While driving through a beautifully terrifying lightning storm on I-70 in Kansas, i found myself thinking this way:
Maybe the reason there are so many fanatical religious people in this state is because Kansas really has a god--a wrath-filled, old-testament sort of god, who hates everyone here.
----
All of my fingers have been tingling nonstop for about six hours. I did just complete a drive to and from the beach, so i figure it might be from prolonged contact with a vibrating steering wheel, but would any reader have any other ideas as to what could cause me to frequently encounter this?
----
I saw a production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch recently in Charlotte--pretty well done but obviously with a limited budget and for a limited, fringe audience.
*interestingly, Charlotte made a real ass of itself ten years ago when they decided to cut (and nearly eliminate) arts funding after disapproving of a local production of Angels in America for its apparent endorsement of homosexuality. The Tony Award-winning play was described by council members as depicting "perverted forms of sexuality" and the board, ignoring public outcry, decided that they couldn't endorse this sort of depravity and voted to only allow funding to approved theatres on a per-production basis. (see Britain's 1737 Theatre Licensing Act) This move, naturally, most directly harmed theatre education programs and deeply impeded the city's progress toward recognition as a "world class" metropolis.
Seeing as Hedwig not only ran, but ran without stirring up an angry mob, I think Charlotte's come a long way recently toward joining civilization.*
The show's performers were quite talented, but the production quality was diminished by inexpert sound mixing and equally amateurish lighting design (really, people with lines ought to be visible unless there's a good reason otherwise). While i feel no compulsion to try and spark interest in Charlotte theatre (honestly, around here, the folks who have any desire for entertainment where no helicopters blow up and no gigantic, sweaty men bash into each other while chasing a ball around are already In the theatre seats) i nevertheless feel bad for this area's pathetic audience size and negligible public funding. Increased public involvement would improve production quality as more money attracts more professional designers and technicians.
----
I've been typing for a while now and the tingling has abated. Comments?
----
The links referring to Charlotte's 1997 Anti-Gay legislation are old news, yes, but are still worth reading. If anything, they're a benchmark for progress, though the fact that politicians felt comfortable publicly announcing that "if I had my way, we'd shove [homosexuals] off the face of the earth" as recently as 10 years ago is so appalling its funny. The theatre referred to in the articles, Charlotte Rep, folded in 2005 from lack of funding. Banking capital of the south can't afford a decent arts community.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
sticky
I'm back in South Carolina and damn, i forgot what 100°F, 100% humidity felt like. and what it looks like when bugs kamikaze-dive into your windshield. and how Loud nature is. did you know bugs make noise in their spare time? I'd gotten so used to the high-altitude cool dryness and quietude i completely forgot that the south is absolutely not at all anything like that.
I got out of the car and my eyes immediately started watering and my sinuses stopped up like they were desperately trying to close the blast doors against invasion. There's all this...flora here.
On an interesting note, all of the sealed bottles in my luggage crunched and squished on the drive down from 9,000 feet to sea level. the altitude change did a similar number on my ears. I wonder, if you dropped a lightbulb out of an airplane at cruising height, how long would it fall before it popped?
I got out of the car and my eyes immediately started watering and my sinuses stopped up like they were desperately trying to close the blast doors against invasion. There's all this...flora here.
On an interesting note, all of the sealed bottles in my luggage crunched and squished on the drive down from 9,000 feet to sea level. the altitude change did a similar number on my ears. I wonder, if you dropped a lightbulb out of an airplane at cruising height, how long would it fall before it popped?
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Thor's Back Yard
Today i went to Garden of the Gods, a truly beautiful rock formation near Colorado Springs. It was most tranquil. And to think, until i was invited, I'd never heard of the place. Next time i'll come with climbing gear.
"Balanced" rock. Looks crazy precarious, right?
Until you notice that some poor park manager has to come out on a regular basis and maintain its natural majesty (and keep it from rolling away) with a bit of concrete as erosion tries to take its course. Several large rocks were also supported with brick columns where people tended to walk. I felt cheated.
Some big rocks, some clouds. you know how it is.
We made a friend on the drive down along a dirt ridge road through a national forest. Click to enlarge.
Some more crazy geological balancing acts--though these ones looked genuine.
A small shrub-growing sunflower. It was posing for me.
"Balanced" rock. Looks crazy precarious, right?
Until you notice that some poor park manager has to come out on a regular basis and maintain its natural majesty (and keep it from rolling away) with a bit of concrete as erosion tries to take its course. Several large rocks were also supported with brick columns where people tended to walk. I felt cheated.
Some big rocks, some clouds. you know how it is.
We made a friend on the drive down along a dirt ridge road through a national forest. Click to enlarge.
Some more crazy geological balancing acts--though these ones looked genuine.
A small shrub-growing sunflower. It was posing for me.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
wikisurf
last night I started digging through the archives of the webcomic XKCD in Firefox, one tab on the comic, one tab on Wikipedia, and every time i didn't get a joke, i looked up the reference. as of now, i'm 120 comics in and i've looked up about 15 science, math, and computing terms, people, and processes and have a vague notion of what they are. I'm fairly certain my notion will remain vague, too--i don't think i'm going to to enroll in grad school just to get a few jokes.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
piave vecchio
Everyone has their own quirky relationship with food. i was considering my own at the grocery store today and i decided that food makes me happy. but more than that, the very prospect of food makes me happy. i enjoy driving home with a trunkful of edible items, knowing that they are mine and i can eat them whenever i want. and that's not to say i then go home and gork out on everything i bought and lie around the rest of the day in a food coma--i put everything away, taste the dairy products to make sure they're good, and then typically walk away, safe in the knowledge that i will not starve for another week. i like Looking at the food. i'll spend any number of minutes looking at the grocery store displays of imported cheeses and gourmet olives...and buy neither. i'll compare the labels on two different types of pasta sauce and put both back. i could wander the aisles for days, without even bringing my wallet, and just appreciate what i see.
well, i could if i had access to a Trader Joe's or a store with an appreciable organic section. most of the time i spend reading labels its out of sheer curiosity--what kinds of chemistry went into this? how many ingredients can i pronounce? how much effort went into making this look, taste, and smell like tomatoes without actually using any tomatoes? what's the point?
i don't take comfort in eating, but for some reason, i really like groceries.
well, i could if i had access to a Trader Joe's or a store with an appreciable organic section. most of the time i spend reading labels its out of sheer curiosity--what kinds of chemistry went into this? how many ingredients can i pronounce? how much effort went into making this look, taste, and smell like tomatoes without actually using any tomatoes? what's the point?
i don't take comfort in eating, but for some reason, i really like groceries.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
A Local Adventure
“Gin tonic?”
“I forgot my wallet.”
“I’ll start you a tab. C’mon.”
“Nah, not tonight.”
The bartender looked hurt--an expression he’d mastered through years of practice on suckers who tipped well after just one more drink. Still sulking pointedly at me, he began to twist the lid off a coffee carafe.
“Oh fine. A cup of coffee. Black.”
“Bailey’s?”
“Black.”
He grinned then, his dark eyes twinkling, and began to slowly release a dose of hour-old java into a tumbler. He leaned in, conspiratorially close, and spoke in a rushed whisper while he poured.
“So i saw you with--”
“Bo, we Work together.”
“Come On, you know she--”
“I promise, there’s nothing going on between us.”
He winked, disbelieving, and said for the company at large, ”Sure you don’t want a shot of something in this?”
I rolled my eyes and looked over at a couple a few seats closer to the door. I recognized the girl as a bartender from the only other joint in town that wasn’t predominantly a casino. Her left ear had been tattooed uniformly blue, though she was known to claim for anyone who asked that it was marbled with patterns in green and turquoise. The guy i didn’t know, but from the fact that she was hanging off of him like a loud, wiggly leech, i guessed they were involved. He glanced toward me, a look of resigned tolerance in his eyes, and I smirked sympathetically.
Blue-ear turned round, grinned drunkenly at me, and shouted as quietly as possible, “we’re crashing a party. You’re coming too.”
My smile of greeting quickly dissolved into the furrowed brow of confusion and embarrassment. They have parties in this county? What on earth is this girl’s name?
“Oh yeah? Where is it?”
“Up the mountain. In the campground. Friends of mine--good people.”
“Then why do we have to crash it?”
She smiled knowingly and turned away, regarded the lit cigarette in her hand with some surprise, and took a drag. Bo offered me an olive, but a quick estimation of the manner in which its briny flavor would mingle with the coffee on my palate led me to hastily refuse it. The bartender again pretended to take this personally and wandered off. I sipped my drink.
A hand grabbed my wrist and a drop of lukewarm coffee flew out of my glass. My self-proclaimed hostess had upended her martini into her mouth and, slamming down the empty stemware, tugged my hand and hollered, “Come on!” Seeing little choice, i drained my cup, waved to anyone who might be nearby, and followed my arm out the door.
We all climbed into the guy’s jeep, her clutching a brandy snifter that she’d filled with flowers plucked from a window-box to “make it legal.” The front passenger door was broken, she giddily explained, because she had been holding it open while he backed up and it smacked into a street sign.
“Its up here a ways,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the windshield. We followed a main road up the mountain until it turned to dirt, then dropped down to one lane. The headlights illuminated nothing but trees and the next hairpin turn as the jeep trundled around the mountain in a generally upward direction. After listening to a few minutes of her of idly chattering with herself, i picked up that her name was Cheryl, and his Justin. After taking enough left turns to convince me we’d gone in a circle twice, we passed two campers and rolled to a stop.
When I opened the door I was taken aback by the utter darkness and quiet we’d driven into. I gave my hand an experimental wave in front of my face and found it invisible. Only when i walked around the back of the vehicle did i see the modest campfire a few dozen yards away, illuminating a few human forms.
“Fuck you! Fuuuuuuuuck yoooooooou!” came from my right, and startled, i turned to see the dim outline that was Cheryl making lewd gestures and pelvic thrusts toward the small knot of people by the fire. She would continue with outbursts of this kind throughout the night, each one met with a grim sort of resignation on tolerance. A small, round figure detached itself from the picnic area and bustled toward us, but not before I heard the comment, “oh god, she found us.” from the table.
I was introduced to a forty-something mountain woman named Heidi who smilingly offered me a drink and tried to ignore Cheryl while she shouted profanities into her ear. She ushered us toward the campsite, where I was introduced to Dinah, Betty, and John, all somewhere between forty-five and seventy, who graciously offered me the remnants of their spread, a space at the table, and drinks. I could tell that the party had been winding down for quite some time--the food had been put away, the fire had not been stoked, and i saw the remains of paper plates smoldering near the edge of the pit. Our arrival was, quite obviously, not entirely welcome.
I tried to make the best of it. Dinah, a smallish curly-haired woman who seemed jovial, struck up a conversation with me. After the usual pleasantries it was only a matter of time before I mentioned I worked for the opera, which elicited a groan from the party at large.
“We don’t Like the opera. Its why we’re all up here in the summer.” she explained.
My look of astonishment prompted her to explain further.
“You’re noisy, you’re rude, you take our parking spaces and take over our bars. You invade our town, and we don’t enjoy it. But we know how much money y’all make for the town, so rather than get y’all out, we leave.”
Fidgeting with my jacket, I muttered something about how that wasn’t necessarily true for everyone--there are some nice people down the hill, but she waved it off.
“Honey, I’ve been living up here for fifteen years. After the first summer we learned to just head for the hills until y’all go away. No offense intended.”
Offended, I attempted to change the subject, but was left at a loss. Cheryl took the quiet moment as an opportunity to shout obscenities at the world, breaking off near the end into a bloodcurdling scream. I covered my ears. Catching Dinah’s eye, I commented, “and I thought the sopranos were bad.”
“What, don’t you sing?”
“Oh no, I work in props.”
“Oh! Why didn’t you mention it?” she smiled and gently scolded, “i don’t mind working people.”
I smiled and nodded in what i hoped was a friendly manner while she nattered on about the value of a day’s hard work. Next to her, quiet until now, John piped up.
“Where’s the rum?”
I spotted it in front of me and handed it over before starting to pour myself a vodka-lemonade. He took it without looking at me and cradled it in the crook of an elbow.
Dinah and I got on to chatting about local events and music while Betty fussed over the table, putting pickles and olives in baggies and stacking paper plates. Behind me, Heidi and Cheryl cackled, Cheryl somewhat hysterically, while Justin’s presence was only noted by the glowing orange end of his cigarette.
“Where’s the rum?”
John, still cradling the bottle and beginning to look indignant, gave me a meaningful look, as though I was hiding it from him.
looking straight at the bottle, I replied, “Oh, I thought I handed it to you. Is it not on your side of the table?”
Dinah patted his arm and said, “oh look! Here it is!” She pulled the bottle out of his arms and placed it on the table in front of him.
He stared at it, dumbstruck, before turning to her and asking where the coke was. I winced when i saw he had an unopened one in his hand. Dinah, smiling, patted the top of it and offered to open it. As she was getting her fingernails positioned, Betty came behind her and tersely shook her head.
“My husband is done drinking tonight. Isn’t that right, hon?”
John seemed not to hear her and grabbed the rum bottle again.
I began to sip my drink rather quickly.
The conversation turned to me--Dinah seemed genuinely interested in where I came from and what I did. After explaining the rather transient nature of my lifestyle and emphasizing the fact that I was an honor graduate who spent a good chunk of her time sweeping floors, John piped up again.
“Well no offense intended, but you’re just a baby! Moving all around, workin, when you should be growing up, with your momma.”
Offended again, I changed the subject to Cirque du Soleil and hoped it would stay there. Cheryl began throwing random items into the fire. Heidi’s smile looked painful. Justin seemed to be absorbed in studying his burning tobacco. Dinah became excited at the mention of Cirque and began describing the set to me, moments after I mentioned that I’d not only seen it, but had a backstage tour.
“And the stage is set up so that its right in the middle of the tent--the audience is on both sides. Crazy.”
“Yeah, that’s called a Courtyard stage. You don’t see it very often.”
“Yeah! And they did this thing with a midget and balloons...”
“Where’s the rum? My wife hasn’t fed me all day. Said she was gonna make chicken. Never had no chicken.”
