Well the end of my weekend is upon me, and once again my mind is boggled by my ability to waste time.
I did very little that was productive this week beyond a couple of so-so drawings, and several abortive attempts at creating some other so-so drawings
Sometimes I wonder how I can spend so much time alone in my apartment doing absolutely nothing without cracking up.
Then I realize that I’m laboring under a misapprehension, and that the terms of my speculation are inherently flawed, as I’ve already cracked up.
If I were right in the head I probably wouldn’t spend so much time in my apartment doing absolutely nothing.
Later on today there’s a training session at work, which I’ll be attending.
On the one hand, I hate it when they have these things on Thursdays, but on the other hand, it is overtime.
Still, I wish they’d have it on Tuesday or Wednesday. Thursdays are too short as it is without having to spend almost an hour driving to and from work, to say nothing of the hour and a half I’ll be spending at work.
Mostly for the overtime, but also for the knowledge, I guess, I go to pretty much every training session we have (they typically aren’t mandatory). The only time I miss a training session is if I’m out of town, which, at most, happens maybe twice a year.
So, among my co-workers, my consistent attendance of all available training sessions is sort of my specialty.
Imagine. My “specialty” consists almost entirely of simply showing up.
Admittedly, I do pass along whatever knowledge I pick up, but basically showing up is all there is to what I do.
But damn it, I show up better than just about anyone, and I can occupy space like nobody’s business…
I still haven’t heard anything from “Weird Tales.” Since I’ve never submitted a story to them before, though, I have no idea how long it takes them to reject one.
It seems to me that I used to receive my rejections pretty quickly back in the day, but, as it’s been more than nine years since I last submitted anything for consideration for inclusion in the basket underneath the paper shredder, my recollection may be a bit hazy.
I haven’t done any work on the second story I started on featuring the characters in the story I submitted to “Weird Tales,” though when I was walking the other day I was thinking about it and came up with a few good lines for it. I mostly have the whole thing plotted out, I’m just too lazy to work on it.
I don’t really understand the laziness, either, since it really would basically require doing exactly what I’m doing right now.
I don’t understand why I do some of the things I do. I mean, rather than working on the story, I’m writing an entry for my blog. Hel-LO!
I do that all the time, though. I’ll sit down to work on a story, and instead, for example, I’ll end up writing a lengthy e-mail to someone.
It reminds me of that episode of “The Simpsons” when Bart is supposed to be working on a research paper. He’s sitting at his desk in his room, avoiding looking at the paper. He scans the room looking for a distraction, settling finally, on, of all things, an Algebra book.
“Oooh, Algebra! I’ll just do a few equations...”
In any case, the story is pretty straightforward, and really wouldn’t take that much work, but I guess the fact that, ideally, at least, it IS work (which is to say, it’s something I could get paid for), it ends up feeling like work, so anything, even a similar, or more demanding, activity that is not work in the same sense, becomes preferable.
So Algebraic equations are more fun than a research paper when you don’t HAVE to work on Algebraic equations, just as writing up a long, rambling, and pointless blog entry which has no potential for a financial pay-off is less work than writing a short, tightly-woven story that could potentially bring in some money somewhere along the line.
I suppose there are other psychological elements at play as well, such as a fear of rejection. I mean, barring any technical difficulties, my blog isn’t likely to reject this post.
The basic plot of the story, in part, at least, revolves around the online dating experience. Much of the story will be in the form of Instant Messages and e-mails, and, like the first story (which I’m perfectly well aware that most of you haven’t read), will take place in a sort of quick back-and-forth between the two principal characters.
But the fact remains that writing it = work, and I’m already putting in overtime today…
When I conceived of this post I had intended to use the reference to online dating as a jumping point for relating some of my own experiences in that regard, but now that I’m here I find that I don’t have it in me, so I guess we’ll save that particular painful stroll down memory lane for another day.
The topic of e-mail, though, does provide something of a jumping off point for a pointless tangent.
I’m probably one of maybe three people outside the comic book industry who remembers the character of “E-Man,” and this stems largely from the time years and years ago when my mom picked up this stack of Charlton comics from…somewhere. I’m not clear on the details of where she bought them, but there were a bunch of them.
As a result, I was exposed to titles such as “Blue Beetle,” “Captain Atom,” “Judomaster,” “Doomsday + 1,” and, of course, “E-Man.”
I won’t get into the details of who E-Man was, or what his stories were like (though I will mention that the back-up feature, “ROG2000,” was illustrated by John Byrne, who was still on the cusp of making it big in the industry.).
All of these issues (Most of which are now lost to the ravages of time and a kid who had a tendency to love comics to death. I wasn’t that great at taking care of my comics, and my tendency to read and re-read them constantly didn’t help matters any.) were from the early 1970s (this was probably in the late 1970s or early 1980s), and many of them were actually reprints of stories that were older than that.
In any case, sometime in the 1980s (’83, I think) First Comics tried to revive E-Man. I don’t really know how well that worked out for them, but it’s worth noting that it’s been a long, long time since First Comics even still existed, so that probably tells you something.
However, not too long ago I saw a copy of First Comics’ E-Man #1, and I noted that the title of the letter page was “E-Mail.”
I can’t recall if that’s what the letter page was originally called in the 1970s, but it did lead me to wonder when the term e-mail, as we currently understand it, entered the vernacular.
I know that the basic technology dates back to the mid-60s, and odds are that techno-geeks at places like Bell Labs or Berkeley were using the term then, but when did we (I’ve only been a computer nerd for around 10 years, so I don’t completely fit into the techno-geek pigeonhole.) start using it?
I actually remember the first time I encountered the term in the popular press, which may have been the first time I encountered it at all.
Given my association with computer nerds at the time, though, I think that’s unlikely, despite my overwhelming lack of interest in computers at the time.
The article was about the preponderance of so-called “Electronic Mail” in business and on college campuses, and was published in something like “Popular Science,” I think, and this would have been around 1988 or 1989, and possibly as late as 1990.
My first actual experience with e-mail was sometime in the early 1990s. As part of an assignment for a computer class in college, each student had to create an e-mail account, and then send a message to the teacher with it. At the time, I saw no use for maintaining the account, and never bothered with it again.
There really wouldn’t have been much use for the account; at the time, the university did not have any kind of connection to the Internet. I would have only been able to send e-mail within the very limited bounds of the campus network.
By 1994, though, I had purchased a computer and began taking my first baby steps onto the Internet via America Online. At that time AOL did NOT offer flat-rate pricing or unlimited usage, so I cancelled the account at the end of the free trial, as money, as it so often has been even in subsequent years, was very tight.
Even then, though, when the WWW had begun to really take shape, and online services such as AOL, Compuserve, and Prodigy were commonplace, I can’t recall the term “e-mail” being used in casual conversation or in the dialogue of TV shows.
That didn’t really begin to happen until 1995, I think, though I’m sure that before that time the average person would have been at least somewhat familiar with the concept of “Electronic Mail.”
As advertised, there was no point to this little tangent. I’m sure that I could find out when “e-mail” properly entered the vernacular, but I don’t really care that much. This was all based off of speculation as to the status of the term in 1983 (and possibly earlier), when it was in use as the title for the letter page in a relatively obscure comic book published by a copany that's no longer in business.
And that’s the end of that tangent.
Yesterday I had the singular (which simply means that I viewed it as unique; it says nothing about the quality of it) experience of hearing Lisa Loeb performing a cover of an Ozzy Osbourne song.
It was from an Ozzy tribute album that was released a while back.
The specific song was “Goodbye To Romance,” so it wasn’t entirely outside the range of normal for Lisa Loeb.
Even so, I’m not entirely certain how I feel about it. I may have to hear it a couple of more times before I really render a decision.
On the topic of Lisa Loeb, though, one thing I would like to hear is her once again providing the voice of Mary Jane on MTV’s animated “Spider-Man” series. It’s not really a matter of being especially impressed by her performance as MJ, which, in all honesty, I’m rather ambivalent about, it’s more a matter of just wishing (most likely in vain) that the series would return for another season.
I was really impressed by the first season and enjoyed it immensely. Unfortunately, it seems unlikely that it’ll ever return, since it’s not some lame-ass variation on “Real World” or “Road Rules” or “Real World/Road Rules” or “Road World/Real Rules” or whatever the hell they’re stuffing their programming slots with these days.
Maybe if MTV could interrupt the action of the show by frequently cutting in with some jackass giving a shout-out to his homeys while they scroll incoherent messages from MTV Online across the bottom of the screen.
(“OMG! s-man is da bomb! mj ur 2 kewl!!!!!!1 cuz anime is teh s uck.”)
*Sigh*
When I woke up this morning I realized that I had no peanut butter cookies, so I set about resolving that as quickly as possible.
After all, I’m not the only one who’s come to rely on the daily supply of peanut butter cookies during the weekend.
I’ve had a request for the recipe for “Vangie’s Original Brazilian Black Beans & Rice” that I mentioned making the other day, so I thought I’d post it here for anyone else who may be interested. I found the recipe at www.cooks.com. I go there quite frequently.
"Feijoada Completa"
Ingredients:
1 1/2 lbs. dried black turtle beans1 lg. bell pepper (or 2 med.), diced4 lg. onions, diced6 cloves of garlic, diced3/4 c. celery, diced1/4 c. parsley, minced2 Tbsp. oregano, minced2 Tbsp. basil, minced2 or 3 bay leavesPinch of ground clove4 bouillon cubes, beef (or chicken)2 tbsp. vinegar (reserve to add last)
Meats:
1 lb. bulk sausage1 lb. pork, such as boneless country style ribs or rolled
roast1 lb. beef, stew beef chunks, chuck steak or leftover roast1/2 to 1 lb. ham, smoked or baked, cubed1/2 to 1 lb. smoked link sausage or Kielbasa cut into bite
size pieces1 lb. of same cut into 2 to 3 inch links to serve on the
sideSalt and pepper to taste
Beans:
Wash and look for gravel then soak overnight in a bowl being sure beans are well covered with water. For cooking use a large crock pot or soup pot, cast iron preferable. First, brown bulk sausage in a skillet and pour off excess grease. I have discovered a lean bulk sausage that is great, much less grease and fat.
Add other meats and stir to brown. Add bell pepper, onion, garlic, celery, parsley, oregano, basil, bay leaf, and clove.
Salt and pepper moderately, taste after cooking several hours and add more if needed.
Add beans and soak water and if necessary add more water to cover entire ingredients by at least two inches. Stir in four bouillon cubes. Cover and cook on crock pot high for three hours then turn to low for at least six hours. If cooking in a stove top soup pot, bring to a LOW boil for two hours then continue cooking on low simmer for six hours, stirring every hour or two to keep from sticking on the bottom of the pot.
I like to use the crock pot and leave it cooking on low overnight. I stir it about twice and sometimes find it necessary to add water. If it gets too watery, take about 1/2 cup of beans and mash with a fork until pasty to add back as a thickener. About an hour before serving stir in vinegar.
Serve beans and meat over rice. I have found brown rice to be quite tasty but white rice is fine too. Serve in a soup bowl and top with fresh chopped onion. The Brazilians top with farina or wheat germ.
Serve the extra sausage, which has been browned separately, on the side for those who want extra meat.
Compliment your main dish with a mixed green salad consisting of everything but the kitchen sink and oil and vinegar or a good Italian type salad dressing, and a basket of garlic bread. Dessert should be light such as sherbet or vanilla ice cream topped with creme de menthe. Invite at least a dozen friends to enjoy the feast. Leftover black beans freeze beautifully for months.
Saldade!
So there’s the recipe. If you follow the advice contained therein, it'll take you even longer to makd than it took me, but I found that it was fine after about 9 hours of cooking during the day.
Anyway, as I finally complete this entry I’m home from my training and preparing for the end of the day.
One good thing about the changing seasons is that it’s almost dark out by the time I go to bed on Thursday nights even though I go to bed very early
Not that I really have a problem sleeping when it’s light out, it just makes things a little easier on me.
In any case, I hope those of you who are out there reading this who don’t have to work weekends enjoy your days off.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Preemptive boycott
For the record, I want to mention that I hate bumper stickers.
Since I seem to hate most things, I’m sure that hardly comes as any sort of surprise, but I do hate them for reasons that are separate from my general disdain for all of creation.
Mostly I hate them because not only do I not care where your kid goes to school, I also don’t care how he or she is doing academically while attending the school that, as we've already established, I don’t care that he or she is attending.
