Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Getting into the Spirit of the Proceedings
CD of the Week: She's the One
You grew up fast.
Flick of the Week: Nixon
When that far down, there's only up.
CFTP: pg 139
The words are coming fast.
The mailbag is full of opinion. Who would have known how strongly people cared about my little vote? As usual, I'm compelled to put your fears to rise:
This is ridiculous. You are a mockery of your generation.
Thank you?
Hey, I know you. You're politics don't mesh with Nixon's.
You're missing the point: I stand by my position that a bad, dead president (Nixon), whose politics I may or may not agree with at all, would be better than the Big Two.
OK, OK. Another rant about how bad the ballot is this year. What I want to know is who do you think will win? And who do you want to win?
Good question. I think Kerry's got the Mo, but it's not Big Mo. As far as who do I want to win? Sheesh, neither! But I see what you're getting at. I guess I'm screwed either way and I'm lucky either way: Even-Steven. Why, you ask?
Because if Bush wins, while I'll be terribly disappointed that we told this guy we think it's OK, what he's (not) done these past four years, I'll be delighted that all the know-it-all liberals who can't see any position but their own will be deflated and depressed. And if Kerry wins, sure, I'll have to put up with the joyous, obnoxious liberals (I can imagine Rather's face right now), but at least the music at the inauguration will be decent. See? Even-Steven.
Why not vote for 3rd party, like Libertarian, Green, or Nader?
I voted 3rd party in 2000: John Hagelin of the Natural Law Party. That party doesn't exist anymore and I think Hagelin is one of the guys trying to colonize the moon or something. No, I don't agree with most of the 3rd parties any more than I do the Big Two.
If you're going for Nixon, you're pushing pretty low. I know you think he should be given a second chance, but he's a Republican. You supposedly hate the two major parties. You should vote for Zachary Taylor. He was a Whig.
You may be onto something.
You grew up fast.
Flick of the Week: Nixon
When that far down, there's only up.
CFTP: pg 139
The words are coming fast.
The mailbag is full of opinion. Who would have known how strongly people cared about my little vote? As usual, I'm compelled to put your fears to rise:
This is ridiculous. You are a mockery of your generation.
Thank you?
Hey, I know you. You're politics don't mesh with Nixon's.
You're missing the point: I stand by my position that a bad, dead president (Nixon), whose politics I may or may not agree with at all, would be better than the Big Two.
OK, OK. Another rant about how bad the ballot is this year. What I want to know is who do you think will win? And who do you want to win?
Good question. I think Kerry's got the Mo, but it's not Big Mo. As far as who do I want to win? Sheesh, neither! But I see what you're getting at. I guess I'm screwed either way and I'm lucky either way: Even-Steven. Why, you ask?
Because if Bush wins, while I'll be terribly disappointed that we told this guy we think it's OK, what he's (not) done these past four years, I'll be delighted that all the know-it-all liberals who can't see any position but their own will be deflated and depressed. And if Kerry wins, sure, I'll have to put up with the joyous, obnoxious liberals (I can imagine Rather's face right now), but at least the music at the inauguration will be decent. See? Even-Steven.
Why not vote for 3rd party, like Libertarian, Green, or Nader?
I voted 3rd party in 2000: John Hagelin of the Natural Law Party. That party doesn't exist anymore and I think Hagelin is one of the guys trying to colonize the moon or something. No, I don't agree with most of the 3rd parties any more than I do the Big Two.
If you're going for Nixon, you're pushing pretty low. I know you think he should be given a second chance, but he's a Republican. You supposedly hate the two major parties. You should vote for Zachary Taylor. He was a Whig.
You may be onto something.
Monday, October 25, 2004
NIXON NOW.
As I've instructed the staff of wrfarah.blogspot.com to refrain from any political posts, this one will be the departure. Yes, folks, it's about a week away now, and it's endorsement time.
You know how when you were a kid on the playground, and how normally you'd always play kickball as a class? And it was great: everyone participated, the game was fun, life was good. But then there were some days when some of the people wanted to play soccer. Other people disagreed, preferring to play basketball. So the class would split into two groups, and one of these half-assed groups would play soccer; the other would play basketball. And it wasn't much fun. There's weren't enough people playing to make it fun. It felt like half of a recess.
