Oh good lord. This is the sort of thing that my best dreams are made out of. Go read it.
No, seriously.
GO READ IT.
Sars owns the world. And my heart.
In general, I commit only one of those errors habitually (the e.g./i.e. interchangeability) which fills my heart with grammar Nazi warmth.
Also, that one line 'there is no such thing as a "rein of terror,"' gives me a really great idea for a short story about a power-mad horse dictator and his trusty jockey sidekick. Because I just can't resist a good pun.
Anyways, learn it, live it, love it, and I will hold you in high esteem forever.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
Drinky
Next week Devon (my cohort in apathy and slacking) and myself are heading out on a grand weekend adventure to St. Louis, Missouri, courtesy of several people (including, but not limited to: Mark Cuban, my boss's husband, and a 4th circuit court supreme justice). Once in St. Louis, we shall meet up with another friend of ours, Jim (who doesn't have a handy blog I can link to anymore, grrr!) and our normal merriment will proceed. Which mostly means we will frequent every bar available and try really hard not to get arrested for public intoxication.
(Umm, we will also go to a science museum or something. And I'm totally not just saying that because my Mom now potentially reads this blog. Totally. And on an unrelated note, if my mother is reading this, she can feel free to ignore everything else that is said in this entry.)
In honor of my upcoming Weekend of Reliving My Youth Through Drinking and Sightseeing (WRMYTDS, for short) I'm going to have a quick countdown of my 5 favorite drinks of the alcoholic nature, each of which I will try to consume at least one of during WRMYTDS.
Because I have absolutely nothing to talk about today. Mmmm, Absolut-ly...
Note: This is not a list of my favorite liquors, which is another topic entirely, this is a list of drinks which I might order, either at a restaurant or a bar. Drinks that I can make myself do get additional bonus points in consideration, but as I am a lousy drink maker, you probably won't see them reflected here.
#5 - Irish Car Bomb (recipe) - This one gets on the list sheerly on entertainment value. Usually anything that contains Whiskey and/or Guiness and needs to be chugged is immediately disqualified from coming near my lips. And yet, on both occassions that I have had these, I can't help but admit that they are crazy delicious. Sort of smoky, and creamy, and will mess you up in incredibly short order. I equate them to liquid death, but somehow they are still way up there in my mind in terms of Strange Things I Love to Drink.
#4 - Mudslide (recipe) - I know it's not so much an actual drink, more like a dessert, but it has alcohol in it so I believe it technically counts, in terms of master lists of alcohol. Especially since I'm the one who gets to make up the rules. Umm, so yeah, the drink. Chocolate. Frosty. Kahlua. Banana for flavor. An adult chocolate milk shake. There is nothing bad anyone can say about a mudslide, except for the unusually high caloric value when compared to other sources of liquor.
#3 - French Martini (recipe) - The French Martini has a lot of things going for it. 1) It's classy (anything in a martini glass that is not neon colored is classy), 2) It is incredibly alcoholic (as all martinis are), 3) It has less of an edge than a traditional martini, 4) with the added bonus of pineapple and raspberry. Oh, and did I mention that they're delicious? There's that too. It is however, a little fruity to order, so it loses some points there. But come on, is there really any drink that is too fruity for me to order? I am, like, the king of all things fruity.
#2 - Long Island Iced Tea (recipe) - The traditional standby for all things alcoholic. Pretty much combines every possible liquor into a single glass (with Coke!), is readily available at every drinking establishment in the world, and if prepared properly, tastes better than 95% of all drinks out there. The only thing keeping this from the top is the numer of really bad Long Island makers out there. You're much more likely to get a bad one than a good one, which has to be considered in a drink ranking.
#1 - Southern Comfort Hurricane (recipe) - My love for Southern Comfort runs deeply and swiftly through my heart. In that aforementioned list of top liqours, it easily would hold the top spot. I like the kick it provides, I like the edge it puts on a drink, and I like that it only takes about two shots of it to make me giddy. The SoCo Hurricane is the best of all worlds, it is sweet and citrus-y with just the right amount of edge behind it. Good both frozen or on the rocks, and it comes in a fashionable hurricane glass and potentially has the tiny drink umbrella that I love. And we've already covered the potenital pitfalls of the fruity aspect earlier. Pure win, this drink.
Anything I missed there? I think that's a pretty complete list, for immediate purposes. Anyone have additional recommendations for sampling during the WRMYTDS?
(Umm, we will also go to a science museum or something. And I'm totally not just saying that because my Mom now potentially reads this blog. Totally. And on an unrelated note, if my mother is reading this, she can feel free to ignore everything else that is said in this entry.)
In honor of my upcoming Weekend of Reliving My Youth Through Drinking and Sightseeing (WRMYTDS, for short) I'm going to have a quick countdown of my 5 favorite drinks of the alcoholic nature, each of which I will try to consume at least one of during WRMYTDS.
Because I have absolutely nothing to talk about today. Mmmm, Absolut-ly...
Note: This is not a list of my favorite liquors, which is another topic entirely, this is a list of drinks which I might order, either at a restaurant or a bar. Drinks that I can make myself do get additional bonus points in consideration, but as I am a lousy drink maker, you probably won't see them reflected here.
#5 - Irish Car Bomb (recipe) - This one gets on the list sheerly on entertainment value. Usually anything that contains Whiskey and/or Guiness and needs to be chugged is immediately disqualified from coming near my lips. And yet, on both occassions that I have had these, I can't help but admit that they are crazy delicious. Sort of smoky, and creamy, and will mess you up in incredibly short order. I equate them to liquid death, but somehow they are still way up there in my mind in terms of Strange Things I Love to Drink.
#4 - Mudslide (recipe) - I know it's not so much an actual drink, more like a dessert, but it has alcohol in it so I believe it technically counts, in terms of master lists of alcohol. Especially since I'm the one who gets to make up the rules. Umm, so yeah, the drink. Chocolate. Frosty. Kahlua. Banana for flavor. An adult chocolate milk shake. There is nothing bad anyone can say about a mudslide, except for the unusually high caloric value when compared to other sources of liquor.
#3 - French Martini (recipe) - The French Martini has a lot of things going for it. 1) It's classy (anything in a martini glass that is not neon colored is classy), 2) It is incredibly alcoholic (as all martinis are), 3) It has less of an edge than a traditional martini, 4) with the added bonus of pineapple and raspberry. Oh, and did I mention that they're delicious? There's that too. It is however, a little fruity to order, so it loses some points there. But come on, is there really any drink that is too fruity for me to order? I am, like, the king of all things fruity.
#2 - Long Island Iced Tea (recipe) - The traditional standby for all things alcoholic. Pretty much combines every possible liquor into a single glass (with Coke!), is readily available at every drinking establishment in the world, and if prepared properly, tastes better than 95% of all drinks out there. The only thing keeping this from the top is the numer of really bad Long Island makers out there. You're much more likely to get a bad one than a good one, which has to be considered in a drink ranking.
#1 - Southern Comfort Hurricane (recipe) - My love for Southern Comfort runs deeply and swiftly through my heart. In that aforementioned list of top liqours, it easily would hold the top spot. I like the kick it provides, I like the edge it puts on a drink, and I like that it only takes about two shots of it to make me giddy. The SoCo Hurricane is the best of all worlds, it is sweet and citrus-y with just the right amount of edge behind it. Good both frozen or on the rocks, and it comes in a fashionable hurricane glass and potentially has the tiny drink umbrella that I love. And we've already covered the potenital pitfalls of the fruity aspect earlier. Pure win, this drink.
Anything I missed there? I think that's a pretty complete list, for immediate purposes. Anyone have additional recommendations for sampling during the WRMYTDS?
Monday, September 25, 2006
Fall TV Round Up
We're now entering the end of September which means we are officially into the full-on swing of Fall. Temperatures drop back into the realm of 'able to go outdoors without dying' in Dallas, the trees start dropping their leaves, and I become singularly entranced by the new Fall TV schedule.
I know I watch way too much TV. I also don't particularly care. Gives me something to do that is not World of Warcraft, a dangerous and shifty little video game. As a public service, I will now rundown the entire schedule of things that I will attempt to watch. It's a very ambitious list that almost immediately will get pared down, as new shows turn out to suck wind like nothing else, or old shows that I once loved begin to crash and burn like a fantastically boring car crash (The OC, are your ears burning?).
Mondays
The Class (CBS) - I was intrigued by the previews, which included a mobile Jason Ritter, who was excellent in Joan of Arcadia, and too cute for words in Happy Endings AND had the lovely Lizzy Caplan from Mean Girls. That's a strong showing, no? I have generally had my fill of sitcoms in the vein of Friends, but was willing to give it a shot based on the cast. First episode was almost wickedly painful, but there is potential. It made it to a second week on my list, so that's a positive. We'll see.
Heroes (NBC) - Super hero hour-long drama? Sign me up. I got in on that whole 'sneak-preview of the first episode' thing they had going on, and am psyched. It gets its premiere "On the Air," as they say, tonight. Will certainly watch the first few episdoes for sure. All shows that debut on Mondays get extra leeway in my book, because I'm most definitely not leaving my house Monday nights. I mean, seriously, do you know how much effort I expend just to make it into and out of work without dying?
Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip (NBC) - I was mildly interested after watching the little Fall Preview Show at the movie theatre while we waited 14 hours for our showing of The Last Kiss to start. For once marketing actually worked its expected magic. Caught the first episode and I was very impressed: 1) That Amanda Peet can actually act, at least 80% of the time, and 2) that Matthew Perry was funny and not grating. It had that same Sports Night feel that I didn't really connect with on The West Wing, so there's that too. A little too preachy at times, but a very promising start nonetheless.
Tuesday
Not a single thing I plan on watching. If forced at gunpoint, I may tune in to Gilmore Girls occassionally just to watch the Lauren Graham who is amazing, despite the hideous turns the show has taken over the last couple of seasons.
Tuesdays will also be known as my productivity night, where I plan on getting the majority of my weekly reading done. I have a backlog of books a mile long to get through. Thanks TV Gods, for ensuring that at least one night a week is pure crap. (Note: That includes you Veronica Mars. Still haven't made it all the way through a single episode.)
Wednesday
This is what is known as Battle Night in the Jason household.
I know I watch way too much TV. I also don't particularly care. Gives me something to do that is not World of Warcraft, a dangerous and shifty little video game. As a public service, I will now rundown the entire schedule of things that I will attempt to watch. It's a very ambitious list that almost immediately will get pared down, as new shows turn out to suck wind like nothing else, or old shows that I once loved begin to crash and burn like a fantastically boring car crash (The OC, are your ears burning?).
Mondays
The Class (CBS) - I was intrigued by the previews, which included a mobile Jason Ritter, who was excellent in Joan of Arcadia, and too cute for words in Happy Endings AND had the lovely Lizzy Caplan from Mean Girls. That's a strong showing, no? I have generally had my fill of sitcoms in the vein of Friends, but was willing to give it a shot based on the cast. First episode was almost wickedly painful, but there is potential. It made it to a second week on my list, so that's a positive. We'll see.
