The tone a blogger adopts for writing often is interpreted by readers as an indication of how the blogger is doing. Interestingly, though, i don't think i'm alone in that I'm generally only inclined to write when i've been feeling negative and screwed over by the Man, man. Blogging is a means of letting off steam in a less harmful way than throwing a fit or breaking things. So based on tone and subject matter, this may appear to the casual observer to be the blog of a fairly grumpy, put-upon, and socially intolerant atheistic liberal.
Ben, before you comment--it so happens that for a good chunk of the day I am not grumpy, nor do i feel put upon. a lot of the time i'm quite complacent. Indeed, i'm the kind of person that could screw up a sociopath's road to sanity as i, when nobody else is around, might as well not exist. I read, do some cleaning, work out a bit, occupy my mind with crossword puzzles, and for the most part ride around in autopilot until someone shows up to engage my attention. Only then do i become the opinionated, anti-religious, slightly sadistic tirade generator you've all come to know and be slightly annoyed by. When nobody else is around, i'm as happy as a clam.
Then again, i'm not alone all that much, and when I am i often seek out company.
...
Okay fine, this blog is a pretty accurate representation of exactly who i am most of the time. Happy?
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
alumna
All Right USC, knock it off. You can't seriously believe that after costing me $30,000 that i don't have I'm gonna be willing or able to turn around and immediately start donating to your alumni association. I don't even make enough money to bother to file my tax return, let alone seek out deductions. No, USC, you did not get me the career of my dreams--in all honesty you didn't get me anything. I owe you nothing, I don't want to get hot tickets to home games, and i Certainly don't want to give you any reason to harass me even more. You must be incredibly arrogant or incredibly stupid to think that your students--the majority of whom attended because it was in-state, not because its where we wanted to go--would feel the urge to give you even More money, especially now that we've been out a while and seen exactly how useless that piece of paper we earned is. I could be here, now, doing exactly what i'm doing, with a GED. Instead i've got a BA followed by some latin gibberish and a debt that'll see me through the next decade. I know I should have taken it as granted that my school would start bugging me from the moment i walked off campus, but i had no idea you'd do it with such vehemence. The calls, the postcards, the fat envelopes full of worthless incentives and photos of smiling happy paid models...soon you'll start ringing the doorbell wearing skinny black ties and carrying a battered copy of the Carolinean Creed to ask me if i've embraced the joy of school Spirit...and just like all good proselytizers you'll never take "no, and please leave me alone." for an answer.
In other news, my cat has been gradually scooting closer and closer to me, so that a moment ago I went searching for my mouse and found it--not surprisingly--between her furry paws. She seems intent on getting as close as possible to me before passing gas, which is distinct in that it smells slightly worse than her food. Thanks, Boots.
In other other news, i went this morning to the clinic to start the HPV vaccine series and found, much to my chagrin, that i went to the wrong office and missed my appointment. I tried to reschedule and found that I must wait yet another month to get that ball rolling. As the two private doctors' appointments i've tried to have since arriving here the first of September will have taken 3 months to materialize and cost well over $300, I must pause to wonder what the same would have taken in a country with socialized healthcare.
In other news, my cat has been gradually scooting closer and closer to me, so that a moment ago I went searching for my mouse and found it--not surprisingly--between her furry paws. She seems intent on getting as close as possible to me before passing gas, which is distinct in that it smells slightly worse than her food. Thanks, Boots.
In other other news, i went this morning to the clinic to start the HPV vaccine series and found, much to my chagrin, that i went to the wrong office and missed my appointment. I tried to reschedule and found that I must wait yet another month to get that ball rolling. As the two private doctors' appointments i've tried to have since arriving here the first of September will have taken 3 months to materialize and cost well over $300, I must pause to wonder what the same would have taken in a country with socialized healthcare.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
searchin'
I've been searching for hours for a song that i know that i know, but i've since accepted defeat and mellowed out with some Joni Mitchell. She makes me lonely for Berkeley.
What happened to the worthwhile protest song? The radio seems unwilling to play any "government, pull your collective heads out of your mass rectum and heed the will of the people" music, either that or nobody's really writing any. Are we really jaded, or have we just realized that nobody's listening? I'd write a song, 'cept i can't sing and you can't really make a statement on the oboe. that and i'm sure the republican rumor mill would churn out bullshit claims about my past and get me blacklisted. Okay, yeah, i guess its the 'jaded' option.
I'm gonna vote for whoever has the best idea when it comes to affordable public healthcare. Not because i believe anyone's going to do anything about it--even ducklings aren't that naïve--but just so, when everything goes to shit, as per usual, i can quell my frustrations with the reminder that i voted my conscience. Its either that or try to move somewhere that i can afford treatment, and frankly Canada is just too damn cold.