That is politics to me right now. The left and the right have their own ideas, they never acknowledge the possibility of anything outside of these ideas, much less combining any of them; basically, they are never going to agree to play kickball. Listen, I could get into the specifics: but that's what turns people off. God knows it turns me off. I think the worst thing is hearing a "talking head" spout some mountain of catchy manure on the news . . . and then I end up hearing a regular Joe say the exact same thing at the supermarket the next day . . . as if he thought it up himself.
Suffice to say, I think we are at a rare time in United States politics: I think we have been presented with two people, perhaps the only two people, whom I consider to be worse candidates for office than, say, a dead, bad president. Therefore, I'm voting for Richard Millhouse Nixon in next week's presidential election.
I will preemptively answer your questions and concerns:
But he's dead.
Indeed. However, I assert that your candidate's ideas are dead.
You're throwing your vote away.
So are you.
Why don't you choose Lincoln or Washington or somebody who was great?
I think Nixon deserves a second chance.
You're just doing this to be funny. But it's not funny. People have died for democracy.
I'm not laughing.
NIXON NOW.
You know how when you were a kid on the playground, and how normally you'd always play kickball as a class? And it was great: everyone participated, the game was fun, life was good. But then there were some days when some of the people wanted to play soccer. Other people disagreed, preferring to play basketball. So the class would split into two groups, and one of these half-assed groups would play soccer; the other would play basketball. And it wasn't much fun. There's weren't enough people playing to make it fun. It felt like half of a recess.
That is politics to me right now. The left and the right have their own ideas, they never acknowledge the possibility of anything outside of these ideas, much less combining any of them; basically, they are never going to agree to play kickball. Listen, I could get into the specifics: but that's what turns people off. God knows it turns me off. I think the worst thing is hearing a "talking head" spout some mountain of catchy manure on the news . . . and then I end up hearing a regular Joe say the exact same thing at the supermarket the next day . . . as if he thought it up himself.
Suffice to say, I think we are at a rare time in United States politics: I think we have been presented with two people, perhaps the only two people, whom I consider to be worse candidates for office than, say, a dead, bad president. Therefore, I'm voting for Richard Millhouse Nixon in next week's presidential election.
I will preemptively answer your questions and concerns:
But he's dead.
Indeed. However, I assert that your candidate's ideas are dead.
You're throwing your vote away.
So are you.
Why don't you choose Lincoln or Washington or somebody who was great?
I think Nixon deserves a second chance.
You're just doing this to be funny. But it's not funny. People have died for democracy.
I'm not laughing.
NIXON NOW.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Divided by a Microphone
The world generally breaks down into two types of people:
1.) Those who love, cherish, and enjoy karaoke.
2.) And those who are thoroughly repulsed by karaoke.
If you know anything -- any minor thing -- about me, you know that I fall into the latter category. It's simple, really. Would I like to go to where an establishment's aural environment is completely drowned by terrible singing that defecates upon the original material that may or may not have been great listening? Would I enjoy the cheap, twirling, colored lights? Would I like constant disappointment to be trumped by . . . even more disappointment . . . just as everyone else is having the time of their lives? Would I?
I know a fair number of women in long-term relationships. Long-term, meaning beyond two years. And they're all at the point in which they're wondering: "Where's the ring?" Some women can wonder gracefully, quietly. Other women cluck with their girlfriends. Shameless women go right out and complain.
Now, personally, I don't understand it. I'm a guy. I was in that position. So I do understand the indecision. But not after two years. If you don't know after two years, what else is it going to take? What does she have to do? What proof are you waiting for? Or is it just a cheap screw? Because if it's just an easy screw, that makes you nothing but desperate and lazy.
If, however, you really are serious, and you're this far along, and you still wonder -- turn to the microphone. Which side are you on? Are you feverishly driving to the karaoke bar on Thursday nights? Are you belting out Whitney Houston songs? Or are you the one who slams his beer and grabs his jacket after the bartender turns on the lyrics screen?
OK, now here's the real question: what type of person is your girlfriend? There's your answer. If you're two years in, you don't know what to do, and you need something to place on the ring-buying teeter-totter, this is it. If you two fall on the same side of the karaoke microphone, just pop the damn question. If you don't -- if you're normal, but she's up there, howling like a monkey -- drop her. Really -- is that the way you want to spend the rest of your life? Do you really think you can meet her (obnoxious) needs? More importantly: could she meet yours? Are you really going to settle for something like this? Fake smiles and half-hearted clapping? Tone-deafness and Top 40 radio? Because if you're even still considering this, all I have to say is:
Get out. Get out while you still can.
