Saturday, December 01, 2007
Leave Me Alone. Send.
I got contacted by several more recruiters over the past couple of days, which, given my situation of having to try to choose between a definite offer for a job I don't especially want and a slightly less definite offer for a job that I do want wasn't exactly helping.
It made me want to respond to them in the way that Satan responds to Lucy in this clip from Lucy The Daughter of The Devil:
It made me want to respond to them in the way that Satan responds to Lucy in this clip from Lucy The Daughter of The Devil:
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Sky Is Still Blue
So I’m not terribly despondent over being shot down, as that would be like going to bed one night hoping that in the morning the sky would be plaid and then getting depressed upon waking to find that it’s still blue.
Getting shot down was a foregone conclusion is my point.
Overall it was relatively painless, though there was one thing that was kind of bothersome.
When she said that she didn’t think it would be appropriate given her position, I rebutted that, since I’ve found employment without her company’s services, it seemed to me that there was no real conflict and that I figured it was worth taking a shot anyway.
Her response was to say, “Awww” in exactly the manner in which one would do so upon seeing a puppy perform a cute trick. It just felt strangely demeaning, as if she were saying, “Oh, look at him trying to use logic to talk me into going out with him! It’s adorable the way he’s not immediately taking the hint and thinks that he’s someone I would go out with if I didn’t have a built-in excuse not to.”
Of course, I’m sure that was all just my perception. It could be that she was genuinely flattered by my offer and disappointed that she was prevented from accepting due to her job.
Sure, and maybe tomorrow the sky will be plaid.
The “Awww” was followed with, “Well, I’m still going to have to decline.”
Meh.
You win some you…no, wait. Scratch that first part, then finish the expression.
On the topic of other attractive women who will never date me –in this case owing first of all to the fact that she lives on the opposite side of the country and will thus never even encounter me, and then moving on to all of the standard reasons – I’ve found myself largely foiled in my attempts to find a decent portrait-worthy image of actress Danielle Panabaker of the TV show Shark.
Not many pictures of her exist online, and one of the drawbacks to my Verizon DVR is that there’s no way to transfer recorded files to another device, such as my computer, which I could then use to make my own HD screen captures.
As an alternative, I tried downloading an HD episode from the newsgroups, but the only HD version I could find was in a format that can only be played by a specific player – a player that doesn’t have screen capture capabilities – and my attempts to convert it to a usable format were all, as my dad often liked to say, for naught.
However, one thing I like to do with my DVR is to pause a show when it goes to commercial, then go about the usual commercial time activities like going to the bathroom, grabbing a snack, or overthrowing the government of a small Baltic nation. You know, the usual stuff.
When I get back, I then have some time in the bank that I can use to skip through future commercials.
Anyway, while watching Shark, I paused it during the opening credits just in time to freeze an image of Danielle on the screen. It then occurred to me that there was a solution to my screen capture problem that straddles the line between high tech and low tech: take a picture of the frozen screen with my digital camera.
Thus, I was able to capture a reference picture from which I was able to produce this image:
Looking at her IMDb entry, it seems that in addition to being unbearably cute, Ms. Panabaker is also extremely smart, having graduated high school at 14 and earned her Bachelor’s degree (in English!) at 19.
Of course, the fact that she’s actually younger than my niece Jourdan ratchets up the creepiness of my infatuation with her, especially when you factor in the fact that she’s at her hottest when wearing a schoolgirl outfit, but what are you gonna do?
And, as mentioned, it’s not as though I’m ever going to meet her or start stalking her (stalking, of course, requiring far more effort than I’m willing to put into any endeavor), so there’s no real harm.
I will say that she might very well be poised to take the place in my heart currently occupied by my beloved Rachael Leigh Cook.
(Hey, it’s your own fault, RLC – I’m not the one who went and got married to Man-Wolf. Geeky note: RLC is married to the actor who played John Jameson in Spider-Man 2, a character who, in the comics, is a sort of werewolf known as Man-Wolf, and sometimes Stargod, but he’ll always be Man-Wolf to me.)
Anyway, my harmlessly creepy infatuation with women I’ll never meet that manifests itself primarily in the form of drawing pictures of said women aside, apart from the failed attempt at getting a date with a woman who lives in the same geographic region as I do, not much has gone on today.
I went out to Super Target to pick up a few things and had lunch at the Pizza Hut Express located there.
While I was sitting there eating my pizza, a very unhappy-looking woman came in with a heavyset and obviously developmentally disabled teenaged boy and sat at the table next to me. The woman proceeded to pretend that the boy wasn’t there, while the boy began having a lengthy conversation with himself on the topic, from what I could gather, of the soap opera General Hospital.
From there I ran the obstacle course of unmoving senior citizens and little screaming ballerinas and non-ballet-attired children, got what I needed, and was on my way out, overhearing a young cashier talking to another cashier about how she’d told someone, “To hold up, because I still have feelings for Josh and for this guy.”
On my drive home there was someone behind me driving as though he was in a movie chase scene, yanking the wheel hard to make even the slightest turn.
And that’s been my day so far.
On Sunday it appears that I’ll be going to a holiday ice-skating party hosted by my Realtor, David, along with Kathleen.
Being from the Frozen North, naturally I know how to skate, but it’s been a very long time since I’ve done any skating, so I think I’ll probably stay off of the ice.
I encouraged Kathleen to go simply because I thought it would do her some good to get out of the house. I would say the same about me, but it seldom does me any good to get out of the house.
In extending her condolences over today’s shoot down, Kathleen suggested that maybe I’ll meet someone at the party, and went on to say that she’ll try not to be too much of a cock blocker.
I don’t foresee any likelihood that cock blocking will be an issue.
Getting shot down was a foregone conclusion is my point.
Overall it was relatively painless, though there was one thing that was kind of bothersome.
When she said that she didn’t think it would be appropriate given her position, I rebutted that, since I’ve found employment without her company’s services, it seemed to me that there was no real conflict and that I figured it was worth taking a shot anyway.
Her response was to say, “Awww” in exactly the manner in which one would do so upon seeing a puppy perform a cute trick. It just felt strangely demeaning, as if she were saying, “Oh, look at him trying to use logic to talk me into going out with him! It’s adorable the way he’s not immediately taking the hint and thinks that he’s someone I would go out with if I didn’t have a built-in excuse not to.”
Of course, I’m sure that was all just my perception. It could be that she was genuinely flattered by my offer and disappointed that she was prevented from accepting due to her job.
Sure, and maybe tomorrow the sky will be plaid.
The “Awww” was followed with, “Well, I’m still going to have to decline.”
Meh.
You win some you…no, wait. Scratch that first part, then finish the expression.
On the topic of other attractive women who will never date me –in this case owing first of all to the fact that she lives on the opposite side of the country and will thus never even encounter me, and then moving on to all of the standard reasons – I’ve found myself largely foiled in my attempts to find a decent portrait-worthy image of actress Danielle Panabaker of the TV show Shark.
Not many pictures of her exist online, and one of the drawbacks to my Verizon DVR is that there’s no way to transfer recorded files to another device, such as my computer, which I could then use to make my own HD screen captures.