Betty, sealing up a bag of sliced onions, said, “chicken is tomorrow. Tonight we had pork.”
“Well why didn’t you give me any?”
I glanced toward the fire where a badly-thrown paper plate still bore the residue of a barbecue picnic--a greasy spot with some gristle, a few neglected baked beans in their brown gravy, little smudges of cole slaw and corn. I thought of my grandfather and looked away.
“We’re going!” A yank on my wrist. Cheryl held me at arm’s length while i downed my fairly weak drink and tossed the ice in the woods. Heidi hugged me, saying “it was very nice to meet you, um... Girl.”
“Heidi, it was a pleasure.”
I followed the dynamic duo back to the jeep, Cheryl screaming like it was going out of style, and hoped we’d be off toward town. Halfway out of the campground, however, Cheryl told Justin to head toward Nevadaville.
“I wanna show her my parents’ house.” she said, as he turned away from the light and comparative civilization of Central City. “I lived there for two and a half years, eleven years ago. It doesn’t have power or water, but my parents asked me to keep an eye on it after it was broken into. So I moved in. I moved in with my dog, two cats, and a sawed-off shotgun. And yeah, I didn’t have a shower so I took a bucket down to the culvert some days and used a sponge and yeah, i didn’t smell great, but, y’know, if you’re gonna judge me on that i don’t have any patience for you. And I Know they told me not to use that culvert water but what was I gonna do? I boiled it before I drank it, anyway. I didn’t see what the big deal was. Justin baby, gimme a cigarette.”
Central City’s streetlights now hidden by half a mountain, the only proof I had we were still on a road was the occasional glimpse of a upward curve from my perch in the back seat. The jeep was tossed around by the haphazard arrangement of clods that made up the only link between Central and this ghost town. My tolerant smile briefly turned into a grimace as my imagination suggested that they weren’t just taking me out into the middle of nowhere to show off a house. I was trying to reassure myself that this Penn and Teller-esque duo was the harmless kind of crazy when Cheryl became coherent again.
“Justin’s daughter died recently, so if he seems like he’s being a jerk that’s probably why. If it bothers you, though, just kick him in the kidneys. Baby, gimme a cigarette.”
She wedged her toes into the space between his chair back and seat, causing him to jump and nearly drop the car’s lighter in his lap. He passed her the lit Parliament and she rolled down the window, rested her smoking hand in the corner, and promptly forgot about it.
“The house is just around here. Slow down. Off to your right. Stop--look.”
Justin held the brake but, to my relief, did not park the car. We peered out the passenger side at a surprisingly beautiful two-story Spanish-style house. The windows and doorways were all arched, the roof was tiled, and I saw what could have been a balcony overlooking the overgrown gardens in the moonlight.
It took me a moment to realize Cheryl was actually speaking to me when she pointed past the line of the chimney at a small rectangular structure that could only be an outhouse.
“And that, see there? That’s where they found a three year old girl after she’d been missing for a month. Of course nobody used that anymore at the time so nobody looked until the bugs showed up. Even I didn’t use it when I was living here without plumbing, not after that. Its probably haunted, y’know? Hell, the whole town is haunted. My dog was always seein’ things, barking at nothing out here...” my attention trailed off.
Justin put the car back in drive and it was only a few feet before I recognized where I was for the first time in two hours. We rolled toward town and a part of me was prepared to tuck and roll out of the back seat if it came to it, but Justin spoke for the first time all evening.
“You live in Opera housing?”
“Yeah--Parish.”
“I’ll drop you off.”
He pulled up outside of my house.
“it was a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too.”
Cheryl hugged me like i was an old friend she hadn’t seen in decades and called me a whore.
“Fuck you too!”
I jumped out of the car and waved while they slowly rolled away.
“I forgot my wallet.”
“I’ll start you a tab. C’mon.”
“Nah, not tonight.”
The bartender looked hurt--an expression he’d mastered through years of practice on suckers who tipped well after just one more drink. Still sulking pointedly at me, he began to twist the lid off a coffee carafe.
“Oh fine. A cup of coffee. Black.”
“Bailey’s?”
“Black.”
He grinned then, his dark eyes twinkling, and began to slowly release a dose of hour-old java into a tumbler. He leaned in, conspiratorially close, and spoke in a rushed whisper while he poured.
“So i saw you with--”
“Bo, we Work together.”
“Come On, you know she--”
“I promise, there’s nothing going on between us.”
He winked, disbelieving, and said for the company at large, ”Sure you don’t want a shot of something in this?”
I rolled my eyes and looked over at a couple a few seats closer to the door. I recognized the girl as a bartender from the only other joint in town that wasn’t predominantly a casino. Her left ear had been tattooed uniformly blue, though she was known to claim for anyone who asked that it was marbled with patterns in green and turquoise. The guy i didn’t know, but from the fact that she was hanging off of him like a loud, wiggly leech, i guessed they were involved. He glanced toward me, a look of resigned tolerance in his eyes, and I smirked sympathetically.
Blue-ear turned round, grinned drunkenly at me, and shouted as quietly as possible, “we’re crashing a party. You’re coming too.”
My smile of greeting quickly dissolved into the furrowed brow of confusion and embarrassment. They have parties in this county? What on earth is this girl’s name?
“Oh yeah? Where is it?”
“Up the mountain. In the campground. Friends of mine--good people.”
“Then why do we have to crash it?”
She smiled knowingly and turned away, regarded the lit cigarette in her hand with some surprise, and took a drag. Bo offered me an olive, but a quick estimation of the manner in which its briny flavor would mingle with the coffee on my palate led me to hastily refuse it. The bartender again pretended to take this personally and wandered off. I sipped my drink.
A hand grabbed my wrist and a drop of lukewarm coffee flew out of my glass. My self-proclaimed hostess had upended her martini into her mouth and, slamming down the empty stemware, tugged my hand and hollered, “Come on!” Seeing little choice, i drained my cup, waved to anyone who might be nearby, and followed my arm out the door.
We all climbed into the guy’s jeep, her clutching a brandy snifter that she’d filled with flowers plucked from a window-box to “make it legal.” The front passenger door was broken, she giddily explained, because she had been holding it open while he backed up and it smacked into a street sign.
“Its up here a ways,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the windshield. We followed a main road up the mountain until it turned to dirt, then dropped down to one lane. The headlights illuminated nothing but trees and the next hairpin turn as the jeep trundled around the mountain in a generally upward direction. After listening to a few minutes of her of idly chattering with herself, i picked up that her name was Cheryl, and his Justin. After taking enough left turns to convince me we’d gone in a circle twice, we passed two campers and rolled to a stop.
When I opened the door I was taken aback by the utter darkness and quiet we’d driven into. I gave my hand an experimental wave in front of my face and found it invisible. Only when i walked around the back of the vehicle did i see the modest campfire a few dozen yards away, illuminating a few human forms.
“Fuck you! Fuuuuuuuuck yoooooooou!” came from my right, and startled, i turned to see the dim outline that was Cheryl making lewd gestures and pelvic thrusts toward the small knot of people by the fire. She would continue with outbursts of this kind throughout the night, each one met with a grim sort of resignation on tolerance. A small, round figure detached itself from the picnic area and bustled toward us, but not before I heard the comment, “oh god, she found us.” from the table.
I was introduced to a forty-something mountain woman named Heidi who smilingly offered me a drink and tried to ignore Cheryl while she shouted profanities into her ear. She ushered us toward the campsite, where I was introduced to Dinah, Betty, and John, all somewhere between forty-five and seventy, who graciously offered me the remnants of their spread, a space at the table, and drinks. I could tell that the party had been winding down for quite some time--the food had been put away, the fire had not been stoked, and i saw the remains of paper plates smoldering near the edge of the pit. Our arrival was, quite obviously, not entirely welcome.
I tried to make the best of it. Dinah, a smallish curly-haired woman who seemed jovial, struck up a conversation with me. After the usual pleasantries it was only a matter of time before I mentioned I worked for the opera, which elicited a groan from the party at large.
“We don’t Like the opera. Its why we’re all up here in the summer.” she explained.
My look of astonishment prompted her to explain further.
“You’re noisy, you’re rude, you take our parking spaces and take over our bars. You invade our town, and we don’t enjoy it. But we know how much money y’all make for the town, so rather than get y’all out, we leave.”
Fidgeting with my jacket, I muttered something about how that wasn’t necessarily true for everyone--there are some nice people down the hill, but she waved it off.
“Honey, I’ve been living up here for fifteen years. After the first summer we learned to just head for the hills until y’all go away. No offense intended.”
Offended, I attempted to change the subject, but was left at a loss. Cheryl took the quiet moment as an opportunity to shout obscenities at the world, breaking off near the end into a bloodcurdling scream. I covered my ears. Catching Dinah’s eye, I commented, “and I thought the sopranos were bad.”
“What, don’t you sing?”
“Oh no, I work in props.”
“Oh! Why didn’t you mention it?” she smiled and gently scolded, “i don’t mind working people.”
I smiled and nodded in what i hoped was a friendly manner while she nattered on about the value of a day’s hard work. Next to her, quiet until now, John piped up.
“Where’s the rum?”
I spotted it in front of me and handed it over before starting to pour myself a vodka-lemonade. He took it without looking at me and cradled it in the crook of an elbow.
Dinah and I got on to chatting about local events and music while Betty fussed over the table, putting pickles and olives in baggies and stacking paper plates. Behind me, Heidi and Cheryl cackled, Cheryl somewhat hysterically, while Justin’s presence was only noted by the glowing orange end of his cigarette.
“Where’s the rum?”
John, still cradling the bottle and beginning to look indignant, gave me a meaningful look, as though I was hiding it from him.
looking straight at the bottle, I replied, “Oh, I thought I handed it to you. Is it not on your side of the table?”
Dinah patted his arm and said, “oh look! Here it is!” She pulled the bottle out of his arms and placed it on the table in front of him.
He stared at it, dumbstruck, before turning to her and asking where the coke was. I winced when i saw he had an unopened one in his hand. Dinah, smiling, patted the top of it and offered to open it. As she was getting her fingernails positioned, Betty came behind her and tersely shook her head.
“My husband is done drinking tonight. Isn’t that right, hon?”
John seemed not to hear her and grabbed the rum bottle again.
I began to sip my drink rather quickly.
The conversation turned to me--Dinah seemed genuinely interested in where I came from and what I did. After explaining the rather transient nature of my lifestyle and emphasizing the fact that I was an honor graduate who spent a good chunk of her time sweeping floors, John piped up again.
“Well no offense intended, but you’re just a baby! Moving all around, workin, when you should be growing up, with your momma.”
Offended again, I changed the subject to Cirque du Soleil and hoped it would stay there. Cheryl began throwing random items into the fire. Heidi’s smile looked painful. Justin seemed to be absorbed in studying his burning tobacco. Dinah became excited at the mention of Cirque and began describing the set to me, moments after I mentioned that I’d not only seen it, but had a backstage tour.
“And the stage is set up so that its right in the middle of the tent--the audience is on both sides. Crazy.”
“Yeah, that’s called a Courtyard stage. You don’t see it very often.”
“Yeah! And they did this thing with a midget and balloons...”
“Where’s the rum? My wife hasn’t fed me all day. Said she was gonna make chicken. Never had no chicken.”
Betty, sealing up a bag of sliced onions, said, “chicken is tomorrow. Tonight we had pork.”
“Well why didn’t you give me any?”
I glanced toward the fire where a badly-thrown paper plate still bore the residue of a barbecue picnic--a greasy spot with some gristle, a few neglected baked beans in their brown gravy, little smudges of cole slaw and corn. I thought of my grandfather and looked away.
“We’re going!” A yank on my wrist. Cheryl held me at arm’s length while i downed my fairly weak drink and tossed the ice in the woods. Heidi hugged me, saying “it was very nice to meet you, um... Girl.”
“Heidi, it was a pleasure.”
I followed the dynamic duo back to the jeep, Cheryl screaming like it was going out of style, and hoped we’d be off toward town. Halfway out of the campground, however, Cheryl told Justin to head toward Nevadaville.
“I wanna show her my parents’ house.” she said, as he turned away from the light and comparative civilization of Central City. “I lived there for two and a half years, eleven years ago. It doesn’t have power or water, but my parents asked me to keep an eye on it after it was broken into. So I moved in. I moved in with my dog, two cats, and a sawed-off shotgun. And yeah, I didn’t have a shower so I took a bucket down to the culvert some days and used a sponge and yeah, i didn’t smell great, but, y’know, if you’re gonna judge me on that i don’t have any patience for you. And I Know they told me not to use that culvert water but what was I gonna do? I boiled it before I drank it, anyway. I didn’t see what the big deal was. Justin baby, gimme a cigarette.”
Central City’s streetlights now hidden by half a mountain, the only proof I had we were still on a road was the occasional glimpse of a upward curve from my perch in the back seat. The jeep was tossed around by the haphazard arrangement of clods that made up the only link between Central and this ghost town. My tolerant smile briefly turned into a grimace as my imagination suggested that they weren’t just taking me out into the middle of nowhere to show off a house. I was trying to reassure myself that this Penn and Teller-esque duo was the harmless kind of crazy when Cheryl became coherent again.
“Justin’s daughter died recently, so if he seems like he’s being a jerk that’s probably why. If it bothers you, though, just kick him in the kidneys. Baby, gimme a cigarette.”
She wedged her toes into the space between his chair back and seat, causing him to jump and nearly drop the car’s lighter in his lap. He passed her the lit Parliament and she rolled down the window, rested her smoking hand in the corner, and promptly forgot about it.
“The house is just around here. Slow down. Off to your right. Stop--look.”
Justin held the brake but, to my relief, did not park the car. We peered out the passenger side at a surprisingly beautiful two-story Spanish-style house. The windows and doorways were all arched, the roof was tiled, and I saw what could have been a balcony overlooking the overgrown gardens in the moonlight.
It took me a moment to realize Cheryl was actually speaking to me when she pointed past the line of the chimney at a small rectangular structure that could only be an outhouse.