Not to rant excessively, but the concept of insurance has pissed me off ever since i learned how it works. "okay, so a company makes money, somehow, by gambling that most of the people who pay for their services--services they don't actually provide upon receipt of payment--won't need their services." They freely take your money and are not expected to give you anything in return unless there's a catastrophe. "so...i'm paying you...to do nothing, just in case something goes wrong." what gets me is that everyone goes along with it. and if you cancel your policy, they don't give you your money back, even if you never filed a claim. they just take it. friends, this is what we call "theft." The only insurance plan i'll ever support is socialized--a system where the poor still pay for the masses, yes, but where nobody's profiteering off of other people's misfortune. Or driving the public into paranoid hysteria in order to get customers. (have you Seen those fear-mongering Allstate ads? "this pretty house seems safe... until our pyrotechnic team burns it to the ground! Safety has a price. that's Allstate's stand.")
What happened to the worthwhile protest song? The radio seems unwilling to play any "government, pull your collective heads out of your mass rectum and heed the will of the people" music, either that or nobody's really writing any. Are we really jaded, or have we just realized that nobody's listening? I'd write a song, 'cept i can't sing and you can't really make a statement on the oboe. that and i'm sure the republican rumor mill would churn out bullshit claims about my past and get me blacklisted. Okay, yeah, i guess its the 'jaded' option.
I'm gonna vote for whoever has the best idea when it comes to affordable public healthcare. Not because i believe anyone's going to do anything about it--even ducklings aren't that naïve--but just so, when everything goes to shit, as per usual, i can quell my frustrations with the reminder that i voted my conscience. Its either that or try to move somewhere that i can afford treatment, and frankly Canada is just too damn cold.
Not to rant excessively, but the concept of insurance has pissed me off ever since i learned how it works. "okay, so a company makes money, somehow, by gambling that most of the people who pay for their services--services they don't actually provide upon receipt of payment--won't need their services." They freely take your money and are not expected to give you anything in return unless there's a catastrophe. "so...i'm paying you...to do nothing, just in case something goes wrong." what gets me is that everyone goes along with it. and if you cancel your policy, they don't give you your money back, even if you never filed a claim. they just take it. friends, this is what we call "theft." The only insurance plan i'll ever support is socialized--a system where the poor still pay for the masses, yes, but where nobody's profiteering off of other people's misfortune. Or driving the public into paranoid hysteria in order to get customers. (have you Seen those fear-mongering Allstate ads? "this pretty house seems safe... until our pyrotechnic team burns it to the ground! Safety has a price. that's Allstate's stand.")
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
wire and dance
We gave my dad a light fixture in the shape of an airplane for his birthday. I installed it in the bathroom ceiling downstairs. its cute, and goes with the décor on that floor. (if you look around the room you'll see airplanes, cars, airplanes, airships, airplanes, spaceships, airplanes, and a desk) Photo will follow if i remember.
The song "Nice Weather for Ducks" by Lemon Jelly makes me happy. its just the sound. i don't know if this version is a series of samples of other pieces, as the vocal refrain obviously is, but the whole composition makes me dance around and smile in a vague, stupid way until an outside force reminds me not to. You can listen to it Here, though the trippy flash animation that goes along with it tends to distract me from the piece itself. For some reason "Sticks and Stones" by The Divine Comedy has a similar effect on me. maybe its the key signature.
The song "Nice Weather for Ducks" by Lemon Jelly makes me happy. its just the sound. i don't know if this version is a series of samples of other pieces, as the vocal refrain obviously is, but the whole composition makes me dance around and smile in a vague, stupid way until an outside force reminds me not to. You can listen to it Here, though the trippy flash animation that goes along with it tends to distract me from the piece itself. For some reason "Sticks and Stones" by The Divine Comedy has a similar effect on me. maybe its the key signature.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
bad dreamer
i've come to realize that my subconscious generates certain trends that are almost embarrassing in their regularity. You'd think i would pick up on them by now, in my sleep, and be able to trigger a lucid dream from noticing them, but somehow i continue to be taken in every night and blindly follow my erratic (and sometimes masochistic) inner self through a maze of personal issues I didn't even know I had.
For instance, a big trigger i'm dreaming is that my hair has suddenly grown about 8 inches. I tend to look in the mirror in my sleep and see, not the self-styled twentysomething i embody by day, but the awkward fifth grader with a long blond rat's nest of a mop and mom-cut bangs that i tried to bury deep in history. This image should be stored in the auxiliary broom cupboard of my memory--behind the cobwebs, behind the futon in the musty spare bedroom of the beachfront time-share of my mind. But somehow this pint sized sci-fi dweeb in ill-fitting hand-me-downs and a day-glo pink windbreaker emerges on a regular basis to lead me traipsing through a remembered and imagined wilderness on all sorts of nocturnal adventures.