Heroes (NBC) - Super hero hour-long drama? Sign me up. I got in on that whole 'sneak-preview of the first episode' thing they had going on, and am psyched. It gets its premiere "On the Air," as they say, tonight. Will certainly watch the first few episdoes for sure. All shows that debut on Mondays get extra leeway in my book, because I'm most definitely not leaving my house Monday nights. I mean, seriously, do you know how much effort I expend just to make it into and out of work without dying?
Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip (NBC) - I was mildly interested after watching the little Fall Preview Show at the movie theatre while we waited 14 hours for our showing of The Last Kiss to start. For once marketing actually worked its expected magic. Caught the first episode and I was very impressed: 1) That Amanda Peet can actually act, at least 80% of the time, and 2) that Matthew Perry was funny and not grating. It had that same Sports Night feel that I didn't really connect with on The West Wing, so there's that too. A little too preachy at times, but a very promising start nonetheless.
Tuesday
Not a single thing I plan on watching. If forced at gunpoint, I may tune in to Gilmore Girls occassionally just to watch the Lauren Graham who is amazing, despite the hideous turns the show has taken over the last couple of seasons.
Tuesdays will also be known as my productivity night, where I plan on getting the majority of my weekly reading done. I have a backlog of books a mile long to get through. Thanks TV Gods, for ensuring that at least one night a week is pure crap. (Note: That includes you Veronica Mars. Still haven't made it all the way through a single episode.)
Wednesday
This is what is known as Battle Night in the Jason household.
- I really want to watch Jericho (CBS) at 7:00.
- Frank needs his America's Next Top Model (CW) fix at the exact same time
- That 30 Rock (NBC) show with Tina Fey is on at the same time too. Have I mentioned lately that I love Tina Fey?
Luckily, things may have evened themselves out, as Jericho's premiere was lackluster at best. End of the world drama with nuclear explosions; how on Earth can you go wrong? Considering they had to resort to the whole straw-in-the-throat tracheotomy in the first episode, I'm not high on the show's long-term chances. There were a couple of really excellent moments, though, so I think the battle might wage a little bit longer.
Because Frank can always just tape his ANTM. Although I fear for the Tina Fey's chances. Alas.
Lost (ABC) - I might give it another chance, I love me some hobbit after all, but lately it's just been bugging the crap outta me. We'll see how it goes, especially with the shortened Fall schedule (only 7 episodes before the new year), I may be able to stick with it without too much effort.
Thursday
Ugly Betty (ABC) & Survivor (CBS) - These share the same hour timeslot and each get the superficial treatment. Ugly Betty looks like it could be good, and I always enjoy Survivor despite its general suckitude lately. The first couple of episodes have been pretty strong this season too, which makes the whole thing a hard sell. I don't know enough about UB to make any determinations yet, but I'll probably give a recording to the first couple of episodes just to check it out. But in any case, my heart goes to only one show Thursdays and that is
The Office (NBC) which shares the second half of that same timeslot. So that's what I'll actually be watching, everything else be damned. The third season premiere might be the funniest half hour of television I have ever seen. At one point I laughed so hard that ginger ale came out of my nose. That is a pain unlike any other, but it was worth it. So completely cringeworthy and awesome at the same time.
Grey's Anatomy (ABC) - Yes, it is the most ridiculous of all the soap opera-y shows possible. Yes, half the time the medical events are insanely contrived to spell out the message of the episode with anvils. And yes the two main characters have become super unlikable due to their utterly assholish behavior. Still, some great TV. Sandra Oh = love.
Friday
Again, nothing at all. This is my night for socialization. Apparently there are other people in the world, who you can go out with and have wacky adventures of your own, as seen on TV. Who would have ever guessed?
Saturday
Who watches TV on Saturday nights? The only thing TV is good for on Saturdays is all the college football. (PS - Have you seen SMU? Two games scoring over 40 points in a row. Turns out what we really needed to do all these years was just scheduled wickedly bad teams. How did we miss that?)
Sunday
The Amazing Race (CBS) - Becomes the first show for me to ever beat out The Simpsons in its own timeslot. Such a great show, and the cast this year is uniformly excellent. Even the fact that the first couple of episodes have been pretty anticlimactic doesn't take away from the fact that the tasks that are really interesting and challenging. Plus, this week's episode featured runaway oxen and a beauty queen dragged across a field by a runaway horse. Rock on. Team I'm currently rooting for: Team Lesbian-Dad.
And while I won't be watching it, the wheezing Desperate Housewives (ABC) will be going full blast immediately following TAR, as Frank's strange obsession with that show continues unabated.
All told, that is potentially 7.5 hours of TV per week of scheduled watching. Which is insane for reals, but what can you do? Better than 2004 or 5, when I was booked better than 9 a week. If Jericho and The Class continue to suck, I might be down to just 6 hours. That's pretty good, for someone who is at least 75% couch potato, I think.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Window Washers and Madness
There is a very good chance I actually am going crazy. This does not bode well.
-----------------------------
Storytime!
Yesterday I was going out for lunch, because I am too lazy to actually pack my own lunch anymore. The concept of sandwich construction is officially out of my reach before 9:00 in the morning. I decide to head over to the shopping center next to my office building, as it's a pretty nice day and just the thought of trying to navigate anything using the Truck of Malfunction exhausts me.
So I'm wandering down the streets and decide on a little Quizno's, because Lord knows there are few things in the world more delicious than a Cabo Chicken Sandwich. God bless the avacado, y'know? Anyways, the place is installed into the ground floor of an office building, and there is some sort of construction going on on the exterior of the building around the windows on the upper level. Scaffolding and the like, men in hardhats, etc. But the store is still open.
I maze my way through all the scaffolding, acquire my food and start making the long trip back to my building so that I can enjoy my sandwich in the comfort that is my fancy new office. I make it just past the scaffoldings and am waiting on the corner for all the cars to pass so that I might dart through traffic and save myself some time by making a straightline attempt at my building rather than taking the long route all the way around the square.
While I'm standing there, I hear someone say "Oh crap!" From above me. I look up and there is one of those window washering guys who is sort of following along behind the scaffolding and cleaning all the windows that are finished. The guy has dropped his little wiper-y thing (I have no idea what you call those things) and he's holding a big wiper-y thing in such a way that he can't grab it easily. In his fumblings to grab the smaller one, he manages to kick it and it falls off of his little platform towards the ground. Where I am.
Meanwhile, I'm just standing there staring up at him like some yahoo, practically with my mouth hanging open, completely oblivious to the fact that it might not be the best place to watch this drama unfold. Considering I am directly under him and in the path of any potential projectiles. I process this thought a little bit too slowly, coming to that conclusion immediately after the wiper has already been kicked off and is heading towards my person.
Now normally this is the part of the Jason story where I end up with intense injuries and or possible death and embarrassment. But luck and clever window washers are on my side for once, because the guy had attached his wiper to his person by way of a cord. So instead of hitting me, it just flung a nice bit of Windex all over me. Clever, no?
To which I say rock on, considering all the possible outcomes of that scenario. I will totally take smelling like a window over hideous injury any day.
-----------------------------------
Reason this means I am going crazy: I remember this happening, as clear as day. But it completely feels like a dream that I am recounting, not an actual event. Except, it did happen. I have the Windex smelling shirt to prove it. And the receipt from Quizno's. But it sounds crazy, right?
Gah. I am no longer properly distinguishing between real life and dreams. Awesome.
-----------------------------
Storytime!
Yesterday I was going out for lunch, because I am too lazy to actually pack my own lunch anymore. The concept of sandwich construction is officially out of my reach before 9:00 in the morning. I decide to head over to the shopping center next to my office building, as it's a pretty nice day and just the thought of trying to navigate anything using the Truck of Malfunction exhausts me.
So I'm wandering down the streets and decide on a little Quizno's, because Lord knows there are few things in the world more delicious than a Cabo Chicken Sandwich. God bless the avacado, y'know? Anyways, the place is installed into the ground floor of an office building, and there is some sort of construction going on on the exterior of the building around the windows on the upper level. Scaffolding and the like, men in hardhats, etc. But the store is still open.
I maze my way through all the scaffolding, acquire my food and start making the long trip back to my building so that I can enjoy my sandwich in the comfort that is my fancy new office. I make it just past the scaffoldings and am waiting on the corner for all the cars to pass so that I might dart through traffic and save myself some time by making a straightline attempt at my building rather than taking the long route all the way around the square.
While I'm standing there, I hear someone say "Oh crap!" From above me. I look up and there is one of those window washering guys who is sort of following along behind the scaffolding and cleaning all the windows that are finished. The guy has dropped his little wiper-y thing (I have no idea what you call those things) and he's holding a big wiper-y thing in such a way that he can't grab it easily. In his fumblings to grab the smaller one, he manages to kick it and it falls off of his little platform towards the ground. Where I am.
Meanwhile, I'm just standing there staring up at him like some yahoo, practically with my mouth hanging open, completely oblivious to the fact that it might not be the best place to watch this drama unfold. Considering I am directly under him and in the path of any potential projectiles. I process this thought a little bit too slowly, coming to that conclusion immediately after the wiper has already been kicked off and is heading towards my person.
Now normally this is the part of the Jason story where I end up with intense injuries and or possible death and embarrassment. But luck and clever window washers are on my side for once, because the guy had attached his wiper to his person by way of a cord. So instead of hitting me, it just flung a nice bit of Windex all over me. Clever, no?
To which I say rock on, considering all the possible outcomes of that scenario. I will totally take smelling like a window over hideous injury any day.
-----------------------------------
Reason this means I am going crazy: I remember this happening, as clear as day. But it completely feels like a dream that I am recounting, not an actual event. Except, it did happen. I have the Windex smelling shirt to prove it. And the receipt from Quizno's. But it sounds crazy, right?
Gah. I am no longer properly distinguishing between real life and dreams. Awesome.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Little Blue Pills of Paranoia
As a result of the Allergy Attack that Destroyed Tokyo, I was put on some ridiculously expensive pills that are supposed to build up my immune system to make sure that this sort of thing doesn't happen again.
I have two pills that I'm supposed to take each day. A cute yellowish one for the mornings, and a soothing blue one for at night. Each one is roughly the size of a medium kiwi fruit, only less furry. Theoretically the yellow one is supposed to keep you functional during the day, and the blue one helps you sleep at night. (This is totally not the case, but we'll get to that.)
Originally this was supposed to be a 10 day regimen of drugs (that cost about as much as my daily food allowance), but a follow-up call from the doctor has extended it to a full thirty days. Which I'm not sure if I'm going to make it through, since one of the side effects (besides the financially crippling one. $5 dollars a day. For pills. Jesus.) is extreme paranoia.
Well, Blue Pill Paranoia. The yellow ones are great. Sure, at first they turned me into a walking zombie, where my arms didn't really seem to belong to my body and I would constantly lose my train of thought and start staring off into space. And they caused me to laugh uncontrollably at things that weren't even remotely funny. We're talking hideous outbursts of geek laughter, complete with the little snort and everything. In front of people I didn't even know. Like:
Remember when I said I don't get embarrassed anymore? I was wrong. But eventually my body got used to the dosage, and now everything is great. I love my little yellow friend.
