disturbing Mika. If you attempted the approach too quickly or haphazardly, you sealed your fate. Mika would spring up maliciously, legs flailing, and claw and bite confusedly in the dark under the blanket, until one of the bed's two occupants was ejected onto the floor. Then whoever had been thrown from the bed faced the choice of either trying to climb back in next to someone with whom there were now a lot of angry feelings, or slinking off into the dark house to sleep somewhere else.
Moving her while she was sleeping was one of a few things for which Mika had little tolerance. Another of those things was toddlers. She had a child alarm zone that extended in a five-foot radius from her, and when it was breached, she would start to whine. Not the high, pitiful whine that you hear from most dogs - this was lower-pitched, a moaning, groaning, very nervous sound deep in her throat. It gave the impression that she knew she would be forced to bite if the child got too close to her, and that she had no control over the reaction. And she was apparently very worried about the inevitability of all of this. Smart kids would therefore take the strange, ominous noise eminating from the tiny dog as a portent of attack, and rightly back away. But most kids got their fingers nipped.
Unfortunately, Grandpa was never around at bedtime. Mika liked to sleep with me and Pat, on one of our beds, probably because we three all smelled about the same. But she would beat us to bed, and had a keen sense of positioning on the mattress. Whichever brother was lucky enough to have been chosen as Mika's sleeping companion for the night would arrive at his bedside to find her sound asleep in the direct center of his blanket. This made it impossible to pull back the covers without rousing her and creating an ugly situation.
We eventually got wise enough to never make our beds, so that Mika couldn't pin our covers down (yes, Mom, that is why we didn't make our beds). But her instinctive drive to sleep right in the middle of the bed remained unaffected by our clever planning. So then it was simply a matter of easing ourselves into bed around Mika without disturbing her. There were two basic methods for completing this delicate operation. One was to pick a side of the dog, and then resign yourself to an uncomfortable night of trying to sleep on half of a twin mattress.
The other method, for the bolder young man, was to carefully slide yourself down with one leg on either side of the dog, straddling her, until you were settled. It should be obvious why this maneuver required a bold operator, but I will expound for the sake of thoroughness. To be far enough under the covers to lay down on the bed, you had to slide down until Mika's slumbering form was nestled right against your crotch. This meant that your movements had to be delicate to the point of steely-eyed precision. If you could move nimbly enough, you could set yourself up for a night of relative comfort, since you could at least occupy the full width of your mattress. You could not, however, move at all without disturbing Mika. If you attempted the approach too quickly or haphazardly, you sealed your fate. Mika would spring up maliciously, legs flailing, and claw and bite confusedly in the dark under the blanket, until one of the bed's two occupants was ejected onto the floor. Then whoever had been thrown from the bed faced the choice of either trying to climb back in next to someone with whom there were now a lot of angry feelings, or slinking off into the dark house to sleep somewhere else.
Moving her while she was sleeping was one of a few things for which Mika had little tolerance. Another of those things was toddlers. She had a child alarm zone that extended in a five-foot radius from her, and when it was breached, she would start to whine. Not the high, pitiful whine that you hear from most dogs - this was lower-pitched, a moaning, groaning, very nervous sound deep in her throat. It gave the impression that she knew she would be forced to bite if the child got too close to her, and that she had no control over the reaction. And she was apparently very worried about the inevitability of all of this. Smart kids would therefore take the strange, ominous noise eminating from the tiny dog as a portent of attack, and rightly back away. But most kids got their fingers nipped.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
A tough customer.
You know how a person can be labeled as "a tough customer"? I think I figured out where that comes from, just now. Here's part of the transcript from my online chat with a Comcast customer service representative today. No names have been changed, because no one was innocent:
There should be a saying where you call a really patient person "a good customer service rep". That doesn't quite roll off the tongue like "a tough customer" does, but it's at least something to give recognition to a valuable trait.
I'm going to call Comcast now. But I think I should prepare myself for the inevitability of paying them those $50. That's okay. What else is Christmas about, if not paying Comcast an extra $50?
UPDATE:
I got $25 out of them. Turns out it is an "applicable fee" (I liked that wording), but I was supposed to have been advised about it before it was charged, and I wasn't. So chalk one up for the little guy.
Guest: Very good. My final question is about a charge on my bill. $50 for "Failed CHSI Sik". What is that?
Emmanuel: I see, that means that it was supposed to be self installation (where you plug your equipment yourself) and what happens is that that didn't work out, and the tech would need to go to your house to install it instead, is it clear?
Guest: But I did exactly what Comcast told me to do over the phone, and it didn't work. It ended up being an equipment problem. Why should I pay for a problem with Comcast's equipment?
Emmanuel: I definitely understand, Dan. I apologize for any inconvenience, however, for that, you can call our hotline at 1-800-934-6489, to inquire about that, would that be fine?
Guest: What will they tell me?
Emmanuel: The reason why we have to send a technician, and what we can do about it, Dan.
Guest: I know why a technician was sent. My concern is that Comcast thinks I should have to pay for it. I pay a monthly bill, which secures my access to internet. The technician was sent to fix a problem with Comcast's equipment that was inhibiting my ability to access the internet. The technician fixed a problem that was caused by Comcast's equipment, not by me. If I had caused the problem, I'd be happy to pay for it.
Emmanuel: I definitely understand, Dan. I apologize, but that would be the policy for our failed installation and the previous rep should have told you that. I deeply apologize for that.
Guest: So the policy for YOUR failed installation is to have ME pay for it?
Emmanuel: For that concern, may I please refer you to our Hotline at 1-800-934-6489.
Guest: So if I crash my car, can I send the bill to Comcast?
Emmanuel: No, that would be inappropriate.
Guest: Yes, you are right. But how is that any more inappropriate than me paying for Comcast's failed installation of equipment?
Emmanuel: I understand, I highly suggest that you call us so that we can handle your concern, as I specialize in Transfer of service and Upgrades only, Dan.
Guest: Okay. Thanks for your help. Happy holidays!
Emmanuel: You too! I definitely understand you point there, Dan. As much as I want to waive that fee, I am limited to my restrictions.
Emmanuel: Thank you so much for your time.
Emmanuel: May I know if there is anything else that I can assist you with?
Guest: I understand. No, I think I'm good for now. Take care.
There should be a saying where you call a really patient person "a good customer service rep". That doesn't quite roll off the tongue like "a tough customer" does, but it's at least something to give recognition to a valuable trait.
I'm going to call Comcast now. But I think I should prepare myself for the inevitability of paying them those $50. That's okay. What else is Christmas about, if not paying Comcast an extra $50?
UPDATE:
I got $25 out of them. Turns out it is an "applicable fee" (I liked that wording), but I was supposed to have been advised about it before it was charged, and I wasn't. So chalk one up for the little guy.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Art begets art.