1.) Those who love, cherish, and enjoy karaoke.
2.) And those who are thoroughly repulsed by karaoke.
If you know anything -- any minor thing -- about me, you know that I fall into the latter category. It's simple, really. Would I like to go to where an establishment's aural environment is completely drowned by terrible singing that defecates upon the original material that may or may not have been great listening? Would I enjoy the cheap, twirling, colored lights? Would I like constant disappointment to be trumped by . . . even more disappointment . . . just as everyone else is having the time of their lives? Would I?
I know a fair number of women in long-term relationships. Long-term, meaning beyond two years. And they're all at the point in which they're wondering: "Where's the ring?" Some women can wonder gracefully, quietly. Other women cluck with their girlfriends. Shameless women go right out and complain.
Now, personally, I don't understand it. I'm a guy. I was in that position. So I do understand the indecision. But not after two years. If you don't know after two years, what else is it going to take? What does she have to do? What proof are you waiting for? Or is it just a cheap screw? Because if it's just an easy screw, that makes you nothing but desperate and lazy.
If, however, you really are serious, and you're this far along, and you still wonder -- turn to the microphone. Which side are you on? Are you feverishly driving to the karaoke bar on Thursday nights? Are you belting out Whitney Houston songs? Or are you the one who slams his beer and grabs his jacket after the bartender turns on the lyrics screen?
OK, now here's the real question: what type of person is your girlfriend? There's your answer. If you're two years in, you don't know what to do, and you need something to place on the ring-buying teeter-totter, this is it. If you two fall on the same side of the karaoke microphone, just pop the damn question. If you don't -- if you're normal, but she's up there, howling like a monkey -- drop her. Really -- is that the way you want to spend the rest of your life? Do you really think you can meet her (obnoxious) needs? More importantly: could she meet yours? Are you really going to settle for something like this? Fake smiles and half-hearted clapping? Tone-deafness and Top 40 radio? Because if you're even still considering this, all I have to say is:
Get out. Get out while you still can.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Flush Innovation
The guy who invented the "half-way" urinal should be peed on. Too harsh, you say?
I say not.
See, as most guys know, there's been a change going on in this country, oh, for the past decade or so, in which more and more of these half-assed urinals are popping up. They are now so prevalent, that one is almost shocked to come by the faithful ol' "full-length".
The ramifications of this -- to guys -- are immediately clear: there is spray. These new, fancy, half-assed urinals are geometrically designed to encourage spray. See, instead of the liquid waste hitting the wall and traveling down the long wall to the ground, the stream has less room to be distributed . . . and therefore sprays back at the hapless user.
I don't ask for much. I don't want anything immaculate. I just want the waste to go in the drain.
So, yes. I don't think it's too harsh for the maker of the half-assed version -- who probably came up with this populace-dirtying concept just to save cash on the porcelain -- to be pissed on for his crime . . . because he's forced all of us to piss on ourselves!
I say not.
See, as most guys know, there's been a change going on in this country, oh, for the past decade or so, in which more and more of these half-assed urinals are popping up. They are now so prevalent, that one is almost shocked to come by the faithful ol' "full-length".
The ramifications of this -- to guys -- are immediately clear: there is spray. These new, fancy, half-assed urinals are geometrically designed to encourage spray. See, instead of the liquid waste hitting the wall and traveling down the long wall to the ground, the stream has less room to be distributed . . . and therefore sprays back at the hapless user.
I don't ask for much. I don't want anything immaculate. I just want the waste to go in the drain.
So, yes. I don't think it's too harsh for the maker of the half-assed version -- who probably came up with this populace-dirtying concept just to save cash on the porcelain -- to be pissed on for his crime . . . because he's forced all of us to piss on ourselves!
Now Here's the Clue
Film of the Week: Capricorn One
"See O.J. die!"
CD of the Week: Hooker 'n' Heat
"Pray for me."
CFTP: pg. 106
"Yeah."
New permalinks! Funny pictures and people to call you on bullshit!