But those blue guys. Okay, when I first started taking them, I had just finished that book I was reading (House of Leaves. Very good. Surprisingly scary, considering.). That first night I had this really creepy dream and woke up in the middle of the night completely convinced that there was something horrible in my room, and that I just couldn't see it yet. That maybe it was in the closet, or under the bed, or *gasp* invisible. So I did what any self-respecting 24 year-old would do - piled all my pillows up around me and hid under the covers shivering for half an hour until I fell back to sleep.
When the alarm went off in the morning, I chalked the entire thing up to that dumb book and my lack of sleep over the weekend and went on with my day.
Only when I went to bed that night, I woke up about 45 minutes later absolutely convinced that I had just heard my patio door open, and that there were robbers in my house, right at that very moment. And that they were totally going to steal all of my stuff. But what if they tried to come in my room, I would need some sort of weapon, but I don't have anything laying around that I could use, maybe the lamp, but it's too big, actually you know maybe I should just run over and lock the door, then I could hear whenever they were trying to get in, and I could work on the whole weapon issue later.
So I actually got up out of bed, snuck over to the door, locked it, and again huddled under my covers until I fell asleep.
The next morning I realized that this might represent a pattern. And sure enough, I am now Crazy McParanoid every night now, thanks to my loverly new sleep-time drugs. Last night I was convinced that there was something else breathing in my room. Turned out it was the fan on my computer.
Of course, rampant paranoia is not listed as one of the known side-effects on the container, so maybe I'm just losing my mind, and I'm blaming the pills so I won't have to deal with my sudden decline into insanity. Either way, I would stay away from my house late at night for a while, just so you don't step in any of the crazy.
I have two pills that I'm supposed to take each day. A cute yellowish one for the mornings, and a soothing blue one for at night. Each one is roughly the size of a medium kiwi fruit, only less furry. Theoretically the yellow one is supposed to keep you functional during the day, and the blue one helps you sleep at night. (This is totally not the case, but we'll get to that.)
Originally this was supposed to be a 10 day regimen of drugs (that cost about as much as my daily food allowance), but a follow-up call from the doctor has extended it to a full thirty days. Which I'm not sure if I'm going to make it through, since one of the side effects (besides the financially crippling one. $5 dollars a day. For pills. Jesus.) is extreme paranoia.
Well, Blue Pill Paranoia. The yellow ones are great. Sure, at first they turned me into a walking zombie, where my arms didn't really seem to belong to my body and I would constantly lose my train of thought and start staring off into space. And they caused me to laugh uncontrollably at things that weren't even remotely funny. We're talking hideous outbursts of geek laughter, complete with the little snort and everything. In front of people I didn't even know. Like:
Coworker: "Yeah, so long day, huh?"
Jason: "HAHAHAHA *snort*!".
Remember when I said I don't get embarrassed anymore? I was wrong. But eventually my body got used to the dosage, and now everything is great. I love my little yellow friend.
But those blue guys. Okay, when I first started taking them, I had just finished that book I was reading (House of Leaves. Very good. Surprisingly scary, considering.). That first night I had this really creepy dream and woke up in the middle of the night completely convinced that there was something horrible in my room, and that I just couldn't see it yet. That maybe it was in the closet, or under the bed, or *gasp* invisible. So I did what any self-respecting 24 year-old would do - piled all my pillows up around me and hid under the covers shivering for half an hour until I fell back to sleep.
When the alarm went off in the morning, I chalked the entire thing up to that dumb book and my lack of sleep over the weekend and went on with my day.
Only when I went to bed that night, I woke up about 45 minutes later absolutely convinced that I had just heard my patio door open, and that there were robbers in my house, right at that very moment. And that they were totally going to steal all of my stuff. But what if they tried to come in my room, I would need some sort of weapon, but I don't have anything laying around that I could use, maybe the lamp, but it's too big, actually you know maybe I should just run over and lock the door, then I could hear whenever they were trying to get in, and I could work on the whole weapon issue later.
So I actually got up out of bed, snuck over to the door, locked it, and again huddled under my covers until I fell asleep.
The next morning I realized that this might represent a pattern. And sure enough, I am now Crazy McParanoid every night now, thanks to my loverly new sleep-time drugs. Last night I was convinced that there was something else breathing in my room. Turned out it was the fan on my computer.
Of course, rampant paranoia is not listed as one of the known side-effects on the container, so maybe I'm just losing my mind, and I'm blaming the pills so I won't have to deal with my sudden decline into insanity. Either way, I would stay away from my house late at night for a while, just so you don't step in any of the crazy.
Friday, September 15, 2006
From the Learn Something New Every Day Pile
Apparently in my office, if you are thin you had better not make any self-deprecating jokes when donuts are present. Or really, any comment at all. That kind of shit just does not fly. Or so I have learned.
So I walk into the break room. Someone has kindly brought donuts in for the office. I do love me some donuts, but I really never eat breakfast (does not agree with me at all) so I'm not so much jonesing for one right at this moment.
WTF?
No, seriously. What the fuck is that? I am I supposed to apologize because I'm thin? It's not even like I said it would make me fat, (which, by the way, is something that I do say too often). I just said I need to lay off the sugar. A oh-woe-is-me/make-jason-fat comment I could maybe see taking offense to (but even then whatever, I have a poor body image, deal with it), but an offhand remark that maybe I should eat healthier?
Do you remotely know me, or what I eat? Should I be apologizing for some lucky metabolism? I, in fact, really do need to lay off the sweets. For dinner last night I had 4 mini Snickers bars, half a bag of sour gummi worms, and a DrPepper. Yeah, okay, it was a lame joke, but that's no reason to go all morally offended about it. How's about we make a deal? I'll stop trying to maintain polite conversation and you stop projecting your hostile food issues onto others?
Seriously, that put me in such a bad mood all morning long. This is exactly why I do not talk to people.
So I walk into the break room. Someone has kindly brought donuts in for the office. I do love me some donuts, but I really never eat breakfast (does not agree with me at all) so I'm not so much jonesing for one right at this moment.
Coworker: Hey Jason. You want a donut? They're really good.
Jason: Mmm, donuts.
Coworker: Yeah, they're horrible for me, but screw it, it's Friday.
Jason: Ha. Yeah, I don't know, I really should lay off all the sugar. It's all I eat lately. 75% of my body mass is probably like, actual cake frosting.
Coworker: (actually offended) Whatever, you're thin. Don't give me that, just have a donut.
Jason: Uhh. Yeah, okay?
Coworker: I...just don't pretend like it's some huge struggle for you. (flounces off)
WTF?
No, seriously. What the fuck is that? I am I supposed to apologize because I'm thin? It's not even like I said it would make me fat, (which, by the way, is something that I do say too often). I just said I need to lay off the sugar. A oh-woe-is-me/make-jason-fat comment I could maybe see taking offense to (but even then whatever, I have a poor body image, deal with it), but an offhand remark that maybe I should eat healthier?
Do you remotely know me, or what I eat? Should I be apologizing for some lucky metabolism? I, in fact, really do need to lay off the sweets. For dinner last night I had 4 mini Snickers bars, half a bag of sour gummi worms, and a DrPepper. Yeah, okay, it was a lame joke, but that's no reason to go all morally offended about it. How's about we make a deal? I'll stop trying to maintain polite conversation and you stop projecting your hostile food issues onto others?
Seriously, that put me in such a bad mood all morning long. This is exactly why I do not talk to people.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Wherein I Drop Some Science on Y'all
I am about to irrevocably prove the existence of God.
And I only need a few quick facts. You might want to back up a little.
(Note: This is totally serious. I even did research. On the internet. Y'all's minds? Are about to be blown away.)
I'll just let that sink in. I'm sure you have some reevaluating to do with your life.
And I only need a few quick facts. You might want to back up a little.
(Note: This is totally serious. I even did research. On the internet. Y'all's minds? Are about to be blown away.)
- FACT: Nickelback is an insanely popular band.
SUPPORT:- Their 2001 album Silver Side Up tallied total American sales of over 6 million albums sold. (source)
- Their latest album released in October of 2005 made its debut at #1 on the Billboard Top 200, and has remained on the charts for 49 consecutive weeks. Currently it is ranked #8 in sales this week. Over 3 million units have been sold since release. (source)
- Touring trade publication Pollstar recently revealed that Nickelback ranked 3rd behind only U2 and Bon Jovi in worldwide ticket sales for the first quarter of 2006. (source)
- Their 2001 album Silver Side Up tallied total American sales of over 6 million albums sold. (source)
- FACT: Nickelback sucks. Possibly more so than any band in the history of the world.
SUPPORT:- They only have one song, which they have somehow managed to pass off a #1 single at least twice. (source)
- Their lead singer looks like he's trying out for a local theatre production of Jesus Christ Superstar. (source)
- Their new popular single Far Away is the exact same song as those other two #1 singles, except it wants to pretend to be sad. (source, warning: may cause painful irritation to the ears)
- No seriously, it's the EXACT SAME GODDAMN SONG.
- FACT: The only way they could possibly be this famous and popular is due to an elaborate prank played on me by God.
SUPPORT:- I don't care how good one song purports to be, there is no way that it can be recycled 3 different times into months and months of airplay on the radio, loved by millions and millions of crazed teenage girls, adapted into really creepy fan videos and still be popular.
- No other large scale conspiracy theory is pervasive enough to account for their complete saturation. Subliminal messages only get you so far. Plus I listened really closely to that song(s) as long as I could (better than 45 seconds) and I totally didn't hear any hidden messages.
- If God does exist, you know he has to have a sense of humor. I mean, he obviously likes to cause humiliation at my expense.
- ONLY AVAILABLE CONCLUSION: Nickelback's continued success can only be explained by the existence of a God (with a sick sense of humor).(Or possibly an angry and vengeful God who is using Nickelback to punish me. Either way, God = exists.)
I'll just let that sink in. I'm sure you have some reevaluating to do with your life.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Book Meme (Because You Care)
Yay, a book meme! The world shall flock to my blog, and cleave to my words.
... Okay fine, you're allowed to skip this one.
(Gleefully picked up from 50 Books, which is a wonderful place to visit, full of talking about books all the time. I am so jealous.)
1. A book that changed your life.
Changed my life is such a dramatic sounding turn of phrase. But to be equally dramatic, Tim O'Brian's The Things They Carried probably wins the title for book that has most changed my outlook on life, not to mention how I view stories and words in general, so I think it gets first mention. Everyone in the world needs to read this book, at least twice. So good and real and honest.
2. A book you've read more than once.
Considering I reread pretty much anything I even remotely like, we could be here for a while. In terms of most read, I would say that I've read Ender's Game the most times physically (very conservatively, at least 20 full read-thrus). It's a book that I can practically inhale in a day, and can't stop reading until it's done.