I also don’t care that you like Harley-Davidson motorcycles, or that you’re a Wiccan, or that you think Xena, and not Bush or Kerry, should be elected President (And the fact that you’re stumping for support for a fictional character, portrayed by someone who’s not a citizen of the United States, to become President tells me that you’re an idiot.).
And while I think the information contained on a bumper sticker is useless anyway, how much more useless does it become, in the case of support for a candidate, after the elections and said candidate has lost? Basically you’re stuck with a sticker that says, “I Backed The Wrong Horse!”
There have been a couple bumper stickers in particular, though, that have been bothering me a lot lately.
In fact, I saw one vehicle that had both of the offending bumper stickers on it, though given the ideology behind both, it’s hardly surprising.
In any case, here’s the first one: Boycott France.
Umm…what? “Boycott France?”
How, precisely, would I go about doing that?
As Brian pointed out when I mentioned this at work, boycotting France would consist primarily of not buying expensive wine, cheese, or bottled water.
I assume that it would probably also mean avoiding travel there.
So, don’t buy expensive wine, don’t buy expensive cheese, don’t buy expensive bottled water, and don’t travel to France.
Damn, I must be some kind of “Super-Patriot,” as I’ve apparently been boycotting France my whole life! I preemptively boycotted the place.
The arrogance of such a statement just astounds me. “Boycott France,” indeed.
Of course, it’s worth noting that I’ve primarily seen this bumper sticker on the back of a Lexus, Mercedes, and various other comparably expensive vehicles.
It occurs to me, though, that given the way the French feel about us, wouldn’t it do more to piss them off if, rather than avoiding travel there, Americans just swamped the place with tourists? Just a thought…
The other sticker that bugs me states “Support President Bush and Our Troops.”
Does this bother me simply because I prefer the Brazilian Wax?
(Sorry, it was just a way of saying that I’m “Anti-Bush” in a really tasteless fashion, that I couldn’t resist.)
No, it has very little to do with my political beliefs.
It’s a matter of logic. Logically, I don’t see how these two things are related. How does support for President Bush translate to support for our troops, or vice versa?
In general, I don’t understand the rallying cry of “support our troops” in reference to the current military action in Iraq anyway. I don’t see that being opposed to such an action necessarily means that you aren’t supporting them, nor do I see that being in favor of our continued presence constitutes supporting them.
If anything, I should think that calling for them to be withdrawn, for their safety and for the sake of reuniting them with their families, would be much more supportive than calling for them to be kept in harm’s way.
Regardless of your politics or your feelings about the situation, logically, that just makes more sense to me, and I’d really like to know how support for President Bush translates into support for our troops.
Even if you do criticize the President for his decisions, or question the wisdom of our military involvement in Iraq, and even if you take to task the leadership of our troops stationed there, it DOES NOT logically follow that you are somehow questioning the integrity, bravery, or intelligence of the men and women, the actual “troops” in question, who are stationed there. I don’t hear anyone, not Michael Moore, not the Dixie Chicks, not anyone, proclaiming that our troops are uniformly bad, or that the soldiers stationed there don’t deserve our support. Hell, even the outcries and investigations into the abuses of prisoners focused not on the individual soldiers involved but on the military leadership that created an environment in which that sort of behavior was not only condoned but encouraged.
In any case, I guess the real question is what you mean when you say to “support” our troops. How does support for our troops manifest itself? By sending cards and letters of encouragement to soldiers stationed there? Helping out the family of a friend who’s been deployed to Iraq while he or she is away? Performing in the USO? Loudly speaking up in the media and saying that you think our troops are the greatest?
If that’s what’s meant by support, then, again, the question of how support (presumably in the form of votes) for President Bush relates to this comes up once again. The most vocal and rabidly anti-Bush pundit could still provide this kind of support to our troops.
My brother-in-law’s National Guard unit is being called up for active duty, and next month he’ll be starting an 18-month tour of duty that will, eventually, lead him to Iraq. I know for a fact that, in his view, the most supportive thing the American people could do for him would be to allow him to stay home and NOT have to miss his daughter’s high school graduation and almost her entire freshman year in college.
Make no mistake; my brother-in-law understands his duty, and will live up it, just as he did 14 years ago when he spent more than a year in Saudi Arabia as part of Desert Shield/Desert Storm, but the fact remains that he is human, in addition to being a soldier, and so naturally he has no desire to be shipped away from his family.
So, again, how does supporting President Bush support him?
Now, I’ve been more than a tad disingenuous for the purposes of making my point, and I do understand that the real message behind “Support President Bush and our troops” (Interesting that “our troops” seems tacked on like an afterthought) is that failing to step in line and accept the actions of the current Administration without question constitutes an attack on the brave men and women who are defending our freedom to disagree with those actions.
(I find it odd how frequently proponents of the Administration’s actions cite the fact that there are soldiers protecting our freedom to disagree while at the same time telling us that, out of respect for those soldiers, we ought to avoid actually exercising that freedom by criticizing military decisions.)
Still, and admitting that I do have my biases, I have opted to logically attack this position, albeit circuitously, and I think I’ve largely made my point. There is no connection between supporting the current Administration's policies and supporting our troops.
Not so, you say! When we attack the wisdom of the Administration’s policy in Iraq, we undermine the confidence of our troops. When we say that this foray into Iraq is pointless and will accomplish nothing, we tell our troops that what they’re doing doesn’t matter.
To that I can only say, “Too bad.” Whether or not the feelings of our troops are hurt by what we have to say about the actions and policies of the Administration, it is our duty as citizens, just as much as reporting to the front lines is their duty as soldiers, to speak out against what we see as bad decisions, and to question the wisdom of those decisions.
And ultimately, it’s up to each solider to decide for him or herself whether or not what his or her actions have value.
In the end, because the situation in Iraq is such that there is not, and will not be anytime soon, any graceful way for us to exit, it really doesn’t matter who we throw our support behind in this regard, as no matter who wins the election, for the foreseeable future we’ll have to continue to support our troops from a half a world away.
All that aside, there are all sorts of bumper stickers that annoy the hell out of me, and these are only two of them. As to what my principal objection to bumper stickers is in general…you know, I don’t really know. Maybe it’s just because when I’m behind a car these days I tend to be behind it for extended periods of time, like at a traffic light, which just sets my nerves on edge to begin with, and as I end up reading the same thing over and over and over again in that time, and day after day, since so frequently the same bumper stickers find their way onto many different cars, and I’ve just lost all patience for them.
Or maybe I’m just a crank.
Well, there’s no “maybe” about that one, I guess…
Since I seem to hate most things, I’m sure that hardly comes as any sort of surprise, but I do hate them for reasons that are separate from my general disdain for all of creation.
Mostly I hate them because not only do I not care where your kid goes to school, I also don’t care how he or she is doing academically while attending the school that, as we've already established, I don’t care that he or she is attending.
I also don’t care that you like Harley-Davidson motorcycles, or that you’re a Wiccan, or that you think Xena, and not Bush or Kerry, should be elected President (And the fact that you’re stumping for support for a fictional character, portrayed by someone who’s not a citizen of the United States, to become President tells me that you’re an idiot.).
And while I think the information contained on a bumper sticker is useless anyway, how much more useless does it become, in the case of support for a candidate, after the elections and said candidate has lost? Basically you’re stuck with a sticker that says, “I Backed The Wrong Horse!”
There have been a couple bumper stickers in particular, though, that have been bothering me a lot lately.
In fact, I saw one vehicle that had both of the offending bumper stickers on it, though given the ideology behind both, it’s hardly surprising.
In any case, here’s the first one: Boycott France.
Umm…what? “Boycott France?”
How, precisely, would I go about doing that?
As Brian pointed out when I mentioned this at work, boycotting France would consist primarily of not buying expensive wine, cheese, or bottled water.
I assume that it would probably also mean avoiding travel there.
So, don’t buy expensive wine, don’t buy expensive cheese, don’t buy expensive bottled water, and don’t travel to France.
Damn, I must be some kind of “Super-Patriot,” as I’ve apparently been boycotting France my whole life! I preemptively boycotted the place.
The arrogance of such a statement just astounds me. “Boycott France,” indeed.
Of course, it’s worth noting that I’ve primarily seen this bumper sticker on the back of a Lexus, Mercedes, and various other comparably expensive vehicles.
It occurs to me, though, that given the way the French feel about us, wouldn’t it do more to piss them off if, rather than avoiding travel there, Americans just swamped the place with tourists? Just a thought…
The other sticker that bugs me states “Support President Bush and Our Troops.”
Does this bother me simply because I prefer the Brazilian Wax?
(Sorry, it was just a way of saying that I’m “Anti-Bush” in a really tasteless fashion, that I couldn’t resist.)
No, it has very little to do with my political beliefs.
It’s a matter of logic. Logically, I don’t see how these two things are related. How does support for President Bush translate to support for our troops, or vice versa?
In general, I don’t understand the rallying cry of “support our troops” in reference to the current military action in Iraq anyway. I don’t see that being opposed to such an action necessarily means that you aren’t supporting them, nor do I see that being in favor of our continued presence constitutes supporting them.
If anything, I should think that calling for them to be withdrawn, for their safety and for the sake of reuniting them with their families, would be much more supportive than calling for them to be kept in harm’s way.
Regardless of your politics or your feelings about the situation, logically, that just makes more sense to me, and I’d really like to know how support for President Bush translates into support for our troops.
Even if you do criticize the President for his decisions, or question the wisdom of our military involvement in Iraq, and even if you take to task the leadership of our troops stationed there, it DOES NOT logically follow that you are somehow questioning the integrity, bravery, or intelligence of the men and women, the actual “troops” in question, who are stationed there. I don’t hear anyone, not Michael Moore, not the Dixie Chicks, not anyone, proclaiming that our troops are uniformly bad, or that the soldiers stationed there don’t deserve our support. Hell, even the outcries and investigations into the abuses of prisoners focused not on the individual soldiers involved but on the military leadership that created an environment in which that sort of behavior was not only condoned but encouraged.
In any case, I guess the real question is what you mean when you say to “support” our troops. How does support for our troops manifest itself? By sending cards and letters of encouragement to soldiers stationed there? Helping out the family of a friend who’s been deployed to Iraq while he or she is away? Performing in the USO? Loudly speaking up in the media and saying that you think our troops are the greatest?
If that’s what’s meant by support, then, again, the question of how support (presumably in the form of votes) for President Bush relates to this comes up once again. The most vocal and rabidly anti-Bush pundit could still provide this kind of support to our troops.
My brother-in-law’s National Guard unit is being called up for active duty, and next month he’ll be starting an 18-month tour of duty that will, eventually, lead him to Iraq. I know for a fact that, in his view, the most supportive thing the American people could do for him would be to allow him to stay home and NOT have to miss his daughter’s high school graduation and almost her entire freshman year in college.
Make no mistake; my brother-in-law understands his duty, and will live up it, just as he did 14 years ago when he spent more than a year in Saudi Arabia as part of Desert Shield/Desert Storm, but the fact remains that he is human, in addition to being a soldier, and so naturally he has no desire to be shipped away from his family.
So, again, how does supporting President Bush support him?
Now, I’ve been more than a tad disingenuous for the purposes of making my point, and I do understand that the real message behind “Support President Bush and our troops” (Interesting that “our troops” seems tacked on like an afterthought) is that failing to step in line and accept the actions of the current Administration without question constitutes an attack on the brave men and women who are defending our freedom to disagree with those actions.
(I find it odd how frequently proponents of the Administration’s actions cite the fact that there are soldiers protecting our freedom to disagree while at the same time telling us that, out of respect for those soldiers, we ought to avoid actually exercising that freedom by criticizing military decisions.)
Still, and admitting that I do have my biases, I have opted to logically attack this position, albeit circuitously, and I think I’ve largely made my point. There is no connection between supporting the current Administration's policies and supporting our troops.
Not so, you say! When we attack the wisdom of the Administration’s policy in Iraq, we undermine the confidence of our troops. When we say that this foray into Iraq is pointless and will accomplish nothing, we tell our troops that what they’re doing doesn’t matter.
To that I can only say, “Too bad.” Whether or not the feelings of our troops are hurt by what we have to say about the actions and policies of the Administration, it is our duty as citizens, just as much as reporting to the front lines is their duty as soldiers, to speak out against what we see as bad decisions, and to question the wisdom of those decisions.
And ultimately, it’s up to each solider to decide for him or herself whether or not what his or her actions have value.