As an alternative, I tried downloading an HD episode from the newsgroups, but the only HD version I could find was in a format that can only be played by a specific player – a player that doesn’t have screen capture capabilities – and my attempts to convert it to a usable format were all, as my dad often liked to say, for naught.
However, one thing I like to do with my DVR is to pause a show when it goes to commercial, then go about the usual commercial time activities like going to the bathroom, grabbing a snack, or overthrowing the government of a small Baltic nation. You know, the usual stuff.
When I get back, I then have some time in the bank that I can use to skip through future commercials.
Anyway, while watching Shark, I paused it during the opening credits just in time to freeze an image of Danielle on the screen. It then occurred to me that there was a solution to my screen capture problem that straddles the line between high tech and low tech: take a picture of the frozen screen with my digital camera.
Thus, I was able to capture a reference picture from which I was able to produce this image:
Looking at her IMDb entry, it seems that in addition to being unbearably cute, Ms. Panabaker is also extremely smart, having graduated high school at 14 and earned her Bachelor’s degree (in English!) at 19.
Of course, the fact that she’s actually younger than my niece Jourdan ratchets up the creepiness of my infatuation with her, especially when you factor in the fact that she’s at her hottest when wearing a schoolgirl outfit, but what are you gonna do?
And, as mentioned, it’s not as though I’m ever going to meet her or start stalking her (stalking, of course, requiring far more effort than I’m willing to put into any endeavor), so there’s no real harm.
I will say that she might very well be poised to take the place in my heart currently occupied by my beloved Rachael Leigh Cook.
(Hey, it’s your own fault, RLC – I’m not the one who went and got married to Man-Wolf. Geeky note: RLC is married to the actor who played John Jameson in Spider-Man 2, a character who, in the comics, is a sort of werewolf known as Man-Wolf, and sometimes Stargod, but he’ll always be Man-Wolf to me.)
Anyway, my harmlessly creepy infatuation with women I’ll never meet that manifests itself primarily in the form of drawing pictures of said women aside, apart from the failed attempt at getting a date with a woman who lives in the same geographic region as I do, not much has gone on today.
I went out to Super Target to pick up a few things and had lunch at the Pizza Hut Express located there.
While I was sitting there eating my pizza, a very unhappy-looking woman came in with a heavyset and obviously developmentally disabled teenaged boy and sat at the table next to me. The woman proceeded to pretend that the boy wasn’t there, while the boy began having a lengthy conversation with himself on the topic, from what I could gather, of the soap opera General Hospital.
From there I ran the obstacle course of unmoving senior citizens and little screaming ballerinas and non-ballet-attired children, got what I needed, and was on my way out, overhearing a young cashier talking to another cashier about how she’d told someone, “To hold up, because I still have feelings for Josh and for this guy.”
On my drive home there was someone behind me driving as though he was in a movie chase scene, yanking the wheel hard to make even the slightest turn.
And that’s been my day so far.
On Sunday it appears that I’ll be going to a holiday ice-skating party hosted by my Realtor, David, along with Kathleen.
Being from the Frozen North, naturally I know how to skate, but it’s been a very long time since I’ve done any skating, so I think I’ll probably stay off of the ice.
I encouraged Kathleen to go simply because I thought it would do her some good to get out of the house. I would say the same about me, but it seldom does me any good to get out of the house.
In extending her condolences over today’s shoot down, Kathleen suggested that maybe I’ll meet someone at the party, and went on to say that she’ll try not to be too much of a cock blocker.
I don’t foresee any likelihood that cock blocking will be an issue.
Multiple Choice Quiz
For any Threshold students who failed the reading comprehension test in the last post and missed the point of the symbolism:
After explaining his current employment situation to the hot recruiter, Jon, less clumsily than he’d expected adds, “The other reason I’m calling is…would you like to have dinner sometime?”
How does the hot recruiter respond? Select from the following options.
A. Yes, I’d love to!
B. No, you’re smelly and generally icky.
C. I have a boyfriend.
D. It’s very nice of you to ask, but I don’t think it would be appropriate given my position.
E. D, but just as a convenient excuse to avoid saying B and C.
Leave your answers in the comments.
After explaining his current employment situation to the hot recruiter, Jon, less clumsily than he’d expected adds, “The other reason I’m calling is…would you like to have dinner sometime?”
How does the hot recruiter respond? Select from the following options.
A. Yes, I’d love to!
B. No, you’re smelly and generally icky.
C. I have a boyfriend.
D. It’s very nice of you to ask, but I don’t think it would be appropriate given my position.
E. D, but just as a convenient excuse to avoid saying B and C.
Leave your answers in the comments.
Warning: Really Obvious Symbolism Ahead
Sisyphus stands at the base of a hill, considering the large rock in front of him.
“I wonder,” he thinks to himself, “If I’ll be able to push the rock over the hill this time. I’ll bet it just rolls back down once I get it to the top.”
All of Sisyphus’ friends in Tartarus, however, tell him that he needs to try it and to keep on trying. Eventually he’s bound to get it over the top of the hill.
“Don’t be a pussy,” say all of the other shades in Tartarus.
After much consideration and wringing of his hands, Sisyphus sighs, presses against the rock, and, putting all of his weight behind it, begins the arduous task of rolling it up the hill.
Just as he reaches the summit, he loses his grip, and the rock rolls back down the way it came, just as Sisyphus knew it would.
“I wonder,” he thinks to himself, “If I’ll be able to push the rock over the hill this time. I’ll bet it just rolls back down once I get it to the top.”
All of Sisyphus’ friends in Tartarus, however, tell him that he needs to try it and to keep on trying. Eventually he’s bound to get it over the top of the hill.
“Don’t be a pussy,” say all of the other shades in Tartarus.
After much consideration and wringing of his hands, Sisyphus sighs, presses against the rock, and, putting all of his weight behind it, begins the arduous task of rolling it up the hill.
Just as he reaches the summit, he loses his grip, and the rock rolls back down the way it came, just as Sisyphus knew it would.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Speak Of The Hot Technical Recruiter...
...and she e-mails you a descripton for a job you're not even remotely qualified for.
Among the requirements: a degree in Electrical Engineering and CCNA certification.
Anyway, that I heard from her via e-mail leads me back to the earlier question, which I know that no one but Scott and possibly Brian will bother to answer: should I be a total pussy and ask her out via e-mail?
(Seriously people, it's not that difficult or time-consuming to leave a comment, even with the word verification, and I actually want some opinions on this.)
Among the requirements: a degree in Electrical Engineering and CCNA certification.
Anyway, that I heard from her via e-mail leads me back to the earlier question, which I know that no one but Scott and possibly Brian will bother to answer: should I be a total pussy and ask her out via e-mail?
(Seriously people, it's not that difficult or time-consuming to leave a comment, even with the word verification, and I actually want some opinions on this.)
To Wimp Out Or Not To Wimp Out
Yesterday I mentioned how after calling Stone Face several times without getting a response I finally took the hint and gave up.
There are some kids in my neighborhood who apparently aren’t quite that quick on the uptake.
It seems there’s some kid named Fred (or, as some of the kids say, “Fwed”), who is extremely sought after by his peers. Every day the neighborhood kids can be found literally spending hours yelling, “Fred! Hey Fred! Fred!” without ever getting a response.