"See O.J. die!"
CD of the Week: Hooker 'n' Heat
"Pray for me."
CFTP: pg. 106
"Yeah."
New permalinks! Funny pictures and people to call you on bullshit!
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Things My Wife Can Say Out Loud in a Crowded Diner
"So Kenny's not seeing Ralph anymore."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, apparently Ralph decided after six months of butt sex that he still likes girls."
"See, I don't get that. I know most people don't understand bisexuals. They think, 'make a choice, why don't you.' Me? I understand the bisexuals. What I don't get is the switchers. Oh, I understand experimentation. But you're telling me that after six months of sleeping with his girlfriend and the guy around the block that he's just cold-turkey going to the girlfriend?"
"I guess."
"I don't get it."
"It's terrible for the girlfriend. You know that she doesn't even know about it?"
"Wow. Six months, and she had no idea? Sheesh!"
"Think of the health issues! You know, stuff comes out, Will. He could have done Kenny, and you know, sometimes stuff comes out when guys do it. And I know some of them use an enema, but even then, some still comes out. And then, think, he could have gone and done his girlfriend right afterward. Think of the germs!"
"I can't believe you just said that."
"What? About the stuff coming out? Oh, Todd told me that. Everyone knows about that. You're so squeemish."
"Jessica, you talk to way too many gay men."
"They like me. They feel comfortable sharing with me."
"Can we go home now?"
"Oh?"
"Yeah, apparently Ralph decided after six months of butt sex that he still likes girls."
"See, I don't get that. I know most people don't understand bisexuals. They think, 'make a choice, why don't you.' Me? I understand the bisexuals. What I don't get is the switchers. Oh, I understand experimentation. But you're telling me that after six months of sleeping with his girlfriend and the guy around the block that he's just cold-turkey going to the girlfriend?"
"I guess."
"I don't get it."
"It's terrible for the girlfriend. You know that she doesn't even know about it?"
"Wow. Six months, and she had no idea? Sheesh!"
"Think of the health issues! You know, stuff comes out, Will. He could have done Kenny, and you know, sometimes stuff comes out when guys do it. And I know some of them use an enema, but even then, some still comes out. And then, think, he could have gone and done his girlfriend right afterward. Think of the germs!"
"I can't believe you just said that."
"What? About the stuff coming out? Oh, Todd told me that. Everyone knows about that. You're so squeemish."
"Jessica, you talk to way too many gay men."
"They like me. They feel comfortable sharing with me."
"Can we go home now?"
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
CAN'T DO IT, NOT EVEN IF SOBER . . .
Whoever invented wallpaper should be taken out back and shot.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
The Bitch is Back
Gonna be a little more of a break as I work to kill Murali.
But in the meantime, I ought to let you all know that The Wicked Bitch of the North is back. I was out cutting the lawn yesterday -- hopefully the last cut before the frost comes -- and I took a look at the north side of the property.
Regular readers will know this as the side of the property in which I and the wife built a tall fence to fence out the bitch next door. However, this fence merely runs from the house to the garage -- it covers the back yard. Upon inspection of the thin strip of land next to the actual house, it seems for the past I-don't-know-how-many weeks, That Bitch has been dumping piles and piles of tree and bush trimmings against the side of our house.
Of course I promptly removed them, placing them in a mammoth pile on the property line where That Bitch likes to walk through and inspect our gutters. So it's just a matter of time before That Bitch comes knocking on our door. (Thank God the doorbell doesn't work.)
On an unrelated note, the neighbor on the south side of the property -- the ex-hippy, Frank -- had his own run-in with the powers of evil to the north. Except his run-in wasn't with That Bitch. It was with "Mark". As regular readers remember, "Mark" is the supposed husband of That Bitch, but Jessica and I doubt his very existence, as we've never really met the guy or seen him face-to-face.
So "Mark" was talking with Frank about river land. Frank told him he owns a cabin on a river up north, but that it's on a river with a lot of canoe and rafting traffic, so he's looking for something a bit more remote. "Mark", who is apparently a big fan of canoeing with That Bitch, got his feathers all in a ruffle and said, "Well, I wish I could canoe down some rivers that weren't so lined with cabins!" He stormed off.