There is a very (insert adjective) painting hanging in a hallway of the building I work in. Sometimes, on my way to the bathroom, I'll stop and stare at it for as long as five, six seconds. It so moves me that today I actually wrote a poem about it. Please keep an open mind.
Radio Shack, or The Spiritless Soul Is Only Tethered By The Dearest Secret Hopes One Clings To While Pining For The Fleeting Days Of Youth
Hi.
You’re home, finally. Did you
See my
text asking if you could
Grab some
triple-A batteries at
Radio
Shack on your way home?
Apparently
not.
I’m fine,
I’m just tired. Yes, they
Gave me
trouble! You say selling
Insurance
is frustrating, try keeping
Two eggs
warm while the people
Inside of
them won’t hold still for
More than
fifteen seconds at a time.
Metaphor.
Really,
I’m fine. I just need to eat.
I haven’t
had anything but nectar
All day.
You know,
we’re never going to
Lose
weight if we keep building
Our nests
so close to huge flowers.
Also, I could do without our big,
Gawky neighbor sitting there
Staring at me all day.
Imagery.
I'm sorry it's not a great picture. I asked the curator of the office park
if I could take it down to photograph it without the glare, and he said,
"No, it has to stay behind the glass, so it doesn't get stolen."
And the manager, too.
Tonight is our agency holiday party. That means I'll be spending three hours this evening trying to convince a constant stream of adults with excited children to stand in an astoundingly long registration line instead of just bolting for the arcade and the roller rink, which will be their natural instinct. My fellow employees and I were instructed to either eat dinner before the event, or we could buy food (yes, they're going to let us buy food!) at the event venue. Being familiar with both the prices and quality of this venue's food, I immediately began planning to find food somewhere off-site.
I Googled McDonald's restaurants near the venue (does that tell you how bad the venue's food is? Because it should), and found one just about a mile down the street. So I think that's my place. However, I did the responsible thing and read the Google user reviews for that particular restaurant, and was very troubled to read:
"All the employees n, manager 2 never smile bored people ...I never back"
If I am understanding this comment correctly, this McDonald's is not a fun place to work. Not only that, but the employees' stupor somehow is passed to the customers, making the entire experience so awful that they are vowing never to return. At least, I think that's what this guy is saying. I won't get a chance to ask him tonight, though, because he never back. I noticed that he did rate the establishment's decor as "very good", though.
To prove I did my due diligence, I will quickly dissect the other two Google user reviews for this McDonald's:
1. User Luis Montanez rated the food, decor and service as "poor to fair", adding "Service sucks." He did, however, note that he liked "Karina young gal." So that's weird. Here is a picture of Luis.
"Food hmmm good" wrote Luis, in a Google
user review for a different McDonald's.
According to his Google user profile, he is a frequent patron of a variety of restaurants, and as of last month was "Going to register for school" at The Barber School in Midvale, Utah. The internet is a ridiculous place.
2. User "A Google user" gave the restaurant a "good" overall rating, and liked "Food, I told them to make that s*** right or my husband who is in the air force would beat the s*** out of him." I hope I run into this lady tonight, because she sounds lovely. As does her husband.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Suburban bear trap.
A suburban bear trap is when you leave a soiled diaper open and face up on the floor, where someone walking by can step on it.
The great dessert.
The following is an excerpt from a post on an online discussion board for an environmental policy class I'm taking. The discussion was centered around Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire - specifically, what aspects of the novel affected the way class members view the environment:
"Abbey seriously opened my eyes to the value of the great dessert we live in."
If I could choose to live in any dessert, I think I might go with apple pie. I like the variety of climate it offers. In the winter, I could burrow down into the pie filling and hibernate, kept warm and fully sustained by the apples and sugary goop. Then in the summer, to escape the heat, I could climb up to the outer edge of the crust, and enjoy the breeze coming through the window whose windowsill my pie was perched upon to cool. And since we're talking about value, I could slice my pie up, and rent out the slices I wasn't living in to help cover my mortgage. I've got this.
"Abbey seriously opened my eyes to the value of the great dessert we live in."
If I could choose to live in any dessert, I think I might go with apple pie. I like the variety of climate it offers. In the winter, I could burrow down into the pie filling and hibernate, kept warm and fully sustained by the apples and sugary goop. Then in the summer, to escape the heat, I could climb up to the outer edge of the crust, and enjoy the breeze coming through the window whose windowsill my pie was perched upon to cool. And since we're talking about value, I could slice my pie up, and rent out the slices I wasn't living in to help cover my mortgage. I've got this.
Friday, November 30, 2012
That guy.
You know how some people are relentlessly fastidious about spelling, grammar and punctuation, even on homemade "lost cat" signs and fourth graders' homework assignments? That's me. I'm that guy. Don't believe me? Ask my wife. She will probably react to your query the same way she reacts when we walk past a notice that says "please enter through side door's" and I freak out.
It is a gift, and a curse. The gift part is the sense of intellectual superiority that I carry around with me, everywhere I go. The curse part is the potential that sense of intellectual superiority has to damage my relationships. But I did not choose this burden. You think I want to cringe when I read a text message that says "we r still @ home. well drive there 2gther"? (Yes, I do want to cringe when I read that, actually.) But someone has to be the guy whose friends slowly lose the desire to correspond with him. And I have shouldered that load, and shall continue to do so. So you're welcome.
It is a gift, and a curse. The gift part is the sense of intellectual superiority that I carry around with me, everywhere I go. The curse part is the potential that sense of intellectual superiority has to damage my relationships. But I did not choose this burden. You think I want to cringe when I read a text message that says "we r still @ home. well drive there 2gther"? (Yes, I do want to cringe when I read that, actually.) But someone has to be the guy whose friends slowly lose the desire to correspond with him. And I have shouldered that load, and shall continue to do so. So you're welcome.
Leviticus 12:3
If you're attending a bris, it's probably a bad idea to shout out, at the last possible moment, "Cut him!" I don't know very much about that culture, but I imagine that sort of thing would be considered rude, or at least distracting.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
The rule.
Growing up, my family had one big, unspoken rule that we were all expected to abide by. It was that none of us would ever stab anyone else with a fork at the dinner table. And the unspoken consequence for breaking this rule was that Mom and Dad would take your bed outside and light it on fire. "Hope you like sleeping in a big pile of ashes, outside with the raccoons," Mom would say as your bed burned down.
But, luckily, no one ever broke the unspoken rule. We had our fair share of dinnertime incidents, like shouting perched atop a chair, or biting off part of a drinking glass, and once my brother stuffed a piece of Kix cereal up his nose and had to go to the hospital (I guess that was at breakfast - never mind). But the fear of our beds getting torched helped us keep our forks to ourselves.
In retrospect, it might have been nice to have had that rule clarified during a family meeting, so that we kids knew exactly what the definition of "stab" was. Because think about how many friendly dinnertime fork fights we missed out on.