3. A book you'd want on a desert island.
Gosh. Well it would have to be something substantial, and really good. And it would need to stand up to multiple readings without getting old. And it would need to be able to serve at least some purpose in the wild. I'm sort of torn just thinking about it. In the end I think I would have to go with either Cryptonomicon by Neil Stephenson, or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, because both are pretty long, both are amazingly good and have plenty of repeatability. I'd probably perfer Amazing Adventures more at first (best book ever), but Cryptonomicon has so much more variety it might last longer. Plus if you had to burn it for warmth, it's like 1000 pages long. That has to be a consideration.
4. A book that made you giddy.
The first time I read Me Talk Pretty One Day, I laughed so hard that I was actually lightheaded and almost fell down due to a lack of oxygen to the brain. I think that counts. David Sedaris = Love.
5. A book you wish had been written.
This question boggles my fragile little mind. Umm, I wish that Douglas Adams had actually finished up the novel in Salmon of Doubt because the world can most certainly do with a little more Douglas Adams in it.
6. A book that wracked you with sobs.
Just because it is most recently on my mind, The Time Traveler's Wife left me sobbing like an infant, and I didn't even like the characters involved. That takes some skill, believe you me. What can I say, I'm a sap for love stories that have fantastic science fiction elements woven directly into their structure. That book tore me to pieces.
7. A book you wish had never been written.
You're allowed to be dumb and petty in an internet meme, right? Because I hate hate hate hate The Sound and The Fury. Like, irrational, deep-seated, utter loathing that defies all reason, time, and space. I have no problem whatsoever in wishing it off the face of the Earth. I know that makes me both shallow and illiterate, Faulkner is the best writer of the 20th century, but whatever. HATE.
8. A book you are currently reading.
House of Leaves, Mark Danielewski. So weird. But good. As much as I hate the whole experiment-in-semiotics thing he has going on, the story he's working off of is very compelling. And say what you will, but the boy can write. God, the footnotes, though. Save me from the footnotes.
9. A book you've been meaning to read.
In my latest Amazon ordering frenzy (damn them and their free super saver shipping that basically requires me to spend at least $25 every time) I finally broke down and picked up the box set of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials Trilogy, which I have heard nothing but great things about. However this House of Leaves book sucks up so much time (footnotes!) I don't know when I'm ever going to actually bust them out.
10. Tag 10.
10? Are you serious? I'm not entirely sure I know 10 people who have read a book in the past two years, let alone would complete a book meme on the internet. Anyways, if you read this and have ever read a book, consider yourself tagged.
... Okay fine, you're allowed to skip this one.
(Gleefully picked up from 50 Books, which is a wonderful place to visit, full of talking about books all the time. I am so jealous.)
1. A book that changed your life.
Changed my life is such a dramatic sounding turn of phrase. But to be equally dramatic, Tim O'Brian's The Things They Carried probably wins the title for book that has most changed my outlook on life, not to mention how I view stories and words in general, so I think it gets first mention. Everyone in the world needs to read this book, at least twice. So good and real and honest.
2. A book you've read more than once.
Considering I reread pretty much anything I even remotely like, we could be here for a while. In terms of most read, I would say that I've read Ender's Game the most times physically (very conservatively, at least 20 full read-thrus). It's a book that I can practically inhale in a day, and can't stop reading until it's done.
3. A book you'd want on a desert island.
Gosh. Well it would have to be something substantial, and really good. And it would need to stand up to multiple readings without getting old. And it would need to be able to serve at least some purpose in the wild. I'm sort of torn just thinking about it. In the end I think I would have to go with either Cryptonomicon by Neil Stephenson, or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, because both are pretty long, both are amazingly good and have plenty of repeatability. I'd probably perfer Amazing Adventures more at first (best book ever), but Cryptonomicon has so much more variety it might last longer. Plus if you had to burn it for warmth, it's like 1000 pages long. That has to be a consideration.
4. A book that made you giddy.
The first time I read Me Talk Pretty One Day, I laughed so hard that I was actually lightheaded and almost fell down due to a lack of oxygen to the brain. I think that counts. David Sedaris = Love.
5. A book you wish had been written.
This question boggles my fragile little mind. Umm, I wish that Douglas Adams had actually finished up the novel in Salmon of Doubt because the world can most certainly do with a little more Douglas Adams in it.
6. A book that wracked you with sobs.
Just because it is most recently on my mind, The Time Traveler's Wife left me sobbing like an infant, and I didn't even like the characters involved. That takes some skill, believe you me. What can I say, I'm a sap for love stories that have fantastic science fiction elements woven directly into their structure. That book tore me to pieces.
7. A book you wish had never been written.
You're allowed to be dumb and petty in an internet meme, right? Because I hate hate hate hate The Sound and The Fury. Like, irrational, deep-seated, utter loathing that defies all reason, time, and space. I have no problem whatsoever in wishing it off the face of the Earth. I know that makes me both shallow and illiterate, Faulkner is the best writer of the 20th century, but whatever. HATE.
8. A book you are currently reading.
House of Leaves, Mark Danielewski. So weird. But good. As much as I hate the whole experiment-in-semiotics thing he has going on, the story he's working off of is very compelling. And say what you will, but the boy can write. God, the footnotes, though. Save me from the footnotes.
9. A book you've been meaning to read.
In my latest Amazon ordering frenzy (damn them and their free super saver shipping that basically requires me to spend at least $25 every time) I finally broke down and picked up the box set of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials Trilogy, which I have heard nothing but great things about. However this House of Leaves book sucks up so much time (footnotes!) I don't know when I'm ever going to actually bust them out.
10. Tag 10.
10? Are you serious? I'm not entirely sure I know 10 people who have read a book in the past two years, let alone would complete a book meme on the internet. Anyways, if you read this and have ever read a book, consider yourself tagged.
How I Spent my Boss's Summer Vacation
So where have I been, young man?
I have been sick on multiple, brain-numbing levels. Shorthanded: Horrible allergy attack knocked me on my ass for approximately 9 days. But no one likes a shorthanded story when the long version has inappropriate nudity and making a fool of Jason. So let's press onwards!
Two weeks ago, my boss went on annual summer vacation, leaving the running of the office up to me. Apparently the resulting stress led to the breakdown of my entire immune system so thorough that my body was like France in the face of an oncoming German army. (Shockingly Obvious Note #1: Jason performs poorly under stress!) What would normally be just a bad day or two of allergies and sneezing instead became the hostile occupation and destruction of my very being.
Most of the following, with the exception of Friday, (which stands out very prominently in my mind for some reason) is pulled together from conjecture and vague recollections of things that I sort of remember happening, but might actually have been very gripping hallucinations.
Certain facts I am aware of: early on in the process, I was left completely deaf in my right ear, due to some sort of fluid and/or swelling of my already large head. I want to say it was sometime around Saturday or Sunday, because by Monday I was sprawled out on the couch practically drooling from the level of antihistamines, allergen blockers, and assorted other cocktail-like shiny pills running through my bloodstream.
See, the normal level of drugs that I use to combat an allergy attack were woefully underpowered for this one, and despite how smart it seemed at the time, tripling the number of brands I was taking at once did very little in terms of fixing my outlook on life. (Shockingly Obvious Note #2: Jason lacks rational decision-making skills in the face of... well anything really.)
I made it through work on Tuesday and Wednesday, although I remember basically nothing that happened in that span, except for these really lucid fever-dream type recollections of pretending to be one of the X-Men with Frank (Less Obvious But Much More Shocking Note #1: This would later turn out to be all-too horribly real).
Thursday was when everything started falling apart, as not only was I deaf in one ear, I started losing hearing in the other ear and my voice began to mimic that of a 5 pack-a-day smoker with walking-pneumonia. I made it through work mostly by leaning manfully against large solid objects, sneezing on said objects, and saying "What?!" a whole lot. Included at no extra cost: the constant feeling that my head was so top-heavy that I was going to tip over like a reverse Weeble, a lack of appetite so intense that lunch consisted of 4 gummi bears and a glass of iced tea, and the continuous watering of my eyes at all times, so it appeared I had been watching the endings of Bambi, Titanic, and Old Yeller on a loop.
Came home at 6:00, collapse on the couch and am asleep by 9:00. Figured I must be getting over the hump, as there was no where to go but up from there.
(We now witness a tense shift, as I can actually remember Friday, so we move into the present tense. Marvel at my mastery over the English language.)
Friday morning comes, and along with it the true definition of rock bottom. Cannot hear anything beyond vague thumping noises, head is ready to split directly down the middle, and I spend the first 3 consecutive minutes of my day doing nothing but sneezing. Decide to call in sick to work and try a doctor. Doctor cannot schedule me an appointment for that day, but I can come in "as a walk-in" and should be able to get some face time at some point. Nurse neglects to mention that "some point" technically counts the year 2009 as "a point."
I spend, without exaggeration in the slightest, 5 hours in the grungiest doctor's waiting room I have ever seen. The bathroom reminds me of a gas station road stop, and not in a good way. There are, with slight exaggeration, 9 million tiny children running around, most of whom are wildly sick and spewing germs like a sprinkler system on a lawn (with me as a sneezing blade of grass.) By the time I make it into an actual examination room, I'm pretty sure death is a viable option.
Nurse comes in to do one of those tiny blood tests to determine if the allergies have yet reached the poisoned-blood-stream level of encroachment yet. She pricks my finger, and yet cannot get enough blood. Tries another finger, still not quite enough. Secondary nurse comes by, stabs my thumb and proceeds to try and milk it for every ounce of blood available.
To recap: By the end of this round of examinations, I am now: deaf, sneezing, and crying, with a splitting headache, three fingers throbbing and drained of blood, and am no doubt the latest incubator of child-ebola from the waiting room. Flawless.
Doctor comes in, explains that I do not have an infection, but instead am experiencing one of the most severe allergic episodes she has seen outside of a food allergy, or big cat mauling. Asks if I have been under much stress lately. After determining what she said via sign language/charades, I try to laugh, but instead go into another sneezing fit.
The best course of action is determined to be an allergy shot which cost approximately as much as my monthly food bill, but is not covered by my health care, as it is not "physically necessary." Apparently my survival is not physically necessary in the eyes of Aetna, especially when I could take an internal regimen of pills that could clear up the problem in, say, two to three weeks give or take.
Once the sneezing subsides, I fork over a credit card and beg for the shot. Nurse comes in, I roll up my sleeve. She laughs, and asks me to drop my pants and lay on my stomach. I sigh, not because I expected anything less, as God is obviously enjoying this a lot. I properly loosen my pants and attempt to assume the position. However, I misjudge the stepstool next to the examining table and end up tripping over it and crashing (stomach first) onto the table. Table has one of those disposable rolls of paper covering it, and starts spooling out upon my crash, rolling me directly off the table, pants now effectively lost, right along with any dignity that still remained.
Nurse looks over at me, on the ground, half-naked, eyes watering, sneezing, and largely deaf. Through the haze and the blocked ears, I'm able to make out her response to my spectacle: "It's just not your day, is it?"