After about 15 minutes of yelling for him without receiving any sort of response, you’d think that they’d realize that he’s not going to answer, but such is not the case, as, like I said, they spend hours doing this.
Maybe it’s just some new kind of game, like a one-sided version of Marco Polo or something. Either way, it’d be nice if they’d shut the hell up.
On the topic of putting out a call that won’t be answered – at least, not answered in the affirmative – now that I have a job, regardless of which one it turns out to be, it would seem that I have a bargain with the Universe that I need to live up to, and a hot technical recruiter to ask out.
Obviously I’m going to put this off for as long as I can, but at some point I do need to contact her to let her know that I’ve found a job. Conceivably, I could wait until she contacts me, as she said that she would periodically check in, which she’s done once so far.
Of course, she did that via e-mail, which leads to my question: how wimpy of me would it be to send her an e-mail letting her know how things stand and using that as a means of setting myself up for the inevitable rejection?
I suppose the answer is “really wimpy,” but let’s consider the pros and cons.
Con: It’s impersonal and wimpy.
Pro: I won’t have to hear the extended, sighing “Ohhhh…” followed by the long pause that will then be followed by the rejection.
Con: It’s really impersonal and really wimpy.
Pro: I won’t have to be on the phone struggling not to hyperventilate and pass out before asking the question.
Con: It’s creepily impersonal and marks me as being a giant pussy.
Pro: I won’t have to try to put up a brave front when I hear the variation on “Thanks, but no thanks.” (said variation will likely not include the “Thanks” part)
Con: Only total, dweeby pussies ask women out via e-mail.
Pro: She won’t be put on the spot, and will have ample time to make up an excuse that won’t hurt my feelings…should she be of a mind to spare my feelings.
Hmm, that didn’t really help to move me towards a decision.
How about you tell me what you think, bearing in mind that I’ll probably be able to sense whether or not your choice is motivated by what you believe will be the most humiliating (and therefore amusing) option?
There are some kids in my neighborhood who apparently aren’t quite that quick on the uptake.
It seems there’s some kid named Fred (or, as some of the kids say, “Fwed”), who is extremely sought after by his peers. Every day the neighborhood kids can be found literally spending hours yelling, “Fred! Hey Fred! Fred!” without ever getting a response.
After about 15 minutes of yelling for him without receiving any sort of response, you’d think that they’d realize that he’s not going to answer, but such is not the case, as, like I said, they spend hours doing this.
Maybe it’s just some new kind of game, like a one-sided version of Marco Polo or something. Either way, it’d be nice if they’d shut the hell up.
On the topic of putting out a call that won’t be answered – at least, not answered in the affirmative – now that I have a job, regardless of which one it turns out to be, it would seem that I have a bargain with the Universe that I need to live up to, and a hot technical recruiter to ask out.
Obviously I’m going to put this off for as long as I can, but at some point I do need to contact her to let her know that I’ve found a job. Conceivably, I could wait until she contacts me, as she said that she would periodically check in, which she’s done once so far.
Of course, she did that via e-mail, which leads to my question: how wimpy of me would it be to send her an e-mail letting her know how things stand and using that as a means of setting myself up for the inevitable rejection?
I suppose the answer is “really wimpy,” but let’s consider the pros and cons.
Con: It’s impersonal and wimpy.
Pro: I won’t have to hear the extended, sighing “Ohhhh…” followed by the long pause that will then be followed by the rejection.
Con: It’s really impersonal and really wimpy.
Pro: I won’t have to be on the phone struggling not to hyperventilate and pass out before asking the question.
Con: It’s creepily impersonal and marks me as being a giant pussy.
Pro: I won’t have to try to put up a brave front when I hear the variation on “Thanks, but no thanks.” (said variation will likely not include the “Thanks” part)
Con: Only total, dweeby pussies ask women out via e-mail.
Pro: She won’t be put on the spot, and will have ample time to make up an excuse that won’t hurt my feelings…should she be of a mind to spare my feelings.
Hmm, that didn’t really help to move me towards a decision.
How about you tell me what you think, bearing in mind that I’ll probably be able to sense whether or not your choice is motivated by what you believe will be the most humiliating (and therefore amusing) option?
Now I've Got That Stupid "Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind?" Song Stuck In My Head
So I spoke to the recruiter from the company that I want to work for and she let me know that I am a lock for the position.
The problem, though, is that the position doesn’t actually exist yet, and they just submitted their final proposal justifying the creation of the position, and won’t hear back until next week, possibly as late as Wednesday.
So I’ve got the job, if the job actually proves to exist.
In the meantime, the other job does exist, and I also have it.
I tried to stall for time, saying that I was definitely interested and would be willing to take the job, but could I make a final decision next week after I hear back about the other one?
That didn’t really work out, and so I decided that I would actually accept the job with the caveat that if/when I get the other offer I’m taking it.
I’m not locked into taking my second choice job, so really the worst-case scenario here is that after everything shakes down, pretty much no matter what I have a job.
Honestly, this is sort of an enviable position to be in; I’m guaranteed to have a job that, while not ideal, is certainly something I can live with and is familiar territory, but the odds are nearly as good that I have a job that is much closer to the ideal.
It’s win-win, right?
So why is my stomach in knots?
The problem, though, is that the position doesn’t actually exist yet, and they just submitted their final proposal justifying the creation of the position, and won’t hear back until next week, possibly as late as Wednesday.
So I’ve got the job, if the job actually proves to exist.
In the meantime, the other job does exist, and I also have it.
I tried to stall for time, saying that I was definitely interested and would be willing to take the job, but could I make a final decision next week after I hear back about the other one?
That didn’t really work out, and so I decided that I would actually accept the job with the caveat that if/when I get the other offer I’m taking it.
I’m not locked into taking my second choice job, so really the worst-case scenario here is that after everything shakes down, pretty much no matter what I have a job.
Honestly, this is sort of an enviable position to be in; I’m guaranteed to have a job that, while not ideal, is certainly something I can live with and is familiar territory, but the odds are nearly as good that I have a job that is much closer to the ideal.
It’s win-win, right?
So why is my stomach in knots?
Having Too Many Choices Worse Than Having None?
So I just got a call from the recruiter for the job I interviewed for yesterday letting me know that they want to extend me an offer.
I can't really accept an offer until I know whether or not I'm going to be offered the other job that I actually want, and I haven't heard back from them yet.
So I called in to let the recruiter for the job I want know about the other offer, but got her voicemail.
Hopefully she calls back soon. Obviously I need a job, but I'd hate to take a job I don't want rather than a job that I do want, but then there's that whole "bird in the hand" thing.
Aargh.
I can't really accept an offer until I know whether or not I'm going to be offered the other job that I actually want, and I haven't heard back from them yet.
So I called in to let the recruiter for the job I want know about the other offer, but got her voicemail.
Hopefully she calls back soon. Obviously I need a job, but I'd hate to take a job I don't want rather than a job that I do want, but then there's that whole "bird in the hand" thing.
Aargh.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Stop Eating Your Hair Or Shut Up, O Muse...
Doctors Remove 10 lb. Hairball From Woman’s Stomach!
There was an issue of The Sandman in which this sort of thing is mentioned.
In the story, the author of an extremely successful novel is suffering from severe writer’s block and is seriously overdue on providing his editor with a second novel.