Another big hint that i'm out cold--i start bumping into people I've thought about recently, but haven't actually seen in years. Now i know a lot of people encounter this in their dreams, but what gets me is the utter dorkiness with which I approach these situations. Some old friend or historical figure will be sitting on a park bench, minding their own business, and my socially awkward avatar will pop up next to them and exclaim "oh my god! i was just talking about you not two days ago. When did you get back from the dead?" Even in my imagination Thomas Jefferson endures me with a sort of executive patience.
A clue i noticed recently is that I tend to show up in my dreams wearing whatever it is i wore to bed. In winter this is only mildly embarrassing as the wealthy patrons of my nightly floor show attempt to look away from my purple duckie pajamas, but at other times of year, when i've thrown off the covers and a warm summer breeze reminds me exactly what is exposed to the elements, i entertain all sorts of visitors i'd normally not invite to my private nudist beach in Cassis. I spend most of these dreams searching for a towel or something opaque (i distinctly recall finding a flattering open-backed hospital gown in one) and upon waking realize i've burrowed so far under the covers that i resemble a gyro and it takes a team of twenty bulldozers to excavate me.
Maybe writing this down will make it easier to spot tonight when i again find myself as a nasty-headed ten year old standing in the middle of a shopping mall wearing nothing but my Saturn-shaped earrings. Oh please.
For instance, a big trigger i'm dreaming is that my hair has suddenly grown about 8 inches. I tend to look in the mirror in my sleep and see, not the self-styled twentysomething i embody by day, but the awkward fifth grader with a long blond rat's nest of a mop and mom-cut bangs that i tried to bury deep in history. This image should be stored in the auxiliary broom cupboard of my memory--behind the cobwebs, behind the futon in the musty spare bedroom of the beachfront time-share of my mind. But somehow this pint sized sci-fi dweeb in ill-fitting hand-me-downs and a day-glo pink windbreaker emerges on a regular basis to lead me traipsing through a remembered and imagined wilderness on all sorts of nocturnal adventures.
Another big hint that i'm out cold--i start bumping into people I've thought about recently, but haven't actually seen in years. Now i know a lot of people encounter this in their dreams, but what gets me is the utter dorkiness with which I approach these situations. Some old friend or historical figure will be sitting on a park bench, minding their own business, and my socially awkward avatar will pop up next to them and exclaim "oh my god! i was just talking about you not two days ago. When did you get back from the dead?" Even in my imagination Thomas Jefferson endures me with a sort of executive patience.
A clue i noticed recently is that I tend to show up in my dreams wearing whatever it is i wore to bed. In winter this is only mildly embarrassing as the wealthy patrons of my nightly floor show attempt to look away from my purple duckie pajamas, but at other times of year, when i've thrown off the covers and a warm summer breeze reminds me exactly what is exposed to the elements, i entertain all sorts of visitors i'd normally not invite to my private nudist beach in Cassis. I spend most of these dreams searching for a towel or something opaque (i distinctly recall finding a flattering open-backed hospital gown in one) and upon waking realize i've burrowed so far under the covers that i resemble a gyro and it takes a team of twenty bulldozers to excavate me.
Maybe writing this down will make it easier to spot tonight when i again find myself as a nasty-headed ten year old standing in the middle of a shopping mall wearing nothing but my Saturn-shaped earrings. Oh please.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Rain!
A little moisture has graced my county this evening--not much, but enough to make the flowers perk up a bit. (normally even the hardiest of plants are bowing their heads, muttering about gloom and doom.) It was odd to come out of a restaurant and smile at the prospect of getting wet on the way to the car.
Trader Joe's built a branch just north of my house! Its a little more expensive than Oakland (Charles Shaw is $2.99 here) but still cheaper than anything else around here. hooray food! Unfortunately the locals have already figured out that the Jaipur Vegetables and the High-Fibre Joe's O's are the best so i guess i've gotta get there early from now on. One of the cashiers suggested I apply for a job there and i think i would if i were planning on staying in the area for a while. Part time employees get in on the group health insurance, which includes vision and dental, but it doesn't kick in until after 100 days.
Yeah, I need a job. anything at this point, just so long as its not embarrassing for them to call my references. "Hi, this is Nancy with Wendy's restaurants, i'm calling in regard to Kristen, who has applied to be a Fry Cook--do I understand you were her professor?"
Trader Joe's built a branch just north of my house! Its a little more expensive than Oakland (Charles Shaw is $2.99 here) but still cheaper than anything else around here. hooray food! Unfortunately the locals have already figured out that the Jaipur Vegetables and the High-Fibre Joe's O's are the best so i guess i've gotta get there early from now on. One of the cashiers suggested I apply for a job there and i think i would if i were planning on staying in the area for a while. Part time employees get in on the group health insurance, which includes vision and dental, but it doesn't kick in until after 100 days.