In the end, because the situation in Iraq is such that there is not, and will not be anytime soon, any graceful way for us to exit, it really doesn’t matter who we throw our support behind in this regard, as no matter who wins the election, for the foreseeable future we’ll have to continue to support our troops from a half a world away.
All that aside, there are all sorts of bumper stickers that annoy the hell out of me, and these are only two of them. As to what my principal objection to bumper stickers is in general…you know, I don’t really know. Maybe it’s just because when I’m behind a car these days I tend to be behind it for extended periods of time, like at a traffic light, which just sets my nerves on edge to begin with, and as I end up reading the same thing over and over and over again in that time, and day after day, since so frequently the same bumper stickers find their way onto many different cars, and I’ve just lost all patience for them.
Or maybe I’m just a crank.
Well, there’s no “maybe” about that one, I guess…
The experiment continues unsuccessfully onward...
So here's another one that's still not what I want. Maybe I don't know what I want.
Still, it seems to me that, given that I'm almost NEVER happy with how my pictures of Fontaine turn out, perhaps I shouldn't be using her as the guinea pig in this style experiment.
On the other hand, Fontaine, and the memory of my original conception of her, are what inspired the experiment in the first place. So I guess I'm stuck in that spot between a rock and a hard place. I don't know what the solution is. Maybe there isn't one.
Frozen moments in warmth, chirping, and READ STUFF BY NEIL GAIMAN
This morning got off to a less than auspicious start.
I woke up and noticed that it still wasn’t entirely light out, so I rolled over to look at my clock and saw that it was exactly 7:00.
I also noted that a very, very cold breeze was coming in through my open windows.
As there’s virtually nothing better than snuggling up tightly in your warm blankets in reaction to the cold around you (There’s nothing better when you’re in the bed alone, anyway.), I proceeded to do so with some amount of delight at the prospect of idly dozing in warmth while the world was freezing around me.
Then I realized that I had woken up in the first place because I’d heard a sound.
The sound was something vaguely akin to the sound of a rubber-soled shoe quickly and sharply skidding against a hardwood floor amid the rapid pace of a basketball game.
Then I heard it again and realized that it was my smoke alarm.
Since the smoke alarms in my apartment are hardwired, I couldn’t imagine why it was making the noise.
Still, even though, as far as I understood it, the alarm SHOULDN’T have been making the “your battery is dying” noise, the fact remained that it was, and that it was going to do its level best to keep me from idly dozing in warmth while the world froze around me.
So I got up. Specifically, I got up and tried to see if I had anything lying around that had the number for maintenance on it.
I couldn’t find any such item, though I did find a copy of my lease, which unequivocally stated that the smoke alarms are hardwired and DO NOT have a battery back-up, making it the tenant’s responsibility to purchase an additional alarm that is dual-powered.
(With all apologies to Brian and Kathleen, who are volunteer fire fighters, I must admit that I haven’t done so.)
Then the irritating chirping, which had occurred at completely random intervals, simply stopped.
So I decided that maybe it had been some sort of glitch in the system or something and put it out of my mind.
After about a half an hour it started again.
The office didn’t open for another half an hour, and since I had no number with which to reach maintenance, I was at an impasse. My ceilings are 9’ high and I don’t have anything both tall and stable enough, to stand on in order to reach the ceiling.
Since, as far as I could tell, the problem wasn’t a dying battery, there wasn’t anything I could do even if I could reach the alarm, short of tearing the damn thing loose, which didn’t really seem like a good idea anyway.
So I went for a walk to kill time before the office opened, with the hope that maybe I’d run into one of the maintenance guys driving around the parking lot in their little golf cart.
I didn’t, but once the office opened I was informed that the alarms do, in fact, have a battery back-up, and that they would get it replaced for me.
(So I don't owe any apologies to Brian and Kathleen, as I do have smoke alarms with battery back-up.)
Since I was up and out and about, I opted to go for a regular walk, hoping that by the time I got back the battery would have been replaced.
That seemed to be the case when I returned, as there was no more chirping…until about ten minutes later, when it chirped once, and only once, just for the sake of being recalcitrant, I think.
Eventually some young punk who kept calling me “dude” showed up and replaced the batteries on both of the alarms while he was here.
So crisis resolved, I guess.
While I was out walking I saw someone whom I haven’t seen much of lately, since I’ve been so lax about going for walks.
As I explained during the whole “Flame Chick” entry, I have a tendency to give people nicknames, for the sake of utility if nothing else, that are indicative of some aspect of the person’s personality or appearance, but in this case I’ve been remiss, and I simply refer to her as “The lady with the garbage bag.”
I’ve never been sure what her deal is, I just know that whenever I see her she’s out walking, dressed in standard gear for walking, and carrying a garbage bag.
Today, for the first time, I noted that she isn’t simply carrying something in the bag; she does actually stop to pick things up and put them in the bag. I was too far behind her to see exactly what she was picking up, but the trails tend to be fairly litter-free (Thanks to her, perhaps?), except for the occasional cigarette butt. I did note, however, as I proceeded along behind her, that she did miss several cigarette butts.
In any case, I don’t know if she’s doing this in any sort of official capacity, or just as some sort of self-righteous busybody/concerned citizen (take your pick), but I did at least note that she isn’t just randomly carrying around a garbage bag with her, so that solves at least part of the mystery of “The lady with the garbage bag.”
If you are one of those poor unfortunates who's never read anything by Neil Gaiman, and, after the previous post, you’re wondering what the big deal is, let me say that it’s not just his incredibly original ideas, the evidence of the overwhelming erudition of a man who’s read bloody everything that shows through in all of his work, or even the fact that his stories manage to run the gamut from laugh out loud hilarious to turn on all the lights terrifying, it’s all of these things and more, and most of all, it’s his brilliant turns of phrases like this one:
Richard had noticed that events were cowards: they didn’t occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.
The above is quoted from “Neverwhere.”
Consider this a recommendation, or even a command, if you like, but in any case READ SOMETHING BY NEIL GAIMAN.
You won’t regret it, and if you do regret it, the odds are that you either aren’t very bright or you don’t have a soul, or both. If you can’t enjoy something written by Neil Gaiman then you are some sort of empty, shallow vessel that has a leak in it and therefore cannot be filled with anything worthwhile.
Some of the best stuff to read is his work on “The Sandman,” but if you are absolutely incapable of accepting the notion that words and pictures can come together to tell and amazing story and must, by necessity, be for children, then try some of his novels and collections of short stories, such as “Smoke and Mirrors,” “Stardust,” “Neverwhere,” “American Gods,” and “Good Omens,” which was co-authored with Terry Pratchett.
Also, check out www.neilgaiman.com for more info and insight on who he is.
I guess that’s enough of a sermon on the value of reading things by Neil Gaiman.
It’s hard to not go on (and on) about how people should read his stuff, not just because I think it’s all wonderful, but because I’ve been talking about how wonderful it is for so long that it’s become an ingrained habit.
Throughout the years my evangelism has actually ended up costing me a great deal.
I already mentioned that I lost my copy of “The Time of Your Life” after loaning it out to a friend in an attempt to demonstrate just how good it was.
I also lost huge chunks of my “Sandman” collection as well, under similar circumstances.
(Of course, in that particular instance, I lost a great deal more than just some books, but that’s a very long and pathetic story that I don’t feel like getting into right now.)
It’s long been my intention to rebuild my collection, but money continues to be an issue, and whenever I do have some disposable income something else invariably seems to come up.
In any case, I guess that will do for now. I need to figure out whether or not I have anything to accompany the chicken I’ll be having for dinner tonight or if I have to walk over to Safeway to pick something up. I’m sure I’ll have more to say, and possibly another picture, later today.
I woke up and noticed that it still wasn’t entirely light out, so I rolled over to look at my clock and saw that it was exactly 7:00.
I also noted that a very, very cold breeze was coming in through my open windows.
As there’s virtually nothing better than snuggling up tightly in your warm blankets in reaction to the cold around you (There’s nothing better when you’re in the bed alone, anyway.), I proceeded to do so with some amount of delight at the prospect of idly dozing in warmth while the world was freezing around me.
Then I realized that I had woken up in the first place because I’d heard a sound.
The sound was something vaguely akin to the sound of a rubber-soled shoe quickly and sharply skidding against a hardwood floor amid the rapid pace of a basketball game.
Then I heard it again and realized that it was my smoke alarm.
Since the smoke alarms in my apartment are hardwired, I couldn’t imagine why it was making the noise.
Still, even though, as far as I understood it, the alarm SHOULDN’T have been making the “your battery is dying” noise, the fact remained that it was, and that it was going to do its level best to keep me from idly dozing in warmth while the world froze around me.
So I got up. Specifically, I got up and tried to see if I had anything lying around that had the number for maintenance on it.
I couldn’t find any such item, though I did find a copy of my lease, which unequivocally stated that the smoke alarms are hardwired and DO NOT have a battery back-up, making it the tenant’s responsibility to purchase an additional alarm that is dual-powered.
(With all apologies to Brian and Kathleen, who are volunteer fire fighters, I must admit that I haven’t done so.)
Then the irritating chirping, which had occurred at completely random intervals, simply stopped.
So I decided that maybe it had been some sort of glitch in the system or something and put it out of my mind.
After about a half an hour it started again.
The office didn’t open for another half an hour, and since I had no number with which to reach maintenance, I was at an impasse. My ceilings are 9’ high and I don’t have anything both tall and stable enough, to stand on in order to reach the ceiling.
Since, as far as I could tell, the problem wasn’t a dying battery, there wasn’t anything I could do even if I could reach the alarm, short of tearing the damn thing loose, which didn’t really seem like a good idea anyway.
So I went for a walk to kill time before the office opened, with the hope that maybe I’d run into one of the maintenance guys driving around the parking lot in their little golf cart.
I didn’t, but once the office opened I was informed that the alarms do, in fact, have a battery back-up, and that they would get it replaced for me.
(So I don't owe any apologies to Brian and Kathleen, as I do have smoke alarms with battery back-up.)
Since I was up and out and about, I opted to go for a regular walk, hoping that by the time I got back the battery would have been replaced.
That seemed to be the case when I returned, as there was no more chirping…until about ten minutes later, when it chirped once, and only once, just for the sake of being recalcitrant, I think.
Eventually some young punk who kept calling me “dude” showed up and replaced the batteries on both of the alarms while he was here.
So crisis resolved, I guess.
While I was out walking I saw someone whom I haven’t seen much of lately, since I’ve been so lax about going for walks.
As I explained during the whole “Flame Chick” entry, I have a tendency to give people nicknames, for the sake of utility if nothing else, that are indicative of some aspect of the person’s personality or appearance, but in this case I’ve been remiss, and I simply refer to her as “The lady with the garbage bag.”
I’ve never been sure what her deal is, I just know that whenever I see her she’s out walking, dressed in standard gear for walking, and carrying a garbage bag.
Today, for the first time, I noted that she isn’t simply carrying something in the bag; she does actually stop to pick things up and put them in the bag. I was too far behind her to see exactly what she was picking up, but the trails tend to be fairly litter-free (Thanks to her, perhaps?), except for the occasional cigarette butt. I did note, however, as I proceeded along behind her, that she did miss several cigarette butts.
In any case, I don’t know if she’s doing this in any sort of official capacity, or just as some sort of self-righteous busybody/concerned citizen (take your pick), but I did at least note that she isn’t just randomly carrying around a garbage bag with her, so that solves at least part of the mystery of “The lady with the garbage bag.”
If you are one of those poor unfortunates who's never read anything by Neil Gaiman, and, after the previous post, you’re wondering what the big deal is, let me say that it’s not just his incredibly original ideas, the evidence of the overwhelming erudition of a man who’s read bloody everything that shows through in all of his work, or even the fact that his stories manage to run the gamut from laugh out loud hilarious to turn on all the lights terrifying, it’s all of these things and more, and most of all, it’s his brilliant turns of phrases like this one:
Richard had noticed that events were cowards: they didn’t occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.
The above is quoted from “Neverwhere.”
Consider this a recommendation, or even a command, if you like, but in any case READ SOMETHING BY NEIL GAIMAN.
You won’t regret it, and if you do regret it, the odds are that you either aren’t very bright or you don’t have a soul, or both. If you can’t enjoy something written by Neil Gaiman then you are some sort of empty, shallow vessel that has a leak in it and therefore cannot be filled with anything worthwhile.
