First off, I’ll mention that my niece Jourdan is 20 today, so happy birthday to Jourdan.
The other day I noticed that one of my teeth seemed to be a little sensitive. It wasn’t anything severe, and that tooth does occasionally flare up a little, but it never lasts long, so I ignored.
While I was at work on Friday it decided that it would no longer be ignored, and it no longer required that I do something to aggravate it in order to cause me pain, though if I did do something to aggravate it, like gently nudging it with my tongue, it sent me into a paroxysm of agony so soul-shatteringly painful that it could cause me to forget my own name.
Still, by the end of the day it had eased up a bit and I resolved to just bear with it through the weekend and talk to the dentist on Monday.
As soon as I tried to go to bed that night, though, the pain kicked up several notches. It was sufficient to send me out into the cold at around 10:30 to pick up some Orajel, which did absolutely no good.
As I was lying in bed there would be periods during which fatigue would win out over pain, but it was typically a short-lived victory and the pain would actually wake me up after a few minutes. By 2:30 I’d had maybe an hour of sleep. It was obvious that I was not going to be able to get enough sleep to be able to get up at 5 and be able to function at work, so I actually called in and said I wouldn’t be coming in.
This was only the third time I’ve done so in 4 years. The first time was because I’d been in an accident and as a consequence hadn’t gotten home until late and didn’t actually have a car, and so needed to spend the day dealing with all that nonsense.
The second time was back in October when I called in because I was flying home for my dad.
In any case, I flipped through the phone book and say that my dentist actually has Saturday hours, so I decided that I would call in the morning.
By the time I finally got to sleep it was nearly 4 AM, and I slept pretty fitfully.
I got up a bit before 9, waited for a bit, then called my dentist and managed to get squeezed in.
The dentist confirmed what I already knew: the tooth is abscessed.
He couldn’t fit me in for a root canal until Tuesday, so in the meantime he wrote me a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers.
He pretty actively argued against me even getting the prescription for the painkillers filled, saying that if I could get by with non-prescription painkillers I should, but that if I really, really needed the prescription, I had it.
Given that non-prescription painkillers were doing exactly jack shit, I had the prescription filled.
I suppose the reason he was so opposed to me using the prescription is because it was for oxycodone, which a lot of people get hooked on.
Honestly, I can’t understand why or how; it works only marginally better than the non-prescription stuff, and actually makes me feel kind of light-headed – not in a good “high” sort of way – and just generally sort of gross.
Right now it’s been about nine hours since I took one. I’m waiting until it’s almost time to go to bed to take another as the pain is at bearable levels for being awake, but I’d kind of like it to hurt a little less when I’m trying to sleep.
I’ve been having to resort to eating foods that require little to no chewing, which means that I would probably be starving, as broth isn’t especially filling, but the pain manages to keep my mind off hunger, as does the lingering nausea from the painkillers.
I hadn’t mentioned anything about my oral agony at work, but when I called in this morning to give Scott the skinny, I told him, “You may have noticed that in the afternoon I actually stopped eating.” He said, “Now that you mention it, I did notice that. It was kind of strange.”
(I tend to snack like crazy when I’m at work)
Once I got home from the dentist I tried taking a nap, but couldn’t quite manage it, so instead I plopped myself down on the couch and watched TV all day.
In any case, that’s been all the excitement in my life for the past few days.
I find it kind of funny that I’m actually looking forward to getting a root canal, but I guess pain can make you crazy.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
automatic doors, kill fish
Apparently it's my penchant for not waiting for my car to fully warm up and then driving only short distances that's keeping my on-board diagnostics from compiling the necessary information, as, once again, I couldn't get my emissions inspection done.
While I was sitting in the waiting area a small group of what seemed to be lawyers gather around. Looks like the dealership is being sued for something, and there was some dispute about getting access to some papers.
One of the lawyers was a very attractive (married; did the standard ring check) young woman, whose involvement was only relatively recent and was not likely to continue much past today.
It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on and who was on whose side, but, with the inclusion of the cute lady lawyer, it made for a somewhat interesting diversion.
Shortly after I arrived there I got a text message from Brian with a picture of what looked to be a menu. The subject was "Maki Sushi," and I'm assuming that he sent it because of seeing my last name.
Besides being Finnish, as it is in my case, Maki is a Japanese name/word. I believe it means "fish," which would be why it showed up with sushi, and it most typically shows up as a girl's first name when used as a name. Every so often I get approached by Japanese and Japanese-American organizations looking for money, as they mistakenly thought that I might be Japanese.
(In Finnish, Maki means "hill," and it's unusual for it to appear on its own as a last name. Typicallly there's some kind of prefix that describes what kind of hill. In my family's case the prefix was Kataja, which means something on the order of "juniper," but when my uncle was born, my grandparents decided to abbreviate the name to Maki from Katajamaki ("Juniper Hill"). This was a pretty common practice for Finnish immigrants in the U.P. Many of them went all out and totally anglicized it, changing their name to Hill. The fact that Maki isn't typically a name on its own in Finland, and the fact that other kinds of Makis (Palomaki, Leppamaki, etc.) dropped their prefixes explains why there are so many Makis in the U.P. and yet so few of them are actually related to each other.)