“And that, see there? That’s where they found a three year old girl after she’d been missing for a month. Of course nobody used that anymore at the time so nobody looked until the bugs showed up. Even I didn’t use it when I was living here without plumbing, not after that. Its probably haunted, y’know? Hell, the whole town is haunted. My dog was always seein’ things, barking at nothing out here...” my attention trailed off.
Justin put the car back in drive and it was only a few feet before I recognized where I was for the first time in two hours. We rolled toward town and a part of me was prepared to tuck and roll out of the back seat if it came to it, but Justin spoke for the first time all evening.
“You live in Opera housing?”
“Yeah--Parish.”
“I’ll drop you off.”
He pulled up outside of my house.
“it was a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too.”
Cheryl hugged me like i was an old friend she hadn’t seen in decades and called me a whore.
“Fuck you too!”
I jumped out of the car and waved while they slowly rolled away.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
puffed sleeves
I haven't worked in the prop shop in a week. Now that all the shows are open that gig seems to be over--notes and repairs are now to be taken care of by the union guys. I'm more than a little miffed--that means my job from here on out includes little more than cleaning the opera house, answering phones, driving people around, and wearing my adorable little uniform with the high collar and puffed sleeves to usher elderly, feeble, angry, cantankerous, foul-smelling, wealthy patrons around. This place is like a historic, tradition-rich, chandelier-studded day care center.
Starting Linebacker for the 1876 Central City Opera Powder Puff Football Team
Starting Linebacker for the 1876 Central City Opera Powder Puff Football Team
Because what outfit is complete without a sewn-on broach and a visible hook and eye closure? The flap conceals over 20 tiny, fiddly snaps.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Lop
I feel like me again.
Congratulations, Kent Uni graduates! Get a job! Get a haircut! The fun's over!
Props update: today i "blinged" handbags for our quasi-modern production of Cendrillon, which opens Saturday. The idea behind these is there are 4 "modistes" who come in to dress the Stepsisters, and their image is 19th century Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I just work here, folks.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Quirky Old Houses
This morning (okay, afternoon, but its my only day off, gimme a break) I was rudely awoken by all of the doors on my floor of the house suddenly blowing open. Seeing as three of the seven doors on this floor lead to my room--hallway, kitchen, and cellar (i'm pretty sure this room was originally intended to be a kitchenette) --it came as a bit of a nasty shock. Particularly the cellar bit. There's nothing quite like waking up and seeing immediately into the gaping black maw of your own personal portal to the underworld. Not that i've got a George Denbrough-esque terror of cellars. Its just a bit daunting when that's the first thing you see upon being snapped out of a delightful 12-hour reverie by the sound and feeling of your house landing in Oz.
Now, none of the doors in my room actually latch. Typically they stay closed fine when you wedge them real good into their frames, but you don't have to turn the knobs for access. Occasionally someone in the kitchen will bump one open with the refrigerator door if they let it swing free, and stepping in just the right place in the hall with just the right amount of weight will release the other one. Naturally, the cellar door opens whenever the spirit moves it. I'm generally okay with this, as they can all be explained by natural pheonmena. (weight, impact, ghosts) But what boggles the mind is when the front and back doors open spontaneously, as both latch securely. The front door in particular can only be opened from outside with a key. It is possible that it was not actually closed this morning, and when the wind picked up it just swung and banged into the wall, but the back door needs some explaining. Nobody uses it. After I closed it, i tried bumping and pulling and shimmying it about to get it to overcome its latch, but to no avail. It's one firmly-closed door.
So i guess the only thing it could possibly be is the house felt stuffy and opted to get some fresh air. I figure, once a house gets to being about 130 years old, it can make that call for itself.
Now, none of the doors in my room actually latch. Typically they stay closed fine when you wedge them real good into their frames, but you don't have to turn the knobs for access. Occasionally someone in the kitchen will bump one open with the refrigerator door if they let it swing free, and stepping in just the right place in the hall with just the right amount of weight will release the other one. Naturally, the cellar door opens whenever the spirit moves it. I'm generally okay with this, as they can all be explained by natural pheonmena. (weight, impact, ghosts) But what boggles the mind is when the front and back doors open spontaneously, as both latch securely. The front door in particular can only be opened from outside with a key. It is possible that it was not actually closed this morning, and when the wind picked up it just swung and banged into the wall, but the back door needs some explaining. Nobody uses it. After I closed it, i tried bumping and pulling and shimmying it about to get it to overcome its latch, but to no avail. It's one firmly-closed door.
So i guess the only thing it could possibly be is the house felt stuffy and opted to get some fresh air. I figure, once a house gets to being about 130 years old, it can make that call for itself.
Monday, July 02, 2007
power tools
Working around unions is frustrating when you are not a member. Certain divisions are lain out in my workplace to ensure that the union members are able to do all of the work they are entitled to, which of course means that non-members get the dregs, basically, of their task list. In the central city props department, there are 3 union workers and 3 non-union. The union guys work in the opera house itself while the rest of us work up the street a ways in a small room filled with furniture and fake flowers. The idea is they do the big jobs--furniture construction, major upholstery, welding and major repairs, in addition to running shows--while we do the smaller jobs--hand-prop construction, minor upholstery, minor repairs, flower arrangements and the like. I'm okay with that division most of the time--though i'd love to get my hands back on a welder--but the irksome part is the means we have of doing our light-duty work.
The small props shop does not have access to or license to use large scale power tools. While we have no real need for table and band saws as we're not building furniture or scenery, when push comes to shove it'd be a real asset to have a portable compound-miter saw off in a corner somewhere in our shop. Hand saws, macho as they may look, are the most inefficient tools for achieving small cuts besides perhaps spoons. Moreover, when you're cutting things like dowels and flag poles, no matter how well you clamp that somebitch to the table, your hand cut is going to go wonky somehow and look rough. When we need a cut to look nice, we have to take the project down the hill, hand it to a union guy, show him the mark or measurement, and let him take it inside to cut it. Nope--we can't even just run down the hill and borrow their tools.
I'm sure folks who've worked within or around unions before are quite used to this, but as a neophyte in the whole union-house business this came as a distinct frustration. My progress is impeded--A 20-second job takes 15 minutes around here in order to maintain the integrity of the union contract. That's a waste of everyone's time, particularly under the time crunch of summer stock. I understand the usefulness of labor unions--particularly in theatre where there's never enough money to go around and everybody wants to cut corners, resulting in the desirability of slave laborers (*ahem*interns) and the inability of unrepresented workers to make a living wage--but you've got to cut the rest of us a little slack. Afford us the tools we need to do our jobs too.
In other news, i have grey feet today after an afternoon painting a floor with a push broom.
The small props shop does not have access to or license to use large scale power tools. While we have no real need for table and band saws as we're not building furniture or scenery, when push comes to shove it'd be a real asset to have a portable compound-miter saw off in a corner somewhere in our shop. Hand saws, macho as they may look, are the most inefficient tools for achieving small cuts besides perhaps spoons. Moreover, when you're cutting things like dowels and flag poles, no matter how well you clamp that somebitch to the table, your hand cut is going to go wonky somehow and look rough. When we need a cut to look nice, we have to take the project down the hill, hand it to a union guy, show him the mark or measurement, and let him take it inside to cut it. Nope--we can't even just run down the hill and borrow their tools.
I'm sure folks who've worked within or around unions before are quite used to this, but as a neophyte in the whole union-house business this came as a distinct frustration. My progress is impeded--A 20-second job takes 15 minutes around here in order to maintain the integrity of the union contract. That's a waste of everyone's time, particularly under the time crunch of summer stock. I understand the usefulness of labor unions--particularly in theatre where there's never enough money to go around and everybody wants to cut corners, resulting in the desirability of slave laborers (*ahem*interns) and the inability of unrepresented workers to make a living wage--but you've got to cut the rest of us a little slack. Afford us the tools we need to do our jobs too.
In other news, i have grey feet today after an afternoon painting a floor with a push broom.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
rope, styrofoam, and a touch of love
100 Delicate Chocolates: Ingredients: 1 10"x 10"x 1 1/4" block of blue foam, 1 tub sculpt-or-coat, brown, black, red, white, yellow, and purple paints, and 2 artificial flowers.Serves 0
Cute oversized lollipops: yep, they're cotton rope.
"wickering" an aluminium table. note the unpainted yarn.
Before: yes, the clorox was necessary to kill some of the mold that had been growning in this chair for the past few years. Each of the little buttons had to be individually prised off. the red material behind them was some horrible version of pleather.
And After: the Prince's vanity chair for Cendrillon. The director hasn't picked out the edging yet (no, it will not go into performance with exposed staples.)
Just a taste of what i've been working on lately.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
the Organic conspiracy
I think I'm onto something. The other day i was at Safeway, comparing breads, comparing prices, and I came across an odd dichotomy. For those readers who may not be aware, Safeway has its own organic food line, called "O" Organics. For organic its mediocre, but at least they're trying. Anyway, I picked up a loaf of the Safeway Selects brand whole grain bread and looked at the ingredients list. After "enriched bleached flour" there wasn't actually anything I could pronounce. All sorts of "partially hydrogenated" this and "high-maltose" that, with plenty of Xs and Zs to baffle the vocabulary of even second-place spelling bee contestants. I put it down, disgusted, and picked up the O Organics variety, and found an ingredients list I could appreciate. Whole grain this, all-natural that...for twice the price of the other subset of the same parent company.
which got me thinking.
Does anyone else suspect that food manufacturers are doing this on purpose? Making the "regular" type of food so jam-packed with artificial ingredients and petroleum-based emulsifiers that its Entirely inedible, so as to force the consumer to purchase the higher-priced natural or organic option? There's absolutely no reason for bread makers to put That much garbage into their dough except to make another option more attractive. Its like selling pantyhose with runs in them for what you might consider a reasonable price, while selling the intact version for double. It generates a feeling in the purchaser of "well if that's what it costs broken, i guess its not unreasonable to pay a bit more for something useful." We assume, wrongly, that the corporation is willing to sell the holy pantyhose at a loss in order to get rid of them, and the good tights are sold for suggested retail value. But they're selling the trash for a reasonable price so as to justify the mark-up on the products we actually want!
I admit. I lived in Berkeley for a while. Everything in that area is organic, or at very least natural, and if its neither its sold in the trash grocery stores that nobody really shops at. Good local produce is reasonably priced and bountifully available. All-natural bread is sold by the heap for a pittance. Cereal doesn't have to include high-fructose corn syrup! There are options besides $4.00 tofu and stale granola! But now I am in the middle of the country where nobody expects that, and if you want it you've got to be willing to pay to ship it. People pay hard-earned money to buy canned stench that makes my nose bleed because some asshole company's marketing department has convinced folks that they want it. People buy mononitrate diglyceride sodium laurel and/or laureth sulfate partially hydrogenated cottonseed and/or canola oil-infused breads because for some bizarre reason its cheaper now in our better-life-through-chemistry economy. And the folks who actually bother to read the back before they bite in are going to just have to pay more for being a smartass. Well excuse me for not wanting to eat soap. The Man wants me to pay more to not store non-digestible plastic products in my abdomen? When did THIS become a concern? WHEN THE HELL DID REAL FOOD BECOME A LUXURY ITEM?????
No, thank you, i don't want day-glo orange lab-created UHP artficially flavored dairy-free powdered cheese product on my chlorine-bleached wheat-germ-extract-and-talc-based French-style bread product, nor would I like any 0% juice blue raspberry flavored high-dextrose corn syrup sweetened beverage to go with it. I just want a beer.
which got me thinking.
Does anyone else suspect that food manufacturers are doing this on purpose? Making the "regular" type of food so jam-packed with artificial ingredients and petroleum-based emulsifiers that its Entirely inedible, so as to force the consumer to purchase the higher-priced natural or organic option? There's absolutely no reason for bread makers to put That much garbage into their dough except to make another option more attractive. Its like selling pantyhose with runs in them for what you might consider a reasonable price, while selling the intact version for double. It generates a feeling in the purchaser of "well if that's what it costs broken, i guess its not unreasonable to pay a bit more for something useful." We assume, wrongly, that the corporation is willing to sell the holy pantyhose at a loss in order to get rid of them, and the good tights are sold for suggested retail value. But they're selling the trash for a reasonable price so as to justify the mark-up on the products we actually want!
I admit. I lived in Berkeley for a while. Everything in that area is organic, or at very least natural, and if its neither its sold in the trash grocery stores that nobody really shops at. Good local produce is reasonably priced and bountifully available. All-natural bread is sold by the heap for a pittance. Cereal doesn't have to include high-fructose corn syrup! There are options besides $4.00 tofu and stale granola! But now I am in the middle of the country where nobody expects that, and if you want it you've got to be willing to pay to ship it. People pay hard-earned money to buy canned stench that makes my nose bleed because some asshole company's marketing department has convinced folks that they want it. People buy mononitrate diglyceride sodium laurel and/or laureth sulfate partially hydrogenated cottonseed and/or canola oil-infused breads because for some bizarre reason its cheaper now in our better-life-through-chemistry economy. And the folks who actually bother to read the back before they bite in are going to just have to pay more for being a smartass. Well excuse me for not wanting to eat soap. The Man wants me to pay more to not store non-digestible plastic products in my abdomen? When did THIS become a concern? WHEN THE HELL DID REAL FOOD BECOME A LUXURY ITEM?????
No, thank you, i don't want day-glo orange lab-created UHP artficially flavored dairy-free powdered cheese product on my chlorine-bleached wheat-germ-extract-and-talc-based French-style bread product, nor would I like any 0% juice blue raspberry flavored high-dextrose corn syrup sweetened beverage to go with it. I just want a beer.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Saturday, June 09, 2007
its just too pretty out here
In other news, i swore at my boss today after he knocked an artificial tree onto my head and, in lieu of apologising, said "well i warned you." (he didn't.) i may have upped the already teeth-grinding tension in my shop. the social friction in there is so intense the lights flicker. i have a bruise now.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
switch, bitch
Three weeks ago my job involved creating things such as this:
(note: the yellow cart, not the welder itself.)
but since i got out here my job involves projects more of this flavor:
Er...yeah. I have no idea.