Some of the best stuff to read is his work on “The Sandman,” but if you are absolutely incapable of accepting the notion that words and pictures can come together to tell and amazing story and must, by necessity, be for children, then try some of his novels and collections of short stories, such as “Smoke and Mirrors,” “Stardust,” “Neverwhere,” “American Gods,” and “Good Omens,” which was co-authored with Terry Pratchett.
Also, check out www.neilgaiman.com for more info and insight on who he is.
I guess that’s enough of a sermon on the value of reading things by Neil Gaiman.
It’s hard to not go on (and on) about how people should read his stuff, not just because I think it’s all wonderful, but because I’ve been talking about how wonderful it is for so long that it’s become an ingrained habit.
Throughout the years my evangelism has actually ended up costing me a great deal.
I already mentioned that I lost my copy of “The Time of Your Life” after loaning it out to a friend in an attempt to demonstrate just how good it was.
I also lost huge chunks of my “Sandman” collection as well, under similar circumstances.
(Of course, in that particular instance, I lost a great deal more than just some books, but that’s a very long and pathetic story that I don’t feel like getting into right now.)
It’s long been my intention to rebuild my collection, but money continues to be an issue, and whenever I do have some disposable income something else invariably seems to come up.
In any case, I guess that will do for now. I need to figure out whether or not I have anything to accompany the chicken I’ll be having for dinner tonight or if I have to walk over to Safeway to pick something up. I’m sure I’ll have more to say, and possibly another picture, later today.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
The gifts that keep on giving (even after I lose them)
While I have no idea why the thought occurred to me, the fact remains that earlier I was thinking that almost all of the gifts I’ve gotten from people over the years that I would consider to be the coolest gifts have been things written by Neil Gaiman.
(As a totally unrelated aside, I just have to mention that as I write this, my TV is providing background noise in the form of a really bad soft-core porn called “The Mummy’s Kiss.” There was just a scene in which the heroine, a young college student, has just stopped in to visit her uncle, a professor at the college. Her uncle is, in fact, an Egyptologist. She tells him that she stopped by to see if he had any books she could borrow on, of all things, Ancient Egypt. She says it in such a way that it seems like she thinks it’s a long shot that he would have such a thing. Oy.)
By “coolest” I mean gifts that I most appreciate, as they are things that I was really happy to receive and which I enjoyed a great deal.
The first such was a birthday present from my friend Jennifer several years ago. It was a copy of the second “Death” mini-series, “The Time of Your Life,” collected in a trade paperback. I always remember her telling me, before it arrived in the mail, that the gift she had gotten me had “two parts” to it, one of which wasn’t really tangible.
The “intangible” part was the fact that she had actually read it, which was pretty cool, since I know how hard it can be for non-comic book geeks to take a comic book seriously enough to even consider reading it.
(As another aside, this movie was made so cheaply that they couldn’t even afford blanks for the scene when someone has to fire a gun. They added the gunfire effects digitally, and did so very poorly at that.)
When I moved away to Minnesota, though, I forgot that I had loaned the book to a friend, and when I moved back to Michigan…well, I had other things on my mind. I haven’t seen or talked to that friend in years, and I’m not too likely to, so it’s probably lost to me. Still, especially for the intangible aspect, it was a very cool present.
(The villain of the piece, the mummy of an Egyptian sorceress who’s come back to life, has just introduced herself to the heroine’s boyfriend. In her guise as “Ramsey Amon,” she mentions that she’s Egyptian. The heroine bursts into the room, saying, “Did I hear someone say something about being Egyptian?” Apparently she has some sort of responsibility for cataloguing the presence of Egyptians in this country. At least, ever since she read that book on mummies her uncle gave her.)
Earlier this year when I went to Tucson to visit my parents while they were there for the winter my friend “Zalfiro,” as he refers to himself when commenting on this blog, gave me a copy of “Endless Nights,” Gaiman’s first new set of Sandman-related stories in several years, as a belated Christmas present.
Again, very cool.
Finally, for my birthday this year, Scott, his wife Stacy, and Jamie and her husband Casey, all pitched in to get me “Neverwhere” on DVD.
“Neverwhere” was a mini-series that Gaiman developed for the BBC. After it aired, he wrote a novelization of the story.
Which, come to think of it, is what led to this train of thought in the first place, as I was actually re-reading my copy of “Neverwhere,” which made me think about the DVDs, which…
And so we ended up here.
(At 11:00 I switched to Cartoon Network to put on “Family Guy,” so there won’t be any more asides about “The Mummy’s Kiss” and its terrible acting and special effects, though I will say that the tits of the actress playing the Mummy are the best visual effect in the movie. They put in much more believable performance than the rest of the cast, too.)
In any event, if you hadn’t already guessed, there’s no real point to any of this, but I should think that by now that would hardly be surprising.
I think we’ll put an end to this entry there, though. Maybe tomorrow I’ll actually write something with a point, though I would advise against holding your breath…
(As a totally unrelated aside, I just have to mention that as I write this, my TV is providing background noise in the form of a really bad soft-core porn called “The Mummy’s Kiss.” There was just a scene in which the heroine, a young college student, has just stopped in to visit her uncle, a professor at the college. Her uncle is, in fact, an Egyptologist. She tells him that she stopped by to see if he had any books she could borrow on, of all things, Ancient Egypt. She says it in such a way that it seems like she thinks it’s a long shot that he would have such a thing. Oy.)
By “coolest” I mean gifts that I most appreciate, as they are things that I was really happy to receive and which I enjoyed a great deal.
The first such was a birthday present from my friend Jennifer several years ago. It was a copy of the second “Death” mini-series, “The Time of Your Life,” collected in a trade paperback. I always remember her telling me, before it arrived in the mail, that the gift she had gotten me had “two parts” to it, one of which wasn’t really tangible.
The “intangible” part was the fact that she had actually read it, which was pretty cool, since I know how hard it can be for non-comic book geeks to take a comic book seriously enough to even consider reading it.
(As another aside, this movie was made so cheaply that they couldn’t even afford blanks for the scene when someone has to fire a gun. They added the gunfire effects digitally, and did so very poorly at that.)
When I moved away to Minnesota, though, I forgot that I had loaned the book to a friend, and when I moved back to Michigan…well, I had other things on my mind. I haven’t seen or talked to that friend in years, and I’m not too likely to, so it’s probably lost to me. Still, especially for the intangible aspect, it was a very cool present.
(The villain of the piece, the mummy of an Egyptian sorceress who’s come back to life, has just introduced herself to the heroine’s boyfriend. In her guise as “Ramsey Amon,” she mentions that she’s Egyptian. The heroine bursts into the room, saying, “Did I hear someone say something about being Egyptian?” Apparently she has some sort of responsibility for cataloguing the presence of Egyptians in this country. At least, ever since she read that book on mummies her uncle gave her.)
Earlier this year when I went to Tucson to visit my parents while they were there for the winter my friend “Zalfiro,” as he refers to himself when commenting on this blog, gave me a copy of “Endless Nights,” Gaiman’s first new set of Sandman-related stories in several years, as a belated Christmas present.
Again, very cool.
Finally, for my birthday this year, Scott, his wife Stacy, and Jamie and her husband Casey, all pitched in to get me “Neverwhere” on DVD.
“Neverwhere” was a mini-series that Gaiman developed for the BBC. After it aired, he wrote a novelization of the story.
Which, come to think of it, is what led to this train of thought in the first place, as I was actually re-reading my copy of “Neverwhere,” which made me think about the DVDs, which…
And so we ended up here.
(At 11:00 I switched to Cartoon Network to put on “Family Guy,” so there won’t be any more asides about “The Mummy’s Kiss” and its terrible acting and special effects, though I will say that the tits of the actress playing the Mummy are the best visual effect in the movie. They put in much more believable performance than the rest of the cast, too.)
In any event, if you hadn’t already guessed, there’s no real point to any of this, but I should think that by now that would hardly be surprising.
I think we’ll put an end to this entry there, though. Maybe tomorrow I’ll actually write something with a point, though I would advise against holding your breath…
The experiment continues
So here's another attempt at the new style. It's still not what I'm aiming for, so the experiment continues...
Misty water-colored memories of...uhh, what was I talking about?
So I’m making this stuff referred to as “Vangie’s Original Brazilian Black Beans & Rice,” which is the “everything but the kitchen sink” recipe I referred to yesterday.
Among the ingredients are diced red peppers, diced garlic cloves, parsley, oregano, and basil. Those are in addition to a pound and a half of black beans and a pound of beef stew meat, a pound of sausage meat, a pound of pork, and a pound of diced ham.
The recipe actually calls for even more ingredients than that, but I’m not a big fan of onions, I’m allergic to bay leaves, and I don’t have any cloves (nor did I feel the need to pick any up).
The actual preparation has involved browning the different kinds of meat, then throwing the whole concoction into a crock pot (or in my case, my kick-ass “Kitchen Kettle,” which can serve as a crock pot, vegetable steamer, or deep fryer) and letting it boil for a couple of hours, then slowly cooking for a minimum of an additional six hours.
I still have about four hours to go, but a little bit ago when I was stirring it I decided to see how it’s coming along. I tried a piece of beef, and all I can say is “Holy crap!”
It was SO good that my knees started to buckle. It just melted in my mouth, leaving behind this incredible flavor.
When it’s finished I’ll serve it over brown rice, and I’ll have enough leftovers to feed myself for a very long time.
When I was putting it all together this morning I realized, “Damn, that’s a hell of lot of meat.”
Ten minutes later I realized that I’d forgotten the ham, so it was even more meat than I thought.
I’m not sure what’s on the menu for tomorrow or Thursday, though frequently I don’t bother cooking on Thursday.
If I decide to, though, I’ve got lots of chicken in my freezer, along with some ground beef and some pork chops. Maybe I’ll pick up some bell peppers and spaghetti and make Pork Chops with Hot and Sweet Peppers with Caccia y Pepe Spaghetti.
That’s a recipe I got from the Food Network. The recipe I saw called for Spaghetti Squash rather than actual spaghetti (in the interest of lower carbs), but I’ve found that the Spaghetti Squash doesn’t take to being frozen very well, so I typically say “Carbs be damned” when I make it.
Anyway, that’s enough about my culinary exploits.
Last night, as I was writing up my little anecdote about the girl (her name was Mary) that I went out with those two times a few years ago, I was thinking about a friend of mine and his frequent criticism of me for “dwelling on the past” and “picking at old wounds.”
In all honesty, I don’t really see myself as dwelling on the past. Certainly not to an extent that interferes with my daily existence.
And it’s not as though I continually go back to the SAME memory over and over again. Rather, circumstances in my present existence simply spark a memory of a particular event, or even an entire period, in my past, and I just follow the train of thought to wherever it leads.
The sparking of memory isn’t exactly a voluntary event, so I have little control over it. I suppose that, to satisfy his mandate that I never, ever think about anything other than what’s immediately in front of me, I could refuse to allow myself to remember, to steadfastly resist the tide of memory.
But towards what end?
What would I gain by refusing to remember my past? Ideally, I suppose, I would gain a freedom from the pain of my own personal history, though at the same time I would lose all sense of self, of my very “Jon-ness.”
Maybe it’s a decent trade off, but I don’t think that it’s even possible without the use of extreme amounts of medication and/or a lobotomy.
We have memories for a reason, I think, and if, as mentioned, the examination of them isn’t interfering with my life, what’s wrong with taking a look at them after they come up unbidden? Or on the other end of the spectrum, what’s so wrong with actively dredging them up?
If anything, the maxim “Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it” springs to mind, leading me to believe that the examination of my memories serves a useful purpose.
Besides, for the purposes of the blog, if I stuck only to what was currently going on in my life, I would have very little to write about.
So I have to draw on my memories and look into the past if I want this blog to be even remotely interesting.
The past is where most of my best stories are. Sure, there might be some better ones ahead of me, but not being precognitive, I’ll have to wait until they’re in the past to tell them.
And it’s not as if I’m sitting around feeling depressed as I remember each and every individual hurt I’ve felt over the past 32 years. I used to do that, to some extent, when I was drinking, but now when I look back on my memories (admittedly, most of which DO involve some sort of pain, but hey, that’s my life), it’s usually with a kind of bitter amusement more than anything else.
So I would say that his admonitions against dwelling on the past are about as useful and well-considered as his advice on dating and relationships. Or pretty much ANY topic, for that matter. Let’s face it, when it comes to advice, he’s no “Dear Abby,” which I think he fully realizes, and as a result will take no offense at my good-natured ribbing (or my making use of him as a starting off point for an entry).