-------------------------
And after all that, I still ended up going into work for an hour that afternoon. Because I am hardcore like that.
Aside: That shot was totally worth not eating for the rest of the month, I feel awesome now. And maybe, just maybe, someday I might get over the crippling embarrassment that was its administration.
I have been sick on multiple, brain-numbing levels. Shorthanded: Horrible allergy attack knocked me on my ass for approximately 9 days. But no one likes a shorthanded story when the long version has inappropriate nudity and making a fool of Jason. So let's press onwards!
Two weeks ago, my boss went on annual summer vacation, leaving the running of the office up to me. Apparently the resulting stress led to the breakdown of my entire immune system so thorough that my body was like France in the face of an oncoming German army. (Shockingly Obvious Note #1: Jason performs poorly under stress!) What would normally be just a bad day or two of allergies and sneezing instead became the hostile occupation and destruction of my very being.
Most of the following, with the exception of Friday, (which stands out very prominently in my mind for some reason) is pulled together from conjecture and vague recollections of things that I sort of remember happening, but might actually have been very gripping hallucinations.
Certain facts I am aware of: early on in the process, I was left completely deaf in my right ear, due to some sort of fluid and/or swelling of my already large head. I want to say it was sometime around Saturday or Sunday, because by Monday I was sprawled out on the couch practically drooling from the level of antihistamines, allergen blockers, and assorted other cocktail-like shiny pills running through my bloodstream.
See, the normal level of drugs that I use to combat an allergy attack were woefully underpowered for this one, and despite how smart it seemed at the time, tripling the number of brands I was taking at once did very little in terms of fixing my outlook on life. (Shockingly Obvious Note #2: Jason lacks rational decision-making skills in the face of... well anything really.)
I made it through work on Tuesday and Wednesday, although I remember basically nothing that happened in that span, except for these really lucid fever-dream type recollections of pretending to be one of the X-Men with Frank (Less Obvious But Much More Shocking Note #1: This would later turn out to be all-too horribly real).
Thursday was when everything started falling apart, as not only was I deaf in one ear, I started losing hearing in the other ear and my voice began to mimic that of a 5 pack-a-day smoker with walking-pneumonia. I made it through work mostly by leaning manfully against large solid objects, sneezing on said objects, and saying "What?!" a whole lot. Included at no extra cost: the constant feeling that my head was so top-heavy that I was going to tip over like a reverse Weeble, a lack of appetite so intense that lunch consisted of 4 gummi bears and a glass of iced tea, and the continuous watering of my eyes at all times, so it appeared I had been watching the endings of Bambi, Titanic, and Old Yeller on a loop.
Came home at 6:00, collapse on the couch and am asleep by 9:00. Figured I must be getting over the hump, as there was no where to go but up from there.
(We now witness a tense shift, as I can actually remember Friday, so we move into the present tense. Marvel at my mastery over the English language.)
Friday morning comes, and along with it the true definition of rock bottom. Cannot hear anything beyond vague thumping noises, head is ready to split directly down the middle, and I spend the first 3 consecutive minutes of my day doing nothing but sneezing. Decide to call in sick to work and try a doctor. Doctor cannot schedule me an appointment for that day, but I can come in "as a walk-in" and should be able to get some face time at some point. Nurse neglects to mention that "some point" technically counts the year 2009 as "a point."
I spend, without exaggeration in the slightest, 5 hours in the grungiest doctor's waiting room I have ever seen. The bathroom reminds me of a gas station road stop, and not in a good way. There are, with slight exaggeration, 9 million tiny children running around, most of whom are wildly sick and spewing germs like a sprinkler system on a lawn (with me as a sneezing blade of grass.) By the time I make it into an actual examination room, I'm pretty sure death is a viable option.
Nurse comes in to do one of those tiny blood tests to determine if the allergies have yet reached the poisoned-blood-stream level of encroachment yet. She pricks my finger, and yet cannot get enough blood. Tries another finger, still not quite enough. Secondary nurse comes by, stabs my thumb and proceeds to try and milk it for every ounce of blood available.
To recap: By the end of this round of examinations, I am now: deaf, sneezing, and crying, with a splitting headache, three fingers throbbing and drained of blood, and am no doubt the latest incubator of child-ebola from the waiting room. Flawless.
Doctor comes in, explains that I do not have an infection, but instead am experiencing one of the most severe allergic episodes she has seen outside of a food allergy, or big cat mauling. Asks if I have been under much stress lately. After determining what she said via sign language/charades, I try to laugh, but instead go into another sneezing fit.
The best course of action is determined to be an allergy shot which cost approximately as much as my monthly food bill, but is not covered by my health care, as it is not "physically necessary." Apparently my survival is not physically necessary in the eyes of Aetna, especially when I could take an internal regimen of pills that could clear up the problem in, say, two to three weeks give or take.
Once the sneezing subsides, I fork over a credit card and beg for the shot. Nurse comes in, I roll up my sleeve. She laughs, and asks me to drop my pants and lay on my stomach. I sigh, not because I expected anything less, as God is obviously enjoying this a lot. I properly loosen my pants and attempt to assume the position. However, I misjudge the stepstool next to the examining table and end up tripping over it and crashing (stomach first) onto the table. Table has one of those disposable rolls of paper covering it, and starts spooling out upon my crash, rolling me directly off the table, pants now effectively lost, right along with any dignity that still remained.
Nurse looks over at me, on the ground, half-naked, eyes watering, sneezing, and largely deaf. Through the haze and the blocked ears, I'm able to make out her response to my spectacle: "It's just not your day, is it?"
-------------------------
And after all that, I still ended up going into work for an hour that afternoon. Because I am hardcore like that.
Aside: That shot was totally worth not eating for the rest of the month, I feel awesome now. And maybe, just maybe, someday I might get over the crippling embarrassment that was its administration.
Friday, September 01, 2006
And Now It's Official
Just in case it was ever in doubt:
My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
You scored higher than 99% on nerdiness
You scored higher than 99% on geekosity
You scored higher than 99% on dork points
Outcast Genius
65 % Nerd, 52% Geek, 56% Dork
For The Record:
A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in all three, earning you the title of: Outcast Genius.
Outcast geniuses usually are bright enough to understand what society wants of them, and they just don't care! They are highly intelligent and passionate about the things they know are *truly* important in the world. Typically, this does not include sports, cars or make-up, but it can on occassion (and if it does then they know more than all of their friends combined in that subject).
Outcast geniuses can be very lonely, due to their being outcast from most normal groups and too smart for the room among many other types of dorks and geeks, but they can also be the types to eventually rule the world, ala Bill Gates, the prototypical Outcast Genius.
Congratulations!
Also, you might want to check out some of my other tests if you're interested in any of the following:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Professional Wrestling
Love & Sexuality
America/Politics
Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST
65 % Nerd, 52% Geek, 56% Dork
For The Record:
A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in all three, earning you the title of: Outcast Genius.
Outcast geniuses usually are bright enough to understand what society wants of them, and they just don't care! They are highly intelligent and passionate about the things they know are *truly* important in the world. Typically, this does not include sports, cars or make-up, but it can on occassion (and if it does then they know more than all of their friends combined in that subject).
Outcast geniuses can be very lonely, due to their being outcast from most normal groups and too smart for the room among many other types of dorks and geeks, but they can also be the types to eventually rule the world, ala Bill Gates, the prototypical Outcast Genius.
Congratulations!
Also, you might want to check out some of my other tests if you're interested in any of the following:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Professional Wrestling
Love & Sexuality
America/Politics
Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST
My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
You scored higher than 99% on nerdiness
You scored higher than 99% on geekosity
You scored higher than 99% on dork points
Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test
Y'all just back up, okay? Outcast Genius at work over here.
Y'all just back up, okay? Outcast Genius at work over here.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Snakes on My Last Damn Nerve
(Note: That title has nothing to do with this post, it's just the damnable truth.)
I have a secret to confess: When I was nothing but a wee youngling, I absolutely hated my truck. It's true. And this was back in the day before it was the Truck of Malfunction. It was a Truck of Precision in comparison. But oh how I hated it.
Primarily because I could not drive a stick shift to save my life. That's literally 'save my life' by the way - my existence was constantly in peril whenever I would get behind the wheel of that thing. Originally I would only drive it under extreme duress, preferring to instead drive our incredible clunker of a minivan instead, with its propensity for squealing fan belts, a marked lack of air conditioning, and a smell that on a good day ranked somewhere around 'expired milk'. That's how much I loathed the TOP.
On my very first real date with a girl (shut up!) wherein I actually picked her up by myself, drove her places, and then back home, the minivan refused to work on my way to pick her up. Thus with no warning or preparation time, I was required to utilize the TOP to go get her.
At this point in time, I had driven the truck perhaps 4 times, never longer than 5 miles in any direction. And following each of those adventures I had immediately vowed never to get behind the wheel ever again. Said girl's house was at least a 10 minute drive under ideal conditions.
About 15 minutes into the 10 minute drive, I realized that in my nervous state, I was keeping my foot on the gas every time I tried to shift into 4th gear, which is why the TOP was making that horrible noise. I'm not exactly sure when I realized that I was driving with the parking brake on, but I know it was considerably later in the process than either God or man intended.
I arrived at her house 30 minutes later, following three failed passes at trying to find the house on the side of a busy street while worrying endlessly about the transmission not falling out of the bottom of the truck thanks to my ministrations. By this point every single change in my driving caused anywhere between 3 and 7 horrible noises to occur at once.
Once the girl was actually secured, the fun really began. Because now am I not only nervous about driving, I have a date in the car (a girl!) who I am now responsible for when I manage to throw the car into the wrong gear and off a cliff, or what have you. And we're not even going to scratch the surface of my neuroses involving the actual date itself, wherein I am trying to impress a member of the opposite sex while being the single most awkward pubescent thing on the planet at any given moment in time. Suffice it to say that tensions were high.
Once we were back underway, it became readily apparent that I had no concept of the difference between first gear and third gear. For me, they were interchangeable. Every time I would get to a red light, it was akin to a scene from a horror movie. Only instead of a large breasted woman who keeps falling and breaking her heel, it was a car bucking and stalling every 3.5 seconds. The girl in distress would have outpaced me by miles. And the other motorists, they were not exactly understanding about my difficulties. It was like a cadre of disgruntled New York cab drivers had been hand picked to be behind me at every intersection.
By the time we had made it through the drive to the restaurant and back home, my nerves were so shot that I was twitching and shaking right out of my seat, even more pale than normal, which doesn't seem possible, and yet. Plus...well 'sweating' doesn't actually cut it. It was more a complete aura of perspiration surrounding me, accompanied by a stench of automotive failure so strong that I doubt it has ever been recreated.
Considering the tour of near death I subjected her to, I was remarkably impressed by my date's response to the entire thing - she had obviously been through much worse on dates in the past (which frankly may be the saddest part of the entire ordeal). I actually remember nothing of the date itself, except that I think that the movie Titanic was involved somewhere, which I thought was rather apropos, if nothing else.