But, luckily, no one ever broke the unspoken rule. We had our fair share of dinnertime incidents, like shouting perched atop a chair, or biting off part of a drinking glass, and once my brother stuffed a piece of Kix cereal up his nose and had to go to the hospital (I guess that was at breakfast - never mind). But the fear of our beds getting torched helped us keep our forks to ourselves.
In retrospect, it might have been nice to have had that rule clarified during a family meeting, so that we kids knew exactly what the definition of "stab" was. Because think about how many friendly dinnertime fork fights we missed out on.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Chin up, buddy!
Hey pal, what's wrong? You haven't seemed yourself since I saw you this morning, right after you thoughtfully packed me that bag lunch and accidentally put it in your own backpack. Don't worry, I got it - and the surprise twenty dollar bill was such a sweet touch! And last week I heard you complaining to your mom on the phone about the ineptitude and inflexibility of the student housing office, when it was they who randomly paired us as roommates three semesters ago. (Has it really been so long? It seems it was just yesterday that I snuck my dirty gym clothes into your clean laundry as a best friends prank for the first time!)
I know the last month has been stressful for both of us. We both worked so hard to land that internship; be glad I got it instead of you, because it is seriously boring there. And it only pays nine dollars an hour. When I asked for a raise they tried to sell me some load about "getting college credit and work experience", as if those things could somehow be magically converted into my share of the rent (which I will get to you soon, but only if all of my eBay bids fall through).
Saturday night you acted like you didn't want to talk when I got home from going out with that girl - you know, the girl from your biology class who you've been working up the courage to ask out? Lana, or whatever? Well, it's lucky you finally invited her over for a study session, and that she immediately agreed to go grab dinner with me instead, because I was able to really talk you up while we were eating. I told her about your computer screensaver with all the different sea shells on it, and about how you make that awesome fake gagging noise when you brush your teeth. You know what? It was like that Keanu Reeves movie, "Much Ado About Nothing", the one where Denzel Washington talks to Kate Beckinsale about how great the guy from "Dead Poets Society" is, so that she'll want to marry him. At least I think that's what's going on, they wrote that movie in like old English or something.
Anyway, I told her your deal. And she's way cool - you have chosen well. She even has our same sense of humor! For example, when I was telling her about you, she kept asking if you were gay! Hilarious! I gave her your number and told her to call you, but she said she'd rather just call me, which I totally get because I'm kind of like the matchmaker for you two. So listen for my phone! I just changed my ringtone to that clip I recorded of you singing that song from "Carousel" in the shower. That was so funny when you did that.
I'm really worried about you. Last night when I came into your room around 3:00 and played that rap I recorded for you on my computer, as a best friends surprise, you pretended to be asleep, but I thought I could hear you crying. I hope you know that you are the stone-cold puppy-loving death angel I was rapping about in all twelve verses of that song. It's all about you!
Tomorrow morning, let's go for a run, and you'll feel better once you get your heart rate up (can I borrow your running shoes? Or, you know what, I wore them all last week, so you can wear them. Never mind.) I'll even go slow for you, because I know you hurt your ankle when we did that awesome best friends trick the other day, the one where I tripped you in front of the women's volleyball team and you acted like you had no idea it was happening. Great job, by the way, they totally bought it!
I want you to know that I talked to the student housing office, and (drumroll!) they've approved our housing arrangements for next semester! My cousin will be moving in with us, which means you and I get to share the room with the bunk beds in it (my cousin is really bipolar, so he needs his own room)! Summer won't be able to pass quickly enough!
Well, I'm going to meet Lana for lunch. How much you want to bet she has a million questions about you to ask me? Sorry this voice mail is kind of short - I'll just turn on this new rap I've been working on and leave my phone in front of the speaker. This one's for you, roomie!
I know the last month has been stressful for both of us. We both worked so hard to land that internship; be glad I got it instead of you, because it is seriously boring there. And it only pays nine dollars an hour. When I asked for a raise they tried to sell me some load about "getting college credit and work experience", as if those things could somehow be magically converted into my share of the rent (which I will get to you soon, but only if all of my eBay bids fall through).
Saturday night you acted like you didn't want to talk when I got home from going out with that girl - you know, the girl from your biology class who you've been working up the courage to ask out? Lana, or whatever? Well, it's lucky you finally invited her over for a study session, and that she immediately agreed to go grab dinner with me instead, because I was able to really talk you up while we were eating. I told her about your computer screensaver with all the different sea shells on it, and about how you make that awesome fake gagging noise when you brush your teeth. You know what? It was like that Keanu Reeves movie, "Much Ado About Nothing", the one where Denzel Washington talks to Kate Beckinsale about how great the guy from "Dead Poets Society" is, so that she'll want to marry him. At least I think that's what's going on, they wrote that movie in like old English or something.
Anyway, I told her your deal. And she's way cool - you have chosen well. She even has our same sense of humor! For example, when I was telling her about you, she kept asking if you were gay! Hilarious! I gave her your number and told her to call you, but she said she'd rather just call me, which I totally get because I'm kind of like the matchmaker for you two. So listen for my phone! I just changed my ringtone to that clip I recorded of you singing that song from "Carousel" in the shower. That was so funny when you did that.
I'm really worried about you. Last night when I came into your room around 3:00 and played that rap I recorded for you on my computer, as a best friends surprise, you pretended to be asleep, but I thought I could hear you crying. I hope you know that you are the stone-cold puppy-loving death angel I was rapping about in all twelve verses of that song. It's all about you!
Tomorrow morning, let's go for a run, and you'll feel better once you get your heart rate up (can I borrow your running shoes? Or, you know what, I wore them all last week, so you can wear them. Never mind.) I'll even go slow for you, because I know you hurt your ankle when we did that awesome best friends trick the other day, the one where I tripped you in front of the women's volleyball team and you acted like you had no idea it was happening. Great job, by the way, they totally bought it!
I want you to know that I talked to the student housing office, and (drumroll!) they've approved our housing arrangements for next semester! My cousin will be moving in with us, which means you and I get to share the room with the bunk beds in it (my cousin is really bipolar, so he needs his own room)! Summer won't be able to pass quickly enough!
Well, I'm going to meet Lana for lunch. How much you want to bet she has a million questions about you to ask me? Sorry this voice mail is kind of short - I'll just turn on this new rap I've been working on and leave my phone in front of the speaker. This one's for you, roomie!
Sunday, October 28, 2012
This is a long shot.