In any case, even if he does take offense, if he follows his own advice, he’ll refuse to ever think about it after it’s in the past anyway.
But, to continue the ribbing, and to segue into a point, I think part of his contempt for “dwelling on the past” is the fact that his memory is full of holes, so, given his total LACK of recall, it’s no wonder he views examining the past as a wasted effort.
After all, how can you spend time examining the past if you can’t remember it?
Seriously, the guys got holes in his memory that entire decades must be able to fall through. Sometimes I’m amazed that he remembers his own name.
Throughout the years people have commented on the acuity of my memory. My mind is a repository for all manner of trivia on an incredibly wide range of topics, with the most notable example, as mentioned in an earlier post, being my near-encyclopedic knowledge of comic books.
But beyond remembering who played what role in which movie, or who sang what song, I remember all manner of other minutiae of my own existence, dating as far back as the crib.
The clarity varies, with that largely drunken period from 1995 to 2000 being the haziest, but I at least have a general impression of a LOT of things.
And yet, more often than not, I’m stricken not so much by the overwhelming weight of too many memories, but rather with the overwhelming lack of them.
I am, at most times, keenly aware of just how imperfect my memory is, and just how fuzzy my own view of the complete tapestry of my existence truly is and how much of the pattern is totally unseen.
So often when people comment (frequently with an undercurrent of disdain and contempt) on just how amazing my memory is, I’m forced to think of all of the times I find myself getting up and walking into the kitchen and standing there for minutes at a time in absolute puzzlement as to WHY I just got up and walked into the kitchen, and I can’t help but wonder how, if my eidetic prowess is so much greater than the norm, anyone can manage to function at all. Mnemonic devices? Notes? Recorded messages?
In imagining “normal” people having to leave notes lying around for themselves in order to function (“Your name is Ted. The woman who was lying in the bed next to you is (probably) your wife, Terri.” “This is the refrigerator. You keep food here.” “You need to eat food in order to live.” “Don't forget to breathe.” “Put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. This is called walking.”), I’m reminded of a story I read a number of years ago.
(There he goes flaunting his memory again...)
It was by Piers Anthony, and it was entitled “Mute.”
Mute, in this case, referred to the fact that the title character was a mutant. One characteristic of his mutation was that, in his case “out of sight, out of mind” was a fact of his existence. Essentially he emitted some sort of field that prevented any interaction with him from being committed to a person's long-term memory.
As soon as he walked away, you would forget that you’d ever met him.
Naturally this made his existence difficult.
At his job, after explaining his situation to his secretary, she began taking extensive notes on her interactions with him, including a physical description, which she would refer to in order to properly function in her position.
If I recall correctly, which I may or may not, there was a certain irony in that his own memory was flawless.
I felt a certain kinship with the character, whose actual name, fittingly enough, I don’t remember. Part of the kinship stemmed from the fact that his body was asymmetrical. For example, on one hand he had five fingers and on the other he had six.
While not nearly so extreme, I have some degree of asymmetry in my basic form as well, and there have been many times that I’ve felt just as forgettable, particularly when people fail to remember my name.
I mean, it’s Jon. How the hell hard can it be to remember that? It’s one of the most common names in the world. Sure, it’s spelled different than most people expect it to be spelled, but even so, it shouldn’t be that hard to remember, no matter how incredibly bad your memory is.
Anyway, there was a point to all of this, but you know, I’ll be damned if I can remember what it was…
Among the ingredients are diced red peppers, diced garlic cloves, parsley, oregano, and basil. Those are in addition to a pound and a half of black beans and a pound of beef stew meat, a pound of sausage meat, a pound of pork, and a pound of diced ham.
The recipe actually calls for even more ingredients than that, but I’m not a big fan of onions, I’m allergic to bay leaves, and I don’t have any cloves (nor did I feel the need to pick any up).
The actual preparation has involved browning the different kinds of meat, then throwing the whole concoction into a crock pot (or in my case, my kick-ass “Kitchen Kettle,” which can serve as a crock pot, vegetable steamer, or deep fryer) and letting it boil for a couple of hours, then slowly cooking for a minimum of an additional six hours.
I still have about four hours to go, but a little bit ago when I was stirring it I decided to see how it’s coming along. I tried a piece of beef, and all I can say is “Holy crap!”
It was SO good that my knees started to buckle. It just melted in my mouth, leaving behind this incredible flavor.
When it’s finished I’ll serve it over brown rice, and I’ll have enough leftovers to feed myself for a very long time.
When I was putting it all together this morning I realized, “Damn, that’s a hell of lot of meat.”
Ten minutes later I realized that I’d forgotten the ham, so it was even more meat than I thought.
I’m not sure what’s on the menu for tomorrow or Thursday, though frequently I don’t bother cooking on Thursday.
If I decide to, though, I’ve got lots of chicken in my freezer, along with some ground beef and some pork chops. Maybe I’ll pick up some bell peppers and spaghetti and make Pork Chops with Hot and Sweet Peppers with Caccia y Pepe Spaghetti.
That’s a recipe I got from the Food Network. The recipe I saw called for Spaghetti Squash rather than actual spaghetti (in the interest of lower carbs), but I’ve found that the Spaghetti Squash doesn’t take to being frozen very well, so I typically say “Carbs be damned” when I make it.
Anyway, that’s enough about my culinary exploits.
Last night, as I was writing up my little anecdote about the girl (her name was Mary) that I went out with those two times a few years ago, I was thinking about a friend of mine and his frequent criticism of me for “dwelling on the past” and “picking at old wounds.”
In all honesty, I don’t really see myself as dwelling on the past. Certainly not to an extent that interferes with my daily existence.
And it’s not as though I continually go back to the SAME memory over and over again. Rather, circumstances in my present existence simply spark a memory of a particular event, or even an entire period, in my past, and I just follow the train of thought to wherever it leads.
The sparking of memory isn’t exactly a voluntary event, so I have little control over it. I suppose that, to satisfy his mandate that I never, ever think about anything other than what’s immediately in front of me, I could refuse to allow myself to remember, to steadfastly resist the tide of memory.
But towards what end?
What would I gain by refusing to remember my past? Ideally, I suppose, I would gain a freedom from the pain of my own personal history, though at the same time I would lose all sense of self, of my very “Jon-ness.”
Maybe it’s a decent trade off, but I don’t think that it’s even possible without the use of extreme amounts of medication and/or a lobotomy.
We have memories for a reason, I think, and if, as mentioned, the examination of them isn’t interfering with my life, what’s wrong with taking a look at them after they come up unbidden? Or on the other end of the spectrum, what’s so wrong with actively dredging them up?
If anything, the maxim “Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it” springs to mind, leading me to believe that the examination of my memories serves a useful purpose.
Besides, for the purposes of the blog, if I stuck only to what was currently going on in my life, I would have very little to write about.
So I have to draw on my memories and look into the past if I want this blog to be even remotely interesting.
The past is where most of my best stories are. Sure, there might be some better ones ahead of me, but not being precognitive, I’ll have to wait until they’re in the past to tell them.
And it’s not as if I’m sitting around feeling depressed as I remember each and every individual hurt I’ve felt over the past 32 years. I used to do that, to some extent, when I was drinking, but now when I look back on my memories (admittedly, most of which DO involve some sort of pain, but hey, that’s my life), it’s usually with a kind of bitter amusement more than anything else.
So I would say that his admonitions against dwelling on the past are about as useful and well-considered as his advice on dating and relationships. Or pretty much ANY topic, for that matter. Let’s face it, when it comes to advice, he’s no “Dear Abby,” which I think he fully realizes, and as a result will take no offense at my good-natured ribbing (or my making use of him as a starting off point for an entry).
In any case, even if he does take offense, if he follows his own advice, he’ll refuse to ever think about it after it’s in the past anyway.
But, to continue the ribbing, and to segue into a point, I think part of his contempt for “dwelling on the past” is the fact that his memory is full of holes, so, given his total LACK of recall, it’s no wonder he views examining the past as a wasted effort.
After all, how can you spend time examining the past if you can’t remember it?
Seriously, the guys got holes in his memory that entire decades must be able to fall through. Sometimes I’m amazed that he remembers his own name.
Throughout the years people have commented on the acuity of my memory. My mind is a repository for all manner of trivia on an incredibly wide range of topics, with the most notable example, as mentioned in an earlier post, being my near-encyclopedic knowledge of comic books.
But beyond remembering who played what role in which movie, or who sang what song, I remember all manner of other minutiae of my own existence, dating as far back as the crib.
The clarity varies, with that largely drunken period from 1995 to 2000 being the haziest, but I at least have a general impression of a LOT of things.
And yet, more often than not, I’m stricken not so much by the overwhelming weight of too many memories, but rather with the overwhelming lack of them.
I am, at most times, keenly aware of just how imperfect my memory is, and just how fuzzy my own view of the complete tapestry of my existence truly is and how much of the pattern is totally unseen.
So often when people comment (frequently with an undercurrent of disdain and contempt) on just how amazing my memory is, I’m forced to think of all of the times I find myself getting up and walking into the kitchen and standing there for minutes at a time in absolute puzzlement as to WHY I just got up and walked into the kitchen, and I can’t help but wonder how, if my eidetic prowess is so much greater than the norm, anyone can manage to function at all. Mnemonic devices? Notes? Recorded messages?
In imagining “normal” people having to leave notes lying around for themselves in order to function (“Your name is Ted. The woman who was lying in the bed next to you is (probably) your wife, Terri.” “This is the refrigerator. You keep food here.” “You need to eat food in order to live.” “Don't forget to breathe.” “Put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. This is called walking.”), I’m reminded of a story I read a number of years ago.
(There he goes flaunting his memory again...)
It was by Piers Anthony, and it was entitled “Mute.”
Mute, in this case, referred to the fact that the title character was a mutant. One characteristic of his mutation was that, in his case “out of sight, out of mind” was a fact of his existence. Essentially he emitted some sort of field that prevented any interaction with him from being committed to a person's long-term memory.
As soon as he walked away, you would forget that you’d ever met him.
Naturally this made his existence difficult.
At his job, after explaining his situation to his secretary, she began taking extensive notes on her interactions with him, including a physical description, which she would refer to in order to properly function in her position.
If I recall correctly, which I may or may not, there was a certain irony in that his own memory was flawless.
I felt a certain kinship with the character, whose actual name, fittingly enough, I don’t remember. Part of the kinship stemmed from the fact that his body was asymmetrical. For example, on one hand he had five fingers and on the other he had six.
While not nearly so extreme, I have some degree of asymmetry in my basic form as well, and there have been many times that I’ve felt just as forgettable, particularly when people fail to remember my name.
I mean, it’s Jon. How the hell hard can it be to remember that? It’s one of the most common names in the world. Sure, it’s spelled different than most people expect it to be spelled, but even so, it shouldn’t be that hard to remember, no matter how incredibly bad your memory is.
Anyway, there was a point to all of this, but you know, I’ll be damned if I can remember what it was…
Monday, October 04, 2004
From Spin to Sin
So I mentioned “Sin City” last time around.
Over the weekend I was reading some information on IMDb that I found especially interesting, all of which add to my general sense of excitement about the movie and my desire to see it when it finally arrives.
For the first interesting thing, I have to go back in time more than ten years.
The year, in fact, is 1990. The movie “Robocop II” hits the theaters, with a screenplay by Frank Miller.
Yes, that’s the same Frank Miller who later went on to write the various Sin City stories that are the basis for the movie.
The movie was so-so at best. Certainly it didn’t live up to my expectations for a movie written by Frank Miller.
The worst was yet to come, though, in the form of “Robocop III,” the screenplay for which also had Miller’s name on it.
To put it mildly, the movie was terrible.
I’ve since learned that the screenplays that were used for the movie were radically altered from what Frank first submitted, by many hands other than Frank’s, and I’ve been assured by various people who’ve read his original work, that, had Frank’s work been filmed unaltered, the movies would have been vastly superior.
The whole experience left a bad taste in Frank’s mouth, and he turned his back on Hollywood, steadfastly refusing to sell the rights to any of his work for a film treatment.
Enter director and Sin City fan Robert Rodriguez, who, without either Frank’s knowledge or permission, hired Josh Hartnett and Marley Shelton to film one of the Sin City stories entitled “The Customer is Always Right.”