---------------------------------------
All that to say, I'm very, very close to trading in my beautiful TOM for a brand new used car. And I can hardly bear to part with it, it is now like a physical part of my body. It seems almost ludicrous to think about the old days when I used to fervently wish for its untimely death by explosion, when it had the most amazing A/C unit and brand new everything. Now it has no air conditioning, no gas gauge, and makes loud beeping noises at random intervals for no apparent reason and I love it like it was my own son. Or more to the point, like it was my disowned bastard son who was constantly unemployed, broke, and in trouble with the law. Who I still loved anyway.
God, the similes are failing me today, and hard.
Weird.
I have a secret to confess: When I was nothing but a wee youngling, I absolutely hated my truck. It's true. And this was back in the day before it was the Truck of Malfunction. It was a Truck of Precision in comparison. But oh how I hated it.
Primarily because I could not drive a stick shift to save my life. That's literally 'save my life' by the way - my existence was constantly in peril whenever I would get behind the wheel of that thing. Originally I would only drive it under extreme duress, preferring to instead drive our incredible clunker of a minivan instead, with its propensity for squealing fan belts, a marked lack of air conditioning, and a smell that on a good day ranked somewhere around 'expired milk'. That's how much I loathed the TOP.
On my very first real date with a girl (shut up!) wherein I actually picked her up by myself, drove her places, and then back home, the minivan refused to work on my way to pick her up. Thus with no warning or preparation time, I was required to utilize the TOP to go get her.
At this point in time, I had driven the truck perhaps 4 times, never longer than 5 miles in any direction. And following each of those adventures I had immediately vowed never to get behind the wheel ever again. Said girl's house was at least a 10 minute drive under ideal conditions.
About 15 minutes into the 10 minute drive, I realized that in my nervous state, I was keeping my foot on the gas every time I tried to shift into 4th gear, which is why the TOP was making that horrible noise. I'm not exactly sure when I realized that I was driving with the parking brake on, but I know it was considerably later in the process than either God or man intended.
I arrived at her house 30 minutes later, following three failed passes at trying to find the house on the side of a busy street while worrying endlessly about the transmission not falling out of the bottom of the truck thanks to my ministrations. By this point every single change in my driving caused anywhere between 3 and 7 horrible noises to occur at once.
Once the girl was actually secured, the fun really began. Because now am I not only nervous about driving, I have a date in the car (a girl!) who I am now responsible for when I manage to throw the car into the wrong gear and off a cliff, or what have you. And we're not even going to scratch the surface of my neuroses involving the actual date itself, wherein I am trying to impress a member of the opposite sex while being the single most awkward pubescent thing on the planet at any given moment in time. Suffice it to say that tensions were high.
Once we were back underway, it became readily apparent that I had no concept of the difference between first gear and third gear. For me, they were interchangeable. Every time I would get to a red light, it was akin to a scene from a horror movie. Only instead of a large breasted woman who keeps falling and breaking her heel, it was a car bucking and stalling every 3.5 seconds. The girl in distress would have outpaced me by miles. And the other motorists, they were not exactly understanding about my difficulties. It was like a cadre of disgruntled New York cab drivers had been hand picked to be behind me at every intersection.
By the time we had made it through the drive to the restaurant and back home, my nerves were so shot that I was twitching and shaking right out of my seat, even more pale than normal, which doesn't seem possible, and yet. Plus...well 'sweating' doesn't actually cut it. It was more a complete aura of perspiration surrounding me, accompanied by a stench of automotive failure so strong that I doubt it has ever been recreated.
Considering the tour of near death I subjected her to, I was remarkably impressed by my date's response to the entire thing - she had obviously been through much worse on dates in the past (which frankly may be the saddest part of the entire ordeal). I actually remember nothing of the date itself, except that I think that the movie Titanic was involved somewhere, which I thought was rather apropos, if nothing else.
---------------------------------------
All that to say, I'm very, very close to trading in my beautiful TOM for a brand new used car. And I can hardly bear to part with it, it is now like a physical part of my body. It seems almost ludicrous to think about the old days when I used to fervently wish for its untimely death by explosion, when it had the most amazing A/C unit and brand new everything. Now it has no air conditioning, no gas gauge, and makes loud beeping noises at random intervals for no apparent reason and I love it like it was my own son. Or more to the point, like it was my disowned bastard son who was constantly unemployed, broke, and in trouble with the law. Who I still loved anyway.
God, the similes are failing me today, and hard.
Weird.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Whickety and/or Whack
Frothing rage on a blog? So cliché. But check it anyways, not like you're getting any gems of wit from me not writing. At least this way you can point and laugh at me when I go all off-color and capslock-y and start yelling about old people and assholes (Those two are unrelated, just in case you were overcome with any unfortunate imagery there. Not my fault.)
I've been in this extended bad mood for about 4 days now, and it's getting really ugly. Like, normally I am fine with pretense and smiling insincerely and making peace with imbeciles and all. This week I cannot muster up the energy. So in this story, I'm actually the asshole, but whatever, we are truth-in-reporting here.
------------------------------
So when I get into work this morning, I get on the elevator with a woman and this old guy. I hit my floor button, she hits hers. The doors start to close, and the old man reaches over to hit his floor, but hits the ground floor button for some reason. Doors slide open. We both look at the old man, who just goes to settle back against the wall. Doors start to close again, old man realizes that the button he just pushed has gone out, so he hammers it again. Doors reopen.
Okay, this man is old, he's been around for some time, he has to understand how an elevator works, correct? It's not like this is his first trip on one, I am assuming.
So I ask him, "What floor are you looking for?"
Old man gets this ugly, accusing look on his face "I'm trying to get to the third floor, if this elevator wasn't broken!" (Apparently I am now responsible for this broken elevator) He hits the button again, as an example. Doors push open again.
I muster all my available peacemaking powers, "Oh, well I've already pushed the button for three, that's where I'm going, you're good to go."
Old man keeps hitting the first floor button, doors keep opening up. "No, see, I keep hitting the button and the light is going out."
He switches over to the most condescending tone I have ever heard used on someone over the age of 4 "You see, the button lights up when it's going to go to your floor." He hits the first floor button again for emphasis. "Only, it's not working."
We have now been standing in this elevator for about 3 minutes. I grit my teeth. "Sir, that's the button for the ground floor, that button above it that is already lit is for the third. See it has a three next to it."
Old man is now offended. "Don't take that tone with me. I know what I'm doing." He hits the goddamn first floor button again.
I have lost any and all sense of decency that I once possessed. "Stop hitting that button!"
"Don't tell me what to do!" (No, seriously, this actually happened. 'Don't tell me what to do.' This man is at least 70.) He hits it three times in rapid succession.
"Oh my God. Seriously, stop hitting that button."
He fucking sneers at me, and starts holding the button down with his thumb. Have you ever actually wanted to physically punch an old man? Do you know what that feels like? It's not cool.
Finally, the woman on the elevator with us (who has been watching the two of us go at it like a cross between a fascinated scientist observing something under a microscope and a spectator at the front row of a boxing match) comes forward before the old man and myself engage in literal fisticuffs.
"Sir, he's right, if you'll stop hitting that button, we'll go to the right floor."
I'm completely ready for him to turn on her too, like some sort of old-man/jackal that's been surrounded and backed into a corner. Instead, he stops, turns, and smiles sweetly.
"Certainly, my dear," and takes his thumb off the button. (Jason's brain: "AAAAAHHHHH!!!")
He finally steps away from the panel. We arrive at the 3rd floor without further incident.
And because I'm a huge asshole, when the doors open: "Imagine that, the third floor. Who would've guessed?"
------------------------
This week, man, I am telling you. I am not normally like this.
I've been in this extended bad mood for about 4 days now, and it's getting really ugly. Like, normally I am fine with pretense and smiling insincerely and making peace with imbeciles and all. This week I cannot muster up the energy. So in this story, I'm actually the asshole, but whatever, we are truth-in-reporting here.
------------------------------
So when I get into work this morning, I get on the elevator with a woman and this old guy. I hit my floor button, she hits hers. The doors start to close, and the old man reaches over to hit his floor, but hits the ground floor button for some reason. Doors slide open. We both look at the old man, who just goes to settle back against the wall. Doors start to close again, old man realizes that the button he just pushed has gone out, so he hammers it again. Doors reopen.
Okay, this man is old, he's been around for some time, he has to understand how an elevator works, correct? It's not like this is his first trip on one, I am assuming.
So I ask him, "What floor are you looking for?"
Old man gets this ugly, accusing look on his face "I'm trying to get to the third floor, if this elevator wasn't broken!" (Apparently I am now responsible for this broken elevator) He hits the button again, as an example. Doors push open again.
I muster all my available peacemaking powers, "Oh, well I've already pushed the button for three, that's where I'm going, you're good to go."
Old man keeps hitting the first floor button, doors keep opening up. "No, see, I keep hitting the button and the light is going out."
He switches over to the most condescending tone I have ever heard used on someone over the age of 4 "You see, the button lights up when it's going to go to your floor." He hits the first floor button again for emphasis. "Only, it's not working."
We have now been standing in this elevator for about 3 minutes. I grit my teeth. "Sir, that's the button for the ground floor, that button above it that is already lit is for the third. See it has a three next to it."
Old man is now offended. "Don't take that tone with me. I know what I'm doing." He hits the goddamn first floor button again.
I have lost any and all sense of decency that I once possessed. "Stop hitting that button!"
"Don't tell me what to do!" (No, seriously, this actually happened. 'Don't tell me what to do.' This man is at least 70.) He hits it three times in rapid succession.
"Oh my God. Seriously, stop hitting that button."
He fucking sneers at me, and starts holding the button down with his thumb. Have you ever actually wanted to physically punch an old man? Do you know what that feels like? It's not cool.
Finally, the woman on the elevator with us (who has been watching the two of us go at it like a cross between a fascinated scientist observing something under a microscope and a spectator at the front row of a boxing match) comes forward before the old man and myself engage in literal fisticuffs.
"Sir, he's right, if you'll stop hitting that button, we'll go to the right floor."
I'm completely ready for him to turn on her too, like some sort of old-man/jackal that's been surrounded and backed into a corner. Instead, he stops, turns, and smiles sweetly.
"Certainly, my dear," and takes his thumb off the button. (Jason's brain: "AAAAAHHHHH!!!")
He finally steps away from the panel. We arrive at the 3rd floor without further incident.
And because I'm a huge asshole, when the doors open: "Imagine that, the third floor. Who would've guessed?"
------------------------
This week, man, I am telling you. I am not normally like this.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Embarrass-what?
Someone recently mentioned to me in passing that they were really impressed with my lack of clumsiness lately. I was sort of thrown for a second, because I couldn't think of any reason why they would draw that assumption, since I'm just as clumsy as always lately, if not crazily moreso, to the degree that I've been managing to make a public spectacle of myself pretty much on a daily basis.