Just got the call I've been waiting for. Still not a lot of detail, but things look kind of promising. I will keep you posted.
Oh, and the title of this entry is an actual search that directed someone here. I just thought it was weird enough to share.
Wait a minute..."kill fish," huh? Didn't I just get through saying that my last name means fish in another language? I'd better keep my eye on those automatic doors; someone may be rigging one up to kill me!
Maybe they really mean it when they say "Caution" on them.
While I was sitting in the waiting area a small group of what seemed to be lawyers gather around. Looks like the dealership is being sued for something, and there was some dispute about getting access to some papers.
One of the lawyers was a very attractive (married; did the standard ring check) young woman, whose involvement was only relatively recent and was not likely to continue much past today.
It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on and who was on whose side, but, with the inclusion of the cute lady lawyer, it made for a somewhat interesting diversion.
Shortly after I arrived there I got a text message from Brian with a picture of what looked to be a menu. The subject was "Maki Sushi," and I'm assuming that he sent it because of seeing my last name.
Besides being Finnish, as it is in my case, Maki is a Japanese name/word. I believe it means "fish," which would be why it showed up with sushi, and it most typically shows up as a girl's first name when used as a name. Every so often I get approached by Japanese and Japanese-American organizations looking for money, as they mistakenly thought that I might be Japanese.
(In Finnish, Maki means "hill," and it's unusual for it to appear on its own as a last name. Typicallly there's some kind of prefix that describes what kind of hill. In my family's case the prefix was Kataja, which means something on the order of "juniper," but when my uncle was born, my grandparents decided to abbreviate the name to Maki from Katajamaki ("Juniper Hill"). This was a pretty common practice for Finnish immigrants in the U.P. Many of them went all out and totally anglicized it, changing their name to Hill. The fact that Maki isn't typically a name on its own in Finland, and the fact that other kinds of Makis (Palomaki, Leppamaki, etc.) dropped their prefixes explains why there are so many Makis in the U.P. and yet so few of them are actually related to each other.)
Just got the call I've been waiting for. Still not a lot of detail, but things look kind of promising. I will keep you posted.
Oh, and the title of this entry is an actual search that directed someone here. I just thought it was weird enough to share.
Wait a minute..."kill fish," huh? Didn't I just get through saying that my last name means fish in another language? I'd better keep my eye on those automatic doors; someone may be rigging one up to kill me!
Maybe they really mean it when they say "Caution" on them.
Wait, That Blog Says She's An A Cup! Why, Her Boobs Aren't Big At All! Damn These Lying Eyes!
First off, happy National Gorilla Suit Day!
Secondly, I have to admit that in yesterday’s post I was a bit less than honest.
After all, for me, a day in which I get a haircut and make meat loaf is actually pretty amazingly eventful.
What makes it worse is that I also made biscuits and gravy for breakfast/lunch, which makes for a phenomenally eventful day in the life of Jon.
(By the way, someone should come up with a word for breakfast/lunch, something that demonstrates that it’s not quite breakfast, not quite lunch…hmm…br…bru…got it! Blunch! Or, if you want to get all hip hop, you could day b-lunch, like, “What’s for b-lunch, b-yotch?” Perfect. What’s that? Oh, right, “brunch.” Never mind.)
The point is that despite what I claimed, yesterday really wasn’t any less eventful than my standard non-eventful days; I just didn’t feel like writing much of a post.
I had no random complaints that I really felt like getting off my chest, no “witty” observations, no desire to write an entry mentioning Giada’s boobs or something that would lure unsuspecting people wanting to learn Carla Gugino’s bra size pointlessly here.
I really shouldn’t make fun of the boob and bra size seekers, though I do have to ask a question, which I know none of the people who could answer will, since they only stick around long enough to see that they aren’t going to find any pictures of Giada’s boobs or learn anyone’s bra size, about why people want to know bra sizes anyway.
Honestly, why do you want to know? What will you gain from the knowledge? Is it a matter of wanting your masturbatory fantasies to be as specific and accurate as possible? Are you planning on designing clothes for them?
What sort of edification do you gain from knowing a celebrity's cup size? I mean, “freaking huge” or “tiny and cute” aren’t specific enough for you? Is it like, “Hmm, I thought her boobs were big, but I couldn’t be sure just by looking at them.”
And beyond your need to know, what makes you think you’re going to find out?
For the most part, the only celebrities who provide their bra sizes are Playboy Playmates and the like. Most actresses don’t really publicize that sort of thing.
Still, I really shouldn’t be picking on the seekers of knowledge, the seekers of boobs, and the seekers of knowledge about boobs whose quests unwittingly guide them here for a 0-5 second stay.