After completing it, he showed it to Frank saying that, if he liked it, the short would be the opening sequence to a Sin City movie, and if he didn’t like it, well, he had a short film that he could keep and do with what he liked.
Obviously, Frank liked it, and the original short is included in that trailer I provided a link to a while back (though the odds are the trailer is gone by now).
What I also learned is that, assuming that the movie does well, Rodriguez intends to make many Sin City films, adapting other stories to the big screen.
In making the upcoming one, though, Rodriguez ended up resigning from the Director’s Guild of America. Why? Because he wanted Frank to be credited as co-director, and because Frank isn’t a member of the DGA, that would be against DGA rules. Apparently becoming a member of the DGA is a hassle, so to get around the rule, Rodriguez resigned.
It goes to show just how committed he is to the project, which bodes well for its quality, I think.
Like “Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow,” Sin City is being shot entirely without sets. All of the backgrounds are being added digitally.
However, unlike "Sky Captain," Sin City is also being shot on High Definition digital cameras, rather than on film, so it can be considered the first fully-digital (excluding the actors, of course) feature “film.”
All of these things, I think, add to the underlying quality of the material to make it something that I’m eagerly anticipating.
On a slightly related note, I read a brief interview with actress Carla Gugino, who plays the role of “Lucille,” a parole officer in the Sin City movie. The interview had more to do with her role in a Broadway production of Arthur Miller’s “After the Fall,” but it did touch briefly on her role in Sin City. She’s quoted as saying, “I hold a gun, clad only in a G-string and shadows.”
My response to that is “Mmm…Carla Gugino.”
I dig Carla Gugino. A lot.
I haven’t seen too many of her movies, though I have seen a few.
She’s probably most known for her role as the mom in the “Spy Kids” movies (which were, sadly, also directed by Sin City’s Robert Rodriguez), which I haven't seen.
The first time I ever noticed her was when she stripped down to her bra in “Snake Eyes,” and ever since, whenever I do happen to see a movie that she’s in, I take notice.
She doesn’t seem to photograph too well, though, or at least not always. She never looks “bad” (as far as I’m concerned, at least), but she seldom looks as beautiful as she does in motion.
In something of an amusing twist, one of her first big breaks was on the TV series, “Spin City.”
I actually (very) briefly dated a girl who looked a bit like a younger, less voluptuous version of Carla Gugino. Oddly enough, I seem to recall her mentioning a movie on our first date that (I later discovered) starred none other than Carla Gugino.
Obviously things with that girl didn’t work out, though I never found out why. After what seemed like a really auspicious (nearly 8 hour long) first date, she just continually failed to return my calls, and ultimately I just gave up.
I had nearly given up even before our second (and last) date, despite how well the first one had gone.
Towards the end of that first date, as she was driving me home (at the time, I didn’t have a car or a license), eschewing tact, out of the blue she said, “Are you going to call me?”
I told her that, in fact, I had every intention of calling her, and she said, “Good, because I had a really good time, and I’m sick of going out with a guy once, having a good time, and never hearing from him again.”
She made me assure her again that I would call before the date ended.
And, being (for the most part) a man of my word, I did call her. She wasn’t home, so I left a message.
I didn’t hear back from her, so I gave it a couple of times again. I got her machine.
I found out, eventually, that she was out of town, as she had injured herself and gone home to her parents’ place to recuperate.
So, when she came back to town, we eventually arranged to get together.
It was an odd date, occurring during my lunch hour (at the time, I worked in the evening), and it ended up being something of a double date.
The date didn’t go well. I was on a date with three people who worked together, in a bar for the first time in the seven months (at that time) since I’d quit drinking, while karaoke was being performed. Because the three of them worked together, they inevitably began talking about work, and since I didn’t work with them, I couldn’t really join in.
So the date wasn’t exactly a smashing success.
Still, though I thought she had lost interest in me after that lousy evening of me sitting there like a lump, since I had nothing to contribute to the conversation, and I could barely hear anyway, when we parted at the end of it, she said ran her hand down my arm, and in a voice that I felt in my left pocket, she said, “Call me.”
So I did, and invariably got her machine, and never got a call back.
The really irritating thing was that the person who’d set us up in the first place, and who worked with her at his second job, and with me at his primary job, kept reporting back to me that she claimed to still be interested whenever he confronted her about me, and that she wasn’t blowing me off.
But never returning my calls and getting me off the phone as soon as possible whenever I did actually get a hold of her strikes me as an odd way to not blow someone off…
But oh well.
(As an aside, the co-worker who had set us up in the first place, was one of the people who went on that craptacular double date. It’s worth noting, though, that his companion for the evening was NOT his girlfriend, with whom he lived and had a daughter.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Carla Gugino clad only in a G-string and shadows…
Damn, I’m really looking forward to Sin City.
Over the weekend I was reading some information on IMDb that I found especially interesting, all of which add to my general sense of excitement about the movie and my desire to see it when it finally arrives.
For the first interesting thing, I have to go back in time more than ten years.
The year, in fact, is 1990. The movie “Robocop II” hits the theaters, with a screenplay by Frank Miller.
Yes, that’s the same Frank Miller who later went on to write the various Sin City stories that are the basis for the movie.
The movie was so-so at best. Certainly it didn’t live up to my expectations for a movie written by Frank Miller.
The worst was yet to come, though, in the form of “Robocop III,” the screenplay for which also had Miller’s name on it.
To put it mildly, the movie was terrible.
I’ve since learned that the screenplays that were used for the movie were radically altered from what Frank first submitted, by many hands other than Frank’s, and I’ve been assured by various people who’ve read his original work, that, had Frank’s work been filmed unaltered, the movies would have been vastly superior.
The whole experience left a bad taste in Frank’s mouth, and he turned his back on Hollywood, steadfastly refusing to sell the rights to any of his work for a film treatment.
Enter director and Sin City fan Robert Rodriguez, who, without either Frank’s knowledge or permission, hired Josh Hartnett and Marley Shelton to film one of the Sin City stories entitled “The Customer is Always Right.”
After completing it, he showed it to Frank saying that, if he liked it, the short would be the opening sequence to a Sin City movie, and if he didn’t like it, well, he had a short film that he could keep and do with what he liked.
Obviously, Frank liked it, and the original short is included in that trailer I provided a link to a while back (though the odds are the trailer is gone by now).
What I also learned is that, assuming that the movie does well, Rodriguez intends to make many Sin City films, adapting other stories to the big screen.
In making the upcoming one, though, Rodriguez ended up resigning from the Director’s Guild of America. Why? Because he wanted Frank to be credited as co-director, and because Frank isn’t a member of the DGA, that would be against DGA rules. Apparently becoming a member of the DGA is a hassle, so to get around the rule, Rodriguez resigned.
It goes to show just how committed he is to the project, which bodes well for its quality, I think.
Like “Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow,” Sin City is being shot entirely without sets. All of the backgrounds are being added digitally.
However, unlike "Sky Captain," Sin City is also being shot on High Definition digital cameras, rather than on film, so it can be considered the first fully-digital (excluding the actors, of course) feature “film.”
All of these things, I think, add to the underlying quality of the material to make it something that I’m eagerly anticipating.
On a slightly related note, I read a brief interview with actress Carla Gugino, who plays the role of “Lucille,” a parole officer in the Sin City movie. The interview had more to do with her role in a Broadway production of Arthur Miller’s “After the Fall,” but it did touch briefly on her role in Sin City. She’s quoted as saying, “I hold a gun, clad only in a G-string and shadows.”
My response to that is “Mmm…Carla Gugino.”
I dig Carla Gugino. A lot.
I haven’t seen too many of her movies, though I have seen a few.
She’s probably most known for her role as the mom in the “Spy Kids” movies (which were, sadly, also directed by Sin City’s Robert Rodriguez), which I haven't seen.
The first time I ever noticed her was when she stripped down to her bra in “Snake Eyes,” and ever since, whenever I do happen to see a movie that she’s in, I take notice.
She doesn’t seem to photograph too well, though, or at least not always. She never looks “bad” (as far as I’m concerned, at least), but she seldom looks as beautiful as she does in motion.
In something of an amusing twist, one of her first big breaks was on the TV series, “Spin City.”
I actually (very) briefly dated a girl who looked a bit like a younger, less voluptuous version of Carla Gugino. Oddly enough, I seem to recall her mentioning a movie on our first date that (I later discovered) starred none other than Carla Gugino.
Obviously things with that girl didn’t work out, though I never found out why. After what seemed like a really auspicious (nearly 8 hour long) first date, she just continually failed to return my calls, and ultimately I just gave up.
I had nearly given up even before our second (and last) date, despite how well the first one had gone.
Towards the end of that first date, as she was driving me home (at the time, I didn’t have a car or a license), eschewing tact, out of the blue she said, “Are you going to call me?”
I told her that, in fact, I had every intention of calling her, and she said, “Good, because I had a really good time, and I’m sick of going out with a guy once, having a good time, and never hearing from him again.”
She made me assure her again that I would call before the date ended.
And, being (for the most part) a man of my word, I did call her. She wasn’t home, so I left a message.
I didn’t hear back from her, so I gave it a couple of times again. I got her machine.
I found out, eventually, that she was out of town, as she had injured herself and gone home to her parents’ place to recuperate.
So, when she came back to town, we eventually arranged to get together.
It was an odd date, occurring during my lunch hour (at the time, I worked in the evening), and it ended up being something of a double date.
The date didn’t go well. I was on a date with three people who worked together, in a bar for the first time in the seven months (at that time) since I’d quit drinking, while karaoke was being performed. Because the three of them worked together, they inevitably began talking about work, and since I didn’t work with them, I couldn’t really join in.
So the date wasn’t exactly a smashing success.
Still, though I thought she had lost interest in me after that lousy evening of me sitting there like a lump, since I had nothing to contribute to the conversation, and I could barely hear anyway, when we parted at the end of it, she said ran her hand down my arm, and in a voice that I felt in my left pocket, she said, “Call me.”
So I did, and invariably got her machine, and never got a call back.
The really irritating thing was that the person who’d set us up in the first place, and who worked with her at his second job, and with me at his primary job, kept reporting back to me that she claimed to still be interested whenever he confronted her about me, and that she wasn’t blowing me off.
But never returning my calls and getting me off the phone as soon as possible whenever I did actually get a hold of her strikes me as an odd way to not blow someone off…
But oh well.
(As an aside, the co-worker who had set us up in the first place, was one of the people who went on that craptacular double date. It’s worth noting, though, that his companion for the evening was NOT his girlfriend, with whom he lived and had a daughter.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Carla Gugino clad only in a G-string and shadows…
Damn, I’m really looking forward to Sin City.
Bashful at the "Bash"
Well, once again I’ve made it through my three day work week and am enjoying my weekend, or doing whatever it is that I do with it that’s not really all that much like “enjoying” at all...
The actual weekend, i.e. when I was working, was relatively uneventful. The days passed as they normally pass.
Which is to say, very, very slowly.
On Friday the company had one of its “Beer Bashes,” which is when they have a party for employees on the front lawn with music, beer, and various snacks.
There’s a sort of running joke amongst those of us who work 24x7 shifts that we use in reference to the majority of employees who work more traditional hours. Basically, if we see any other employees in the hallway after 4 pm, we conclude that “There must be a Beer Bash today,” as typically the place clears out by around 3:30 on Fridays, except when there’s a Beer Bash, which usually begins at 4.
In any case, despite the rather lackluster array of snacks available, it is very cool that the company has events like that, and I imagine that, for those people who are free to enjoy them, they are quite a boost to morale.
For those of us stuck working while they’re going on, though, they don’t mean that much.
In particular for me, they only serve to remind me just how much I really miss beer.
The latest “Bash” did this especially, since they actually didn’t go cheap, and I noted that there was a dark beer (Sam Adams Oktoberfest), which, while not exactly phenomenal, would be something that I’d definitely enjoy.
Still, even if I did still drink, enjoying a Beer Bash wouldn’t really be a possibility. Sure, company policy would allow me to have one beer during working hours, and they tend to continue for a little while after my shift ends, but given that I have to be back to work within 12 hours (11 and a half, to be precise) of getting off work, it’s unlikely that I’d really be able to hang around have too much fun.
And since it’s not really physically possible for me to drink only one beer, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it during working hours. Two always seemed to be the absolute minimum for me. It wasn’t that I never had the will power to stop at just one, it was just that if I did, my body usually rebelled. Drinking just one would give me a headache. It was as if my body would say, “Come on, where’s the rest?”