(note: the yellow cart, not the welder itself.)
but since i got out here my job involves projects more of this flavor:
Er...yeah. I have no idea.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
The Bar
I'd never had a regular hangout before I moved to Central City--a cafe or bar or park where I would arrive and expect to bump into people I know, where the bartender would know my name, and I could even leave an outstanding tab for a number of days 'cos they know i'm good for it. Sure there have been pubs and coffeehouses that i've frequented and the barista or staffer would smile with vague recognition, and occasionally i'd run into a friend, but up until now I'd never actually had a bartender look up when I came in and say "Evening, Kristen--the usual?"
Its quite nice, actually--knowing there's somewhere I can go when home gets too cubical--like Cheers, or Moe's, or the Drunken Clam... it does mean i'm showing signs of alcoholism, true, but it also means i'm getting out more. I've lived here two weeks and i've already established my social position--not just the crowd I run with but i've picked out bosom companions and a couple of mortal enemies. Elsewhere its taken me months or even years to get my societal bearings (and in instances such as middle school, i never actually landed a place at all) but i figure that in a situation such as summer stock every aspect of human interaction has a certain rushed quality to it. In the backs of our minds we all know that our likelihoods of encountering one another anytime soon after the close of our contracts are fairly low, so we work to have a well-rounded three month social experience that can end cleanly when the theater shuts its doors. We meet in a large heap, we get a vague notion of one another's interests, experiences, and qualities, we evaluate one another based on those impressions, and from there we branch off. some become cliques, some date, some fight, some never cross paths, but at the end of the summer we all feel that everything--not just the theatre season, but the friendships, the brief loves, the teeth-gritting feuds--are over and moot. After a few months we forget everyone's names and are only reminded of each other's continued existence by the occasional Facebook post and the random search through one's phone book. Just the other day i came across a name in my cell phone which prompted the thought "oh yeah! he was...er...i know i know him..." and it took me a while to realize he was once my boss. But that's the lifestyle.
so yeah. the bar. Its fun to realize that you can look over at a friend and ask "you going to the bar tonight?" and both of you know exactly which bar, at exactly what time. (partly because there's only one real bar in Central, but it's run by good people and the mayor makes pizza on weekends so we don't mind.) I like this concept--my home bar.
In other news, i wrenched my back this morning and may have to seek out a chiropractor. I'm walking like C-3PO.
Its quite nice, actually--knowing there's somewhere I can go when home gets too cubical--like Cheers, or Moe's, or the Drunken Clam... it does mean i'm showing signs of alcoholism, true, but it also means i'm getting out more. I've lived here two weeks and i've already established my social position--not just the crowd I run with but i've picked out bosom companions and a couple of mortal enemies. Elsewhere its taken me months or even years to get my societal bearings (and in instances such as middle school, i never actually landed a place at all) but i figure that in a situation such as summer stock every aspect of human interaction has a certain rushed quality to it. In the backs of our minds we all know that our likelihoods of encountering one another anytime soon after the close of our contracts are fairly low, so we work to have a well-rounded three month social experience that can end cleanly when the theater shuts its doors. We meet in a large heap, we get a vague notion of one another's interests, experiences, and qualities, we evaluate one another based on those impressions, and from there we branch off. some become cliques, some date, some fight, some never cross paths, but at the end of the summer we all feel that everything--not just the theatre season, but the friendships, the brief loves, the teeth-gritting feuds--are over and moot. After a few months we forget everyone's names and are only reminded of each other's continued existence by the occasional Facebook post and the random search through one's phone book. Just the other day i came across a name in my cell phone which prompted the thought "oh yeah! he was...er...i know i know him..." and it took me a while to realize he was once my boss. But that's the lifestyle.
so yeah. the bar. Its fun to realize that you can look over at a friend and ask "you going to the bar tonight?" and both of you know exactly which bar, at exactly what time. (partly because there's only one real bar in Central, but it's run by good people and the mayor makes pizza on weekends so we don't mind.) I like this concept--my home bar.
In other news, i wrenched my back this morning and may have to seek out a chiropractor. I'm walking like C-3PO.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
more, harder, heavier
Maybe its just the year I was born, or maybe its just dumb luck, but somehow, everywhere I've worked and everywhere I've studied, I've come in for the year that everything has gotten more intense. In school I came in for the first year that the freshman class was so vast we overflowed the housing and wound up taking over two hotels. When I studied abroad it was the biggest class of international students they'd ever encountered and there was another housing crunch. In the Hamptons it was the heaviest show load the theatre had ever encountered with the least amount of time. Berkeley also took on the most interns they'd ever had and, lo and behold, another housing crunch. Now my Opera is 17 housing units short and is putting on the most shows they've ever tried in a summer, which means I'm rooming in a pantry and better appreciate it.
My whole Life has been like this. Always the first time we've tried this, and its always more than the institution is prepared to handle. Always above and beyond capacity, both for space and stress. For some reason folks tend to forget that when you try to build upward, its a good idea to build outward too so the tower doesn't teeter.
I'm getting tired of it, frankly. I'm sick of feeling crammed in by establishments that are not capable of handling the bulk. Feeling marginalized and perpetually reduced to child-status by companies that have no room to move upward, so they just shove bigger and bigger groups through on the bottom floor, in one door, out the other. I know a lot of money has already gone toward establishing this point long before now, but its starting to strike home with me. The human lifespan has increased so the retirement age has increased. Which means older people are holding onto jobs longer. So employment turnover has slowed. What's more, social security benefits have dropped, pensions are a thing of the past, and a lot of investment plans have tanked as major corporations have dealt underhandedly, so even folks who are of age to retire can't without being put out on the street. There's not enough money to go around, so everyone is working more, longer, and harder to try and get enough, which means more people are earning more so inflation has ballooned to compensate. This sucks enough for older people who are desperately trying to hold on to the income they have to try and slowly pay for their hip replacement ten years ago with the petering assistance of Medicare, but let's think how this is affecting everyone else. Me, for example.
My university took on more students than it could dream of handling comfortably in order to make more money in 2002. The school was literally bursting at the seams. Now, most universities are comfortable in the knowledge that they're going to lose a huge chunk of their entrants by the end of their second year due to drop-outs and transfers, so freshman and sophomore-level general ed classes are designed to accommodate for thousands of students while junior and senior level classes are smaller and more specific, to accommodate for the significantly smaller number of students who actually survive long enough to get into them. This is nothing new. Unfortunately, in this day of job competition when we know that you can't even work at Starbucks without a BA, the pressure is on for each entrant to graduate, even if they're not really college material. While this has affected the per capita suicide and therapy entry rates to a degree, the biggest impact it has actually had is the ballooning of college graduation rates. I'm convinced that the university of south carolina, seeing a potential for monetary gain, has intentionally dropped the difficulty level of most of its liberal arts courses--and phased out professors who would keep the intellectual commitment high in order to preserve the integrity of education--in order to increase the number of people who pay to stay in four or more years. Which has devalued the bachelor's degree to nearly that of the high school diploma or GED. I graduated with a Pack Of Nimrods. There were some bright students dotted in there, but a large majority of my graduating class was...dumb. But I have the same degree as the rest of them, so on paper we're all worth the same.
Which means, of course, that eventually I'll have to go to grad school--an institution that is also being flooded by folks who want to increase their chances of survival. Eventually, if the trend continues, I can imagine the Ph. D will work out to have the CV value of an 8th grade graduation ceremony. As bigger and bigger packs of young educated people flood the overwhelmed job market and corporate heads squeeze each downsized department tighter and tighter, i can only foresee revolution...or collapse.
As it stands, each year I age has tended to become a year further from adulthood. My mom was a grown-up at 18. My older cousins were deemed mature at 21. Ten years later i don't imagine I'll be taken seriously as an adult until i'm 30. I can only expect my jobs to be a series of low-paid temporary gigs in pathetic, crumbling housing, herded in groups of my equally frustrated, overeducated peers like some sick travesty of a summer camp where we're made to clean toilets and sweep floors and only discuss philosophy in undertones when the boss-man looks away.
ugh. I'm gonna apply to Yale.
My whole Life has been like this. Always the first time we've tried this, and its always more than the institution is prepared to handle. Always above and beyond capacity, both for space and stress. For some reason folks tend to forget that when you try to build upward, its a good idea to build outward too so the tower doesn't teeter.
I'm getting tired of it, frankly. I'm sick of feeling crammed in by establishments that are not capable of handling the bulk. Feeling marginalized and perpetually reduced to child-status by companies that have no room to move upward, so they just shove bigger and bigger groups through on the bottom floor, in one door, out the other. I know a lot of money has already gone toward establishing this point long before now, but its starting to strike home with me. The human lifespan has increased so the retirement age has increased. Which means older people are holding onto jobs longer. So employment turnover has slowed. What's more, social security benefits have dropped, pensions are a thing of the past, and a lot of investment plans have tanked as major corporations have dealt underhandedly, so even folks who are of age to retire can't without being put out on the street. There's not enough money to go around, so everyone is working more, longer, and harder to try and get enough, which means more people are earning more so inflation has ballooned to compensate. This sucks enough for older people who are desperately trying to hold on to the income they have to try and slowly pay for their hip replacement ten years ago with the petering assistance of Medicare, but let's think how this is affecting everyone else. Me, for example.
My university took on more students than it could dream of handling comfortably in order to make more money in 2002. The school was literally bursting at the seams. Now, most universities are comfortable in the knowledge that they're going to lose a huge chunk of their entrants by the end of their second year due to drop-outs and transfers, so freshman and sophomore-level general ed classes are designed to accommodate for thousands of students while junior and senior level classes are smaller and more specific, to accommodate for the significantly smaller number of students who actually survive long enough to get into them. This is nothing new. Unfortunately, in this day of job competition when we know that you can't even work at Starbucks without a BA, the pressure is on for each entrant to graduate, even if they're not really college material. While this has affected the per capita suicide and therapy entry rates to a degree, the biggest impact it has actually had is the ballooning of college graduation rates. I'm convinced that the university of south carolina, seeing a potential for monetary gain, has intentionally dropped the difficulty level of most of its liberal arts courses--and phased out professors who would keep the intellectual commitment high in order to preserve the integrity of education--in order to increase the number of people who pay to stay in four or more years. Which has devalued the bachelor's degree to nearly that of the high school diploma or GED. I graduated with a Pack Of Nimrods. There were some bright students dotted in there, but a large majority of my graduating class was...dumb. But I have the same degree as the rest of them, so on paper we're all worth the same.
Which means, of course, that eventually I'll have to go to grad school--an institution that is also being flooded by folks who want to increase their chances of survival. Eventually, if the trend continues, I can imagine the Ph. D will work out to have the CV value of an 8th grade graduation ceremony. As bigger and bigger packs of young educated people flood the overwhelmed job market and corporate heads squeeze each downsized department tighter and tighter, i can only foresee revolution...or collapse.
As it stands, each year I age has tended to become a year further from adulthood. My mom was a grown-up at 18. My older cousins were deemed mature at 21. Ten years later i don't imagine I'll be taken seriously as an adult until i'm 30. I can only expect my jobs to be a series of low-paid temporary gigs in pathetic, crumbling housing, herded in groups of my equally frustrated, overeducated peers like some sick travesty of a summer camp where we're made to clean toilets and sweep floors and only discuss philosophy in undertones when the boss-man looks away.
ugh. I'm gonna apply to Yale.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
What the Gold Rush Left Behind
I've moved to the mountains of Colorado for my new job. I'm having a good time so far in my new environment, though it has taken some getting used to physically. In particular, its cold. I'm 8,600 feet above sea level here and it has snowed constantly for the past two days. It actually stuck last night. Its nearly summer in the northern hemisphere. unbelievable. Also as a condition of the altitude, the air is thin here. You can't walk uphill without panting, and though i'm not the least fit person in the world its taking some effort to get around. Everything is uphill somehow. Uphill both ways, in the snow in late May...Nice.
My internet access is intermittent at best so I will not be posting much for the next few months. I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone too much.
My internet access is intermittent at best so I will not be posting much for the next few months. I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone too much.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
the price of stamps...
Would something, Anything, mind getting CHEAPER for a change? Gas goes up, stamps go up, airfares, food, rent--all this goddamn inflation has me pulling out my pockets and waving my Hoover flags in despair. What a great time to try and enter the workforce--at a time when my economy is actually preventing me from working where I might be able to build a career. Fact is, it can't keep it up too much longer. When we reach the point where young people truly can't afford to get a job, something's gotta collapse. The fiscal structure, the housing market, the minds of the frustrated--somehow something's gonna cave. I want a revolution! About what, for what, how it goes about, I don't care. I just want to feel like i'm fighting FOR something, alongside something, rather than constantly against the increasingly tepid culture which claims me as its own. I do not approve! Hear my squeak! LOOK at young people these days. Individuals may want to fight whatever the power happens to be, but for a general overview, look at the music scene. Nobody has any passion about anything. Pop music is edited to be at once erotic and meaningless--it encourages the plebs to shag and increase the lagging birth rate, but never bothers to express social unrest or political ire. We're square in the middle of Vietnam Mach II and nobody outside of Berkeley gives a rat's ass. We all just click "no" on the Gallup poll's endless "approve/disapprove" ticker, write infuriated blog entries that four people will read and two minds will take offense at, and tolerate the increasingly 1984-esque world we've built for ourselves. We have a vaguely established enemy ("freedom fighter" is the bad guys' word for "terrorist"), we have an inescapable status quo of war government that uses corporations to tap our phone calls and emails, and we all stare at the walls in our increasingly pointless jobs and slowly go postal. And the price of living keeps going up. The number of people in therapy, trying to tolerate their animal nature as it is caged in a grey cubicle for a longer number of hours each week keeps going up. We work harder and longer and the cost goes up accordingly. What has poisoned our brains? Why do we think its a good thing to work ourselves stupid? What has been added to the water to make us work more, love less, and delay adulthood until age 40? Why the hell don't we realize that the more we work, the more we EARN, the more they can CHARGE? We pay more because we've all worked harder to earn the fucking privilege of doing so.