After all, if it weren’t for the people who click on the links that pop up in search engine results even though if they looked at the text of the results they’d clearly see that they’re not going to find what they’re looking for, I would hardly have any traffic at all, just the meager handful, the B cup’s worth, if you will, of regular visitors.
Me complaining about the misguided visitors I get is like when D.R.I. would sing those songs about what a hassle it is to be famous.
Right now you’re saying, “D.R.I.? Who the hell is D.R.I.?”
To which I respond, “Exactly.”
(For the record, D.R.I., or “Dirty Rotten Imbeciles,” was a punk band that crossed over to thrash metal. Sort of like Sean Astin in Rudy, who made up for what he lacked in height with spirit, D.R.I. made up for what they lacked in talent with enthusiasm. I loved those guys, and listening to them still makes me smile. I didn’t always agree with their opinions – the song Gun Control comes to mind – but who could resist the hard, fast, and heavy sound mixed with inspired lyrics, coming together to form short, punch little ditties that seldom lasted for more than a minute?
One of my favorites is Dead in a Ditch:
Pretty young girl from the Oakland Hills
Stole her dad’s car and all her mom’s pills
Got all fucked up, drove off a cliff
Ended up dead, dead in a ditch
Just like her mother always told her she’d end up
All fucked up
Dead
Dead in a ditch
They often turned their attention to a variety issues, such as drug abuse, AIDS, child abduction, war, and pollution, but they also liked to cut loose and just have some fun every so often.
One of the other things I liked about them is their appreciation for the work of ee cummings, who is one of my favorite poets.
Anyway, that’s it for this little D.R.I. retrospective. We now return you to your regularly scheduled Threshold, already in progress.)
..to which I said, “No way. You’re the one who wanted to have hookers over in the first place, so you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with getting rid of the bodies.”
Anyway, today the only thing I have on tap is a trip back to the car dealership for Emission Inspection version 2.0.
Hopefully the 100+ miles I’ve put on is sufficient to give them what they need.
Other than that I’m waiting on a phone call that I also spent most of yesterday waiting on, before finally getting a call at the end of the day asking if it’d be okay if we postponed the call until today.
Yes, I’m being vague.
Basically, there is the possibility of me getting a part-time job. I’ll give you more details as things develop.
Anyway, I’ve been more than wordy enough today to make up for yesterday’s terseness, so I guess I’ll bring this entry to a close.
Secondly, I have to admit that in yesterday’s post I was a bit less than honest.
After all, for me, a day in which I get a haircut and make meat loaf is actually pretty amazingly eventful.
What makes it worse is that I also made biscuits and gravy for breakfast/lunch, which makes for a phenomenally eventful day in the life of Jon.
(By the way, someone should come up with a word for breakfast/lunch, something that demonstrates that it’s not quite breakfast, not quite lunch…hmm…br…bru…got it! Blunch! Or, if you want to get all hip hop, you could day b-lunch, like, “What’s for b-lunch, b-yotch?” Perfect. What’s that? Oh, right, “brunch.” Never mind.)
The point is that despite what I claimed, yesterday really wasn’t any less eventful than my standard non-eventful days; I just didn’t feel like writing much of a post.
I had no random complaints that I really felt like getting off my chest, no “witty” observations, no desire to write an entry mentioning Giada’s boobs or something that would lure unsuspecting people wanting to learn Carla Gugino’s bra size pointlessly here.
I really shouldn’t make fun of the boob and bra size seekers, though I do have to ask a question, which I know none of the people who could answer will, since they only stick around long enough to see that they aren’t going to find any pictures of Giada’s boobs or learn anyone’s bra size, about why people want to know bra sizes anyway.
Honestly, why do you want to know? What will you gain from the knowledge? Is it a matter of wanting your masturbatory fantasies to be as specific and accurate as possible? Are you planning on designing clothes for them?
What sort of edification do you gain from knowing a celebrity's cup size? I mean, “freaking huge” or “tiny and cute” aren’t specific enough for you? Is it like, “Hmm, I thought her boobs were big, but I couldn’t be sure just by looking at them.”
And beyond your need to know, what makes you think you’re going to find out?
For the most part, the only celebrities who provide their bra sizes are Playboy Playmates and the like. Most actresses don’t really publicize that sort of thing.
Still, I really shouldn’t be picking on the seekers of knowledge, the seekers of boobs, and the seekers of knowledge about boobs whose quests unwittingly guide them here for a 0-5 second stay.
After all, if it weren’t for the people who click on the links that pop up in search engine results even though if they looked at the text of the results they’d clearly see that they’re not going to find what they’re looking for, I would hardly have any traffic at all, just the meager handful, the B cup’s worth, if you will, of regular visitors.
Me complaining about the misguided visitors I get is like when D.R.I. would sing those songs about what a hassle it is to be famous.
Right now you’re saying, “D.R.I.? Who the hell is D.R.I.?”
To which I respond, “Exactly.”