He strikes a deal with an older writer who, it turns out, had been a successful writer because he had captured and imprisoned a Muse. The elder writer is willing to give the Muse to the younger writer in exchange for a Bezoar, a kind of stone found in the intestines of certain animals, and, somewhat more rarely, the intestines of humans. Bezoars were once thought to be a powerful antidote against any poison.
The type of Bezoar that the younger author provides in exchange for the Muse is a Trichobezoar, which is a Bezoar formed from hair, that had been removed from a girl’s stomach, the result of trichophagia, or the compulsive consumption of hair, sometimes also known as Rapunzel Syndrome.
(This is the problem that the woman in the article linked to suffered from.)
As the story unfolds, the young author, thanks to his muse, becomes tremendously successful, but it turns out that the muse in question – Calliope – was once the wife of the titular Sandman, Morpheus, who was the anthropomorphic representation of dreams, and was, in fact, the mother of Morpheus' son.
Despite the bitter way their relationship had ended, Calliope calls upon Morpheus to free her from her captivity. Perhaps owing to the fact that he himself had only recently earned his freedom after being held captive for the past 70 years, Morpheus agrees to help and approaches the author, requesting that he set Calliope free.
The author refuses, insisting that he needs the ideas that she provides. Morpheus, whose realm is the repository of ideas, lays a curse upon the author. If it’s ideas that he needs, then it’s ideas that he’ll get. Non-stop ideas. So many ideas that the author is overcome and unable to do anything except come up with new ideas.
Eventually, fingers rubbed raw to the bone from his constant efforts to write his ideas down, resorting to scratching them into the walls when pen and paper aren’t available, the author gives in and grants Calliope her freedom, and soon finds himself back where he started: totally out of ideas.
At the time I read it, the story really resonated with me because I was myself something of an idea factory, having so many ideas that I couldn’t pick one to focus on any one idea and becoming, essentially, paralyzed by my own creativity.
I still have the problem to a certain extent, in that I find it difficult to grab one idea and really run with it, but the sheer volume of ideas that I have has dramatically decreased.
At the time, I also had long hair and a tendency, when bored, to chew on it.
Reading that story wasn’t the cause of my decrease in ideas – years of drinking and basically abandoning my creativity did that – but it did get me to stop chewing on my hair.
There was an issue of The Sandman in which this sort of thing is mentioned.
In the story, the author of an extremely successful novel is suffering from severe writer’s block and is seriously overdue on providing his editor with a second novel.
He strikes a deal with an older writer who, it turns out, had been a successful writer because he had captured and imprisoned a Muse. The elder writer is willing to give the Muse to the younger writer in exchange for a Bezoar, a kind of stone found in the intestines of certain animals, and, somewhat more rarely, the intestines of humans. Bezoars were once thought to be a powerful antidote against any poison.
The type of Bezoar that the younger author provides in exchange for the Muse is a Trichobezoar, which is a Bezoar formed from hair, that had been removed from a girl’s stomach, the result of trichophagia, or the compulsive consumption of hair, sometimes also known as Rapunzel Syndrome.
(This is the problem that the woman in the article linked to suffered from.)
As the story unfolds, the young author, thanks to his muse, becomes tremendously successful, but it turns out that the muse in question – Calliope – was once the wife of the titular Sandman, Morpheus, who was the anthropomorphic representation of dreams, and was, in fact, the mother of Morpheus' son.
Despite the bitter way their relationship had ended, Calliope calls upon Morpheus to free her from her captivity. Perhaps owing to the fact that he himself had only recently earned his freedom after being held captive for the past 70 years, Morpheus agrees to help and approaches the author, requesting that he set Calliope free.
The author refuses, insisting that he needs the ideas that she provides. Morpheus, whose realm is the repository of ideas, lays a curse upon the author. If it’s ideas that he needs, then it’s ideas that he’ll get. Non-stop ideas. So many ideas that the author is overcome and unable to do anything except come up with new ideas.
Eventually, fingers rubbed raw to the bone from his constant efforts to write his ideas down, resorting to scratching them into the walls when pen and paper aren’t available, the author gives in and grants Calliope her freedom, and soon finds himself back where he started: totally out of ideas.
At the time I read it, the story really resonated with me because I was myself something of an idea factory, having so many ideas that I couldn’t pick one to focus on any one idea and becoming, essentially, paralyzed by my own creativity.
I still have the problem to a certain extent, in that I find it difficult to grab one idea and really run with it, but the sheer volume of ideas that I have has dramatically decreased.
At the time, I also had long hair and a tendency, when bored, to chew on it.
Reading that story wasn’t the cause of my decrease in ideas – years of drinking and basically abandoning my creativity did that – but it did get me to stop chewing on my hair.
Unsealed Deal
So my interview went pretty well. The guy interviewing me pretty much told me that I would be one of the people offered a job, as he said that, looking over my résumé and just talking with me for a few minutes he could tell I’d be a perfect fit.
This was after I told him that I’m pretty much expecting another job offer. He said, “That’s too bad. For us, I mean.”
I told him that the deal wasn’t sealed, though, and to keep me in mind just in case things don’t work out.
When I got there I was greeted by someone from the recruiting company. All I’ll say is that apparently there are a lot of hot chicks working in the field of technical recruiting.
I let her know about the potential/likely job as well.
After that it was off to the comic shop to meet up with Scott. Stacy and the kids were along for the ride, as they’re down to one vehicle.
Due to Thanksgiving, the new comics won’t be in until tomorrow, so we all just went to eat at the Mexican restaurant. After dinner we got to see Santa riding around in a horse-drawn carriage.
(Some lady in the restaurant had spotted him going by the window and came over to let us know for the kids’ sake. The kids were thrilled. Vicki said, “I can’t believe I got to see him!”)
Yesterday morning I went over to the eye doctor to make an eye appointment and let them know that I’m interested in the Gentle Molding procedure, as I have the money for it in my Flex account and need to use it before the year’s end.
Longtime Threshold readers know that a few years back I attempted to date the office manager from the eye doctor’s Ashburn office. Things didn’t work out that well, and we really only went on one date. Though she was always friendly, and full of excuses for why she never returned my calls every time I saw her, after a while it became clear that there was a message I should be getting, and when you try too hard to date someone without getting any sort of cooperation they call that stalking, so I gave up trying.
In any case, while I was making my appointment with the girl at the desk, the office manager of the Leesburg office was on the phone, not paying any attention, until she heard me say my name, at which point her ears pricked up and she turned to look at me. After she got off the phone she said hello and was suspiciously friendly. I have to wonder if I’d ever been the topic of conversation between her and the Ashburn office manager (whom I refer to as Stone Face, given that she was the most inscrutable and unreadable human being I’d ever met and her face, which was still gorgeous, was as inexpressive as stone).
I know that my one real date with Stone Face was a point of contention between the two office managers, as Stone Face had blown off her own office holiday party to accompany me to the AOL party.
Given the spectacularly embarrassing manner in which, coasting on pure adrenaline, I had burst in and asked Stone Face out – in front of several patients and the eye doctor – I’m sure that, at the time, I was also fodder for inter-and intra-office gossip, so I can’t help but wonder if, after I left yesterday, the Leesburg office manager placed a call to the Ashburn office that started off with something like, “Guess who was just in the office?”