But even one (or two) isn’t really a possibility for me, so Beer Bashes just tend to serve as an unhappy reminder more than anything else.
Today has been relatively unexciting, though more productive than most Mondays have been of late.
I had a lot of odd dreams in the night, but I don’t really remember them and I’ve never had any luck with trying to keep a “Dream Journal,” so I’ve given up trying.
In any case, the dreams were obviously disturbing, as I kept waking from them periodically throughout the night. I was, of course, awake when the garbage truck arrived this morning, but I managed to doze back off and slept in until 9.
However, I did force myself to go for a walk upon getting up.
After walking and talking to my mother, I showered and headed over to Wal Mart to pick up a few things. While I was there I found something I’ve been trying to find for quite some time: a food processor that has an attachment for slicing and grating. As a bonus, it was only $10, so I bought it.
I went through the self-checkout, which I usually don’t bother with, since typically the lines for them are longer than they are for the regular lanes.
That wasn’t the case this time, though, so I whizzed on through, and headed out to my car.
When I got there I realized that I was short one bag. In fact, it was even the bag I had put the receipt in.
I went back in for it, but it wasn’t there. Fortunately a cashier had grabbed it and brought it over to his register.
Then I stopped for a few groceries. I spent damn near $50, and most of what I bought is going to be used as the ingredients for ONE MEAL.
It’s this recipe I found online for some sort of “everything but the kitchen sink” dinner that involves all sorts of different kinds of meats and other ingredients and many, many hours in a slow cooker. I can’t even start on it until tomorrow, as some of the ingredients have to soak overnight. It’s going to have a pretty big yield, though, so I should have a freezer full of lunches for a long time, so it’s not really just one meal, even though it is one dish.
After my shopping I went to the rental office to renew my lease for a year, but, after waiting for the girl working there to get off the phone with Verizon to clarify just why she can’t get DSL (she’s too far from the Central Office), she revealed that they’re completely out of paper, and so she wouldn’t be able to print up a lease for me to sign.
So I came back home and got to work on making two loaves of banana bread.
And that brings us up to date on today.
Last night was a good night for TV. Law & Order: Criminal Intent was good. Dead Like Me was very good, and had a scene that was like a blow to the chest (but in a good way). Aqua Teen Hunger Force was hilarious, and so was The Venture Bros.
Over the weekend Brian and Kathleen reported to me that “We’ve found the girl for you.”
She is, apparently, hot, young (24), miraculously single, and has just, or is about to (it differed depending on who told it), completed her PhD.
Sounds great, right?
The problem lies in the fact that she lives in Pittsburgh.
(I should mention that, for personal reasons that are not mine to get into, Brian and Kathleen have been making periodic trips to Pittsburgh on their days off, where they interact with this girl.)
Now, while I may, at times, be incredibly, desperately lonely, I don’t think my desperation is at such a level that I would move to another state just on the off-chance that I might hit it off with some woman living there.
So, from my perspective, this hot, young, single PhD candidate might as well not even exist, and ultimately I’d be better off not even knowing that she does.
Besides, as soon as the words hot, single, and 24 were mentioned, one of my co-workers, Chris, was swooping in like a circling vulture.
Now it’s entirely possible that HE might consider making the trip to Pittsburgh (though I really don’t think so), so my opportunity is lost anyway, even if I were to lose my mind and just rush out there.
Why is it lost? Do I think that Chris is that much more appealing than I am?
Well, probably, but whether or not he is, or if I even THINK that he is, is irrelevant, as my response to competition, when it comes to women, is to forfeit right at the start.
The main reason is that I’ve found that competition for the affections of a woman invariably gets really ugly really fast. I prefer to just forego it, as it’s just not worth the bother.
So if Chris wants to wend his way towards the City of Brotherly Love, more power to him.
I just want to stress, though, how silly I think the whole thing is anyway. Hearing about attractive women who live four hours away doesn’t do me any good whatsoever.
On the other hand, attractive women who are considerably closer do me just about as much good as the ones who are far away, which segues nicely into my next section…
Currently there is a woman I find incredibly attractive who is very nearby, and yet might as well be living in Pittsburgh. Or Zaire, for that matter.
When I lived in Minnesota, my friends and I had a habit of giving nicknames to women we saw when we didn’t know their names. We did this for our own convenience, so that, when relating tales to each other, we could avoid having to explain who we were talking about.
Usually the nicknames were based on some specific quality the woman in question possessed. Thus were born names such as “Tall Chick,” who was tall, and “Ass Chick,” who had a nice ass, and even, based on the vanity license plate on her car, “GWAR Chick.”
(If you don’t know who GWAR is, I’d recommend Googling them. They’re entertaining. Kind of.)
In any case, while I do know the name of the current object of my attention, for the purposes of the blog I will refer to her, following the Minnesota tradition, as “Flame Chick.”
Why “Flame Chick,” you ask? Well, when I see her, she typically wears a jacket that has flames embroidered on the sleeves, and I just noticed on Friday that the flame motif is mirrored on her tennis shoes.
Flame Chick, or “FC”, first came to my attention well over a year ago. The area I work in is wide open, but houses several different departments, and she works for one of those other departments.
It used to be that our schedules intersected on Sundays, but then she was moved to a different facility for a long time. Recently she has returned to where I work, and our schedules now intersect on Fridays.
While I think that she’s absolutely gorgeous, I can see how other people might not see her as being anything beyond merely “attractive.” I know one of my coworkers doesn’t think she’s attractive at all.
The thing is, she’s not really conventionally pretty. The term I’ve come up with to describe her is “solid craftsmanship.” She’s just so well put together. Everything about her just fits so seamlessly together, and she’s just so…streamlined.
I hate to objectify her (any more than I already have by calling her “Flame Chick,” at least), but if she were something manufactured, she might not be a flashy showroom piece, but she would show signs of having been very carefully constructed.
I’m not explaining this at all well, and it comes off as incredibly bizarre and insulting, but suffice to say I dig her. A lot.
Anyway, now that FC is back, I find that a good portion of my Friday is spent engaging in this pattern of behavior:
Look at FC, then sigh and look away, then look at FC, then sigh and look away, then look at FC…
And so forth.
Even in the “open” workspace with no walls or cubicles, there is a considerable amount of space that divides us, and we work at different desks, and since there’s really no “official” reason for us to communicate with each other, in order for me to open the lines of communication, I would have to just get up, walk over, and start talking to her.
Why don’t I do that, you ask? Well, with the way the our workspace is set up, if I were to just walk over to her and start talking to her as if we were in a singles bar and not a work environment, essentially I would be surrounded on all sides by an audience (composed entirely of bored people just waiting for something interesting to happen), and the acoustics are such that no matter how quietly I spoke everyone in the farthest corners of the place would be able, if they were listening, which they would be, to hear pretty much every word I said.
Never mind how embarrassing this would be for me, I’m sure it would also be rather mortifying for her.
Besides, I wasn’t any good at picking up chicks in bars when I was actually in a bar, so I doubt that such an approach would work under these circumstances.
The only other option is to try to catch her when she’s alone, perhaps in the break room, and try some bit of idle chitchat to initiate a conversation.
(In best imitation of Butt-Head: “So…I see you eat food. I eat food, too.”)
So far such an opportunity hasn’t presented itself, though.
The closest I came to having an opportunity to approach her was when she was outside for the Beer Bash, but that was less than ideal, as it would have involved blowing off the people I was talking to, forcing my way through the crowd, and crashing in on the conversation she was having with other people.
It would have gone something like this:
Scott, Brian, et. al: Blah blah blah blah-
Me: Yeah, that's interesting. Shut up, okay? (Pushing my way through a crowd of tipsy nerds and company VIPs). Excuse me, coming through, pardon me, get the fuck out of the way. What? No, I'm not trying to "start something," you drunk nerd. Just kiss my ass, okay Frodo?
FC: So then I said-
Me: (Forcing my way in between her and the person she was talking to.). Hey.
FC: Can I help you?
Me: Yeah, I think you're hot. Wanna go out?
FC: EXCUSE me?
Me: Why? You fart?
FC: What? No, I-
Me: So like, what do you say? I mean, I saw you out here, so I figured I should come over and say hey. Everyone says I gotta be bold. Chicks dig that confidence shit. So I’m here, you’re here, let’s get it on, right?
FC: Do I even know you?
Me: You do now. I'm Jon. Am I making a good impression? I bet I am, 'cause I TOTALLY seized the day, and I bet that makes you hot.
FC: Come again?
Me: Oh yeah, baby, and again and again. I guarantee!
FC: (Either throws her drink in my face and walks away, or just walks away)
Me: So I guess a blow job behind one of the blade racks is out of the question?
Okay, so maybe my dialogue wouldn't have been quite so boorish, but considering that I would be a "gatecrasher," and that doing so would be just as out of character as me talking to someone like that, I might as well go full-on obnoxious.
It'd probably be even worse if I tried casually insinuating myself into the conversation:
(After fighting my way through the crowd and trying to look nonchalant as I push and kick people out of my way, I sidle up to her)
Person talking: ...and I said rectum? Damn near killed 'em!
(Laughter)
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha ha...*sigh* yeah, that's a good one. (To FC) So, how's it going? Can I get you another drink?
FC: What? No, I have more than half left.
Me: Oh. Well, can I get you some popcorn or-
FC: Who ARE you?
Me: Oh, I'm Jon, and I-
FC: Look, Don, was it? I'm talking to my friends here, so if you don't mind..?
Me: Oh, well I just thought that maybe you and I could-
FC: Well, we can't. Now fuck off, okay? Thanks Don.
I mean, everyone has had the experience of having the weirdo who comes over and tries to insinuate himself into a conversation, and it never ends well. It usually creates an awkward silence, followed by the weirdo either getting the hint, having to be told off, or the dissolution of the group.
I have actually spoken to FC once, long ago. It didn’t last long, but she did use the word “missive,” which impressed me and started me on the path of being interested in her. Previously, I had been steadfastly avoiding becoming interested in her because I knew that it would never lead to anything worthwhile.
Whenever possible I try to avoid becoming interested in a woman.
So really, beyond the fact that she’s well put together (and, based on the way she dresses, seems to be fairly low-maintenance), I don’t know much about her. Given where she works and what her job is, I can conclude that she’s reasonably intelligent (as is also indicated by her use of the word “missive”), and that she’s probably at least somewhat of a geek.
But beyond that I don’t even know if she’s single.
In point of fact, I doubt that she is. Despite the fact that other people might not think she’s conventionally pretty, the fact remains that our work environment is filled to overflowing with guys. It’s raining men where I work, and I’m sure there are plenty of guys who have regular interaction with her who find her attractive, assuming she didn’t come into the job already hooked up.
Besides, the hot girl in Pittsburgh notwithstanding, experience has taught me that there are no attractive single women in the world.
So yeah, even bothering to think about Flame Chick is a total waste of time, so I really need to stop it.
Not that it really matters if I don’t. It’s not like I’m going to stalk her or anything. I hardly ever do that anymore.
Just kidding; I gave up stalking completely.
Still kidding, I’ve never stalked anyone.
At worst I’ll just continue to look at her, sigh, look away, look at her, sigh, look away, etc.
Odds are that she’ll never even notice, since for one thing, she has an annoying habit of not noticing that I exist, and for another, she’s in between me and a big screen that’s displaying CNN, so if worse comes to worse I can always play it off as though I’m watching the news.
Anyway, that’s it for this sad and pathetic chapter of my life. I may write some more later, as there were some “Sin City” related things I wanted to talk about.
But this particular entry has gone on more than long enough.
The actual weekend, i.e. when I was working, was relatively uneventful. The days passed as they normally pass.
Which is to say, very, very slowly.
On Friday the company had one of its “Beer Bashes,” which is when they have a party for employees on the front lawn with music, beer, and various snacks.
There’s a sort of running joke amongst those of us who work 24x7 shifts that we use in reference to the majority of employees who work more traditional hours. Basically, if we see any other employees in the hallway after 4 pm, we conclude that “There must be a Beer Bash today,” as typically the place clears out by around 3:30 on Fridays, except when there’s a Beer Bash, which usually begins at 4.
In any case, despite the rather lackluster array of snacks available, it is very cool that the company has events like that, and I imagine that, for those people who are free to enjoy them, they are quite a boost to morale.
For those of us stuck working while they’re going on, though, they don’t mean that much.