(For the record, D.R.I., or “Dirty Rotten Imbeciles,” was a punk band that crossed over to thrash metal. Sort of like Sean Astin in Rudy, who made up for what he lacked in height with spirit, D.R.I. made up for what they lacked in talent with enthusiasm. I loved those guys, and listening to them still makes me smile. I didn’t always agree with their opinions – the song Gun Control comes to mind – but who could resist the hard, fast, and heavy sound mixed with inspired lyrics, coming together to form short, punch little ditties that seldom lasted for more than a minute?
One of my favorites is Dead in a Ditch:
Pretty young girl from the Oakland Hills
Stole her dad’s car and all her mom’s pills
Got all fucked up, drove off a cliff
Ended up dead, dead in a ditch
Just like her mother always told her she’d end up
All fucked up
Dead
Dead in a ditch
They often turned their attention to a variety issues, such as drug abuse, AIDS, child abduction, war, and pollution, but they also liked to cut loose and just have some fun every so often.
One of the other things I liked about them is their appreciation for the work of ee cummings, who is one of my favorite poets.
Anyway, that’s it for this little D.R.I. retrospective. We now return you to your regularly scheduled Threshold, already in progress.)
..to which I said, “No way. You’re the one who wanted to have hookers over in the first place, so you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with getting rid of the bodies.”
Anyway, today the only thing I have on tap is a trip back to the car dealership for Emission Inspection version 2.0.
Hopefully the 100+ miles I’ve put on is sufficient to give them what they need.
Other than that I’m waiting on a phone call that I also spent most of yesterday waiting on, before finally getting a call at the end of the day asking if it’d be okay if we postponed the call until today.
Yes, I’m being vague.
Basically, there is the possibility of me getting a part-time job. I’ll give you more details as things develop.
Anyway, I’ve been more than wordy enough today to make up for yesterday’s terseness, so I guess I’ll bring this entry to a close.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Even I Thought Today Was Unusually Uneventful
Not much of note happened today.
I got a haircut.
I made meat loaf.
That pretty much covers it.
There was supposed to be a homeowners' meeting tonight, but when I walked down there the place was dark. Looking at the e-mails that circulated about it, it seems that this was another instance of people making plans without getting any sort of confirmation about whether or not the plans will fly.
Oh well.
Seriously, it's been a slow day even by my standards.
I got a haircut.
I made meat loaf.
That pretty much covers it.
There was supposed to be a homeowners' meeting tonight, but when I walked down there the place was dark. Looking at the e-mails that circulated about it, it seems that this was another instance of people making plans without getting any sort of confirmation about whether or not the plans will fly.
Oh well.
Seriously, it's been a slow day even by my standards.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Please DO Squeeze The Charmin
The woman seen goosing herself in the picture below, which I don't recommend clicking on if you're at work, is model/randomly famous Briton Keeley Hazell.
Honestly, if I were Keeley, a good portion of my day would be spent doing this and nothing else.
Anyway, as mentioned, Keeley is one of those British chicks who's famous simply for being famous. The UK has lots of those, random hot chicks who don't really do much other than get their picture taken because they're famous, and they're only famous because they're always getting their picture taken.
The Brits have more of them than we do (though we have our share), simply because they have Page 3.
Anyway, unlike Paris Hilton, who is one of our celebrities who is famous despite not having any discernible talent whatsoever, Keeley is at least attractive.
However, like Paris, Keeley's fame is about to increase thanks to the leaking of a sex tape.
It's automatically better than the Paris tape because you actually want to see Keeley naked, but overall the tape isn't too impressive.
(I mean, you hardly get to see the guy she's shagging...I mean, ummm... Sorry; had to squeeze in a random Robot Chicken reference. If you don't get it, just move on.)
Honestly, after seeing the tape, I'd be kind of inclined to keep Keeley away from my business. I mean, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but the amount of friction that hand is generating must be painful!
Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that I find myself sort of torn by the whole celebrity sex tape thing. On the one hand, there are certain celebrities I would like to see in action, so when their bedroom adventures end up getting the European Vacation treatment, I kind of have to view it as a good thing.
On the other hand, there really haven't been any celebrity sex tapes that I've especially wanted to see. I mean, the Scarlett Johansson/Jessica Alba/Keira Knightley/Jessica Simpson/Jessica Biel four hour orgy video keeps failing to materialize, and nstead we get the Screech tape.
My point is that most of the tapes out there make me want to yawn at best and violently retch at worst.
So in theory celebrity sex tapes are good, but in practice, not so much.
The other problem is that each time a new tape comes out it bolsters the notion that so many sweaty nerds out there hold so dear, namely that every celebrity has a sex tape just waiting to be leaked, or at least some nude photos taken at the start of their careers.
Every celebrity, without exception, these people believe, has been photographed and/or video taped in the nude/having sex.
This is why I get so many hits from people looking for nude photos of Giada. She's famous(ish), therefore there must be nude photos of her out there somewhere.