A recent posting on my local classified ads website:
I know this is a long shot, but I'm willing to give this a try. Last year my ex made me get rid of my beautiful dachshund. I look on ksl just to see if maybe she got reposted or something. So now Im trying to see if I can find her. Her name is Lilly, she was 2 when I gave her away but since then she has had a birthday so she now would be 3. She wasnt fixed when I gave her away but that could have changed. She was a short hair, she was around 10-12 lbs. Kinda on the chunky side of things. She is black and tan, she has a white strip on her belly that almost looks like a tie. Like I said I know this a long shot that anyone knows, or has this puppy. I would be willing to pay to get her back. I would just like to have the puppy back that I really never wanted to give away in the first place. So if you have her, or anything like that shoot me a text. I will not be answering phone calls or emails! Thanks for looking!!
I know this is a long shot, but I'm willing to give this a try. Last year my ex made me get rid of my beautiful dachshund. I look on ksl just to see if maybe she got reposted or something. So now Im trying to see if I can find her. Her name is Lilly, she was 2 when I gave her away but since then she has had a birthday so she now would be 3. She wasnt fixed when I gave her away but that could have changed. She was a short hair, she was around 10-12 lbs. Kinda on the chunky side of things. She is black and tan, she has a white strip on her belly that almost looks like a tie. Like I said I know this a long shot that anyone knows, or has this puppy. I would be willing to pay to get her back. I would just like to have the puppy back that I really never wanted to give away in the first place. So if you have her, or anything like that shoot me a text. I will not be answering phone calls or emails! Thanks for looking!!
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Experts.
By now, anyone who reads this weblog (anyone? Hello?) will recognize the format of a news story link that appears at the top of my email inbox. If you can't picture it, it looks exactly like this:
CNN.com Recently Published/Updated - Experts: Alcohol enemas 'extremely dangerous' - 49 minutes ago
So for those of you whose pros and cons list of getting an alcohol enema was still skewed in favor of going through with the procedure, there's the experts' opinion: it's a bad idea. But was that really a tough decision before CNN published the story? I mean, it's an enema of alcohol. An enema. Of alcohol.
CNN.com Recently Published/Updated - Experts: Alcohol enemas 'extremely dangerous' - 49 minutes ago
So for those of you whose pros and cons list of getting an alcohol enema was still skewed in favor of going through with the procedure, there's the experts' opinion: it's a bad idea. But was that really a tough decision before CNN published the story? I mean, it's an enema of alcohol. An enema. Of alcohol.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Ramen noodles.
It is probably not a great idea to eat a bunch of ramen noodles late at night, right before you go to bed. But sometimes it just happens, you know? Sometimes it just happens.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Free lunch.
Dan: "You know what I realized today?"
Phyllis: "What?"
Dan: "If you went to the Costco food court around one o'clock on a weekday, you could eat lunch for free!"
Phyllis: "How?"
Dan: "Today, when I was standing in line, I watched like three people throw away half-eaten slices of pizza -"
Phyllis: "That's gross."
Dan: "No, I mean you could just stop them before they threw it away, and ask if you could have it. And they'd be like, 'Sure,' and then there's your free lunch!"
Phyllis: "Do that when you're by yourself."
Dan: "I'm always by myself at lunchtime..."
Phyllis: "I mean don't do that when you're with me."
Dan: "Because of embarrassed?"
Phyllis: "Yep."
Dan: "Okay."
Phyllis: "What?"
Dan: "If you went to the Costco food court around one o'clock on a weekday, you could eat lunch for free!"
Phyllis: "How?"
Dan: "Today, when I was standing in line, I watched like three people throw away half-eaten slices of pizza -"
Phyllis: "That's gross."
Dan: "No, I mean you could just stop them before they threw it away, and ask if you could have it. And they'd be like, 'Sure,' and then there's your free lunch!"
Phyllis: "Do that when you're by yourself."
Dan: "I'm always by myself at lunchtime..."
Phyllis: "I mean don't do that when you're with me."
Dan: "Because of embarrassed?"
Phyllis: "Yep."
Dan: "Okay."
Friday, September 7, 2012
Fun.
Here's another cracking ad that Google decided to plaster at the top of my email inbox:
Write in Paris - www.ParisCafeWriting.com - 1-week, small seminar. In English. Write, eat, jazz. Fun. Beginners OK
Hey, that's just terrible. What did they do, collaborate on the ad over telegram? "In English - stop - write comma eat comma jazz - stop - seriously, we have to pay for the commas?" Congratulations on your awful ad. "Beginners OK" probably because they assign all the beginners who show up the task of writing their next ad. "Hey guys, let's focus. I really want to nail this... oh, what the heck. We're in Paris!!"
Write in Paris - www.ParisCafeWriting.com - 1-week, small seminar. In English. Write, eat, jazz. Fun. Beginners OK
Hey, that's just terrible. What did they do, collaborate on the ad over telegram? "In English - stop - write comma eat comma jazz - stop - seriously, we have to pay for the commas?" Congratulations on your awful ad. "Beginners OK" probably because they assign all the beginners who show up the task of writing their next ad. "Hey guys, let's focus. I really want to nail this... oh, what the heck. We're in Paris!!"
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Dominate.
There is a headline in the Salt Lake Tribune's sports section today over a story about last night's Real Salt Lake game that reads "Real Salt Lake upbeat after CONCACAF Champions League win". That's a fine headline. But then there's the subheading (presented here in its original font, size and glory):
MLS » Can dominate play Tuesday continue into MLS schedule?
Well, can it?
MLS » Can dominate play Tuesday continue into MLS schedule?
Well, can it?
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
One weird trick.
Here's another great banner (or sidebar? I don't know) ad that the internet chose for me when I was reading an article on Discovery.com. I don't know what information the internet has on me, but it seems to think that I am not very good with the ladies, left to my own devices. Or it just thinks that I am getting old.
Embroidered yoga pants. Paul Shaffer sunglasses.
Tiny backpack. Possibly lives outside in a forest.
Holy crap, this is my dream girl.
Holy crap, this is my dream girl.
In trying to draw some correlation between the prospect of discovering one weird trick to boost testosterone and the photo of the lady that may have been taken in Romania in 2001, I came up with two distinct possibilities for what the ad creators were trying to say. They were either:
a) implying that by boosting your testosterone with their one weird trick (what is it, eating dirt? It's probably eating dirt) you could make yourself irresistible to women like the one in the picture. And how could they possibly miss with a picture of one of their cousin's Facebook friends? She doesn't look like she'd be weird to spend a lot of time with at all;
or, b) implying that by using their client's (or their own - let's be honest, the testosterone-boosting company probably threw this ad together themselves) weird trick, you could make yourself appear as tough and manly as the guy in the picture. And then they accidentally put the wrong picture in the ad.
A Google images search of the phrase "how to boost your testosterone" returns a number of pictures of rippling male bodies, any of which may have been the one the ad creators meant to attach to this ad. This one, for example, would have made much more sense paired with the suggestion that employment of the weird trick could get you similar results:
There's my dream body. Complete with deltoids
that look like walnuts.
Of course, that same Google search returned this picture as well:
No joke.
So now I don't know what to think. Not that I knew what to think before all of this. It's a familiar feeling for me.