People like this need to be stopped. Oh yes. Yes, gentle readers, you will remember that last time, Jessica and I decided we would spite these squirrel-hating, tea-sipping, love-poem-reading, garden-party-throwing deviants by distributing 50 punds of squirrel food along the property line. That action (which also yielded us 9 or 10 healthy ears of corn) may be repeated.
But I don't think that's enough. No, I think it's time to offend Ms. Precious Garden Lady and "Mark" by gauding up the north side of the property. We never see this side of the property. Only That Bitch and "Mark" see it. It may be time for Plan B: the placement of several dozen flourescent pink flamingos and fake plastic animals. Maybe a couple "gazing balls" would complete the new look.
I'll keep you posted.
But in the meantime, I ought to let you all know that The Wicked Bitch of the North is back. I was out cutting the lawn yesterday -- hopefully the last cut before the frost comes -- and I took a look at the north side of the property.
Regular readers will know this as the side of the property in which I and the wife built a tall fence to fence out the bitch next door. However, this fence merely runs from the house to the garage -- it covers the back yard. Upon inspection of the thin strip of land next to the actual house, it seems for the past I-don't-know-how-many weeks, That Bitch has been dumping piles and piles of tree and bush trimmings against the side of our house.
Of course I promptly removed them, placing them in a mammoth pile on the property line where That Bitch likes to walk through and inspect our gutters. So it's just a matter of time before That Bitch comes knocking on our door. (Thank God the doorbell doesn't work.)
On an unrelated note, the neighbor on the south side of the property -- the ex-hippy, Frank -- had his own run-in with the powers of evil to the north. Except his run-in wasn't with That Bitch. It was with "Mark". As regular readers remember, "Mark" is the supposed husband of That Bitch, but Jessica and I doubt his very existence, as we've never really met the guy or seen him face-to-face.
So "Mark" was talking with Frank about river land. Frank told him he owns a cabin on a river up north, but that it's on a river with a lot of canoe and rafting traffic, so he's looking for something a bit more remote. "Mark", who is apparently a big fan of canoeing with That Bitch, got his feathers all in a ruffle and said, "Well, I wish I could canoe down some rivers that weren't so lined with cabins!" He stormed off.
People like this need to be stopped. Oh yes. Yes, gentle readers, you will remember that last time, Jessica and I decided we would spite these squirrel-hating, tea-sipping, love-poem-reading, garden-party-throwing deviants by distributing 50 punds of squirrel food along the property line. That action (which also yielded us 9 or 10 healthy ears of corn) may be repeated.
But I don't think that's enough. No, I think it's time to offend Ms. Precious Garden Lady and "Mark" by gauding up the north side of the property. We never see this side of the property. Only That Bitch and "Mark" see it. It may be time for Plan B: the placement of several dozen flourescent pink flamingos and fake plastic animals. Maybe a couple "gazing balls" would complete the new look.
I'll keep you posted.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Finding an old dresser, trying on the clothes.
Thanks to TransMac, I now have five years of old college papers up on my PC. Additionally, I have about 15 months of e-mails I haven't seen in more than four year.
While I had some interesting history, film, and coaching papers, the gold was in all the philosophy papers and materials I had. Looking back on it all, I can see where I got many of my ideas for fiction. In a year or so, whenever it is I start a fourth book, this will be key.
My biggest worry in pulling up these old documents was to find I wasn't a very good writer, that my friends are right: I was more brash, outspoken, liberal, and unchecked. I was relieved to find I have nothing to be ashamed of. Most of it looks just like I remember it. I was the same non-liberal, non-conservative, disaffected person I see in the mirror now. I have become a better writer, and a bit more careful. It's the small errors that bother me. My writing was dominated by voice before, which I've been thankfully able to dampen.
But reading through it all is a bit much. I never really expected to see all this again, so it's not easy to read through some of these e-mails -- one from a friend trying to convince me to stay in town, one from a girl breaking up with me in about as harsh a way as I never imagined she would, and a slew more. The odd thing about these e-mails, though, is I only have my Inbox, not my Sent mail, so it's like readying every other page of a story.
If only I knew then, where I'd be now. I could have relaxed.
While I had some interesting history, film, and coaching papers, the gold was in all the philosophy papers and materials I had. Looking back on it all, I can see where I got many of my ideas for fiction. In a year or so, whenever it is I start a fourth book, this will be key.