I blame myself. I allowed myself to be convinced that empowering myself meant having the power to bash my own head into the wall. No, i don't work in a cubicle in corporate america. I work with my hands. I work with good people. So i guess this diatribe really isn't about me. But i still feel the suffocating angst of white middle class stagnation. I want to Want something. Not food or shelter--that's need. I want to have a passionate desire to change things. To look at the city or country in which i live and find something worth getting worked up about. I can vote, though as more people become educated we've come to realize what a joke that is. I can work--i can work myself into a pulp. I can think, write, bear arms, and even drink alcohol to placate myself when nobody agrees, reads, or allows me to shoot them. I can't find anything to fight for. To rally behind. To hope for. The war in iraq will not end--it was designed not to. Its just a money pit we've all resigned ourselves to tithe to. Gay marriage rights and abortion are feather toys our political leaders dangle over the wall and encourage us to bat at while they do their own thing without the knowledge or the consent of the idiots i like to call us. I'm so fucking TIRED of being told by the state that everything they're doing is "for my own good, whether or not i realize it" i'm sorry, politicians-at-large, you're really NOT any smarter or more capable of handling life than me. That's why you're called Representatives, not God-Ordained Saviors of the Helpless Masses.
My previous posting, written in a fiery haste, struck a chord at the end that rung a bell that spurned this. "the common interests of the majority are just that--common." we listen to what we're told to, watch what we're told to, fuck how we're told to, work how we're told to...i just want to formulate an independent thought. I know what i'm saying is trite. I know everyone else feels frustration with the world at large. I want to stop feeling like everything i say and think has been done before and was equally as futile. I want to rise up and force someone in a position of power to make transit and basic housing affordable without making a clusterfuck out of it and allowing the freeways to collapse and every street to be sketchy. I want jobs that are not only worth doing and interesting, but pay the bills. I want to stop the cycle which has spiraled out of control into this 24-hour workfest that only leads to more price hikes. I want the world to stop so I can catch up. I want to feel love that doesn't have a massive catch that leaves me at once crying and climbing the walls. I want men to think like women and willingly treat us like equals, on and off the dance floor. I want to sleep without having nightmares. I want to wake up without coffee. I want to feel like a grown-up. I WANT TO FEEL LIKE A GROWN-UP! The grown-up world keeps getting further and further away. My age seems to perpetually be the age of immaturity. Stop talking down at me. I'm worth more than that. I'm smarter than you. Really. Trust me. I get no pleasure out of reality tv, monkeys watching monkeys jump around in a box. I want to feel like someone is listening and not just looking for how to find fault. WHY does nobody care about me? Why can't i seem to care about anyone else either? What happens when a society becomes utterly apathetic? Does it collapse in a smoldering heap or does it continue as is, as it always has, because nothing has changed? Who's hoops am I jumping through? Who wrote the rules? The human intellect is too intelligent to be trapped in a human brain, constantly influenced by hormones and primal urges. I FUCK THEREFORE I AM-sterdam... i've lost my mind. I'm so sick of living in my brain. Nothing exists to free me from the manila painted walls that even now grow closer and closer together....Maybe tonight would be a good night for a nervous breakdown.
I blame myself. I allowed myself to be convinced that empowering myself meant having the power to bash my own head into the wall. No, i don't work in a cubicle in corporate america. I work with my hands. I work with good people. So i guess this diatribe really isn't about me. But i still feel the suffocating angst of white middle class stagnation. I want to Want something. Not food or shelter--that's need. I want to have a passionate desire to change things. To look at the city or country in which i live and find something worth getting worked up about. I can vote, though as more people become educated we've come to realize what a joke that is. I can work--i can work myself into a pulp. I can think, write, bear arms, and even drink alcohol to placate myself when nobody agrees, reads, or allows me to shoot them. I can't find anything to fight for. To rally behind. To hope for. The war in iraq will not end--it was designed not to. Its just a money pit we've all resigned ourselves to tithe to. Gay marriage rights and abortion are feather toys our political leaders dangle over the wall and encourage us to bat at while they do their own thing without the knowledge or the consent of the idiots i like to call us. I'm so fucking TIRED of being told by the state that everything they're doing is "for my own good, whether or not i realize it" i'm sorry, politicians-at-large, you're really NOT any smarter or more capable of handling life than me. That's why you're called Representatives, not God-Ordained Saviors of the Helpless Masses.
My previous posting, written in a fiery haste, struck a chord at the end that rung a bell that spurned this. "the common interests of the majority are just that--common." we listen to what we're told to, watch what we're told to, fuck how we're told to, work how we're told to...i just want to formulate an independent thought. I know what i'm saying is trite. I know everyone else feels frustration with the world at large. I want to stop feeling like everything i say and think has been done before and was equally as futile. I want to rise up and force someone in a position of power to make transit and basic housing affordable without making a clusterfuck out of it and allowing the freeways to collapse and every street to be sketchy. I want jobs that are not only worth doing and interesting, but pay the bills. I want to stop the cycle which has spiraled out of control into this 24-hour workfest that only leads to more price hikes. I want the world to stop so I can catch up. I want to feel love that doesn't have a massive catch that leaves me at once crying and climbing the walls. I want men to think like women and willingly treat us like equals, on and off the dance floor. I want to sleep without having nightmares. I want to wake up without coffee. I want to feel like a grown-up. I WANT TO FEEL LIKE A GROWN-UP! The grown-up world keeps getting further and further away. My age seems to perpetually be the age of immaturity. Stop talking down at me. I'm worth more than that. I'm smarter than you. Really. Trust me. I get no pleasure out of reality tv, monkeys watching monkeys jump around in a box. I want to feel like someone is listening and not just looking for how to find fault. WHY does nobody care about me? Why can't i seem to care about anyone else either? What happens when a society becomes utterly apathetic? Does it collapse in a smoldering heap or does it continue as is, as it always has, because nothing has changed? Who's hoops am I jumping through? Who wrote the rules? The human intellect is too intelligent to be trapped in a human brain, constantly influenced by hormones and primal urges. I FUCK THEREFORE I AM-sterdam... i've lost my mind. I'm so sick of living in my brain. Nothing exists to free me from the manila painted walls that even now grow closer and closer together....Maybe tonight would be a good night for a nervous breakdown.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
RE: Lists
This entry is a response to This blog. I would have simply replied in the comments page, but it looked too cluttered.
University of South Carolina:
Top Music
1 Jack Johnson
2 Coldplay
3 Rap
4 John Mayer
5 Sublime
6 Bob Marley
7 Country
8 R&b
9 Led Zeppelin
10 Dave Matthews Band
this is actually a pretty accurate description of the crap you'll hear pumping from dormitory windows on campus at USC--when people include genres rather than bands, it generally implies that they have no idea what they like and just listen to the party mixes that other students build. when it says "rap" in particular it means they like songs that include words such as "fuck" "hos" and "playa hata". people who can actually list off particular rappers they like (my favorite is Del the Funky Homosapien) express at the very least a conscious awareness of what they're listening to. The students who list off Coldplay are, in fact, the Children of the Corn.
2. The Notebook
3. Old School
4. Anchorman
5. Fight Club
6. Blow
7. Pulp Fiction
8. Love Actually
9. Scarface
10. Garden State
Okay, so i've never seen The Notebook and know nothing about it, so rather than do an iota of research, i'm going to ignore it. lets see, two are Will Ferrell movies...that says something about the overall maturity level of students these days, but actually only 3 total are toilet-humor comedies. Balanced with 3 violent films and 3 that typically women would enjoy (my flatmate just told me the Notebook was a sad love story), throw in some drugs and scantily-clad women, and you've got the typical moviegoer in south carolina. Interesting to see that Moulin Rouge, Romeo+Juliet, and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari didn't make it up into the top 10--I guess the pretentious theatre crowd is smaller than I thought.
Top Interests
1. Music
2. Shopping
3. Reading
4. Movies
5. Sports
6. Travelling
7. Football
8. Running
9. The Beach
10. Dancing
Well, what do you expect? you send them to college to become model citizens, and what do they do but become stereotypes. I can't believe some people's interests are actually shopping. Way to do what the economy and the media demand of you. Music is moot, movies means reality TV, sports means football, i'd imagine running actually means drinking, and if there's one thing i know about USC, its that people do not dance. They grind. that's not the same. "the beach" means drinking and having sex with strangers in Myrtle Beach, a cultural life that could have been grown in a petri dish (or behind a refrigerator).
this one's hands down my favorite:
Top Books
1. the Bible
2. Harry Potter
3. To Kill A Mockingbird*
4. The Notebook
5. 1984*
6. The Great Gatsby*
7. The da Vinci Code
8. Catcher in the Rye*
(* indicates required reading for high school english/Freshman Reading Experience)
So, we've got a children's series, 2 stories people "read" by watching the recent film (ooh, look--its based on a book! i'm cultured!) 4 stories that are required in school, and yes, that pillar of western culture, the book that's killed more people than history can account for, that badly-interpreted collection of fibs, lies, guesses, and the occasional misunderstanding... THE REASON I LEFT THE SOUTH....the Bible. yep. South Carolina. home of the illiterate. land of the brainwashed.
Top TV
1. Family Guy
2. Grey's Anatomy
3. South Park
4. House
5. Friends
6. Lost
7. CSI
8. Desperate Housewives
9. The Office
10. Seinfeld
Of these i've actually watched 1, 3, 5, and 10. In the past year, i've watched 1. I'm out of the loop. not helpful.
So basically, what it looks like is people list as their favorites exactly what the mass media tell them to enjoy. I'm surprised there aren't any reality tv shows up, but many of them are short-lived. We've got for the most part entertainment that is canned, labeled, and sold to the masses like some HD version of opium. We've got listed the only books most people have actually read, because they were required to pass a test at the end, and interests so vague its no wonder nobody has anything halfway interesting to talk about. ("hey, do you like music?" "why yes i do!" "lets hook up!")
In short, i believe Facebook has told me an exact truth about the common interests of the majority--they're...common.
University of South Carolina:
Top Music
1 Jack Johnson
2 Coldplay
3 Rap
4 John Mayer
5 Sublime
6 Bob Marley
7 Country
8 R&b
9 Led Zeppelin
10 Dave Matthews Band
this is actually a pretty accurate description of the crap you'll hear pumping from dormitory windows on campus at USC--when people include genres rather than bands, it generally implies that they have no idea what they like and just listen to the party mixes that other students build. when it says "rap" in particular it means they like songs that include words such as "fuck" "hos" and "playa hata". people who can actually list off particular rappers they like (my favorite is Del the Funky Homosapien) express at the very least a conscious awareness of what they're listening to. The students who list off Coldplay are, in fact, the Children of the Corn.
Top Movies
1. Wedding Crashers2. The Notebook
3. Old School
4. Anchorman
5. Fight Club
6. Blow
7. Pulp Fiction
8. Love Actually
9. Scarface
10. Garden State
Okay, so i've never seen The Notebook and know nothing about it, so rather than do an iota of research, i'm going to ignore it. lets see, two are Will Ferrell movies...that says something about the overall maturity level of students these days, but actually only 3 total are toilet-humor comedies. Balanced with 3 violent films and 3 that typically women would enjoy (my flatmate just told me the Notebook was a sad love story), throw in some drugs and scantily-clad women, and you've got the typical moviegoer in south carolina. Interesting to see that Moulin Rouge, Romeo+Juliet, and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari didn't make it up into the top 10--I guess the pretentious theatre crowd is smaller than I thought.
Top Interests
1. Music
2. Shopping
3. Reading
4. Movies
5. Sports
6. Travelling
7. Football
8. Running
9. The Beach
10. Dancing
Well, what do you expect? you send them to college to become model citizens, and what do they do but become stereotypes. I can't believe some people's interests are actually shopping. Way to do what the economy and the media demand of you. Music is moot, movies means reality TV, sports means football, i'd imagine running actually means drinking, and if there's one thing i know about USC, its that people do not dance. They grind. that's not the same. "the beach" means drinking and having sex with strangers in Myrtle Beach, a cultural life that could have been grown in a petri dish (or behind a refrigerator).
this one's hands down my favorite:
Top Books
1. the Bible
2. Harry Potter
3. To Kill A Mockingbird*
4. The Notebook
5. 1984*
6. The Great Gatsby*
7. The da Vinci Code
8. Catcher in the Rye*
(* indicates required reading for high school english/Freshman Reading Experience)
So, we've got a children's series, 2 stories people "read" by watching the recent film (ooh, look--its based on a book! i'm cultured!) 4 stories that are required in school, and yes, that pillar of western culture, the book that's killed more people than history can account for, that badly-interpreted collection of fibs, lies, guesses, and the occasional misunderstanding... THE REASON I LEFT THE SOUTH....the Bible. yep. South Carolina. home of the illiterate. land of the brainwashed.
Top TV
1. Family Guy
2. Grey's Anatomy
3. South Park
4. House
5. Friends
6. Lost
7. CSI
8. Desperate Housewives
9. The Office
10. Seinfeld
Of these i've actually watched 1, 3, 5, and 10. In the past year, i've watched 1. I'm out of the loop. not helpful.
So basically, what it looks like is people list as their favorites exactly what the mass media tell them to enjoy. I'm surprised there aren't any reality tv shows up, but many of them are short-lived. We've got for the most part entertainment that is canned, labeled, and sold to the masses like some HD version of opium. We've got listed the only books most people have actually read, because they were required to pass a test at the end, and interests so vague its no wonder nobody has anything halfway interesting to talk about. ("hey, do you like music?" "why yes i do!" "lets hook up!")
In short, i believe Facebook has told me an exact truth about the common interests of the majority--they're...common.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
parties, ponderings, and posteriors
My home played host to a fairly successful party last night, which commemorated an impressive heap of events including but not limited to birthdays, ends of internships, and 1980's music videos. As one of those internships near completion was my own, I found it a good excuse to get tap-dancingly intoxicated and give words to my doting affection for some, lip-curling disdain for others, and bubbly hospitality for those I don't know. (okay, so i'm really not much of a bubbler, but i did show several people how to find the bathroom.) It was one of those crowded-kitchen parties--the sort where the living room has been decked out to accommodate for guests but we stupidly set the beer and snacks over the linoleum instead of the carpet, so the majority of party-goers found themselves uncomfortably crammed between the stove and the refrigerator while the rooms with music and seating remained cool.