Friday, August 10, 2012
The fineste streete in our towne.
There is a street in Lehi, Utah named "North Pointe Meadow Loop". My, but they are proud of that street. It seems to be common practice, this addition of an "e" at the end of a word to make it seem more prestigious. And I totally get it. Every time I go to a job interview, I bring along a resume that has my full name printed at the top: Daniele Alexandre Mathesonne. And that alone usually tells them everything they need to know.
And I also give them this head shot.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
You want to get ice cream?
On my bike ride today, I was accosted by a series of Utes. Sorry - youths. It was a series of youths that accosted me. And on a scale of one to ten measuring my mature, controlled reaction to these interactions, I would give myself a 6.333. My reactions got more childish with each event, which I guess is logical, assuming it's expected that I would slowly get worn down. And when you factor in my progressing physical fatigue, I think that's a safe assumption. I should have scored a perfect ten, and I'm not trying to excuse the fact that I didn't. But if I had scored a perfect ten, and just let everything slide cheerfully, this story wouldn't be interesting enough to tell in a weblog post. It still might not be interesting enough, but I already wrote a whole paragraph, so I figure I'm on the downhill (it actually ends up being a very long story).
Event number one: getting mocked, and liking it
I was about three miles from home, riding up a hill, and three fourteen year-old-ish boys approached me, walking down the hill on the same side of the road. They were talking and laughing with each other, which I thought was nice. I actually even thought, "It's cool that they're enjoying each other's company, instead of yelling at the huffing, puffing old guy in bright blue spandex shorts sweating like a pig on his bike." I don't know why I just assumed that they would yell at me, but I remember shouting stupid things at old guys on bikes from Dan Carter's Nissan Pathfinder when I was in high school, so I guess I have a sense of universal justice that makes me expect that I'll get my comeuppance at any moment. In that context, today proved my apprehension to be well-placed.
I passed these kids without a word between us. The one closest to me as I passed looked at me, and I gave him the little smile and nod that I think makes me look like Harrison Ford being friendly. It does actually make me look just like that. I continued up the hill, already starting to forget my worry that anything negative would transpire between us. I got about fifteen feet past the trio, and one of them sneered loudly after me, "Nice job in the Olympics!" Now that didn't sweat me too much, because I spend lots of time while I'm showering secretly imagining myself to be an underdog Olympic champion cyclist. They would make a movie about me. It would be called Walter Mitty Goes to London. Starring a young Harrison Ford who would give a small smile and nod to every other cyclist in the race as he zoomed around them on his way to the finish line and glory.
So with all that safely tucked away in my brain's dream box, his remark was more amusing to me than anything. Aiding my amused reaction was the fact that these three looked like closeted Justin Bieber fans, and the thought of them secretly loving Bieber so much but being too scared to come out compelled me to simply give them a thumbs-up as I moved up the hill. So that was my ten out of ten reaction.
Event number two: the telltale signs of alcoholism
About seven miles later, after having just climbed a gnarly hill, I was feeling pretty good. I was in a groove, and as I just mentioned, I had steadily handled what is, for me, a big hill. As I made a right turn at a light, a cherry red Jeep Grand Cherokee full of bros passed me, and one of them shouted, "Yuhkhmawts!" I think that's what he said. I'm sure that's not what he was trying to say but, as we know, the most important part of one person saying something to another person is what is actually delivered to the listener's ears. And my ears signed for a delivery of "yuhkhmawts". It really startled me. I like riding my bike because it's smooth and repetitive enough for me to be able to get lost in what I'm doing, but not so repetitive that it ever gets boring.
So when this guy shouted at me, it jolted me, and I got that unpleasant hot feeling in my body that comes when your brain goes through a flash of fight-or-flight that the rest of your body doesn't follow through on. Phyllis describes it as "her body trying to kill itself". So I was left somewhat irked, because nobody likes the way that feels.
I noticed that the Jeep had turned off onto a kind of frontage road lined on the far side with houses, meaning that it was now approaching me about fifty feet to my right. My mild anger at having been told "yuhkhmawts" took a physical form of stoic coldness expressed via the face. In other words, I stared the bros down, looking like Harrison Ford playing Jack Ryan. I did look just like that. This drawn-out look gave me a good chance to assess the peanut gallery. The men in the car looked to be in their mid-twenties, and were all sporting tank-tops and arm tattoos. Tank-tops so everyone can see their tattoos. They all turned away and snickered when they saw me staring at them, which I immediately translated as a win for me. Yep, I'm awesome.
After I got over this unearned sense of victory, I started to feel badly about a couple of things. First of all, I wished I had just let it go, and kept my eyes on the road. Secondly, I painted myself a quick picture of what those guys' lives might be like, based only on what I had gathered from our brief interaction. I saw a lot of beer, and maybe some disappointed mothers. Either that or alcoholic mothers whose disease they had passed on to their sons. Mothers with arm tattoos, and many tank-tops in which to show them off. Either way, it was grim, by my standards. Then I thought, "I can't just make up a pitiable story about these dudes and thereby place myself above them. They seemed happy in the car, they probably enjoy their lives. They might even be sharp, productive, upright citizens. Who am I to assume they are alcoholics?" Then I remembered that of all the clever, cutting interjections they could have spewed at me as they passed by, they chose to say, "Yuhkhmawts!" They probably are alcoholics.
Event number three: physical violence, or you can only ask so much of a man
Eighteen miles into my ride, I had begun to encounter heavier traffic and a lot of road construction, which had probably raised my stress levels. Not as much as a monkey's stress levels are raised when he gets taken to a zoo in America where a surgeon straps him down to an operating table to perform a double bypass on him (I heard a story about that on the radio - apparently that sort of thing really stresses monkeys out), but I'm sure I was a little more stressed than I had been at the advent of my previous two encounters with our nation's bright, up-and-coming generation. Unfortunately, this extra stress made me much more prone to the previously described sensation of my body trying to kill itself.
So it was, then, that a car full of high school-aged boys and girls pounced on my vulnerability as they cruised past me on a busy, four-lane road. I'd been going straight for a while, and was in another groove, and then one of these kids screamed something like "hhauk!" as they sped towards the intersection. This one startled me as well. And then the perfect storm just came together.
The light they were approaching turned red about two hundred feet ahead of me. They were stopped in two lanes of heavy traffic, at a light at which I was planning to make a left turn. Their position in the far right lane, surrounded by cars, meant that they couldn't possibly follow me after I turned without having to go way up the road to the next right turn and then backtrack. I know this is probably boring to read; I'm including it because it's the psychopathic train of thought my mind pursued as I grouchily pedaled toward the long line of stopped cars they were stuck in. But my main focus was on the ideal that people shouldn't scream at other people for no reason. We just shouldn't do it. Of course, we also shouldn't retaliate when someone does something as harmless and trivial as scream at us. We should just let it go.