Every time some pseudo-celebrity pops up in a homemade porn, this retarded belief grows and gains that many more adherents.
I'm not sure why that annoys me so much, but it does.
Anyway, just wanted to mention that.
Oh, and for any Googlers out there, I don't have the Keeley Hazell Sex Tape available to download here.
I do, however, have a painting I did of her grabbing her ass, so that's at least something.
Honestly, if I were Keeley, a good portion of my day would be spent doing this and nothing else.
Anyway, as mentioned, Keeley is one of those British chicks who's famous simply for being famous. The UK has lots of those, random hot chicks who don't really do much other than get their picture taken because they're famous, and they're only famous because they're always getting their picture taken.
The Brits have more of them than we do (though we have our share), simply because they have Page 3.
Anyway, unlike Paris Hilton, who is one of our celebrities who is famous despite not having any discernible talent whatsoever, Keeley is at least attractive.
However, like Paris, Keeley's fame is about to increase thanks to the leaking of a sex tape.
It's automatically better than the Paris tape because you actually want to see Keeley naked, but overall the tape isn't too impressive.
(I mean, you hardly get to see the guy she's shagging...I mean, ummm... Sorry; had to squeeze in a random Robot Chicken reference. If you don't get it, just move on.)
Honestly, after seeing the tape, I'd be kind of inclined to keep Keeley away from my business. I mean, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but the amount of friction that hand is generating must be painful!
Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that I find myself sort of torn by the whole celebrity sex tape thing. On the one hand, there are certain celebrities I would like to see in action, so when their bedroom adventures end up getting the European Vacation treatment, I kind of have to view it as a good thing.
On the other hand, there really haven't been any celebrity sex tapes that I've especially wanted to see. I mean, the Scarlett Johansson/Jessica Alba/Keira Knightley/Jessica Simpson/Jessica Biel four hour orgy video keeps failing to materialize, and nstead we get the Screech tape.
My point is that most of the tapes out there make me want to yawn at best and violently retch at worst.
So in theory celebrity sex tapes are good, but in practice, not so much.
The other problem is that each time a new tape comes out it bolsters the notion that so many sweaty nerds out there hold so dear, namely that every celebrity has a sex tape just waiting to be leaked, or at least some nude photos taken at the start of their careers.
Every celebrity, without exception, these people believe, has been photographed and/or video taped in the nude/having sex.
This is why I get so many hits from people looking for nude photos of Giada. She's famous(ish), therefore there must be nude photos of her out there somewhere.
Every time some pseudo-celebrity pops up in a homemade porn, this retarded belief grows and gains that many more adherents.
I'm not sure why that annoys me so much, but it does.
Anyway, just wanted to mention that.
Oh, and for any Googlers out there, I don't have the Keeley Hazell Sex Tape available to download here.
I do, however, have a painting I did of her grabbing her ass, so that's at least something.
My Prediction? In The Future, People Will Still Suck
This morning when I was out shopping there was a woman pushing around one of those SUV style shopping carts that led you haul around multiple kids.
The woman pushing the cart looked a little more ethnic than the kids in her charge, so I’m guessing she was the hired help, but in any case there were three little girls in the cart happily – and loudly – singing “The Name Game.”
I didn’t really mind all that much, because despite what people think, I am human and they were very cute, and beyond that, it was better than the Michael Bolton song playing over the PA.
Despite the cuteness of it all, though, as they were brainstorming for new names to sing about, I had a very difficult time keeping myself from suggesting that they do “Chuck.”
Fortunately the better angel of my nature won out and I kept my mouth shut.
Besides, it’s a pretty hacky old joke anyway.
The thought did make me laugh, though.
Last night The Discovery Channel did this special called 2057, which was a look at what the world might be like 50 years from now (barring the advent of The Rapture, at any rate).
I watched it even though it had some really cheesy elements such as the little future storylines that were acted out in order to demonstrate some of the speculative features of life in the world a half-century from now.
I’ve mentioned before that attempting to make predictions about the future is largely pointless, as the really significant changes tend to be the ones that come completely out of left field and therefore can’t be predicted.
Beyond that, the other problem I have is that the predictions made by most futurists have a utopian flavor and are dependent on fundamental changes to human nature that there is no basis to expect. People aren’t going to miraculously stop being greedy and self-absorbed and stupid just because there are all of these new technologies available. I think the problem is that too few futurists bother looking back before attempting to look forward.
2057 didn’t really suffer from that problem, at least, recognizing that there would still be plenty of problems, and, while not really exploring it much, did at least implicitly recognize that advances in technology will make life better only for a select few.
For the people who can afford it, life will be great. However, rather than making it smaller, the advancing state of technology will actually increase the divide between the haves and the have nots.
In a world where cybernetic implants can cure paralysis and new organs can be printed, the very poor will still be denied even the most basic level of health care, and while wealthy children will have holographic companions who can monitor them and keep them out of trouble, plenty of other children will still go to bed hungry each night.