In a quieter moment of the festivities I took a moment to let my brain catch up with me and made a few realizations. The primary of which is that I completely forgot to cut two major pieces for my welding project that morning, so i must remind myself to take care of that Monday. After that, however, I began to muse on life, the universe, and several other things, and it gave rise to wondering about that whole Butterfly effect. I have to wonder if I would be here now, doing what I'm doing, if my family hadn't moved states when i was 5 and I wound up skipping Kindergarten. The teacher who evaluated me that day--to determine whether or not I was ready for the first grade--probably considered it a fairly inconsequential move, but it has influenced every aspect of my life from there on. Who i've known. What i've learned. What i was doing when such-and-such happened. Who i've dated. Where I went to college. My time abroad. My career path...i mean holy crap, if we hadn't moved, what's to say I would have gotten into theatre? I might have been that kid who put effort into learning math and studied to become an accountant. Yeeeegh. If i hadn't had an amazing French teacher in high school, i doubt i would have thought to study abroad. If i hadn't had a seriously amazing technical director in college, I wonder if i would have switched from French to pursue a theatre major. And if i hadn't majored in theatre, would I have the friends I do, all over the planet? Would i be in Berkeley? Would i be joining the ranks of the hard-working financially bereft? Where would I be if that one teacher that one day had decided i wasn't ready for first grade? Would i be happier? wealthier? Thinking about graduation? Religious? Alive?
In other news, i think my legs look a little slimmer than normal, particularly the little area under the buttock. or maybe my ass has just grown.
In a quieter moment of the festivities I took a moment to let my brain catch up with me and made a few realizations. The primary of which is that I completely forgot to cut two major pieces for my welding project that morning, so i must remind myself to take care of that Monday. After that, however, I began to muse on life, the universe, and several other things, and it gave rise to wondering about that whole Butterfly effect. I have to wonder if I would be here now, doing what I'm doing, if my family hadn't moved states when i was 5 and I wound up skipping Kindergarten. The teacher who evaluated me that day--to determine whether or not I was ready for the first grade--probably considered it a fairly inconsequential move, but it has influenced every aspect of my life from there on. Who i've known. What i've learned. What i was doing when such-and-such happened. Who i've dated. Where I went to college. My time abroad. My career path...i mean holy crap, if we hadn't moved, what's to say I would have gotten into theatre? I might have been that kid who put effort into learning math and studied to become an accountant. Yeeeegh. If i hadn't had an amazing French teacher in high school, i doubt i would have thought to study abroad. If i hadn't had a seriously amazing technical director in college, I wonder if i would have switched from French to pursue a theatre major. And if i hadn't majored in theatre, would I have the friends I do, all over the planet? Would i be in Berkeley? Would i be joining the ranks of the hard-working financially bereft? Where would I be if that one teacher that one day had decided i wasn't ready for first grade? Would i be happier? wealthier? Thinking about graduation? Religious? Alive?
In other news, i think my legs look a little slimmer than normal, particularly the little area under the buttock. or maybe my ass has just grown.
Monday, May 07, 2007
grapefruits, heatwaves, and giant flying things
Call out the Department of Redundancy Department. I've got dictional bone to pick with the citrus-growing industry in the shape of a big, round, yellow ball. Yes, the grapefruit. I love 'em--i peel them and eat 'em like oranges, and i noticed this afternoon that their oil has light anesthetic properties. (i carelessly licked it off my hand and discovered that my tongue went numb shortly afterward. fun!) They're tangy and sweet and ever so tasty, yet they share their name...with grapes. In case nobody else noticed...grapes are a fruit too. Yes they grow on vines and have a soft peel and are often purple or green, but that doesn't make them gourds. And if you go to a vineyard you'll occasionally hear the distinction between "fruit-grapes" and "wine-grapes" (no profitable Napa vineyard grows Concords, for instance). So a grape is a grape, a fruit-grape is a grape, but a grape-fruit is a massive, yellow citrus that grows on trees in coastal areas.
I discovered, thanks to trusty old Wikipedia, that grapefruits got their name from the formation in which they grow--apparently some dolt thought they looked like big, yellow clusters of grapes. (later that day, the same explorer looked up and said "wow, those fruits are really orange. Aha!") Other societies call them Shaddocks or Shattucks, which, interestingly, is the name of the main drag in my town. It makes me quite smug to know that i've walked down Grapefruit street. Just like I've vacationed in a town named Blackcurrant (Cassis.) What's wrong with Shattuck? or Pamplemousse? (c'mon, pamplemousse is funny.) Or Yellow? I'd be fine with calling a grapefruit a Yellow. Actually, since grapefruits can come in pink, maybe lemons should get that name. In any case. I refuse to recognize "grapefruit" as a legitimate name for a plant.
I'm really fine with pineapples, in case you were wondering--they're a pine cone-shaped fruit, and humans have an ages-old tendency to refer to apples as though they're the original fruit and name other foods as they relate to them. Whether its pommes de terre, crabapples, road apples, or that insufferable adage about doctors, we just like to put things in terms of apples.
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So it got up to 93°F (33°C) in the shop today, low humidity, with a light breeze. Compared to home it was a friggin blizzard but somehow California has made me into a complete wimp when it comes to temperature. I was complainin' and dreaming of a cold beer right along with my cold-climate co-workers.
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I smacked this bug today--it looked like a flying daddy long-legs except it was red with a stinger. I didn't really get to examine it before it was skeeter purée but it looked vicious.
----
I don't approve of the CRV--the California Redemption Value deposit added on to cans and bottles. First off, if you actually do return the bottles and cans, you don't get the full value of your deposit back. They only accept recyclables by the pound, and then the returns are trifling. Second, its not like we're going to take them to the recycling center by ourselves--the city collects them for you to try and prevent huge back-ups over there, but they do not pay you back for the deposits you've made. I've been to the recycling center in this area and its ridiculous trying to get in, get weighed, drop off the materials, and get your money. Takes hours, the lines are atrocious, you get harassed by tramps, and the people who work there look so disgruntled you want to hug them. Why charge people extra for cans when you don't want them to try to redeem their deposit? that's less like a recycling incentive and more like...theft.
MEANWHILE, the city never even gets the chance to collect your recyclables in the first place to take them to the center--the junkies do it first, in the middle of the night, making as much noise as possible in the process. Basically, we're paying a fairly sizable chunk of change on every purchase in order to be disturbed at 4 am by clinking and shouting coming from our own curbs. How perfectly preposterous.
I discovered, thanks to trusty old Wikipedia, that grapefruits got their name from the formation in which they grow--apparently some dolt thought they looked like big, yellow clusters of grapes. (later that day, the same explorer looked up and said "wow, those fruits are really orange. Aha!") Other societies call them Shaddocks or Shattucks, which, interestingly, is the name of the main drag in my town. It makes me quite smug to know that i've walked down Grapefruit street. Just like I've vacationed in a town named Blackcurrant (Cassis.) What's wrong with Shattuck? or Pamplemousse? (c'mon, pamplemousse is funny.) Or Yellow? I'd be fine with calling a grapefruit a Yellow. Actually, since grapefruits can come in pink, maybe lemons should get that name. In any case. I refuse to recognize "grapefruit" as a legitimate name for a plant.
I'm really fine with pineapples, in case you were wondering--they're a pine cone-shaped fruit, and humans have an ages-old tendency to refer to apples as though they're the original fruit and name other foods as they relate to them. Whether its pommes de terre, crabapples, road apples, or that insufferable adage about doctors, we just like to put things in terms of apples.
----
So it got up to 93°F (33°C) in the shop today, low humidity, with a light breeze. Compared to home it was a friggin blizzard but somehow California has made me into a complete wimp when it comes to temperature. I was complainin' and dreaming of a cold beer right along with my cold-climate co-workers.
----
I smacked this bug today--it looked like a flying daddy long-legs except it was red with a stinger. I didn't really get to examine it before it was skeeter purée but it looked vicious.
----
I don't approve of the CRV--the California Redemption Value deposit added on to cans and bottles. First off, if you actually do return the bottles and cans, you don't get the full value of your deposit back. They only accept recyclables by the pound, and then the returns are trifling. Second, its not like we're going to take them to the recycling center by ourselves--the city collects them for you to try and prevent huge back-ups over there, but they do not pay you back for the deposits you've made. I've been to the recycling center in this area and its ridiculous trying to get in, get weighed, drop off the materials, and get your money. Takes hours, the lines are atrocious, you get harassed by tramps, and the people who work there look so disgruntled you want to hug them. Why charge people extra for cans when you don't want them to try to redeem their deposit? that's less like a recycling incentive and more like...theft.
MEANWHILE, the city never even gets the chance to collect your recyclables in the first place to take them to the center--the junkies do it first, in the middle of the night, making as much noise as possible in the process. Basically, we're paying a fairly sizable chunk of change on every purchase in order to be disturbed at 4 am by clinking and shouting coming from our own curbs. How perfectly preposterous.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Skanky Trash Ho!
I'm goin down the street today on the way to the grocery store when some skank, with an elegantly practiced move, casually tossed her empty Capri Sun pouch into the crosswalk. I wanted to smack her. There was a trash can not twenty feet away. Come ON you trashy trash. You're a grown-up--put it in the bin. But no, she clearly stated her respect for her town and herself in that one arrogant, juvenile overhand pitch. Thanks for upholding Oakland's negative stereotype, bitch--Skanky.
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I got a haircut today. It looks...shorter.
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I tried my first Mint Julep yesterday. And my second. And my third... i got a ride home from the Kentucky Derby party and had a nap. The Cinco de Mayo party later, on the other hand, offered a lovely pumpkin ale. I had a nice Saturday.
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I had a good conversation with my flatmate this morning. We were discussing our transient lifestyles and the similarly fluid nature of our friendships as our internships popped us around the world like an expensive game of Whack-a-Mole, and we took a moment to wonder how ours would hold up after next week. I've lost touch with my best friends from high school and college, and never even bothered keeping tabs on anyone from my stint in the Hamptons. I find it highly unlikely that i'll hear from any of my current house-mates again, except perhaps in the occasional group e-mail or newsletter from the theatre (in which I discover that everyone i started off with is making more money than me and balancing their grown-up lives with considerably more success. ) It gives me cause to wonder if I'll ever have "old friends" and what, indeed, that would entail. If there's anyone reading this who considers me an old friend, i apologize for overlooking you. Physical and conscious isolation tend to overwhelm observation of the delicate web of individuals around the world who know and care about a person. Indeed, by pointing out this network of lines i may have just walked straight into it. Ew.
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I got a haircut today. It looks...shorter.
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I tried my first Mint Julep yesterday. And my second. And my third... i got a ride home from the Kentucky Derby party and had a nap. The Cinco de Mayo party later, on the other hand, offered a lovely pumpkin ale. I had a nice Saturday.
----
I had a good conversation with my flatmate this morning. We were discussing our transient lifestyles and the similarly fluid nature of our friendships as our internships popped us around the world like an expensive game of Whack-a-Mole, and we took a moment to wonder how ours would hold up after next week. I've lost touch with my best friends from high school and college, and never even bothered keeping tabs on anyone from my stint in the Hamptons. I find it highly unlikely that i'll hear from any of my current house-mates again, except perhaps in the occasional group e-mail or newsletter from the theatre (in which I discover that everyone i started off with is making more money than me and balancing their grown-up lives with considerably more success. ) It gives me cause to wonder if I'll ever have "old friends" and what, indeed, that would entail. If there's anyone reading this who considers me an old friend, i apologize for overlooking you. Physical and conscious isolation tend to overwhelm observation of the delicate web of individuals around the world who know and care about a person. Indeed, by pointing out this network of lines i may have just walked straight into it. Ew.
----
Saturday, May 05, 2007
two weeks
till i move to Colorado. That means one week to remain drunk, five days to sober up and pack, two days to hug and say good-by, and then three days of driving like a bat out of hell. if i average 70 mph, one cup of coffee an hour...that's about 17 cups of brew over the 1200 mile trek. i should buy a thermos.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
U-Haul
oh good grief. I happened across a bit of litter on the street today which turned out to be a cardboard box from U-Haul. On it was printed "Medium-Sized Box. Perfect for packing: small appliances, toys, kitchen wares, office supplies."
WOW. Thanks U-Haul. I Never would have figured out how to use the box without your help!
Its just another addition to the list of products "so idiot proof they're insulting." It started with "attention: hot coffee" and "this bag is not a toy and should not be given to children under the age of 3 or used as a crib lining." Base statements that anyone old enough to supervise a child under 3 should not have to be told. But this is slightly different--rather than printing how Not to use a product so as to cover one's ass against lawsuits, companies are printing suggestions for how to use their products--products such as boxes, breakfast cereal, modeling clay, zip-top bags, and shoes . (if you're lucky, you might find directions as to how to use all 5 together!)
You know how your mom used to say "if you can't find something nice to say, don't say anything?" I've got a new one for marketing departments: "If you can't find something WORTHWHILE to say in regard to your product, leave the packaging blank." Statements such as "Try our cereal with cold milk, or pack it in a zip-top baggie for a tasty snack!" and "great for punching 3 holes in lined, unlined, and construction papers!" are NOT WORTH SAYING. If your packaging looks too dull for you, maybe its an indication that your product is fairly mundane. Don't try to spice up tupperware by exclaiming about its multiple storage uses. Please refrain from suggesting that I use potting soil for growing plants. And come ON, even a toddler knows that envelopes can be used to mail business letters, greeting cards, thank-you notes and More!
I recognize that all companies feel the need to promote their products. But guess what. Bleach has always killed mildew. An armload-sized box has always held about an armload-worth of stuff, and terrycloth has always absorbed water. Stating these things directly on your products is not going to encourage people to buy them over the competitor's version. Perhaps, rather than paying a marketing department to develop catchy things to write on your packaging, you should just make sure your products do what the customer already expects them to do. That'll encourage sales much more than suggesting your customer use the product the way he was already intending to. Believe it or not, we're not all idiots bumping into one another out here in the consumer base.
Now Big cardboard boxes--those are airplanes.