A quick follow up revealed that I hadn't blogged about any hideous injuries/embarrassments recently, so they just assumed that I had gotten over my inherent qualities of ineptness. (Note: I have not.) I checked and they're right, I haven't written an entry about such ridiculousness in a long time. And then it hit me: the reason I haven't written about being horribly embarrassed lately is because I haven't been embarrassed. I mean, my behavior/mannerisms/tendency to make a fool of myself have not gone down at all, I just don't care anymore.
For instance: At McDonalds on Tuesday, I finish my lunch while reading a book and go to throw away the remains. I pick up my tray one handed, so as to be able to carry my drink at the same time so's I can fulfill my God-given right of as many free refills as I can drink. Unfortunately, the tray is completely unbalanced because half of it is covered by mostly-empty wrappers, french fries, and ketchup and the other half is covered in a 600 page book. This results in me basically flipping the entire tray of crap across the room catapult-style, including the ketchup (which splatters across every available surface in the place in crazy Rorschach designs), and the huge book which sails all the way to the feet of a small family eating a late lunch in the far corner, before slamming to the ground with a noise like a gunshot.
Everyone in the entire place turned to look at me, holding an empty tray, looking very much like I just flung my trash across the restaurant on purpose, like an errant monkey escaped from the zoo.
Normally this would cause me to go into a fit of embarrassment so intense that I would have had to curl up into a ball underneath one of those ugly Formica tables until every single person had left the building, and even then, I would have blushed every time I passed by the McDonalds for at least a week.
Instead, I didn't care at all. I sort of just shrugged and walked over to get the book. Then, when I managed to immediately drop the book again and spill my drink down the front of my shirt when I overcompensated trying to grab it mid-air during the fall, I didn't even pay attention to see if anyone noticed or cared, or was calling the police to deal with the nutbar by the napkin dispenser who was destroying the place. I went and got a napkin, dried myself off, got my goddamn free refill, put on my gigantic aviator sunglasses, and strode confidently out to bake in my non-air conditioned TOM.
As such, I didn't even think to write about it, even though it was pretty much the equivalent of an improbably lame slapstick routine from a bad movie.
I can't tell if this means I'm suddenly desensitized to all forms of embarrassment relating to my super-clumsy powers, or if I'm just too exhausted from all this work lately to properly focus on my basic Jason responses to most stimuli (read: intense overreactions and detailed examination of the tiniest disruption in my everyday life to the point of obsession and madness.)
I will go with a little from Column A, and a little from Column B.
A quick follow up revealed that I hadn't blogged about any hideous injuries/embarrassments recently, so they just assumed that I had gotten over my inherent qualities of ineptness. (Note: I have not.) I checked and they're right, I haven't written an entry about such ridiculousness in a long time. And then it hit me: the reason I haven't written about being horribly embarrassed lately is because I haven't been embarrassed. I mean, my behavior/mannerisms/tendency to make a fool of myself have not gone down at all, I just don't care anymore.
For instance: At McDonalds on Tuesday, I finish my lunch while reading a book and go to throw away the remains. I pick up my tray one handed, so as to be able to carry my drink at the same time so's I can fulfill my God-given right of as many free refills as I can drink. Unfortunately, the tray is completely unbalanced because half of it is covered by mostly-empty wrappers, french fries, and ketchup and the other half is covered in a 600 page book. This results in me basically flipping the entire tray of crap across the room catapult-style, including the ketchup (which splatters across every available surface in the place in crazy Rorschach designs), and the huge book which sails all the way to the feet of a small family eating a late lunch in the far corner, before slamming to the ground with a noise like a gunshot.
Everyone in the entire place turned to look at me, holding an empty tray, looking very much like I just flung my trash across the restaurant on purpose, like an errant monkey escaped from the zoo.
Normally this would cause me to go into a fit of embarrassment so intense that I would have had to curl up into a ball underneath one of those ugly Formica tables until every single person had left the building, and even then, I would have blushed every time I passed by the McDonalds for at least a week.
Instead, I didn't care at all. I sort of just shrugged and walked over to get the book. Then, when I managed to immediately drop the book again and spill my drink down the front of my shirt when I overcompensated trying to grab it mid-air during the fall, I didn't even pay attention to see if anyone noticed or cared, or was calling the police to deal with the nutbar by the napkin dispenser who was destroying the place. I went and got a napkin, dried myself off, got my goddamn free refill, put on my gigantic aviator sunglasses, and strode confidently out to bake in my non-air conditioned TOM.
As such, I didn't even think to write about it, even though it was pretty much the equivalent of an improbably lame slapstick routine from a bad movie.
I can't tell if this means I'm suddenly desensitized to all forms of embarrassment relating to my super-clumsy powers, or if I'm just too exhausted from all this work lately to properly focus on my basic Jason responses to most stimuli (read: intense overreactions and detailed examination of the tiniest disruption in my everyday life to the point of obsession and madness.)
I will go with a little from Column A, and a little from Column B.
Monday, August 14, 2006
A Fifth Grade Book Report, only with More Swearing
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger sent me into a fit of white-hot, completely incomprehensible rage, to the point that I wanted to find the main character of the book, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her as hard as possible, in the hopes that it would jar her brain into functioning. This report will be an exploration of exactly why I could not accept this perfectly normal jaunt into chick lit without resorting to violence.
First, just to address it and get it out of the way, I absolutely cannot stand the way the book was written. I don't know if it was just the tone the writer took, or if she is just deficient in the area of the English language, but it's poorly written. Which is painfully ironic, since the book is written from the first-person perspective of someone who aspires to write for The New Yorker more than anything. Sigh. Anyway, that's not what sent me into my fit, I just figured it needed saying.
I'm sure everyone and their brother is now well acquainted with the story, but to shorthand it: Girl fresh out of college with no experience in fashion gets a job as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of the premier American fashion magazine, said editor turns out to be ludicrously demanding to the point of insanity, girl attempts to learn an important lesson about something (note: she does not). Adding a good hook to the whole thing, the author spent a real-life year as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of Vogue, giving it at least the potential to be somewhat autobiographical. The book has since been adapted into a (far better (and far worse, in certain ways)) movie recently, which prompted this reading in the first place.
Where to start? My primary problem with this entire setup is that continually throughout the entire book, Andrea (the assistant/narrator/my nemesis) displays such continuous contempt for her job/boss/co-workers/everything, that it makes her utterly unlikeable. Utterly. I assumed that this would be addressed at some point near the end of the book as one of the lessons that she was going to learn, that part of the reason her job was so untenable was her own outlook. I was incorrect in this assumption, to a gigantic degree.
Yes, her job does suck. Badly. She is forced to do all the menial tasks of an assistant, without the slightest notice of her work (or even her name) unless she screws up. She is given completely impossible and ridiculous tasks (getting an advance copy of the latest Harry Potter, tracking down a restaurant review from a newspaper without even the basest of information) and is berated even when she manages to be mildly successful. She has to work horrible hours and misses many important dates.
But really? Whatever. It's your job, you do it. There are so many moments of sheer pettiness and ridiculousness on her part I want to stop and question her whether or not she understands what the concept of an assistant is. When she has to remind herself not to spit in the coffee that she was picking up for her boss. When she gets upset that her boss does not acknowledge her as she is dropping off a book at her apartment. When she literally sighs at requests given to her but [paraphrased] "not loud enough to be commented on." I understand that it's a cumulative sort of thing, that the larger abuses build up to make everything seem like unbearable, but for the purposes of the book, it makes her look incompetent and unprofessional beyond words.
Not only that, but she actually is a bad assistant constantly throughout the book. She gets four times the orders of coffee at Starbucks to hand out to the homeless and gets frustrated when she gets in trouble for taking so long. She spends an extra 20 minutes talking on the phone for a personal call on the way to pick up her boss's lunch, and then is enraged when her boss has already eaten lunch.
She has this sense of complete entitlement that makes absolutely no sense, that she thinks she is so much better than everything she is a part of. The running line in the book that she uses as her ironic fallback - everyone always tells her "a million girls would die for" her job. Like, haha everyone would die for her job but actually it is so horrible, amirite? Except no, really, this is an incredible opportunity that she is fucking up, because she thinks she's somehow above it. Yeah the job itself sucks, but the perks and connections she is getting are incredible and the job is exceedingly short term. At least in the movie version, they address this issue and she sort of rolls with it and grows with her new understanding. In the book, by the end she decides she was completely justified in her contempt and is proud that was able to escape from it all without being changed.
I... seriously... white hot rage. I could easily go on and on with my issues, but my blood pressure would probably suffer as a result. I just cannot wrap my mind around how anyone is expected to identify with this girl. Yes, her boss is crazy and it's mind-blowing how demanding she is. It's interesting to read to find out how far she will actually do next, and the potential for the real-life connection makes it even moreso, but my final result is to just want to punch Andrea in the face, and read more about the crazy boss.
Just a horrible, horrible book, that I absolutely could not put down.
And we're not even going to get into my problems with the movie, lest I break the blogger.
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger sent me into a fit of white-hot, completely incomprehensible rage, to the point that I wanted to find the main character of the book, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her as hard as possible, in the hopes that it would jar her brain into functioning. This report will be an exploration of exactly why I could not accept this perfectly normal jaunt into chick lit without resorting to violence.
First, just to address it and get it out of the way, I absolutely cannot stand the way the book was written. I don't know if it was just the tone the writer took, or if she is just deficient in the area of the English language, but it's poorly written. Which is painfully ironic, since the book is written from the first-person perspective of someone who aspires to write for The New Yorker more than anything. Sigh. Anyway, that's not what sent me into my fit, I just figured it needed saying.
I'm sure everyone and their brother is now well acquainted with the story, but to shorthand it: Girl fresh out of college with no experience in fashion gets a job as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of the premier American fashion magazine, said editor turns out to be ludicrously demanding to the point of insanity, girl attempts to learn an important lesson about something (note: she does not). Adding a good hook to the whole thing, the author spent a real-life year as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of Vogue, giving it at least the potential to be somewhat autobiographical. The book has since been adapted into a (far better (and far worse, in certain ways)) movie recently, which prompted this reading in the first place.
Where to start? My primary problem with this entire setup is that continually throughout the entire book, Andrea (the assistant/narrator/my nemesis) displays such continuous contempt for her job/boss/co-workers/everything, that it makes her utterly unlikeable. Utterly. I assumed that this would be addressed at some point near the end of the book as one of the lessons that she was going to learn, that part of the reason her job was so untenable was her own outlook. I was incorrect in this assumption, to a gigantic degree.
Yes, her job does suck. Badly. She is forced to do all the menial tasks of an assistant, without the slightest notice of her work (or even her name) unless she screws up. She is given completely impossible and ridiculous tasks (getting an advance copy of the latest Harry Potter, tracking down a restaurant review from a newspaper without even the basest of information) and is berated even when she manages to be mildly successful. She has to work horrible hours and misses many important dates.
But really? Whatever. It's your job, you do it. There are so many moments of sheer pettiness and ridiculousness on her part I want to stop and question her whether or not she understands what the concept of an assistant is. When she has to remind herself not to spit in the coffee that she was picking up for her boss. When she gets upset that her boss does not acknowledge her as she is dropping off a book at her apartment. When she literally sighs at requests given to her but [paraphrased] "not loud enough to be commented on." I understand that it's a cumulative sort of thing, that the larger abuses build up to make everything seem like unbearable, but for the purposes of the book, it makes her look incompetent and unprofessional beyond words.