Of course, I don’t know if Stone Face still works in the Ashburn office, or is even still around. The last time I saw her, which was quite a long time ago, she was wearing a ring. While she was fairly friendly, in her stone-faced and expressionless manner, I wasn’t there long enough for us to actually have a conversation.
Anyway, I just thought that the reaction my name elicited from the Leesburg office manager was kind of funny and worth mentioning.
This was after I told him that I’m pretty much expecting another job offer. He said, “That’s too bad. For us, I mean.”
I told him that the deal wasn’t sealed, though, and to keep me in mind just in case things don’t work out.
When I got there I was greeted by someone from the recruiting company. All I’ll say is that apparently there are a lot of hot chicks working in the field of technical recruiting.
I let her know about the potential/likely job as well.
After that it was off to the comic shop to meet up with Scott. Stacy and the kids were along for the ride, as they’re down to one vehicle.
Due to Thanksgiving, the new comics won’t be in until tomorrow, so we all just went to eat at the Mexican restaurant. After dinner we got to see Santa riding around in a horse-drawn carriage.
(Some lady in the restaurant had spotted him going by the window and came over to let us know for the kids’ sake. The kids were thrilled. Vicki said, “I can’t believe I got to see him!”)
Yesterday morning I went over to the eye doctor to make an eye appointment and let them know that I’m interested in the Gentle Molding procedure, as I have the money for it in my Flex account and need to use it before the year’s end.
Longtime Threshold readers know that a few years back I attempted to date the office manager from the eye doctor’s Ashburn office. Things didn’t work out that well, and we really only went on one date. Though she was always friendly, and full of excuses for why she never returned my calls every time I saw her, after a while it became clear that there was a message I should be getting, and when you try too hard to date someone without getting any sort of cooperation they call that stalking, so I gave up trying.
In any case, while I was making my appointment with the girl at the desk, the office manager of the Leesburg office was on the phone, not paying any attention, until she heard me say my name, at which point her ears pricked up and she turned to look at me. After she got off the phone she said hello and was suspiciously friendly. I have to wonder if I’d ever been the topic of conversation between her and the Ashburn office manager (whom I refer to as Stone Face, given that she was the most inscrutable and unreadable human being I’d ever met and her face, which was still gorgeous, was as inexpressive as stone).
I know that my one real date with Stone Face was a point of contention between the two office managers, as Stone Face had blown off her own office holiday party to accompany me to the AOL party.
Given the spectacularly embarrassing manner in which, coasting on pure adrenaline, I had burst in and asked Stone Face out – in front of several patients and the eye doctor – I’m sure that, at the time, I was also fodder for inter-and intra-office gossip, so I can’t help but wonder if, after I left yesterday, the Leesburg office manager placed a call to the Ashburn office that started off with something like, “Guess who was just in the office?”
Of course, I don’t know if Stone Face still works in the Ashburn office, or is even still around. The last time I saw her, which was quite a long time ago, she was wearing a ring. While she was fairly friendly, in her stone-faced and expressionless manner, I wasn’t there long enough for us to actually have a conversation.
Anyway, I just thought that the reaction my name elicited from the Leesburg office manager was kind of funny and worth mentioning.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Know Your Enemy
In the book Interview With The Vampire there is a passage in which the protagonist, Louis, says something to the effect of “I am at odds with everything.”
This passage stood out for me, as it’s a pretty accurate assessment of my own personality. In most areas of life, my tastes tend to run counter to those of the majority. If there is some song, or movie, or book, or TV show that is universally loved, there’s a pretty good chance that I won’t like it.
(There are exceptions, of course, but it is a general trend in my life.)
This isn’t some sort of knee-jerk reaction on my part fueled by some desire to be a non-conformist, it’s just the way things tend to be.
Beyond simple matters of taste, though, it often seems as though I’m going through life swimming upstream. For whatever reason, everything, even the simplest of tasks, is an epic struggle, as though the forces of the Universe are aligned against me, engaging in a consistent campaign of harassment intended to annoy the hell out of me via stubbed toes, blows to the head, and a seemingly infinite variety of other irritating guerrilla tactics in a war being fought to prevent me from achieving any level of comfort or performing a task with ease.
My biggest enemy in this unending war, more often than not, is myself.
I am at odds with everything, and everything includes me.
It brings to mind another book I’ve read, A Scanner Darkly, in which the hemispheres of the protagonist’s brain are at war with each other.
Back when I lived in Ashburn, I bought myself a pair of kitchen shears, as I had decided that from that point on I would never bother struggling in vain to open any sort of packaging by hand, as doing that sort of thing just opens me up for yet another of the Universes acts of petty terrorism, and I try – usually in vain – to avoid giving it any such openings.
So using the shears for opening things helps to prevent a repeat of the “salad explosion” I experienced a few Thanksgivings ago.
I showed that bag of salad who’s boss (The bag of salad, naturally.).
However, somewhere along the line I developed a tendency to not put the shears back in their slot with the knives, which would inevitably lead me to have to conduct a search for the shears the next time I needed them.
Somewhere along the line in my last place I failed to put the shears where they belonged and never found them again. I’d hoped they would turn up in the course of the move to the new place, but no such luck.
After I moved in I bought a new set of knives that included a pair of kitchen shears.
Despite having lost the other pair, I clearly haven’t learned my lesson, as every day in my battle with myself I use the shears, then set them on the counter, or on the table, or in the refrigerator (I haven’t done that so far, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time), and then, when I turn to leave the kitchen, I notice that I’ve done this and, cursing myself, put them where they belong.
Why? Why do I do this? Why can’t just cooperate with myself and immediately put them back after using them? Why must I continually fight this battle with myself? Isn’t it enough that I have to defend myself against the forces of the Universe without having to be my own worst enemy? To paraphrase Rodney King, can’t Jon just get along?
Sadly, I’m afraid I know the answer to that final question, and I have no doubt that these acts of sabotage that I perpetrate against myself will continue, and likely worsen throughout the years.
Land Of The Midnight Sun
I kind of hate my microwave.
It beeps on far too many occasions (and not in in an entertaining D.R.I.-like cadence), and its lack of a numeric keypad makes it kind of a pain to set it to run for odd durations, and makes setting the clock needlessly complex.
Which leads to the other problem, which is that its designers clearly didn't have a full understanding of how the whole AM/PM thing works. At one second after 11:59:59 AM, it will change to 12:00...AM, as can be seen, blurrily, in this picture of a surprisingly bright and sunny midnight. Oh wait, it's not midnight, it's noon, also known as 12:00 PM.
It doesn't make the AM/PM switch until 1:00. For the first couple of days that I had it, seeing this led me to believe that I'd made some mistake in following the rather arcane method for setting the clock and caused me to go through the various rituals involved in setting the clock several times, only to discover that I had set it for the wrong time in relation to the Meridian.
It beeps on far too many occasions (and not in in an entertaining D.R.I.-like cadence), and its lack of a numeric keypad makes it kind of a pain to set it to run for odd durations, and makes setting the clock needlessly complex.