Yeah, I need a job. anything at this point, just so long as its not embarrassing for them to call my references. "Hi, this is Nancy with Wendy's restaurants, i'm calling in regard to Kristen, who has applied to be a Fry Cook--do I understand you were her professor?"
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
tri-podiatry
I've come to appreciate that there are a few benefits to having a cat with three legs. While I'm sure Ms. Boots would disagree as she's lost much of her independence, agility, stamina, and self-esteem, her amputation has nevertheless led to a couple of upshots.
For instance, she's become more "affectionate"--that is, without her hind leg to scratch her neck and the back of her head, she calls upon human assistance to hit those hard-to-reach places. And its absolutely adorable how she goes about it. True, in cat-language she's saying "you, yeah, the one with opposable thumbs. pet me. here." but it comes across as a very sweet snuggly behavior.
She's more inclined than before to be picked up and held, probably because standing can be tiresome. In wanting to be held, then, she has resigned herself to tolerating all the bullshit we put her through while holding her.
She's never too far away--she likes to be within earshot of her humans, probably for safety. While she still never comes when she's called, she can be found if you go looking for her.
While this isn't necessarily a good thing, she's gotten more talkative. She announces her presence when she enters a room, or when you do. Not sure why. But she has gotten more communicative in other ways, somehow--she uses direct eye contact, touch, sound, and nasal indication (i.e. pointing at what she wants with her whole face) to get your attention and get what she wants. She's a simple creature--she wants to be let in and out, wants food (my cat is a bit of an oddball in that she doesn't eat if you don't follow her to her food dish. she doesn't expect you to feed her there, you just need to watch her back. That's not age or senility talking, either--she's always done that.) She also, when lonely, will wander around the house, yowling pathetically, until someone comes and talks to her. (I don't appreciate this at seven a.m.)
In other news, i learned how to cast off my knitting last night. Its delightfully easy, i just hadn't bothered to learn (i've been knitting and re-balling for about six months now.) huzzah--something to show for my work.
For instance, she's become more "affectionate"--that is, without her hind leg to scratch her neck and the back of her head, she calls upon human assistance to hit those hard-to-reach places. And its absolutely adorable how she goes about it. True, in cat-language she's saying "you, yeah, the one with opposable thumbs. pet me. here." but it comes across as a very sweet snuggly behavior.
She's more inclined than before to be picked up and held, probably because standing can be tiresome. In wanting to be held, then, she has resigned herself to tolerating all the bullshit we put her through while holding her.
She's never too far away--she likes to be within earshot of her humans, probably for safety. While she still never comes when she's called, she can be found if you go looking for her.
While this isn't necessarily a good thing, she's gotten more talkative. She announces her presence when she enters a room, or when you do. Not sure why. But she has gotten more communicative in other ways, somehow--she uses direct eye contact, touch, sound, and nasal indication (i.e. pointing at what she wants with her whole face) to get your attention and get what she wants. She's a simple creature--she wants to be let in and out, wants food (my cat is a bit of an oddball in that she doesn't eat if you don't follow her to her food dish. she doesn't expect you to feed her there, you just need to watch her back. That's not age or senility talking, either--she's always done that.) She also, when lonely, will wander around the house, yowling pathetically, until someone comes and talks to her. (I don't appreciate this at seven a.m.)
In other news, i learned how to cast off my knitting last night. Its delightfully easy, i just hadn't bothered to learn (i've been knitting and re-balling for about six months now.) huzzah--something to show for my work.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
a clean photo session
After my family elected to punch holes in my bathroom walls this summer to install a wall-mounted ironing board in the laundry room, its been my task (odd, seeing as i did it the first time too, when there weren't holes in the walls) to fix the place up. I guess this is my parents' idea of "earning my keep" while i'm home. It was some pretty straightforward plumbing, painting, and wiring work. could have done it all in one day but i'm lazy so it took about four.
Much brighter than my old 2-fer brass fixture, with lower wattages. I'm not sure how.
Look! The fixture matches the tap! Cute!
New hanging fixtures to match. Oh yes.
Note that the tap matches the stopper. The packaging didn't mention a stopper unit at all so I went all through the hardware store looking for them and eventually gave up. Turned out it was included.
Much brighter than my old 2-fer brass fixture, with lower wattages. I'm not sure how.
Look! The fixture matches the tap! Cute!
New hanging fixtures to match. Oh yes.
Not the best shot I'll admit, but its a very tiny bathroom.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
I should go to bed
I wonder what it says about me that i realized tonight that my favorite Beatles track is, hands down, "You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)" from the second Anthology album.
I'm nearly 23 years old and i still subscribe to MAD magazine.
I'm nearly 23 years old and i still subscribe to MAD magazine.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Kansas
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.
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.
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.
----
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.
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.
----
I got a haircut today. It looks...shorter.
----
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.
----
----
I got a haircut today. It looks...shorter.
----
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.
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