WOW. Thanks U-Haul. I Never would have figured out how to use the box without your help!
Its just another addition to the list of products "so idiot proof they're insulting." It started with "attention: hot coffee" and "this bag is not a toy and should not be given to children under the age of 3 or used as a crib lining." Base statements that anyone old enough to supervise a child under 3 should not have to be told. But this is slightly different--rather than printing how Not to use a product so as to cover one's ass against lawsuits, companies are printing suggestions for how to use their products--products such as boxes, breakfast cereal, modeling clay, zip-top bags, and shoes . (if you're lucky, you might find directions as to how to use all 5 together!)
You know how your mom used to say "if you can't find something nice to say, don't say anything?" I've got a new one for marketing departments: "If you can't find something WORTHWHILE to say in regard to your product, leave the packaging blank." Statements such as "Try our cereal with cold milk, or pack it in a zip-top baggie for a tasty snack!" and "great for punching 3 holes in lined, unlined, and construction papers!" are NOT WORTH SAYING. If your packaging looks too dull for you, maybe its an indication that your product is fairly mundane. Don't try to spice up tupperware by exclaiming about its multiple storage uses. Please refrain from suggesting that I use potting soil for growing plants. And come ON, even a toddler knows that envelopes can be used to mail business letters, greeting cards, thank-you notes and More!
I recognize that all companies feel the need to promote their products. But guess what. Bleach has always killed mildew. An armload-sized box has always held about an armload-worth of stuff, and terrycloth has always absorbed water. Stating these things directly on your products is not going to encourage people to buy them over the competitor's version. Perhaps, rather than paying a marketing department to develop catchy things to write on your packaging, you should just make sure your products do what the customer already expects them to do. That'll encourage sales much more than suggesting your customer use the product the way he was already intending to. Believe it or not, we're not all idiots bumping into one another out here in the consumer base.
Now Big cardboard boxes--those are airplanes.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Arrogance and Homelessness: discuss
I just don't understand the Berkeley Bum. At the gas station yesterday a homeless and obviously deranged man approached me, tried to make light conversation, and then started into his "o pity me" speech before I simply said "no" and turned away. He then began to berate me for giving him "attitude" and pointing his gnarled finger accusingly like I had done him an injustice before i loudly demanded he stop harassing me. He went, cursing me under his breath, but it got me thinking. I was a captive audience for him. The gas nozzles at this filling station didn't have locks, so the pumper is required to stand and hold the handle until the tank is full. I couldn't really walk away to get him to stop bothering me--i'd have to first close up my tank, complete the sale, get into the car, and start driving without finishing what i'd come there to do. Nor could I effectively ignore him--he was going to keep trying to guilt me until i either left, yelled at him, or gave him what he wanted. I'd much rather pump my gas in peace than spend the entire time pretending i can't hear a human voice talking to me two feet from my face. In effect, he forced me to raise my voice at him in order to otherwise remain calm.
Fact is, gas stations are private property. As a panhandler/non-customer, he was blatantly trespassing. Not that anyone cares, but as a legitimate customer of a legitimate business I feel I have the right to enjoy a few blissful seconds out of doors without being harassed by a tramp. That's the big problem with this area--the bums are omnipresent and insistent, and frequently border on dangerous. Several sociologists have suggested that this state exists because the weather is nice and the locals are generous--bums are encouraged to not only hang around, but expect a tithe from every passer-by. Somehow the wealthy of this area have given panhandlers a sense of entitlement to the money of others, which they've done nothing to earn and will do nothing worthwhile with. Y'know, thousands of people are immigrating to this country via desperate and deadly means to work hard and earn a pittance--people with fewer opportunities in life than your average Berkeley street bum. Who out of the two deserves my sympathy? But who is asking for it?
Some of the Berkeley Bums are genuinely nuts--probably have been their entire lives. These people are pathetic and ought to be fed and made comfortable by the state. But most are junkies who blame their addictions and dumpster-diving lifestyles on everyone except themselves. In many situations the equation in their heads really is as mind-numbing as "this girl has money. I do not have money. She won't give it to me. She is a cunt." The more vindictive bums in this area even knows how to keep themselves constantly assured of this mindset--they hang out by ATMs and outside grocery stores and bicker at the customers with a self-righteous indignation seen elsewhere only among throngs of early teenagers and during Republican rallies. The accusation "I know you got money there--why won't you share it with me?" rings in the ears of everyone who makes a transaction downtown (unless they've jammed their audio wavelength with headphones). Its always best to pretend you didn't hear it and keep walking, but inside you know everyone is shouting "Because i earned it, dammit!"
I have several mortal fears in life. Two of the biggest ones are Poverty and Desk Jobs. Unfortunately, it is my aversion toward the latter that keeps me perpetually on the verge of the former, and I've been forced to realize that I must eventually choose to embrace one to avoid the other. I don't have any "spare change" okay? I don't have any change to spare. I put gas in my car so I can get to work, which doesn't pay me enough to keep filling my tank, so I'm working at a constant loss. And when tramps try to guilt me with their "i'm just trying to get out of town" and "i'm just trying to get on my feet" garbage it makes me want to be ill on them. No, I'm trying to get on my feet. See the struggle? See me putting in long, hard hours and earning less than you, trampy? See me nearly breaking under the strain and crying myself to sleep from the effort? Do you see how I'm trying to get on my feet while you are trying to take advantage of society as a whole, and in particular the Pavlovian guilt reflex of the religious? If you're going to be a bum, tell people "i'm a bum. My brain is burned out on such a complex heap of drugs that I can't even identify what I crave anymore. I hate the world and I hate the position in life I've reached, but i'm either unable or unwilling to do anything to change it. I have done nothing to earn your money or respect, but I want it, so if you're willing to part with it, i'll take it." Don't insult the working class by trying to identify with us.
I'm...erm...drunk. Sorry if this is nonsensical.
Fact is, gas stations are private property. As a panhandler/non-customer, he was blatantly trespassing. Not that anyone cares, but as a legitimate customer of a legitimate business I feel I have the right to enjoy a few blissful seconds out of doors without being harassed by a tramp. That's the big problem with this area--the bums are omnipresent and insistent, and frequently border on dangerous. Several sociologists have suggested that this state exists because the weather is nice and the locals are generous--bums are encouraged to not only hang around, but expect a tithe from every passer-by. Somehow the wealthy of this area have given panhandlers a sense of entitlement to the money of others, which they've done nothing to earn and will do nothing worthwhile with. Y'know, thousands of people are immigrating to this country via desperate and deadly means to work hard and earn a pittance--people with fewer opportunities in life than your average Berkeley street bum. Who out of the two deserves my sympathy? But who is asking for it?
Some of the Berkeley Bums are genuinely nuts--probably have been their entire lives. These people are pathetic and ought to be fed and made comfortable by the state. But most are junkies who blame their addictions and dumpster-diving lifestyles on everyone except themselves. In many situations the equation in their heads really is as mind-numbing as "this girl has money. I do not have money. She won't give it to me. She is a cunt." The more vindictive bums in this area even knows how to keep themselves constantly assured of this mindset--they hang out by ATMs and outside grocery stores and bicker at the customers with a self-righteous indignation seen elsewhere only among throngs of early teenagers and during Republican rallies. The accusation "I know you got money there--why won't you share it with me?" rings in the ears of everyone who makes a transaction downtown (unless they've jammed their audio wavelength with headphones). Its always best to pretend you didn't hear it and keep walking, but inside you know everyone is shouting "Because i earned it, dammit!"
I have several mortal fears in life. Two of the biggest ones are Poverty and Desk Jobs. Unfortunately, it is my aversion toward the latter that keeps me perpetually on the verge of the former, and I've been forced to realize that I must eventually choose to embrace one to avoid the other. I don't have any "spare change" okay? I don't have any change to spare. I put gas in my car so I can get to work, which doesn't pay me enough to keep filling my tank, so I'm working at a constant loss. And when tramps try to guilt me with their "i'm just trying to get out of town" and "i'm just trying to get on my feet" garbage it makes me want to be ill on them. No, I'm trying to get on my feet. See the struggle? See me putting in long, hard hours and earning less than you, trampy? See me nearly breaking under the strain and crying myself to sleep from the effort? Do you see how I'm trying to get on my feet while you are trying to take advantage of society as a whole, and in particular the Pavlovian guilt reflex of the religious? If you're going to be a bum, tell people "i'm a bum. My brain is burned out on such a complex heap of drugs that I can't even identify what I crave anymore. I hate the world and I hate the position in life I've reached, but i'm either unable or unwilling to do anything to change it. I have done nothing to earn your money or respect, but I want it, so if you're willing to part with it, i'll take it." Don't insult the working class by trying to identify with us.
I'm...erm...drunk. Sorry if this is nonsensical.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
not exciting
you notice that when you've been drinking, somehow not only is the present disoriented and blurry, but your memory is too? thinking is distinctly discouraged in this state. just as well, really.
i've done little of note in the past month, and my opinions are nothing if not redundant. i apologize for disappointing any hopeful or regular reader. i have nothing to say.
i've done little of note in the past month, and my opinions are nothing if not redundant. i apologize for disappointing any hopeful or regular reader. i have nothing to say.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
shouting match
when cell phones were first invented, their sound quality was poor, the microphones were tinny, and their connections so intermittent that users on both ends of a conversation found themselves plugging one ear and just shouting into the handset in order for their points to be communicated.
now we have cell phones that present the subtle crescendos and key changes in classical music, are used to record concerts, and have reliable enough connections to set a clock to. so of course, we as humans, never satisfied with communicating courteously, simply crank up the handsfree, put the cell phone six feet away, and shout at it.
No, i really Don't want to be subjected to both ends of your conversation on Suzy's biopsy results from fifty feet away, up a staircase, and behind two closed doors. Please allow me to not hear you.
now we have cell phones that present the subtle crescendos and key changes in classical music, are used to record concerts, and have reliable enough connections to set a clock to. so of course, we as humans, never satisfied with communicating courteously, simply crank up the handsfree, put the cell phone six feet away, and shout at it.
No, i really Don't want to be subjected to both ends of your conversation on Suzy's biopsy results from fifty feet away, up a staircase, and behind two closed doors. Please allow me to not hear you.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
assorted thoughts
first off, i found these (research paper and NPR article from this morning) very interesting in regard to my prior discussion with a Restless Legs Syndrome sufferer. I do wish her the best, but the paper in particular includes the mot juste that I was searching for in regard to her rare, debilitating condition. "disease mongering."
PLoS Medicine
NPR Health
-----
I think creationism is arrogance--the belief that human beings are somehow special, or special-er than every other species on the whole planet in the whole universe. "God made the whole of the heavens and the earth, and then he made us to live in it and worship him." That's the most narcissistic statement i've ever heard. Today on my ride home Terry Gross was interviewing Francis Collins, head of the Human Genome Project, writer of The Language of God, and a practicing Evangelical. I about threw up when he said
"it was all his plan, he just carried it out, using the tools of evolution. . . . god had the intention of creating life--this wonderful diversity of life that we see all around us on this planet--and ourselves, special creatures with whom he could have fellowship, in whom he would imbue the soul, the knowledge of good and evil, and the ability to practice free will."
Way to adapt truth to fanciful egotism. You work in a field in which you have the facts of life shoved into your face daily--there's no getting around it by hiding in the church--but rather than accept the fact that we are just one species of many on one of many planets in many galaxies in possibly many pan-dimensional universes and That's It, you'd prefer to crawl back into the recesses of your selfish imagination and try to Justify It To Your Ego somehow.
-----
I'm really getting tired of excessive safety features. Like the auto-slide door on minivans (people carriers). You push a button in the door and it closes itself in a controlled manner. Sounds like a good idea--fewer crushed fingers and tearful eyes--until you sit through its opening/closing procedure a few times. The thing takes about half an hour to slide across. You coulda been to the grocery store and back by the time the damn door closed. It also takes a lot of battery power, Breaks if you try to close it manually, and get this--they don't actually have enough power to get over the holding lever. Yep--that's the whole reason children's arms get thrown out in the first place. Slowly sliding a door closed Never gets it to actually click closed. I know a number of dads who've perfected the technique of leaving the door wide open, getting all the kids in their seat belts, and then driving a few feet only to slam on the brakes, causing the door to likewise slam. Not only does it delight the stickier members of the family, but its one of a very small number of ways to successfully close those doors.
this also pertains to the manufacture of shoddy products that are loaded with safety features which fail to take into consideration the most likely course of events--that being the product Breaking.
-----
I just finished Mary Wollstonecraft's Mary, a delightful, short narrative on how one woman's life starts out bad, gets worse, all her friends and family die in her arms, and she spends the rest of her life alone. I've since embarked upon The Wrongs of Woman, and i've gotten a whole four pages in without anyone coughing up blood!
-----
An ad searching for egg donors recently caught my eye. I nearly started the preliminary forms, but then was reminded of my family history of alcoholism, depression, cancer, blood disorders, arthritis, pulmonary disorders, poor vision, patella disorders, back pain, and oddly-shaped fingernails. I think I'll keep my shoddy DNA to myself.
-----
Before the invention of toilet paper, I'd imagine your average person was a lot better at botany.
PLoS Medicine
NPR Health
-----
I think creationism is arrogance--the belief that human beings are somehow special, or special-er than every other species on the whole planet in the whole universe. "God made the whole of the heavens and the earth, and then he made us to live in it and worship him." That's the most narcissistic statement i've ever heard. Today on my ride home Terry Gross was interviewing Francis Collins, head of the Human Genome Project, writer of The Language of God, and a practicing Evangelical. I about threw up when he said
"it was all his plan, he just carried it out, using the tools of evolution. . . . god had the intention of creating life--this wonderful diversity of life that we see all around us on this planet--and ourselves, special creatures with whom he could have fellowship, in whom he would imbue the soul, the knowledge of good and evil, and the ability to practice free will."
Way to adapt truth to fanciful egotism. You work in a field in which you have the facts of life shoved into your face daily--there's no getting around it by hiding in the church--but rather than accept the fact that we are just one species of many on one of many planets in many galaxies in possibly many pan-dimensional universes and That's It, you'd prefer to crawl back into the recesses of your selfish imagination and try to Justify It To Your Ego somehow.