Which leads to the other problem, which is that its designers clearly didn't have a full understanding of how the whole AM/PM thing works. At one second after 11:59:59 AM, it will change to 12:00...AM, as can be seen, blurrily, in this picture of a surprisingly bright and sunny midnight. Oh wait, it's not midnight, it's noon, also known as 12:00 PM.
It doesn't make the AM/PM switch until 1:00. For the first couple of days that I had it, seeing this led me to believe that I'd made some mistake in following the rather arcane method for setting the clock and caused me to go through the various rituals involved in setting the clock several times, only to discover that I had set it for the wrong time in relation to the Meridian.
Beep Beep Beep Beep!
I was pre-heating my oven to heat up some Bagel Bites for lunch, and when the oven hit the target temperature, it emitted a string of beeps.
The cadence of the beeps inspired me to compose an "all beep" version of the song Argument Then War by D.R.I.
It went something like,
Beep beep beep beep beep
Beep beep beep beep (reverb on the final beep)
Beep beep beep beep beep
Beep beep beep beep (reverb on the final beep)
...and so forth.
Hey, if I couldn't keep myself entertained so easily, who knows what kind of trouble I might get into?
The cadence of the beeps inspired me to compose an "all beep" version of the song Argument Then War by D.R.I.
It went something like,
Beep beep beep beep beep
Beep beep beep beep (reverb on the final beep)
Beep beep beep beep beep
Beep beep beep beep (reverb on the final beep)
...and so forth.
Hey, if I couldn't keep myself entertained so easily, who knows what kind of trouble I might get into?
A Much Sweeter Marriage Prank
A while back, as part of an escalating prank war, there was a guy who rented advertising space on the Jumbotron at a baseball game that his friend and prank opponent was attending with his girlfriend, to make it appear that his friend was proposing. When the victim of the prank - the girlfriend, I suppose, could be thought of as "collateral damage" - confessed that he wasn't behind the proposal and had no intention of marrying her, things didn't go over too well with the girlfriend, which was rather the point of the prank (though I suppose the prankster would have also been amused if the victim of the prank had decided to just suck it up and marry her anyway).
This story isn't at all like that. It's altogether sweeter and more aww-inspiring, and is utterly lacking the cruel disregard for the feelings of innoncent bystanders that was at the heart of the above-mentioned prank. It also shows what a cool guy Neil Gaiman is.
This story isn't at all like that. It's altogether sweeter and more aww-inspiring, and is utterly lacking the cruel disregard for the feelings of innoncent bystanders that was at the heart of the above-mentioned prank. It also shows what a cool guy Neil Gaiman is.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Make Up Your Minds
So the company that told one recruiting company that my skills "aren't a match" has asked a different recruiting company to have me come in for an interview on Wednesday.
It's a NOC job, lousy shift, contract work, no benefits, but decent pay.
I'm going to the interview, because I might as well, but I'm hoping that I get an offer for the job I really want before that.
It's a NOC job, lousy shift, contract work, no benefits, but decent pay.
I'm going to the interview, because I might as well, but I'm hoping that I get an offer for the job I really want before that.
Gross Memories And Stopped Hearts
Yesterday I received an e-mail from my mother in which she expressed her belief that I should leave my memories of Red Wing in the past. Her specific complaint was that they are “gross.”
Fair enough. That particular period in my life was something of a low point. I had moved to Red Wing hoping to change the course of my life, and while technically I did succeed in that regard, the new course led me to crash into a brick wall.
So yes, those memories are gross, and humiliating, and some of them are actually pretty scary (particularly my attempt to grow a Ra’s al Ghul beard), but at the same time they are an undeniable part of my history and played a major role in shaping me into the person that I am today. And, from my current perspective, they’re also kind of funny in a way that they were decidedly not at the time, and they should be good for something.
Still, I suppose it is time to move on, so I will present, in visual form, a final, not at all gross memory of Red Wing: the night that Tall Chick, fresh from a wedding reception or some other formal affair, walked into the bar and made my heart stop.
Bear in mind that the only reference I had for her face were my beer-sodden memories of her, which for some reason led her to look a lot more like Mariska Hargitay than is accurate, but even so, it’s a fairly good likeness, all things considered.
To forestall anyone suggesting that I should “look her up,” I present to you a hypothetical (yet likely) version of her side of the conversation that would result from me looking her up and getting in touch with her:
“So…you say that you admired me from afar whenever you saw me out with my friends, and that we sometimes made eye contact, but you were too afraid to approach me because I filled you with a sense of ‘religious terror.’ Now, over seven years later, even though I have no idea who you are, you’ve decided to contact me. That’s…interesting.” (In a whispered aside to her boyfriend/husband) “Call the police.”
Anyway, on that note, we’ll bid adieu to my Red Wing memories, and I’ll get back to writing about more contemporary events in my life, like how I moved my bed against a different wall so that I won’t be sleeping with my head under the window, which, with the coming wintry weather, has been wreaking havoc on my sinuses, or how I bought new socks and threw away all of my old socks, even the ones that were still in good shape, simply because I was tired of having to sift through them all to find a matching pair, what with all of the disparate sizes and shapes I’d accumulated, and replacing them all with new, uniformly shaped and sized pairs eliminates that problem.
Should be a blast.
Fair enough. That particular period in my life was something of a low point. I had moved to Red Wing hoping to change the course of my life, and while technically I did succeed in that regard, the new course led me to crash into a brick wall.
So yes, those memories are gross, and humiliating, and some of them are actually pretty scary (particularly my attempt to grow a Ra’s al Ghul beard), but at the same time they are an undeniable part of my history and played a major role in shaping me into the person that I am today. And, from my current perspective, they’re also kind of funny in a way that they were decidedly not at the time, and they should be good for something.
Still, I suppose it is time to move on, so I will present, in visual form, a final, not at all gross memory of Red Wing: the night that Tall Chick, fresh from a wedding reception or some other formal affair, walked into the bar and made my heart stop.
Bear in mind that the only reference I had for her face were my beer-sodden memories of her, which for some reason led her to look a lot more like Mariska Hargitay than is accurate, but even so, it’s a fairly good likeness, all things considered.
To forestall anyone suggesting that I should “look her up,” I present to you a hypothetical (yet likely) version of her side of the conversation that would result from me looking her up and getting in touch with her:
“So…you say that you admired me from afar whenever you saw me out with my friends, and that we sometimes made eye contact, but you were too afraid to approach me because I filled you with a sense of ‘religious terror.’ Now, over seven years later, even though I have no idea who you are, you’ve decided to contact me. That’s…interesting.” (In a whispered aside to her boyfriend/husband) “Call the police.”
Anyway, on that note, we’ll bid adieu to my Red Wing memories, and I’ll get back to writing about more contemporary events in my life, like how I moved my bed against a different wall so that I won’t be sleeping with my head under the window, which, with the coming wintry weather, has been wreaking havoc on my sinuses, or how I bought new socks and threw away all of my old socks, even the ones that were still in good shape, simply because I was tired of having to sift through them all to find a matching pair, what with all of the disparate sizes and shapes I’d accumulated, and replacing them all with new, uniformly shaped and sized pairs eliminates that problem.
Should be a blast.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Keyword Kraziness: Mind Kontrol Edition
It’s time once again to examine some of those Wacky World Wide Web searches that lead unsuspecting Web surfers to dash themselves against the pointy and pointless rocks of Threshold Beach.