So overall, from the perspective that it didn’t sugar coat the future too much, it was one of the better pieces of speculative filmmaking I’ve seen in a while, and I did like the approach they took in examining the real-world contemporary efforts that serve as the basis for the speculation.
Anyway, if you get a chance to catch a rebroadcast, check it out.
Not too much new or interesting going on here in 2007. As mentioned, I went grocery shopping. I’ve put (more than) the requisite number of miles on my car to get my inspection done, but have been too lazy to make an appointment, though I suppose that I should.
The woman pushing the cart looked a little more ethnic than the kids in her charge, so I’m guessing she was the hired help, but in any case there were three little girls in the cart happily – and loudly – singing “The Name Game.”
I didn’t really mind all that much, because despite what people think, I am human and they were very cute, and beyond that, it was better than the Michael Bolton song playing over the PA.
Despite the cuteness of it all, though, as they were brainstorming for new names to sing about, I had a very difficult time keeping myself from suggesting that they do “Chuck.”
Fortunately the better angel of my nature won out and I kept my mouth shut.
Besides, it’s a pretty hacky old joke anyway.
The thought did make me laugh, though.
Last night The Discovery Channel did this special called 2057, which was a look at what the world might be like 50 years from now (barring the advent of The Rapture, at any rate).
I watched it even though it had some really cheesy elements such as the little future storylines that were acted out in order to demonstrate some of the speculative features of life in the world a half-century from now.
I’ve mentioned before that attempting to make predictions about the future is largely pointless, as the really significant changes tend to be the ones that come completely out of left field and therefore can’t be predicted.
Beyond that, the other problem I have is that the predictions made by most futurists have a utopian flavor and are dependent on fundamental changes to human nature that there is no basis to expect. People aren’t going to miraculously stop being greedy and self-absorbed and stupid just because there are all of these new technologies available. I think the problem is that too few futurists bother looking back before attempting to look forward.
2057 didn’t really suffer from that problem, at least, recognizing that there would still be plenty of problems, and, while not really exploring it much, did at least implicitly recognize that advances in technology will make life better only for a select few.
For the people who can afford it, life will be great. However, rather than making it smaller, the advancing state of technology will actually increase the divide between the haves and the have nots.
In a world where cybernetic implants can cure paralysis and new organs can be printed, the very poor will still be denied even the most basic level of health care, and while wealthy children will have holographic companions who can monitor them and keep them out of trouble, plenty of other children will still go to bed hungry each night.
So overall, from the perspective that it didn’t sugar coat the future too much, it was one of the better pieces of speculative filmmaking I’ve seen in a while, and I did like the approach they took in examining the real-world contemporary efforts that serve as the basis for the speculation.
Anyway, if you get a chance to catch a rebroadcast, check it out.
Not too much new or interesting going on here in 2007. As mentioned, I went grocery shopping. I’ve put (more than) the requisite number of miles on my car to get my inspection done, but have been too lazy to make an appointment, though I suppose that I should.
The Value Of Family Values?
I finally noticed that "Embed" button on Comedy Central video clips.
Check out Jon talking to Cheney at Camera 3:
Check out Jon talking to Cheney at Camera 3:
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The Giada And Tanya Show (With Special Guest Appearance By Carla's Bra!)
I thought it would be fun to show a breakdown of the search terms that bring people here, seeing as how you've all already seen the content that fails to keep them here once they arrive.
Anyway, click on the image below to see the Giada/Tanya/Bikini Cavegirl/Carla Gugino Bra Size-heavy results:
Anyway, click on the image below to see the Giada/Tanya/Bikini Cavegirl/Carla Gugino Bra Size-heavy results:
It May Not Be A Summer Breeze, But SOMETHING Is Blowing Through The Jasmine In My Mind
Sometime in the afternoon on Thursday it began to snow.
Sort of.
It wasn’t even as substantial as last Sunday’s snowfall which, after several hours, left us with maybe an inch of actual accumulation.
This did not, however, prevent people from turning into panicky monkeys and doing things like knocking down a sign in the median on one part of my route home.
Overall, the panic-stricken nature of other commuters made the drive home an irritating one, so I wasn’t in an especially good mood when I opened the door to my condo and my nostrils were assaulted by the unmistakable smell of rotting chicken blood that was wafting from the wax paper in my garbage can from when I’d taken chicken out of the freezer the other day.
After attending to that and feeding the fish, I went about my usual post-arrival business, then sat down to watch The Simpsons, which is outside of the usual.
However, I’ve decided that rather than going to bed early on Thursday only to fall asleep for about an hour, then wake up and find myself unable to sleep and get up and watch My Name is Earl and The Office, which I’d recorded, then find that I’m still unable to get back to sleep and end up getting, at a maximum, about four hours of sleep as I seem to be doing every Thursday, I would simply stay up later and actually watch the aforementioned shows.
After all, staying up an hour or so later than usual and then, hopefully, sleeping through the rest of the night, would be much better situation than the typical Thursday night scenario.