But as I huffed and puffed closer to their car, I was only thinking about how we shouldn't scream at each other. "What happens to those girls in the car if I don't teach the boys a lesson?" I thought. "They probably get it in their minds that dipwads who scream at strangers for fun are the right kind of guys to date and marry. And then their lives are ruined forever." More assumptions. More making an ass out of u and me. So I checked over my left shoulder for approaching traffic. There was none, which meant phase one of my plan was a go. I navigated between the two lines of stationary cars, and reached down to pull out my water bottle.
As I passed my most recent harassers, I had a split-second to hear the song they were blasting through their car's stereo: Mo' Money Mo' Problems. Notorious B.I.G. and Sean "Puffy Diddy Daddy" Combs. Classic. They were just at the part where the girl sings the chorus - something about money and problems, I believe - when I rolled up and let them have it. I got a good, long squirt of water right into the back and front windows of the driver's side. Then I just rode off. Like Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones at the end of Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. Because he has to go save Marcus Brody from getting lost in a side canyon in Turkey. Also classic.
I was there and gone so quickly that I didn't catch their reactions. I didn't even have time to see how well my squirt of water was aimed. But I'm pretty sure I got at least two of the car's occupants directly. As soon as I did it, my brain (again with the brain, what is this guy's deal?) tried to justify my actions. No, it wasn't justifying, it was putting a shell around my guilt and burying it. I proceeded to the front of the left turn lane trying to ignore the nagging sense of having acted far beneath myself. Also, there was this heavy feeling that the now very slightly wet young people would throw a pair of scissors or a roll of dimes at me as they passed.
I knew they'd do something. They were the kind of people who scream at you for just riding a bike; of course they'd have something to say about being sprayed with warm water from a sports bottle I found on the road (no joke, but don't worry, I washed it very very well). My only consolation in that moment was that it was highly unlikely that they would be able to get across a jam-packed lane of traffic to straight up run me over. It was more likely, I surmised, that they would find me three blocks down the road and run me over there.
Realistically, and in retrospect, I realize that they weren't going to try to hurt me. That would be an uncharacteristic move for a group of loud, mouthy teenagers. Being in a group of peers will push that kind of kid to transform from a sullen, reclusive hormone factory into a bold, socially edgy hormone factory. But even then, they're almost always all talk. Waiting to turn left at that light, though, I convinced myself they might shoot me. But they didn't. What they did was designate one of their company to shout something at me. The first thing I'd been able to understand since The Bieber Gang took their best shot about an hour earlier (credit to those fine young men for enunciating).
I will not write what this kid yelled. I won't even do the thing with the first letter of the word followed by a series of asterisks. Because it's the one curse word I really, really dislike. You've probably guessed the word by now, but I'm still not going to write anything close to it. Instead, I'll give you a pair of phrases in parting, each providing a small clue to the youths' response to my drive-by spraying:
Clue #1: "*** **** ** *** ******?!" (That's as close as I'll get to it with the asterisks.)
Clue #2: "You want to get ice cream?!"
I'm not proud of what I did. Objectively, though, I think it was a pretty good shot for not looking or stopping. And my average of 6.333 out of 10 isn't awful. And I believe I can only get better. Harrison Ford out.
Event number one: getting mocked, and liking it
I was about three miles from home, riding up a hill, and three fourteen year-old-ish boys approached me, walking down the hill on the same side of the road. They were talking and laughing with each other, which I thought was nice. I actually even thought, "It's cool that they're enjoying each other's company, instead of yelling at the huffing, puffing old guy in bright blue spandex shorts sweating like a pig on his bike." I don't know why I just assumed that they would yell at me, but I remember shouting stupid things at old guys on bikes from Dan Carter's Nissan Pathfinder when I was in high school, so I guess I have a sense of universal justice that makes me expect that I'll get my comeuppance at any moment. In that context, today proved my apprehension to be well-placed.
I passed these kids without a word between us. The one closest to me as I passed looked at me, and I gave him the little smile and nod that I think makes me look like Harrison Ford being friendly. It does actually make me look just like that. I continued up the hill, already starting to forget my worry that anything negative would transpire between us. I got about fifteen feet past the trio, and one of them sneered loudly after me, "Nice job in the Olympics!" Now that didn't sweat me too much, because I spend lots of time while I'm showering secretly imagining myself to be an underdog Olympic champion cyclist. They would make a movie about me. It would be called Walter Mitty Goes to London. Starring a young Harrison Ford who would give a small smile and nod to every other cyclist in the race as he zoomed around them on his way to the finish line and glory.
So with all that safely tucked away in my brain's dream box, his remark was more amusing to me than anything. Aiding my amused reaction was the fact that these three looked like closeted Justin Bieber fans, and the thought of them secretly loving Bieber so much but being too scared to come out compelled me to simply give them a thumbs-up as I moved up the hill. So that was my ten out of ten reaction.
Event number two: the telltale signs of alcoholism
About seven miles later, after having just climbed a gnarly hill, I was feeling pretty good. I was in a groove, and as I just mentioned, I had steadily handled what is, for me, a big hill. As I made a right turn at a light, a cherry red Jeep Grand Cherokee full of bros passed me, and one of them shouted, "Yuhkhmawts!" I think that's what he said. I'm sure that's not what he was trying to say but, as we know, the most important part of one person saying something to another person is what is actually delivered to the listener's ears. And my ears signed for a delivery of "yuhkhmawts". It really startled me. I like riding my bike because it's smooth and repetitive enough for me to be able to get lost in what I'm doing, but not so repetitive that it ever gets boring.
So when this guy shouted at me, it jolted me, and I got that unpleasant hot feeling in my body that comes when your brain goes through a flash of fight-or-flight that the rest of your body doesn't follow through on. Phyllis describes it as "her body trying to kill itself". So I was left somewhat irked, because nobody likes the way that feels.
I noticed that the Jeep had turned off onto a kind of frontage road lined on the far side with houses, meaning that it was now approaching me about fifty feet to my right. My mild anger at having been told "yuhkhmawts" took a physical form of stoic coldness expressed via the face. In other words, I stared the bros down, looking like Harrison Ford playing Jack Ryan. I did look just like that. This drawn-out look gave me a good chance to assess the peanut gallery. The men in the car looked to be in their mid-twenties, and were all sporting tank-tops and arm tattoos. Tank-tops so everyone can see their tattoos. They all turned away and snickered when they saw me staring at them, which I immediately translated as a win for me. Yep, I'm awesome.