Let’s see what we’ve got.
Watchmen Babies
This is rapidly becoming the new Bikini Cavegirl. Just to be clear for anyone who doesn’t know, it was just a quick (and hilarious) throw-away gag on the episode of The Simpsons featuring Alan Moore. Milhouse asked Alan, “Mr. Moore, will you sign my DVD of Watchmen Babies?” At which point we see a DVD featuring the primary characters from Watchmen, as babies, waterskiing in an adventure titled V For Vacation. This, of course, sets Alan off on a rant about having the marrow sucked from his bones by evil corporations. There is no such product, and given that the video was taken down from YouTube, there’s not much I can do to help you even find the image.
Variations on “demotivational poster jailbait”
This is just barely behind Watchmen Babies for the number of hits it’s generated. I would assume you’re looking for this (fairly NSFW). Perverts. (It is a funny poster, though. There’s also this one. And this one. And several others. Note: The links might not actually take you directly to the pictures that I had intended them to, but the jailbait ones are easy to find at the site.)
flight attendant mind control chip
If I’d ever been on a flight that had a flight attendant who looked anywhere near as hot as flight attendants do in movies, I might well be tempted to invest in such a product, should it exist. Nothing related to such a thing can be found here, though. But my question is, is the mind control chip really profession-specific? Could you, for example, get it to work on someone who works for a technical recruiting company?
automatic doorsanimation
Uh, okay.
kirsten kemp cleavage
Personally, I’m a fan of it, but sadly, I have no images of it available.
ginger alexander beautiful
I wouldn’t go so far as to say beautiful.
xenosexuality
Found yourself a hot alien and are now busy trying to figure out how to get it on, huh?
direcpath speeds
Interestingly enough, the spell checker in Word suggests “Dire Path” as a replacement for DirecPath. As for their speeds, well, “slow as hell” is a speed.
And that’s it for another round of Keyword Kraziness. Keep those zany searches coming.
Let’s see what we’ve got.
Watchmen Babies
This is rapidly becoming the new Bikini Cavegirl. Just to be clear for anyone who doesn’t know, it was just a quick (and hilarious) throw-away gag on the episode of The Simpsons featuring Alan Moore. Milhouse asked Alan, “Mr. Moore, will you sign my DVD of Watchmen Babies?” At which point we see a DVD featuring the primary characters from Watchmen, as babies, waterskiing in an adventure titled V For Vacation. This, of course, sets Alan off on a rant about having the marrow sucked from his bones by evil corporations. There is no such product, and given that the video was taken down from YouTube, there’s not much I can do to help you even find the image.
Variations on “demotivational poster jailbait”
This is just barely behind Watchmen Babies for the number of hits it’s generated. I would assume you’re looking for this (fairly NSFW). Perverts. (It is a funny poster, though. There’s also this one. And this one. And several others. Note: The links might not actually take you directly to the pictures that I had intended them to, but the jailbait ones are easy to find at the site.)
flight attendant mind control chip
If I’d ever been on a flight that had a flight attendant who looked anywhere near as hot as flight attendants do in movies, I might well be tempted to invest in such a product, should it exist. Nothing related to such a thing can be found here, though. But my question is, is the mind control chip really profession-specific? Could you, for example, get it to work on someone who works for a technical recruiting company?
automatic doorsanimation
Uh, okay.
kirsten kemp cleavage
Personally, I’m a fan of it, but sadly, I have no images of it available.
ginger alexander beautiful
I wouldn’t go so far as to say beautiful.
xenosexuality
Found yourself a hot alien and are now busy trying to figure out how to get it on, huh?
direcpath speeds
Interestingly enough, the spell checker in Word suggests “Dire Path” as a replacement for DirecPath. As for their speeds, well, “slow as hell” is a speed.
And that’s it for another round of Keyword Kraziness. Keep those zany searches coming.
When Expressions Collide!
My dad had a particular expression that he often used to describe someone’s appearance which could always elicit a laugh from me, usually because, despite being somewhat ambiguous, it was always uncannily accurate.
The expression? “One more push and he’d/she’d have been an ape.”
My friend Eric also had something of a trademark expression: Sex is like pizza. Even if it isn’t very good pizza, it’s still pizza.
In looking back at my time in Red Wing, one memory seems to lead to another, and given that there’s pretty much nothing going on now that’s worth writing about, I might as well tell the tale of a time when those two seemingly unrelated expressions collided.
As can be indicated by his motto, it’s clear that if I’m “too picky,” Eric is, or at least was, given that he is now settled down and married once again, my exact opposite in that regard.
This became most apparent during one of his splits from his first wife Sally, when he began the process of hooking up with a (partially) shaven Yeti whom I’m fairly certain had received that extra push my dad so often referred to, and who will, for the purposes of this entry, be known henceforth as the Ape Woman.
The Ape Woman, and Eric’s pursuit thereof, was a source of contention between us, as, for one thing, the fact that he spent time around her meant that I had to spend time around her, which was frankly unacceptable, as, apart from her sheer physical repulsiveness she was an unpleasant and obnoxious person. For another, the thought of him rutting with that knuckle-dragging she-ape was just too horrible to consider.
Still, Eric believed these to be desperate times and was determined to resort to desperate measures.
He and I had just moved out of the place where he and Sally had been living and in with our new roommate Tim. I believe it was on our first night in the new place that he had begun the process of “wooing” the Ape Woman. The three of us had left the bar together, and, on the way to dropping her off, we’d stopped by our place for Eric to grab some beer from our refrigerator. By that time I’d engaged in something that was going to become a trademark behavior for me: passing out in the backseat of the car.
In the morning, utterly confused as to where I was, I woke to discover that Eric had, after failing to rouse me, left a house key on my chest, and so I made my way into the house and onto the couch.
After we were all awake, he assured me that he hadn’t made the beast with two hairy backs with the Ape Woman.
However, a few days later we were at home when we received visitors. The Ape Woman, using her heightened animal senses, had managed to track Eric back to where we lived, even though she’d only been by briefly on that booze-filled night.
This was disturbing enough, but what made it even more disturbing was the fact that she’d brought a friend.
Congratulations! You just won the game of Monster Date!
In fairness, the friend was actually much less repulsive in many ways than the Ape Woman herself, but hey, I saw what Jabba did to Han Solo just for owing him money; I wasn’t about to bring down on myself the kind of trouble that would come from messing with his wife.
See? I’m not too picky, I was just covering my ass.
Despite being a simian herself, Ape Woman wasn’t prepared for the monkey wrench that got thrown into her plan to keep me busy with her friend while she flung Eric over her shoulder and swung him back to her jungle lair.
Said monkey wrench was Tim, towards whom I tried to deflect Mrs. The Hut by doing my best to be thoroughly uninteresting and unattractive, two natural talents that I have developed to the highest degree possible.
Not realizing that Tim would be there, Ape Woman hadn’t brought enough wingmen.
Of course, I hadn’t anticipated that Mrs. The Hut would feel that there was enough of her to go around and was perfectly willing to divide her focus between myself and Tim. Thankfully our friend Nate made a timely appearance and Tim and turned all of our attention to him, likely to an extent that made Mrs. The Hut think, “Oh, they play for that team.”