-----
I'm really getting tired of excessive safety features. Like the auto-slide door on minivans (people carriers). You push a button in the door and it closes itself in a controlled manner. Sounds like a good idea--fewer crushed fingers and tearful eyes--until you sit through its opening/closing procedure a few times. The thing takes about half an hour to slide across. You coulda been to the grocery store and back by the time the damn door closed. It also takes a lot of battery power, Breaks if you try to close it manually, and get this--they don't actually have enough power to get over the holding lever. Yep--that's the whole reason children's arms get thrown out in the first place. Slowly sliding a door closed Never gets it to actually click closed. I know a number of dads who've perfected the technique of leaving the door wide open, getting all the kids in their seat belts, and then driving a few feet only to slam on the brakes, causing the door to likewise slam. Not only does it delight the stickier members of the family, but its one of a very small number of ways to successfully close those doors.
this also pertains to the manufacture of shoddy products that are loaded with safety features which fail to take into consideration the most likely course of events--that being the product Breaking.
-----
I just finished Mary Wollstonecraft's Mary, a delightful, short narrative on how one woman's life starts out bad, gets worse, all her friends and family die in her arms, and she spends the rest of her life alone. I've since embarked upon The Wrongs of Woman, and i've gotten a whole four pages in without anyone coughing up blood!
-----
An ad searching for egg donors recently caught my eye. I nearly started the preliminary forms, but then was reminded of my family history of alcoholism, depression, cancer, blood disorders, arthritis, pulmonary disorders, poor vision, patella disorders, back pain, and oddly-shaped fingernails. I think I'll keep my shoddy DNA to myself.
-----
Before the invention of toilet paper, I'd imagine your average person was a lot better at botany.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
people-watching
I was facing the window from a restaurant on Telegraph and Durant for a fat half hour today and it pleased me to notice that in that time I was passed by representatives of at least thirty different countries and cultures, as represented in their appearance, dialect, dress, and public behavior, all cohabiting my little town peacefully. I also noticed that tapered jeans are back "in." Dios mio.
I thought I was witnessing the end of band rehearsal when I saw a bunch of soft-sided clarinet cases walk down the street. Then I realized they were leaving the Computer Sciences building.
The Pillowman is done and gone. All that remains is the glistening patch of crystallized red gel that seeped through to the deck downstage right. Tomorrow that'll be gone too when we further dismember the stage to start loading in The Blue Door, which is low and raked. Someone, ignorant of Pillowman's seat-gripping end, saw the drippy mess and said "Eugh! It looks like someone died there." to which it was very easy to reply, "Someone did. Six nights a week for two months. You try not leaving a mess." But then it occurred to me that I never actually stated it was the same person each time.
I thought I was witnessing the end of band rehearsal when I saw a bunch of soft-sided clarinet cases walk down the street. Then I realized they were leaving the Computer Sciences building.
The Pillowman is done and gone. All that remains is the glistening patch of crystallized red gel that seeped through to the deck downstage right. Tomorrow that'll be gone too when we further dismember the stage to start loading in The Blue Door, which is low and raked. Someone, ignorant of Pillowman's seat-gripping end, saw the drippy mess and said "Eugh! It looks like someone died there." to which it was very easy to reply, "Someone did. Six nights a week for two months. You try not leaving a mess." But then it occurred to me that I never actually stated it was the same person each time.
Monday, March 19, 2007
home economics
It just occurred to me that middle school Home Ec taught me nothing about household budgeting. Why the name?
When I walk down the street, I often wonder what passers-by think of when they give me the once-over. I bet its not "there's a girl who folds her underwear."
My intern project, which was to create a 22' high x 6' wide bookcase that appeared to have no visible means of support (just rows of floating books) was canceled due to a miscommunication between the director and the designer. I kinda wish they'd told me before I hacked into those Bibles.
When I walk down the street, I often wonder what passers-by think of when they give me the once-over. I bet its not "there's a girl who folds her underwear."
My intern project, which was to create a 22' high x 6' wide bookcase that appeared to have no visible means of support (just rows of floating books) was canceled due to a miscommunication between the director and the designer. I kinda wish they'd told me before I hacked into those Bibles.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Murphy's scene shop
If you want a cable to slide, it will catch. If you want it to catch, it will slide. Same goes for hoses, casters, keys, and soft goods.
If you cut all your lumber perfectly, it will warp. If you miss a cut it will always be too short. If it does neither, the piece will be cut from the show. so there.
Routers have the most suicidal power cables of any hand tool. Every five seconds they dive in front of the spinning bit, just begging to be torn in two.
You will only find raised nail heads and staples by kneeling...on them.
Homosote will never be square.
If it fits together in the shop, it will find a way not to onstage.
The faster you try to go, the more screws will have malformed heads.
The moment you find yourself proud of what you've made, you'll manage to hurt yourself on it.
If you cut all your lumber perfectly, it will warp. If you miss a cut it will always be too short. If it does neither, the piece will be cut from the show. so there.
Routers have the most suicidal power cables of any hand tool. Every five seconds they dive in front of the spinning bit, just begging to be torn in two.
You will only find raised nail heads and staples by kneeling...on them.
Homosote will never be square.
If it fits together in the shop, it will find a way not to onstage.
The faster you try to go, the more screws will have malformed heads.
The moment you find yourself proud of what you've made, you'll manage to hurt yourself on it.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
drugs
The other day i saw a television advertisement for a new medication targeted at people with "Restless Leg Syndrome"--folks who wiggle so much in bed that they have a hard time sleeping.
Um. Wow. Screw searching for treatments for legitimate diseases, lets patent and sell a drug for folks who don't get enough exercise during the day so they have pent-up energy at night. I have a funny feeling pharmaceutical companies have taken to inventing medical conditions so they can invent treatments for them. Restless legs? Take a walk. Go out, buy a dog, buy a leash, and walk it.
Now I recognize that profits are falling for one of the bigger drug companies after a cholesterol-lowering medication, made available to the public, turned out to have some nasty side effects that got it recalled. It came as a biting hit as they were really counting on the patent revenue from this drug (i think its called Lipitor?) to keep them afloat for the next few years. So i can only assume, now that this product has generated a loss, that they're going to be promoting their less-interesting drugs a bit more vehemently to make up for it. Unfortunately, an unwanted side-effect of this marketing campaign is that they make themselves look like dorks.
And i can only hope that this RLS drug occurred completely by accident. I envision a tired chemist mixing, pouring, looking cross-eyed at a sheet of ingredients, filling an eye dropper with a cloudy pink solution and feeding it to one of his twitchier lab rats through the grating on a sterile aluminium cage. After a few minutes the rodent falls asleep and he checks his vitals, takes some blood, pokes and/or prods the animal and records "day 312: Mopsy's tumor is no smaller, but interestingly, though his resting vitals are all normal, he's less wiggly in his sleep."
If anyone actually funded a project to develop a drug to reduce nighttime twitchy-ness...i think the entire medical community should hang its collective head in shame. That's a waste of money, time, resources, and above all, intellect. I would be so embarrassed to go through twenty years of schooling and get four PhDs, only to get a job heading that product team.
Um. Wow. Screw searching for treatments for legitimate diseases, lets patent and sell a drug for folks who don't get enough exercise during the day so they have pent-up energy at night. I have a funny feeling pharmaceutical companies have taken to inventing medical conditions so they can invent treatments for them. Restless legs? Take a walk. Go out, buy a dog, buy a leash, and walk it.
Now I recognize that profits are falling for one of the bigger drug companies after a cholesterol-lowering medication, made available to the public, turned out to have some nasty side effects that got it recalled. It came as a biting hit as they were really counting on the patent revenue from this drug (i think its called Lipitor?) to keep them afloat for the next few years. So i can only assume, now that this product has generated a loss, that they're going to be promoting their less-interesting drugs a bit more vehemently to make up for it. Unfortunately, an unwanted side-effect of this marketing campaign is that they make themselves look like dorks.
And i can only hope that this RLS drug occurred completely by accident. I envision a tired chemist mixing, pouring, looking cross-eyed at a sheet of ingredients, filling an eye dropper with a cloudy pink solution and feeding it to one of his twitchier lab rats through the grating on a sterile aluminium cage. After a few minutes the rodent falls asleep and he checks his vitals, takes some blood, pokes and/or prods the animal and records "day 312: Mopsy's tumor is no smaller, but interestingly, though his resting vitals are all normal, he's less wiggly in his sleep."
If anyone actually funded a project to develop a drug to reduce nighttime twitchy-ness...i think the entire medical community should hang its collective head in shame. That's a waste of money, time, resources, and above all, intellect. I would be so embarrassed to go through twenty years of schooling and get four PhDs, only to get a job heading that product team.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
ROTFLOL
It occurred to me today, after babbling at someone about the hyper-education of the subordinate classes until his ears started to bleed, that the American general masses have gone from being overwhelmingly illiterate to taking literacy completely for granted in the space of about 150 years. (give or take--some middle class families may be able to claim their ancestors could read from the day they made their first cave drawings, but i'm pretty sure my grandparents' grandparents were lucky if they could scratch their names in the dust.) Throughout the backlog of human history the ability to read was a skill reserved for monks and the wealthy elite. It was a huge dividing factor between the empowered and the disenfranchised castes (other divisions being footwear, suntans, and the right to not grovel.) It has only been within the past few generations that anyone thought public education might be a fun idea, and only very recently (in terms of the history of modern homo sapiens) that women and minorities have gotten the opportunity as well.
And now, in spite of the novelty of these things called words, we've already gotten lazy with them. It started simply, with little acronyms such as "TTFN" and "RSVP" jotted at the ends of friendly letters and informal invitations. Sentence truncation remained infrequent, really, until the 1930's, when the Great Depression settled in. Roosevelt's numerous attempts at tackling industrial health and safety, agricultural production, unemployment, trade, social security, and sustainable energy sources after the 1929 financial collapse led to the mind-bending alphabet soup that dominates the pages of US history textbooks today. From the AAA, NIRA, TVA, and PWA all the way down to the WPA, CWA, and the CCC that hired shoeless farm boys to plant trees in the forest, FDR's nation-rebuilding projects initiated what would soon become a trend of commerical, industrial, and political initialism throughout the twentieth century. From the first broadcast of CBS news, the first sheet of MDF, the first use of SWF ISO SBM in a personal ad, to the swearing in of W, we just can't seem to be arsed anymore to make use of whole words.
The development of text messaging, however, has taken what was once merely a mild grammatical confusion into a whole new dictionary of conjoined consonants. what began innocently enough in replacing "that's funny" with "LOL" has spurned communicative code that would leave Sam Morse scratching his head. Entire paragraphs are now reduced to meaningless jumbles of letters, all punctuated with multiple exclamation points and parentheses-based facial expressions. Written communication as we know it has been reduced to the typing of pithy phrases using as few characters as possible. Maybe its just me, but i feel linguistic development has taken a step back in this regard. Indeed, perhaps several steps back. The text conversation "RUOK?" "SSDD." "OIC." has the same depth of meaning as the exchange "Grunt?" "Snort." "Humph." (as communicated by our pre-cave-dwelling ancestors the month before Urg really worked out fire.) There's only so many phrases you can spit out using sentence acronyms before your friend has to turn off the caps lock to ask "huh?" so perhaps it is an attempt to simplify mundane conversation topics down to nothing so as to leave space in the text block to actually type out more worthwhile, personal, or at the very least situation-specific information. But if we're using acronyms to take the place of social niceties and small talk...doesn't that defeat their purpose? Might as well omit them altogether. I've never gotten the hang of writing in text-message speak and don't think i want to. If something's not worth saying fully, its probably not worth saying at all.
...perhaps, given the average word count of my blog entries and the actual amount of substance I tend to mix into them, i should rethink this stance.
And now, in spite of the novelty of these things called words, we've already gotten lazy with them. It started simply, with little acronyms such as "TTFN" and "RSVP" jotted at the ends of friendly letters and informal invitations. Sentence truncation remained infrequent, really, until the 1930's, when the Great Depression settled in. Roosevelt's numerous attempts at tackling industrial health and safety, agricultural production, unemployment, trade, social security, and sustainable energy sources after the 1929 financial collapse led to the mind-bending alphabet soup that dominates the pages of US history textbooks today. From the AAA, NIRA, TVA, and PWA all the way down to the WPA, CWA, and the CCC that hired shoeless farm boys to plant trees in the forest, FDR's nation-rebuilding projects initiated what would soon become a trend of commerical, industrial, and political initialism throughout the twentieth century. From the first broadcast of CBS news, the first sheet of MDF, the first use of SWF ISO SBM in a personal ad, to the swearing in of W, we just can't seem to be arsed anymore to make use of whole words.
The development of text messaging, however, has taken what was once merely a mild grammatical confusion into a whole new dictionary of conjoined consonants. what began innocently enough in replacing "that's funny" with "LOL" has spurned communicative code that would leave Sam Morse scratching his head. Entire paragraphs are now reduced to meaningless jumbles of letters, all punctuated with multiple exclamation points and parentheses-based facial expressions. Written communication as we know it has been reduced to the typing of pithy phrases using as few characters as possible. Maybe its just me, but i feel linguistic development has taken a step back in this regard. Indeed, perhaps several steps back. The text conversation "RUOK?" "SSDD." "OIC." has the same depth of meaning as the exchange "Grunt?" "Snort." "Humph." (as communicated by our pre-cave-dwelling ancestors the month before Urg really worked out fire.) There's only so many phrases you can spit out using sentence acronyms before your friend has to turn off the caps lock to ask "huh?" so perhaps it is an attempt to simplify mundane conversation topics down to nothing so as to leave space in the text block to actually type out more worthwhile, personal, or at the very least situation-specific information. But if we're using acronyms to take the place of social niceties and small talk...doesn't that defeat their purpose? Might as well omit them altogether. I've never gotten the hang of writing in text-message speak and don't think i want to. If something's not worth saying fully, its probably not worth saying at all.
...perhaps, given the average word count of my blog entries and the actual amount of substance I tend to mix into them, i should rethink this stance.
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