After I got over this unearned sense of victory, I started to feel badly about a couple of things. First of all, I wished I had just let it go, and kept my eyes on the road. Secondly, I painted myself a quick picture of what those guys' lives might be like, based only on what I had gathered from our brief interaction. I saw a lot of beer, and maybe some disappointed mothers. Either that or alcoholic mothers whose disease they had passed on to their sons. Mothers with arm tattoos, and many tank-tops in which to show them off. Either way, it was grim, by my standards. Then I thought, "I can't just make up a pitiable story about these dudes and thereby place myself above them. They seemed happy in the car, they probably enjoy their lives. They might even be sharp, productive, upright citizens. Who am I to assume they are alcoholics?" Then I remembered that of all the clever, cutting interjections they could have spewed at me as they passed by, they chose to say, "Yuhkhmawts!" They probably are alcoholics.
Event number three: physical violence, or you can only ask so much of a man
Eighteen miles into my ride, I had begun to encounter heavier traffic and a lot of road construction, which had probably raised my stress levels. Not as much as a monkey's stress levels are raised when he gets taken to a zoo in America where a surgeon straps him down to an operating table to perform a double bypass on him (I heard a story about that on the radio - apparently that sort of thing really stresses monkeys out), but I'm sure I was a little more stressed than I had been at the advent of my previous two encounters with our nation's bright, up-and-coming generation. Unfortunately, this extra stress made me much more prone to the previously described sensation of my body trying to kill itself.
So it was, then, that a car full of high school-aged boys and girls pounced on my vulnerability as they cruised past me on a busy, four-lane road. I'd been going straight for a while, and was in another groove, and then one of these kids screamed something like "hhauk!" as they sped towards the intersection. This one startled me as well. And then the perfect storm just came together.
The light they were approaching turned red about two hundred feet ahead of me. They were stopped in two lanes of heavy traffic, at a light at which I was planning to make a left turn. Their position in the far right lane, surrounded by cars, meant that they couldn't possibly follow me after I turned without having to go way up the road to the next right turn and then backtrack. I know this is probably boring to read; I'm including it because it's the psychopathic train of thought my mind pursued as I grouchily pedaled toward the long line of stopped cars they were stuck in. But my main focus was on the ideal that people shouldn't scream at other people for no reason. We just shouldn't do it. Of course, we also shouldn't retaliate when someone does something as harmless and trivial as scream at us. We should just let it go.
But as I huffed and puffed closer to their car, I was only thinking about how we shouldn't scream at each other. "What happens to those girls in the car if I don't teach the boys a lesson?" I thought. "They probably get it in their minds that dipwads who scream at strangers for fun are the right kind of guys to date and marry. And then their lives are ruined forever." More assumptions. More making an ass out of u and me. So I checked over my left shoulder for approaching traffic. There was none, which meant phase one of my plan was a go. I navigated between the two lines of stationary cars, and reached down to pull out my water bottle.
As I passed my most recent harassers, I had a split-second to hear the song they were blasting through their car's stereo: Mo' Money Mo' Problems. Notorious B.I.G. and Sean "Puffy Diddy Daddy" Combs. Classic. They were just at the part where the girl sings the chorus - something about money and problems, I believe - when I rolled up and let them have it. I got a good, long squirt of water right into the back and front windows of the driver's side. Then I just rode off. Like Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones at the end of Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. Because he has to go save Marcus Brody from getting lost in a side canyon in Turkey. Also classic.
I was there and gone so quickly that I didn't catch their reactions. I didn't even have time to see how well my squirt of water was aimed. But I'm pretty sure I got at least two of the car's occupants directly. As soon as I did it, my brain (again with the brain, what is this guy's deal?) tried to justify my actions. No, it wasn't justifying, it was putting a shell around my guilt and burying it. I proceeded to the front of the left turn lane trying to ignore the nagging sense of having acted far beneath myself. Also, there was this heavy feeling that the now very slightly wet young people would throw a pair of scissors or a roll of dimes at me as they passed.
I knew they'd do something. They were the kind of people who scream at you for just riding a bike; of course they'd have something to say about being sprayed with warm water from a sports bottle I found on the road (no joke, but don't worry, I washed it very very well). My only consolation in that moment was that it was highly unlikely that they would be able to get across a jam-packed lane of traffic to straight up run me over. It was more likely, I surmised, that they would find me three blocks down the road and run me over there.
Realistically, and in retrospect, I realize that they weren't going to try to hurt me. That would be an uncharacteristic move for a group of loud, mouthy teenagers. Being in a group of peers will push that kind of kid to transform from a sullen, reclusive hormone factory into a bold, socially edgy hormone factory. But even then, they're almost always all talk. Waiting to turn left at that light, though, I convinced myself they might shoot me. But they didn't. What they did was designate one of their company to shout something at me. The first thing I'd been able to understand since The Bieber Gang took their best shot about an hour earlier (credit to those fine young men for enunciating).
I will not write what this kid yelled. I won't even do the thing with the first letter of the word followed by a series of asterisks. Because it's the one curse word I really, really dislike. You've probably guessed the word by now, but I'm still not going to write anything close to it. Instead, I'll give you a pair of phrases in parting, each providing a small clue to the youths' response to my drive-by spraying:
Clue #1: "*** **** ** *** ******?!" (That's as close as I'll get to it with the asterisks.)
Clue #2: "You want to get ice cream?!"
I'm not proud of what I did. Objectively, though, I think it was a pretty good shot for not looking or stopping. And my average of 6.333 out of 10 isn't awful. And I believe I can only get better. Harrison Ford out.
Friday, July 27, 2012
To be exact.
A string of comments responding to a story about a street art installation created for the London Olympics:
In addition to recoiling at the bigoted nationalism, please note that Jim's comment cites the time of the best of Britain's departure from the British Isles as being exactly a few hundred years ago. Now I'll apply that same grammatical logic to a few other scenarios:
A: "Exactly how much does this sandwich cost?"
B: "A few dollars."
A: "Can you tell me the exact address of the hospital, please? And quickly!"
B: "It's a few blocks from here."
A: "Exactly how much jet fuel do we have left?"
B: "Enough to go a few hundred miles."
A: "Okay, well, the nearest land at our current heading is 430 miles away, so if we need to turn around, now would be the time to do it. What's the exact fuel level?"
B: "Like a few hundred gallons, I don't know."
So I'm a nerd. But honestly I think that's preferable to thinking that "a few" and "exact" can be applied to the same value. Especially if you're going to be posting stuff all over the internet for everyone to look at.
A: "Exactly how much does this sandwich cost?"
B: "A few dollars."
A: "Can you tell me the exact address of the hospital, please? And quickly!"
B: "It's a few blocks from here."
A: "Exactly how much jet fuel do we have left?"
B: "Enough to go a few hundred miles."
A: "Okay, well, the nearest land at our current heading is 430 miles away, so if we need to turn around, now would be the time to do it. What's the exact fuel level?"
B: "Like a few hundred gallons, I don't know."
So I'm a nerd. But honestly I think that's preferable to thinking that "a few" and "exact" can be applied to the same value. Especially if you're going to be posting stuff all over the internet for everyone to look at.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Just upload photos to Facebook later.