My biggest worry in pulling up these old documents was to find I wasn't a very good writer, that my friends are right: I was more brash, outspoken, liberal, and unchecked. I was relieved to find I have nothing to be ashamed of. Most of it looks just like I remember it. I was the same non-liberal, non-conservative, disaffected person I see in the mirror now. I have become a better writer, and a bit more careful. It's the small errors that bother me. My writing was dominated by voice before, which I've been thankfully able to dampen.
But reading through it all is a bit much. I never really expected to see all this again, so it's not easy to read through some of these e-mails -- one from a friend trying to convince me to stay in town, one from a girl breaking up with me in about as harsh a way as I never imagined she would, and a slew more. The odd thing about these e-mails, though, is I only have my Inbox, not my Sent mail, so it's like readying every other page of a story.
If only I knew then, where I'd be now. I could have relaxed.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Thoughts Were So Alive
She grew tired of so many people trying to be funny; sending distressed e-mails to friends who don't reply, stating how great everything is going, how the weather is here, who something new is going great when it's really scaring her to silence; how she knows practically no one in a strange town that's becoming frightfully familiar; knowing the drive-thru workers on the midnight shift and the doormen for retail stores on new Tuesdays; looking forward to such Tuesdays to buy music that passes her time for her, giving her someone to sing sappy lyrics with; telling relatives she just hadn't found that right guy yet when there hadn't been any open to being found; sitting down at the computer with nothing to look at except the card games that came with it; making Take-out Night a treat that suddenly happens three nights a week; calling home and hearing about who's gotten their driver's license and looking at colleges; considering a cough a sick day; looking at the calendar, empty as it is, and long.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Stone Ground or Dijon
About once a week, since we have completely opposite schedules, Jessica and I go out to lunch downtown on her break. It's strange being down there at that time of day. At that time, I'm dressed in my casual jeans, T-shirt, and baseball hat while everyone else is dressed to kill. People look at my wife with pity, I assume, thinking, "Poor woman, having to work and take her unemployed husband to lunch."
Ahead of us in line today, this guy who even smelled rich said to the girl behind the counter, "Does your club turkey come served with stone ground mustard or dijon?"
That's the point in which your life has lost meaning -- when the mustard served at a sandwich stand is important to you.
Now it's time for a break for a little while. I've got to wake up the dog, grab a quick jog before work, and then spend the next few days figuring out how I'm going to kill off poor Murali Factor.
Ahead of us in line today, this guy who even smelled rich said to the girl behind the counter, "Does your club turkey come served with stone ground mustard or dijon?"
That's the point in which your life has lost meaning -- when the mustard served at a sandwich stand is important to you.
Now it's time for a break for a little while. I've got to wake up the dog, grab a quick jog before work, and then spend the next few days figuring out how I'm going to kill off poor Murali Factor.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
God doesn't care about your macaroni and cheese.
I don't understand why ALL born-again Christians are SO passionately religious. And there's usually a pretty seedy past with these folks, isn't there? Some loose sexual history, drugs, gang violence, found Christ -- wa-lah?
I just want to know how they go from extreme to extreme. Are there any born-agains who just become regularly religious? They don't preach or quote the Bible. They just go to church on Sunday and live by example. Do these people exist?
I know born-agains are an easy target, but they put themselves out there.
I've been going to other sites, lately, trying to find something I like consistently enough to add to the sidebar. And in doing this, I've run across a number of these born-agains. It amuses the hell out of me to read something like: "I've got a tough test to study for tomorrow, so I'll have to sign off now. Come on, God, let's go hit the books."
Or better: "The food -- while prepared, I'm sure, with loving care -- did not agree with me. Halfway through supper, God told me it was time to visit the restroom. So we went."
Who am I? I'm just an idiot on the internet. But just as fans remind over-zealous sports figures that God doesn't care about a football game . . . I'm pretty certain God doesn't care about your macaroni and cheese.
I just want to know how they go from extreme to extreme. Are there any born-agains who just become regularly religious? They don't preach or quote the Bible. They just go to church on Sunday and live by example. Do these people exist?
I know born-agains are an easy target, but they put themselves out there.