Naturally Earl and The Office were reruns.
Wondering why I even bother, I popped my pills and went to bed and slept straight through.
There’s probably some sort of lesson there, but damned if I know what it is.
The other day I got an e-mail from Kevin explaining that the second CD he sent was by way of being a joke, and purchasing it allowed him to qualify for free shipping.
I did listen to it a couple of times, though.
I’m not really that big on remixes in general – with American Made Music to Strip By being a notable exception – and given that I was never a fan of most of the originals, it was unlikely that I’d be terribly impressed by these “new” versions.
After all, most remixes, to my ears, sound as though they consist entirely of tacking on a Casio keyboard drum beat. I heard an album of remixes of Sarah McLachlan songs that, despite the presence of Sarah’s vocals, sounded, quite frankly, atrocious, so what chance would songs that I have no love for have with me?
Honestly? A pretty decent one. It’s not something I’m going to listen to regularly, but I have to say that the overall effect of the remixes isn’t quite so artificial and cheesy as I might have expected.
Out of all of the songs on the CD, I’d say that I “liked” the remix of Ventura Highway the most. Of course, I only have the dimmest recollection of most of the songs from hearing them on the radio when I was a kid. The song I know best is Summer Breeze, but that’s only because Type O Negative covered it.
Because of that cover, I can’t hear the original, or even the remixed version, without laughing. After all, the song is a very light, peppy, happy little piece of fluff, but in Type O’s hands it became a very heavy, ponderous, almost sinister piece of goth metal.
(Imagine the line “Sweet days of summer, the jasmine’s in bloom/July is dressed up and playin’ her tune” being sung by Lurch from The Addams Family TV show, and you’ll have an idea of what it is I find so funny.)
In any case, it’s a kind of interesting CD, but, as mentioned, it’s not one that will likely get much play.
I woke up early this morning, said, “No,” then went back to sleep and woke up sometime around 9. I still refused to get up, but I didn’t actually get in much more sleep.
Sometime in between working up the first and second times I had a dream that I was in some kind of rehab, though I’m not entirely certain what it was for. It wasn’t for drinking, or any kind of substance abuse. One thing that I do remember standing out is that someone told me that the problem was that I had given up all of my addictions, and so it was only a matter of time before I snapped and got hooked on something.
As part of my treatment it was suggested that I might do well to pick one of the less immediately destructive addictions back up, such as caffeine or nicotine.
Ideally, to keep myself balanced, I would be encouraged to do both, as they would help to keep me off of booze and whatever else it was that I was now addicted to.
I was walking along a corridor thinking about this suggestion and realizing that pretty much everyone there smoked, and so, on the theory that I was bound to start up again sooner or later, I stepped outside into a cool, winter evening and found myself in a courtyard .
From inside I’d seen that there was a young woman who looked rather a lot like Winona Ryder sitting in the courtyard smoking. I figured that if I was going to hit someone up for a cigarette it might as well be someone cute.
The courtyard had a large fountain in the center. Though the water was turned off for the winter it was still lit up and looked very pretty there in the dark as big flakes of snow drifted slowly down
The girl was sitting on a bench facing the fountain. She’d just lit a cigarette.
I approached her and said, “Apparently it’s in my best interest to start smoking again. Do you think I could…?”
She looked at me, snorted, handed me the cigarette she’d just lit, and said, “Here, take this one. I don’t feel like smoking anymore right now.” She then got up and headed back inside.
The last bit was said in such a way that it was clear that my presence was what had made her lose interest in being outside smoking.
Before opening the door to step inside she said, “Have a nice day.”
After taking a drag and exhaling I said, “Yeah, I’ll do that,” and sat in silence staring at the lit up fountain, oblivious to the cold even though I was dressed in thin hospital clothing.
As I sat there I thought that if I made a comic book about my life in the way that Harvey Pekar does with his, this scene would definitely be included.
From there the inconsistencies of dream logic really began to stand out, and I found myself getting angrier and angrier at how little sense this world I was in made, and I think that’s what caused me to wake up.
After getting up I did the usual nothing until my mother unexpectedly called. I hadn’t expected her to call because I thought she’d still be busy moving today, but apparently they’d gotten her all moved yesterday.
After that it was more nothing, then breakfast/lunch, then some nothing, then a nap and some more weird dreams, and now this.
Time, I think, for a little more nothing.
Sort of.
It wasn’t even as substantial as last Sunday’s snowfall which, after several hours, left us with maybe an inch of actual accumulation.
This did not, however, prevent people from turning into panicky monkeys and doing things like knocking down a sign in the median on one part of my route home.
Overall, the panic-stricken nature of other commuters made the drive home an irritating one, so I wasn’t in an especially good mood when I opened the door to my condo and my nostrils were assaulted by the unmistakable smell of rotting chicken blood that was wafting from the wax paper in my garbage can from when I’d taken chicken out of the freezer the other day.