I’m perfectly willing to let someone think I’m gay if it means avoiding being smothered under sweaty, undulating rolls of flab of a woman who won’t take no for an answer.
Soon, Ape Woman and her wingman left, and though he was undaunted by the scorn and derision we heaped on him for pursuing the beast, Eric began setting his sights on skanks of the non-Circus sideshow variety.
One Friday night when were spending a quite evening drinking at home with friends, though, Eric decided that he desperately needed pizza – greasy, doughy, hair-covered pizza with anchovies and probably crabs – and got up and declared that he was off in search of Ape Woman.
I followed him out the door and insisted that he sit his ass back down and stay as far away from that monster as possible. When I said, “If you take another step towards your car, I will fucking tackle you,” he gave in and returned to the Ape Woman-free house.
The next night, though, while we were at the bar we encountered the Ape Woman, fresh from avoiding capture by a team of Crypto-Zoologists in search of the missing link, and I soon found myself unwilling transported across the Mississippi to a bar in Wisconsin called The Woodshed.
Calling The Woodshed a “meat market” would be woefully inadequate. It was more like a garbage can in the back of a butcher’s shop. It was a market for rancid meat.
I once got dragged their on a Sunday night and dubbed it the anti-Disneyland, the “unhappiest place on Earth,” filled as it was with desperate people making one last-ditch effort to not have to face another Monday morning free of STDs.
So yeah, I didn’t much care for the place.
I believe it was that Saturday night at The Woodshed with Eric and the Ape Woman that, buoyed by disgust, desperation, drunkenness, and a desire to distance myself from the ugly mess that I made my doomed attempt at making a move on Tall Chick.
After being denied my chance by 7 foot tall cock blocker teleported in by the Universe, I retired to Eric’s car and, once again, passed out.
The next evening Eric confessed that while I was out he had, in fact, mated with the beast and that the experience was far more traumatic than anyone could have suspected, though I hardly found his confession surprising, given the fact that all day long he reeked of shame, regret, and, of course, rotten bananas.
The expression? “One more push and he’d/she’d have been an ape.”
My friend Eric also had something of a trademark expression: Sex is like pizza. Even if it isn’t very good pizza, it’s still pizza.
In looking back at my time in Red Wing, one memory seems to lead to another, and given that there’s pretty much nothing going on now that’s worth writing about, I might as well tell the tale of a time when those two seemingly unrelated expressions collided.
As can be indicated by his motto, it’s clear that if I’m “too picky,” Eric is, or at least was, given that he is now settled down and married once again, my exact opposite in that regard.
This became most apparent during one of his splits from his first wife Sally, when he began the process of hooking up with a (partially) shaven Yeti whom I’m fairly certain had received that extra push my dad so often referred to, and who will, for the purposes of this entry, be known henceforth as the Ape Woman.
The Ape Woman, and Eric’s pursuit thereof, was a source of contention between us, as, for one thing, the fact that he spent time around her meant that I had to spend time around her, which was frankly unacceptable, as, apart from her sheer physical repulsiveness she was an unpleasant and obnoxious person. For another, the thought of him rutting with that knuckle-dragging she-ape was just too horrible to consider.
Still, Eric believed these to be desperate times and was determined to resort to desperate measures.
He and I had just moved out of the place where he and Sally had been living and in with our new roommate Tim. I believe it was on our first night in the new place that he had begun the process of “wooing” the Ape Woman. The three of us had left the bar together, and, on the way to dropping her off, we’d stopped by our place for Eric to grab some beer from our refrigerator. By that time I’d engaged in something that was going to become a trademark behavior for me: passing out in the backseat of the car.
In the morning, utterly confused as to where I was, I woke to discover that Eric had, after failing to rouse me, left a house key on my chest, and so I made my way into the house and onto the couch.
After we were all awake, he assured me that he hadn’t made the beast with two hairy backs with the Ape Woman.
However, a few days later we were at home when we received visitors. The Ape Woman, using her heightened animal senses, had managed to track Eric back to where we lived, even though she’d only been by briefly on that booze-filled night.
This was disturbing enough, but what made it even more disturbing was the fact that she’d brought a friend.
Congratulations! You just won the game of Monster Date!
In fairness, the friend was actually much less repulsive in many ways than the Ape Woman herself, but hey, I saw what Jabba did to Han Solo just for owing him money; I wasn’t about to bring down on myself the kind of trouble that would come from messing with his wife.
See? I’m not too picky, I was just covering my ass.
Despite being a simian herself, Ape Woman wasn’t prepared for the monkey wrench that got thrown into her plan to keep me busy with her friend while she flung Eric over her shoulder and swung him back to her jungle lair.
Said monkey wrench was Tim, towards whom I tried to deflect Mrs. The Hut by doing my best to be thoroughly uninteresting and unattractive, two natural talents that I have developed to the highest degree possible.
Not realizing that Tim would be there, Ape Woman hadn’t brought enough wingmen.
Of course, I hadn’t anticipated that Mrs. The Hut would feel that there was enough of her to go around and was perfectly willing to divide her focus between myself and Tim. Thankfully our friend Nate made a timely appearance and Tim and turned all of our attention to him, likely to an extent that made Mrs. The Hut think, “Oh, they play for that team.”
I’m perfectly willing to let someone think I’m gay if it means avoiding being smothered under sweaty, undulating rolls of flab of a woman who won’t take no for an answer.
Soon, Ape Woman and her wingman left, and though he was undaunted by the scorn and derision we heaped on him for pursuing the beast, Eric began setting his sights on skanks of the non-Circus sideshow variety.
One Friday night when were spending a quite evening drinking at home with friends, though, Eric decided that he desperately needed pizza – greasy, doughy, hair-covered pizza with anchovies and probably crabs – and got up and declared that he was off in search of Ape Woman.
I followed him out the door and insisted that he sit his ass back down and stay as far away from that monster as possible. When I said, “If you take another step towards your car, I will fucking tackle you,” he gave in and returned to the Ape Woman-free house.
The next night, though, while we were at the bar we encountered the Ape Woman, fresh from avoiding capture by a team of Crypto-Zoologists in search of the missing link, and I soon found myself unwilling transported across the Mississippi to a bar in Wisconsin called The Woodshed.
Calling The Woodshed a “meat market” would be woefully inadequate. It was more like a garbage can in the back of a butcher’s shop. It was a market for rancid meat.
I once got dragged their on a Sunday night and dubbed it the anti-Disneyland, the “unhappiest place on Earth,” filled as it was with desperate people making one last-ditch effort to not have to face another Monday morning free of STDs.
So yeah, I didn’t much care for the place.
I believe it was that Saturday night at The Woodshed with Eric and the Ape Woman that, buoyed by disgust, desperation, drunkenness, and a desire to distance myself from the ugly mess that I made my doomed attempt at making a move on Tall Chick.
After being denied my chance by 7 foot tall cock blocker teleported in by the Universe, I retired to Eric’s car and, once again, passed out.
The next evening Eric confessed that while I was out he had, in fact, mated with the beast and that the experience was far more traumatic than anyone could have suspected, though I hardly found his confession surprising, given the fact that all day long he reeked of shame, regret, and, of course, rotten bananas.
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