In particular for me, they only serve to remind me just how much I really miss beer.
The latest “Bash” did this especially, since they actually didn’t go cheap, and I noted that there was a dark beer (Sam Adams Oktoberfest), which, while not exactly phenomenal, would be something that I’d definitely enjoy.
Still, even if I did still drink, enjoying a Beer Bash wouldn’t really be a possibility. Sure, company policy would allow me to have one beer during working hours, and they tend to continue for a little while after my shift ends, but given that I have to be back to work within 12 hours (11 and a half, to be precise) of getting off work, it’s unlikely that I’d really be able to hang around have too much fun.
And since it’s not really physically possible for me to drink only one beer, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it during working hours. Two always seemed to be the absolute minimum for me. It wasn’t that I never had the will power to stop at just one, it was just that if I did, my body usually rebelled. Drinking just one would give me a headache. It was as if my body would say, “Come on, where’s the rest?”
But even one (or two) isn’t really a possibility for me, so Beer Bashes just tend to serve as an unhappy reminder more than anything else.
Today has been relatively unexciting, though more productive than most Mondays have been of late.
I had a lot of odd dreams in the night, but I don’t really remember them and I’ve never had any luck with trying to keep a “Dream Journal,” so I’ve given up trying.
In any case, the dreams were obviously disturbing, as I kept waking from them periodically throughout the night. I was, of course, awake when the garbage truck arrived this morning, but I managed to doze back off and slept in until 9.
However, I did force myself to go for a walk upon getting up.
After walking and talking to my mother, I showered and headed over to Wal Mart to pick up a few things. While I was there I found something I’ve been trying to find for quite some time: a food processor that has an attachment for slicing and grating. As a bonus, it was only $10, so I bought it.
I went through the self-checkout, which I usually don’t bother with, since typically the lines for them are longer than they are for the regular lanes.
That wasn’t the case this time, though, so I whizzed on through, and headed out to my car.
When I got there I realized that I was short one bag. In fact, it was even the bag I had put the receipt in.
I went back in for it, but it wasn’t there. Fortunately a cashier had grabbed it and brought it over to his register.
Then I stopped for a few groceries. I spent damn near $50, and most of what I bought is going to be used as the ingredients for ONE MEAL.
It’s this recipe I found online for some sort of “everything but the kitchen sink” dinner that involves all sorts of different kinds of meats and other ingredients and many, many hours in a slow cooker. I can’t even start on it until tomorrow, as some of the ingredients have to soak overnight. It’s going to have a pretty big yield, though, so I should have a freezer full of lunches for a long time, so it’s not really just one meal, even though it is one dish.
After my shopping I went to the rental office to renew my lease for a year, but, after waiting for the girl working there to get off the phone with Verizon to clarify just why she can’t get DSL (she’s too far from the Central Office), she revealed that they’re completely out of paper, and so she wouldn’t be able to print up a lease for me to sign.
So I came back home and got to work on making two loaves of banana bread.
And that brings us up to date on today.
Last night was a good night for TV. Law & Order: Criminal Intent was good. Dead Like Me was very good, and had a scene that was like a blow to the chest (but in a good way). Aqua Teen Hunger Force was hilarious, and so was The Venture Bros.
Over the weekend Brian and Kathleen reported to me that “We’ve found the girl for you.”
She is, apparently, hot, young (24), miraculously single, and has just, or is about to (it differed depending on who told it), completed her PhD.
Sounds great, right?
The problem lies in the fact that she lives in Pittsburgh.
(I should mention that, for personal reasons that are not mine to get into, Brian and Kathleen have been making periodic trips to Pittsburgh on their days off, where they interact with this girl.)
Now, while I may, at times, be incredibly, desperately lonely, I don’t think my desperation is at such a level that I would move to another state just on the off-chance that I might hit it off with some woman living there.
So, from my perspective, this hot, young, single PhD candidate might as well not even exist, and ultimately I’d be better off not even knowing that she does.
Besides, as soon as the words hot, single, and 24 were mentioned, one of my co-workers, Chris, was swooping in like a circling vulture.
Now it’s entirely possible that HE might consider making the trip to Pittsburgh (though I really don’t think so), so my opportunity is lost anyway, even if I were to lose my mind and just rush out there.
Why is it lost? Do I think that Chris is that much more appealing than I am?
Well, probably, but whether or not he is, or if I even THINK that he is, is irrelevant, as my response to competition, when it comes to women, is to forfeit right at the start.
The main reason is that I’ve found that competition for the affections of a woman invariably gets really ugly really fast. I prefer to just forego it, as it’s just not worth the bother.
So if Chris wants to wend his way towards the City of Brotherly Love, more power to him.
I just want to stress, though, how silly I think the whole thing is anyway. Hearing about attractive women who live four hours away doesn’t do me any good whatsoever.
On the other hand, attractive women who are considerably closer do me just about as much good as the ones who are far away, which segues nicely into my next section…
Currently there is a woman I find incredibly attractive who is very nearby, and yet might as well be living in Pittsburgh. Or Zaire, for that matter.
When I lived in Minnesota, my friends and I had a habit of giving nicknames to women we saw when we didn’t know their names. We did this for our own convenience, so that, when relating tales to each other, we could avoid having to explain who we were talking about.
Usually the nicknames were based on some specific quality the woman in question possessed. Thus were born names such as “Tall Chick,” who was tall, and “Ass Chick,” who had a nice ass, and even, based on the vanity license plate on her car, “GWAR Chick.”
(If you don’t know who GWAR is, I’d recommend Googling them. They’re entertaining. Kind of.)
In any case, while I do know the name of the current object of my attention, for the purposes of the blog I will refer to her, following the Minnesota tradition, as “Flame Chick.”
Why “Flame Chick,” you ask? Well, when I see her, she typically wears a jacket that has flames embroidered on the sleeves, and I just noticed on Friday that the flame motif is mirrored on her tennis shoes.
Flame Chick, or “FC”, first came to my attention well over a year ago. The area I work in is wide open, but houses several different departments, and she works for one of those other departments.
It used to be that our schedules intersected on Sundays, but then she was moved to a different facility for a long time. Recently she has returned to where I work, and our schedules now intersect on Fridays.
While I think that she’s absolutely gorgeous, I can see how other people might not see her as being anything beyond merely “attractive.” I know one of my coworkers doesn’t think she’s attractive at all.
The thing is, she’s not really conventionally pretty. The term I’ve come up with to describe her is “solid craftsmanship.” She’s just so well put together. Everything about her just fits so seamlessly together, and she’s just so…streamlined.
I hate to objectify her (any more than I already have by calling her “Flame Chick,” at least), but if she were something manufactured, she might not be a flashy showroom piece, but she would show signs of having been very carefully constructed.
I’m not explaining this at all well, and it comes off as incredibly bizarre and insulting, but suffice to say I dig her. A lot.
Anyway, now that FC is back, I find that a good portion of my Friday is spent engaging in this pattern of behavior:
Look at FC, then sigh and look away, then look at FC, then sigh and look away, then look at FC…
And so forth.
Even in the “open” workspace with no walls or cubicles, there is a considerable amount of space that divides us, and we work at different desks, and since there’s really no “official” reason for us to communicate with each other, in order for me to open the lines of communication, I would have to just get up, walk over, and start talking to her.
Why don’t I do that, you ask? Well, with the way the our workspace is set up, if I were to just walk over to her and start talking to her as if we were in a singles bar and not a work environment, essentially I would be surrounded on all sides by an audience (composed entirely of bored people just waiting for something interesting to happen), and the acoustics are such that no matter how quietly I spoke everyone in the farthest corners of the place would be able, if they were listening, which they would be, to hear pretty much every word I said.
Never mind how embarrassing this would be for me, I’m sure it would also be rather mortifying for her.
Besides, I wasn’t any good at picking up chicks in bars when I was actually in a bar, so I doubt that such an approach would work under these circumstances.
The only other option is to try to catch her when she’s alone, perhaps in the break room, and try some bit of idle chitchat to initiate a conversation.
(In best imitation of Butt-Head: “So…I see you eat food. I eat food, too.”)
So far such an opportunity hasn’t presented itself, though.
The closest I came to having an opportunity to approach her was when she was outside for the Beer Bash, but that was less than ideal, as it would have involved blowing off the people I was talking to, forcing my way through the crowd, and crashing in on the conversation she was having with other people.
It would have gone something like this:
Scott, Brian, et. al: Blah blah blah blah-
Me: Yeah, that's interesting. Shut up, okay? (Pushing my way through a crowd of tipsy nerds and company VIPs). Excuse me, coming through, pardon me, get the fuck out of the way. What? No, I'm not trying to "start something," you drunk nerd. Just kiss my ass, okay Frodo?
FC: So then I said-
Me: (Forcing my way in between her and the person she was talking to.). Hey.
FC: Can I help you?
Me: Yeah, I think you're hot. Wanna go out?
FC: EXCUSE me?
Me: Why? You fart?
FC: What? No, I-
Me: So like, what do you say? I mean, I saw you out here, so I figured I should come over and say hey. Everyone says I gotta be bold. Chicks dig that confidence shit. So I’m here, you’re here, let’s get it on, right?
FC: Do I even know you?
Me: You do now. I'm Jon. Am I making a good impression? I bet I am, 'cause I TOTALLY seized the day, and I bet that makes you hot.
FC: Come again?
Me: Oh yeah, baby, and again and again. I guarantee!
FC: (Either throws her drink in my face and walks away, or just walks away)
Me: So I guess a blow job behind one of the blade racks is out of the question?
Okay, so maybe my dialogue wouldn't have been quite so boorish, but considering that I would be a "gatecrasher," and that doing so would be just as out of character as me talking to someone like that, I might as well go full-on obnoxious.
It'd probably be even worse if I tried casually insinuating myself into the conversation:
(After fighting my way through the crowd and trying to look nonchalant as I push and kick people out of my way, I sidle up to her)
Person talking: ...and I said rectum? Damn near killed 'em!
(Laughter)
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha ha...*sigh* yeah, that's a good one. (To FC) So, how's it going? Can I get you another drink?
FC: What? No, I have more than half left.
Me: Oh. Well, can I get you some popcorn or-
FC: Who ARE you?
Me: Oh, I'm Jon, and I-
FC: Look, Don, was it? I'm talking to my friends here, so if you don't mind..?
Me: Oh, well I just thought that maybe you and I could-
FC: Well, we can't. Now fuck off, okay? Thanks Don.
I mean, everyone has had the experience of having the weirdo who comes over and tries to insinuate himself into a conversation, and it never ends well. It usually creates an awkward silence, followed by the weirdo either getting the hint, having to be told off, or the dissolution of the group.
I have actually spoken to FC once, long ago. It didn’t last long, but she did use the word “missive,” which impressed me and started me on the path of being interested in her. Previously, I had been steadfastly avoiding becoming interested in her because I knew that it would never lead to anything worthwhile.
Whenever possible I try to avoid becoming interested in a woman.
So really, beyond the fact that she’s well put together (and, based on the way she dresses, seems to be fairly low-maintenance), I don’t know much about her. Given where she works and what her job is, I can conclude that she’s reasonably intelligent (as is also indicated by her use of the word “missive”), and that she’s probably at least somewhat of a geek.
But beyond that I don’t even know if she’s single.
In point of fact, I doubt that she is. Despite the fact that other people might not think she’s conventionally pretty, the fact remains that our work environment is filled to overflowing with guys. It’s raining men where I work, and I’m sure there are plenty of guys who have regular interaction with her who find her attractive, assuming she didn’t come into the job already hooked up.
Besides, the hot girl in Pittsburgh notwithstanding, experience has taught me that there are no attractive single women in the world.
So yeah, even bothering to think about Flame Chick is a total waste of time, so I really need to stop it.
Not that it really matters if I don’t. It’s not like I’m going to stalk her or anything. I hardly ever do that anymore.
Just kidding; I gave up stalking completely.
Still kidding, I’ve never stalked anyone.
At worst I’ll just continue to look at her, sigh, look away, look at her, sigh, look away, etc.
Odds are that she’ll never even notice, since for one thing, she has an annoying habit of not noticing that I exist, and for another, she’s in between me and a big screen that’s displaying CNN, so if worse comes to worse I can always play it off as though I’m watching the news.
Anyway, that’s it for this sad and pathetic chapter of my life. I may write some more later, as there were some “Sin City” related things I wanted to talk about.
But this particular entry has gone on more than long enough.
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