After attending to that and feeding the fish, I went about my usual post-arrival business, then sat down to watch The Simpsons, which is outside of the usual.
However, I’ve decided that rather than going to bed early on Thursday only to fall asleep for about an hour, then wake up and find myself unable to sleep and get up and watch My Name is Earl and The Office, which I’d recorded, then find that I’m still unable to get back to sleep and end up getting, at a maximum, about four hours of sleep as I seem to be doing every Thursday, I would simply stay up later and actually watch the aforementioned shows.
After all, staying up an hour or so later than usual and then, hopefully, sleeping through the rest of the night, would be much better situation than the typical Thursday night scenario.
Naturally Earl and The Office were reruns.
Wondering why I even bother, I popped my pills and went to bed and slept straight through.
There’s probably some sort of lesson there, but damned if I know what it is.
The other day I got an e-mail from Kevin explaining that the second CD he sent was by way of being a joke, and purchasing it allowed him to qualify for free shipping.
I did listen to it a couple of times, though.
I’m not really that big on remixes in general – with American Made Music to Strip By being a notable exception – and given that I was never a fan of most of the originals, it was unlikely that I’d be terribly impressed by these “new” versions.
After all, most remixes, to my ears, sound as though they consist entirely of tacking on a Casio keyboard drum beat. I heard an album of remixes of Sarah McLachlan songs that, despite the presence of Sarah’s vocals, sounded, quite frankly, atrocious, so what chance would songs that I have no love for have with me?
Honestly? A pretty decent one. It’s not something I’m going to listen to regularly, but I have to say that the overall effect of the remixes isn’t quite so artificial and cheesy as I might have expected.
Out of all of the songs on the CD, I’d say that I “liked” the remix of Ventura Highway the most. Of course, I only have the dimmest recollection of most of the songs from hearing them on the radio when I was a kid. The song I know best is Summer Breeze, but that’s only because Type O Negative covered it.
Because of that cover, I can’t hear the original, or even the remixed version, without laughing. After all, the song is a very light, peppy, happy little piece of fluff, but in Type O’s hands it became a very heavy, ponderous, almost sinister piece of goth metal.
(Imagine the line “Sweet days of summer, the jasmine’s in bloom/July is dressed up and playin’ her tune” being sung by Lurch from The Addams Family TV show, and you’ll have an idea of what it is I find so funny.)
In any case, it’s a kind of interesting CD, but, as mentioned, it’s not one that will likely get much play.
I woke up early this morning, said, “No,” then went back to sleep and woke up sometime around 9. I still refused to get up, but I didn’t actually get in much more sleep.
Sometime in between working up the first and second times I had a dream that I was in some kind of rehab, though I’m not entirely certain what it was for. It wasn’t for drinking, or any kind of substance abuse. One thing that I do remember standing out is that someone told me that the problem was that I had given up all of my addictions, and so it was only a matter of time before I snapped and got hooked on something.
As part of my treatment it was suggested that I might do well to pick one of the less immediately destructive addictions back up, such as caffeine or nicotine.
Ideally, to keep myself balanced, I would be encouraged to do both, as they would help to keep me off of booze and whatever else it was that I was now addicted to.
I was walking along a corridor thinking about this suggestion and realizing that pretty much everyone there smoked, and so, on the theory that I was bound to start up again sooner or later, I stepped outside into a cool, winter evening and found myself in a courtyard .
From inside I’d seen that there was a young woman who looked rather a lot like Winona Ryder sitting in the courtyard smoking. I figured that if I was going to hit someone up for a cigarette it might as well be someone cute.
The courtyard had a large fountain in the center. Though the water was turned off for the winter it was still lit up and looked very pretty there in the dark as big flakes of snow drifted slowly down
The girl was sitting on a bench facing the fountain. She’d just lit a cigarette.
I approached her and said, “Apparently it’s in my best interest to start smoking again. Do you think I could…?”
She looked at me, snorted, handed me the cigarette she’d just lit, and said, “Here, take this one. I don’t feel like smoking anymore right now.” She then got up and headed back inside.
The last bit was said in such a way that it was clear that my presence was what had made her lose interest in being outside smoking.
Before opening the door to step inside she said, “Have a nice day.”
After taking a drag and exhaling I said, “Yeah, I’ll do that,” and sat in silence staring at the lit up fountain, oblivious to the cold even though I was dressed in thin hospital clothing.
As I sat there I thought that if I made a comic book about my life in the way that Harvey Pekar does with his, this scene would definitely be included.
From there the inconsistencies of dream logic really began to stand out, and I found myself getting angrier and angrier at how little sense this world I was in made, and I think that’s what caused me to wake up.
After getting up I did the usual nothing until my mother unexpectedly called. I hadn’t expected her to call because I thought she’d still be busy moving today, but apparently they’d gotten her all moved yesterday.
After that it was more nothing, then breakfast/lunch, then some nothing, then a nap and some more weird dreams, and now this.
Time, I think, for a little more nothing.
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