I've been going to other sites, lately, trying to find something I like consistently enough to add to the sidebar. And in doing this, I've run across a number of these born-agains. It amuses the hell out of me to read something like: "I've got a tough test to study for tomorrow, so I'll have to sign off now. Come on, God, let's go hit the books."
Or better: "The food -- while prepared, I'm sure, with loving care -- did not agree with me. Halfway through supper, God told me it was time to visit the restroom. So we went."
Who am I? I'm just an idiot on the internet. But just as fans remind over-zealous sports figures that God doesn't care about a football game . . . I'm pretty certain God doesn't care about your macaroni and cheese.
Monday, October 04, 2004
You Should See it All
Rental of the Week: The Big Bounce
CD of the Week: Live at the Paramount
CFTP: pg. 93
I still haven't forgotten.
CD of the Week: Live at the Paramount
CFTP: pg. 93
I still haven't forgotten.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Too much slack on the line.
If there are aliens who visit Earth, you have to wonder if they think people flying kites are really fishing for birds.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Thhh...
When I was training for a job, oh . . . a little more than seven years ago, they had me sit with this woman and Y-cord, which means I listened to her calls to get a better idea of what the job was like.
There was a comfortable series of breaks between calls, and she was cool enough to carry on a decent conversation. She asked me about my running, my major, life up in Eau Claire, and so on. At some point, we got to talking about birthdays and age, and she asked me the killer question that all women ask men: "How old do you think I am?"
I had no idea. I sincerely believed she could be anywhere from 24 - 38. It wasn't good enough for me to say I didn't know. She wanted me to guess. So there I was, thinking about it . . . thinking . . . when she said in this sunken voice: "Oh. You think I'm at least 30."
"No! I didn't say that!"
Apparently she saw me start to form the TH. She was 29. Ever after that, she acted like there was even more difference in our ages.
A while after that, I found out just how much distance there was when she and a co-worker sat down at lunch a table or two away from me. I didn't pay much attention to their conversation until I heard her mention something about "no time". The other woman -- a young, 20-something who didn't look a whole lot older than I -- said: "There's still time to save a marriage."
I know people befriend people at work. But I've never understood this attitude of airing private business in front of veritable strangers. What brings a person to the point of feeling OK about talking about her failing marriage with a college temp sitting ten feet away?
I know the consensus will be, "Well, she didn't feel OK about it, which should show you how desperate she was at the time." But I don't buy that.
Just recently I heard the conversation about who was not yet asked to be married, and how they "discussed it", and how she's "waiting for a ring", and it all seems so General Hospital or Santa Barbara or Days of Our Lives. And as much as I'm sure it does hurt those people, it's equally boring as those shows. Can a relationship mean very much if one person is willing to take it to work with her and pull it out after weather, the weekend, and that angry customer?
There was a comfortable series of breaks between calls, and she was cool enough to carry on a decent conversation. She asked me about my running, my major, life up in Eau Claire, and so on. At some point, we got to talking about birthdays and age, and she asked me the killer question that all women ask men: "How old do you think I am?"
I had no idea. I sincerely believed she could be anywhere from 24 - 38. It wasn't good enough for me to say I didn't know. She wanted me to guess. So there I was, thinking about it . . . thinking . . . when she said in this sunken voice: "Oh. You think I'm at least 30."
"No! I didn't say that!"
Apparently she saw me start to form the TH. She was 29. Ever after that, she acted like there was even more difference in our ages.
A while after that, I found out just how much distance there was when she and a co-worker sat down at lunch a table or two away from me. I didn't pay much attention to their conversation until I heard her mention something about "no time". The other woman -- a young, 20-something who didn't look a whole lot older than I -- said: "There's still time to save a marriage."
I know people befriend people at work. But I've never understood this attitude of airing private business in front of veritable strangers. What brings a person to the point of feeling OK about talking about her failing marriage with a college temp sitting ten feet away?
I know the consensus will be, "Well, she didn't feel OK about it, which should show you how desperate she was at the time." But I don't buy that.
Just recently I heard the conversation about who was not yet asked to be married, and how they "discussed it", and how she's "waiting for a ring", and it all seems so General Hospital or Santa Barbara or Days of Our Lives. And as much as I'm sure it does hurt those people, it's equally boring as those shows. Can a relationship mean very much if one person is willing to take it to work with her and pull it out after weather, the weekend, and that angry customer?