It seems like lots of horror movies produced these days center around a cinema verite shooting style that presents the action as real found footage, usually shot by a group of young adults on some little adventure. Their shaky camera operation rarely manages to capture more than a glimpse of whatever monster or apparition is tormenting them. Film creators do this because a) the terror that your imagination can create having only seen a snippet of a frightening sight is stronger than the terror you might really feel if you got a long, good look at the frightening sight, b) things are more frightening if they seem realistic, and the less you see of something that's not real, the more realistic you will imagine it to be, and c) it's much cheaper to concoct a frightening image for one second than to orchestrate entire drawn-out sequences. So this strategy makes sense.
But it occurs to me that if any message is being sent by these films, it's that you shouldn't film outings or trips that you take with your friends, especially if you are all twenty-something singles. If you're driving to the Catskill Mountains with a bunch of college buddies, for example, filming your trip seems to greatly increase the likelihood of something awful happening to you. So just take some pictures on your phone and call it good. Your friends will thank you after they're not tortured and dismembered in the Catskills.
But it occurs to me that if any message is being sent by these films, it's that you shouldn't film outings or trips that you take with your friends, especially if you are all twenty-something singles. If you're driving to the Catskill Mountains with a bunch of college buddies, for example, filming your trip seems to greatly increase the likelihood of something awful happening to you. So just take some pictures on your phone and call it good. Your friends will thank you after they're not tortured and dismembered in the Catskills.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
The friendship connection.
Few are the thoughts more comforting than the sure knowledge that, somewhere, a dear friend is sitting on the toilet at the same time you are.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Universe, you've done it again.
I was fighting an uphill battle today to stay focused on my work, and right when I was getting into an afternoon groove, the power in the office cut out and my computer shut down. So I'm going to go ahead and call that a sign, and close up shop for the day.
Actually, I do have a few things I still need to finish before I leave. It's a better story if I just drop the mic and go home, though.
Excuse me.
If you ever come across a woman who appears to be unconscious, and you want to be absolutely sure that she's not faking it before you take action, just shout to anyone nearby, "Quick, call an ambulance! I think this woman is pregnant!" If the prone woman suddenly, indignantly blurts out, "Excuse me?", then you'll know it's not quite as bad as it looks.
If she really is obviously pregnant, just shout something like, "Ma'am, are you all right?" Chances are she's not, because in my experience, pregnant women don't goof around too much.
If she really is obviously pregnant, just shout something like, "Ma'am, are you all right?" Chances are she's not, because in my experience, pregnant women don't goof around too much.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Two for Tuesday's.
Max and I were out on a going-back-to-sleep-after-a-day-rendered-very-irregular-by-lots-of-vomiting-made-him-wake-up-screaming-at-midnight drive in the car at 1:00 am, and we drove past a scrolling electronic marquee outside of a salon that read, "TWO FOR TUESDAY'S ON HAIRCUTS". The good thing about that advertisement is that everyone who sees it will (mostly) understand what message it is trying to convey. The bad thing about it is that a real person had to have programmed it, probably looking it over at least once and maybe even having a couple of other people pass on it before it was deemed street-worthy. The worse thing about it is that hundreds of people will drive past it, register it, and find nothing wrong. Why can't the English learn to speak?
Friday, May 4, 2012
Holy crap, a baby!
I've been watching a lot of early-morning supernatural-thriller TV shows on TNT lately. Let me back up. I sell plasma twice a week at the circus, and the easiest time for me to go is early in the morning. Now let me back up on that one. People call it "donating" plasma, usually, but I get paid each time I do it, so I call it "selling", and the transaction doesn't literally take place at a circus, but in a building whose pay-for-fluids function is a draw for a crowd so eclectic that it could be compared to a circus troupe. And scattered amongst the beds we lie in while our blood is pumped in and out of us are monitors on which are shown whatever shows or movies the staff deem appropriate to subject us to. And early in the morning, those monitors are all tuned to TNT, who from around 7:00 am to at least 9:00 am runs a lineup comprised of shows that all involve a team of protagonists battling otherwordly, supernatural foes, usually with the help of their own supernatural powers (check your local listings).
I never go to the plasma center without an iPod and a book, as much to avoid getting in a conversation with a crazy person as to shut out whatever program's being screened. But I can't help but notice bits and pieces of what's being shown on TV while I'm there - there are like twenty screens in that room, for about 64 people. And I believe I have cracked the TNT Original Series formula for creating enough drama in any of these supernatural thrillers for it to live up to the "we know drama" assertion TNT so regularly makes (I know TNT asserts this regularly because I like to watch the NBA on TNT. I like how Ernie keeps those other guys on track). For the most part, from what I have seen, these series are built on a framework of television-grade storytelling (and not good TV writing, just regular TV writing), and colored with television-grade acting and television-grade special effects.
So, with so many lackluster elements comprising an underwhelming whole, what can be done to make these shows dramatic enough to deliver on their promise? I'll tell you what can be done: stick a baby in there. Just keep all the interpersonal intrigue and peril right where it is, but throw an infant right into the middle of it. The viewers will go, "Holy crap, a baby! What's that baby doing in there? Someone needs to grab that baby!" I know that's the response that will be elicited, because it always does that to me. This morning, for example, I had noticed when I looked up to stretch my neck that there was an malevolent-looking hag skulking around on screen, and I thought nothing of it. But the next time I looked up, that old witch was standing over a bassinet with a 6-month-old wiggling around in it, and I was immediately concerned about what was going on. I realized quickly that I had gotten hooked on exactly what TNT wanted me to get hooked on, and feeling a little foolish, I dropped my gaze back to Poor Economics, which is a darn sight more engaging than poor television. Then, thirty minutes later, I noticed that a frantic lady was being held against the ceiling in her house by some unseen force. No problem. Then I saw that she was suspended directly above the crib of a sleeping baby! Again, I was invested in a snap! Babies. It's just how TNT gets you.
But I've got something to tell you: SPOILER ALERT!!! The babies in these TNT ghost-witch shows are never in any real danger. No matter what happens, they come out untouched. Like when that hag was in that little boy's bedroom, the kid's sorcerer dad, imprisoned in another dimension, thought of his son, and the kid was suddenly enveloped in a glowing blue force field. Knowing this, save your time. Watch something else on TV at seven in the morning. Actually, don't watch TV at seven in the morning.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Oh no, not father!
This is insulting, right? Especially to the memory of the guy who died probably a hundred years ago, and then a lazy stock photographer brought his daughter to the dead guy's grave and told her to pretend to be crying and then then they could go get some quarter-pounders. Describing that actually makes it sound like a fun daddy-daughter thing. I'll put that one in the idea book for a little later, when my own daughter is a) old enough to be really good at fake-crying, and b) old enough to want a quarter-pounder. Then we can go desecrate someone's grave.
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