Not only that, but she actually is a bad assistant constantly throughout the book. She gets four times the orders of coffee at Starbucks to hand out to the homeless and gets frustrated when she gets in trouble for taking so long. She spends an extra 20 minutes talking on the phone for a personal call on the way to pick up her boss's lunch, and then is enraged when her boss has already eaten lunch.
She has this sense of complete entitlement that makes absolutely no sense, that she thinks she is so much better than everything she is a part of. The running line in the book that she uses as her ironic fallback - everyone always tells her "a million girls would die for" her job. Like, haha everyone would die for her job but actually it is so horrible, amirite? Except no, really, this is an incredible opportunity that she is fucking up, because she thinks she's somehow above it. Yeah the job itself sucks, but the perks and connections she is getting are incredible and the job is exceedingly short term. At least in the movie version, they address this issue and she sort of rolls with it and grows with her new understanding. In the book, by the end she decides she was completely justified in her contempt and is proud that was able to escape from it all without being changed.
I... seriously... white hot rage. I could easily go on and on with my issues, but my blood pressure would probably suffer as a result. I just cannot wrap my mind around how anyone is expected to identify with this girl. Yes, her boss is crazy and it's mind-blowing how demanding she is. It's interesting to read to find out how far she will actually do next, and the potential for the real-life connection makes it even moreso, but my final result is to just want to punch Andrea in the face, and read more about the crazy boss.
Just a horrible, horrible book, that I absolutely could not put down.
And we're not even going to get into my problems with the movie, lest I break the blogger.
Friday, August 11, 2006
A Million Ways (To Be Lame)
Y'all, my body is in full scale revolt. I don't know how exactly it came to this, but:
- Deaf in right ear
- Left bicep is spasming uncontrollably
- Left knee buckles at random intervals for no apparent reason
- Hair - completely unmanageable.
Toss on top of that my inability to stop sneezing and I'm about as useful as a hermit crab in a Jenga contest today. (I had to reach really hard for that simile, I hope you appreciate it.)
In this state of unrest, I'm going to return to my lamest incarnation - short form review Friday.
Books:
Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things..., Mc Sweeney's, et al. An incredibly uneven set of short stories with absolutely no common theme and the longest title I have ever seen. Aimed at "young adults first," it's actually not too bad. Some incredible writers contributed stories (Neil Gaiman's Sunbird story about a roundtable of gourmands is uniformly excellent and Nick Hornby's offbeat tale about the smallest country in the world is probably the most fun), but on the whole, the longer stories that take up the bulk of the book are the least interesting of the bunch (A detailed look at a quirky kid who's parents disappear to Peru just went entirely over my head. And it was a million pages long). A little disappointing, but mostly because I had expectations entirely unrelated to what was actually advertised. I'd recommend it anyways, solely based on the Gaiman story.
Fraud: Essays, David Rakoff - Yeah, not David Sedaris. That's pretty much the sum total I got out of this book, which is entirely unfair, but whatever.
Like Sedaris all the way down to the mannerisms practically, but more cynical, with a tighter focus on his subjects. Not necessarily more or less funny/insightful, but it didn't quite hit my taste. Really, I'm not objective in the slightest, don't go by me on this one. Even after the funniest of stories (his bit about playing Freud for Macy's at Christmas was awesome), all it really made me want to do was go read Me Talk Pretty One Day.
Music:
Christina Aguilera - Back to Basics. Umm, is it weird that I'm doing this review before the CD is actually released next week? Exactly what are you implying? That I am some sort of dirty internet stealer? I am shocked and appalled at how you think of me. (Think that of Frank) That said, seriously, this album is utterly awesome. Which is good, considering it's been, what, four years since her last album? I would have been crushed had it sucked. But there are so many standout great songs on this (two disc!) album, I am universally appeased. A lot of great jazz and blues numbers, some standard Aguilera belters, and a couple ridiculously dirty songs. Things to look out for: Ain't No Other Man (a song that has not left my iPod in over a month), Candyman and Nasty Naughty Boy (the aforementioned ridiculously dirty songs), and The Right Man (traditional overwrought ballad to close the album all full of organs and what have you).
Holly Brook - Like Blood Like Honey. Like: Jewel (before all the poetry), Vanessa Carlton (before she went all Goth and Wiccan and hilarious), Fiona Apple (without all the crazy), Sarah McLachlan(without all the sucking). Such a pretty CD. Listen to: Where'd You Go is a good starting place.
Ok Go - Ok Go & Oh No. God, I love when people recommend me music that is exactly in line with my tastes. This is firmly entrenched in my niche: namely, pop music that isn't too mainstream, a little smart, and a little off the goddamn wall. Kinda like the Orson I linked a couple of weeks ago, or the Franz Ferdinand (who I cannot stand for some reason) if you want to go popular. I cannot stop listening to this stuff, and I don't care. Must hear: A Million Ways to start, then The Fix is In and Hello, My Treacherous Friends to cement the love.
Bitter:Sweet - The Mating Game. Don't you just hate it when Frank is right about something? I know I do. This CD is so slick, it kills me that he was the one who recommended it to me. To just fall off the rails and just go with nonsensical ramblings: Cool jive, smooth jazz remixed with a little techno DJing, laid back grooves, with a synthesized orchestra always at the ready. Are you confused enough? I can't explain this album at all. Go listen to The Mating Game and Dirty Laundry and see if you can do it any justice with words.
Movies:
Pirates of the Caribbean - Dead Man's Chest. I'm allowed to review this decades after I first saw it because by some weird twist of fate, I have totally seen it three times now already. Words can't really do it justice, how big my love is for this movie. To get the complaint out of the way, did they really need that many action sequences? Three squid attacks and two instances of giant things rolling through jungles seems like a bit of overkill. But on the good side: Johnny Depp wins the world. In any other case ever has there been someone that can make me crack up laughing just by running across a screen? I was very surprised about the layers of motive with all the characters, which I didn't really notice on first viewing because I am lame. Like, Elizabeth with the compass, and the ending with Orlando Bloom where he ends up with the wrong conclusion but is still sort of right, you know?
Anyways, excellent excellent movie, a perfectly acceptable Empire Strikes Back sort of middle to go with the rest of the trilogy.
John Tucker Must Die. Oh, why? Also, no. Some good moments, a whole lot of bad ones. Mean Girls recast as Mean Boys without Tina Fey (instead we get Jenny McCarthy). Only real highlight - Sophia Bush absolutely ruling the entire movie with her somewhat sluttish vegan caricature. I love her.
The Davinci Code. I can muster no real emotion for this movie. I liked it better than the book. The blasphemous girl at the end was fun. Tom Hanks' hair still scares the bejesus out of me. Ian McKellen is the best thing in the world. But heck, I liked National Treasure better than this movie, and that movie was some crap. In that case, though, at least it was highly enjoyable crap.
------------------------------
Well, my arm is still spasming and I have sneezed approximately 48 times during the course of this entry, it's time to give it up. Play nice everyone.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Cask of Amontilldryer
You'll notice (from my recent posts/phone calls/in-house conversations/incessant and all consuming obsession) that I have recently acquired a washer/dryer combo for my own personal use, through a perfectly legitimate means. The day of installation was to be Saturday.
Let us begin the rundown:
Saturday Morning
To begin, we had already placed both the washer and dryer into what was previously named our Trash Room, now dubbed the Laundry Room of Excellence (and Also Potential Untimely Death, but that comes later). I look at the systems for attaching both of them to their respective walls and decide that the washer looks far more complicated (there are things that screw into things, electrical plugs, and a very menacing looking tube) so I decide to do it first, figuring that an easy dryer will be my reward for all that hard work.
Attempt to move the washer backwards into position - Failed, washer is heavy. I'm like an ant straining away at the side of an entire sandwich. Attempt rocking washer back and forth on each corner into position - Is successful, despite 3 near misses on cutting my toes off with a flailing washer.
After quick phone consultation with father on which pipes attach to which tubes, get tubes tightly screwed onto pipes. Turn pipes on - get doused with gallons of spraying water coming from previously thought to be tight connections. Turn off pipes, utilize pliers to tighten the connections as much as humanly possible. Really wish that I had a wrench specifically for such occasions, or any type of muscle mass to make this job even remotely easy.
Turn water back on, only mild dripping occurs. Consider the operation a success, plug machine into wall, test a rinse cycle. Huzzah and rejoicing, washer is installed. Now just need to move on to easier task - dryer install (Note: This is a misconception of epic proportions). First, get a towel and dry off from previous dousing. Shake all excess water off my head like a twitchy dog. Back to business.
Dryer only has a wall plug and little exhaust tube to attach, decide to do tube first. Problem being, in order to be able to reach said tube, one must be behind the dryer. Dryer is located in small alcove beneath the water heater. In order to get into position, one must slide through an 18 inch gap between top of dryer and shelf holding the heater, and wedge themselves into a space roughly 2'X4' in total floor space. As I am tiny, this is accomplished, just with excessive amounts of contortion and cursing.
Once properly in place, spend many a long hour trying to get the tube attached to both the wall and the back of the dryer. This is not just frustrating, this is how you distill pure frustration that you could bottle and sell. By the time I am done, my fingers are covered in deep scratches and no longer even care if I ever get to dry anything, just so long as I never have to see a dryer tube again. Deep breath and rejoicing.
Go to plug the dryer into the wall and get the hell out of there. Dryer Plug has 4 prongs, Dryer Outlet has 3. Look back and forth between the two approximated 25 times, for the life of me not comprehending how this is possible. 4 prongs, 3 holes, 4, 3. Four, three? FOUR, THREE!?
Decide that the world is fully against me, make up mind to get the hell away from this room and go have some ice cream to calm my nerves and sooth my ragged fingers. Attempt to get out from behind dryer. What was difficult to do from the outside seems physically impossible from behind the dryer. Can find no purchase to pull myself out of the tiny hole, no way to leverage the lower half of my body beyond the dryer. Not enough room to push the dryer out far enough to widen hole. Consider myself doomed.
Call for roommate to come to my aid, as I know he is in his room nearby. No answer. Increasingly desperate calls for his help, as visions of my death walled up behind an inoperable dryer dance in my head. Regret ever reading Edgar Allen Poe. Vow to haunt Frank for the rest of his life if I die lodged behind a large appliance while he sleeps in the room less than 10 feet away.
Finally, by wedging hips sideways between the shelf and top of the dryer and then pivoting the rest of my body up and against the wall, escape from my tiny lint-smelling prison. Intense bruises, but will not suffer ignominious death (just yet). Look around and realize reason that I could not move the dryer out far enough was due to a very strategically placed broomstick. Suspect sabotage, but as roommate was still asleep in next room, highly unlikely. File suspicion away for extended scrutiny later. Yell at Frank for not coming to my rescue. His response in total: "Yeah, I heard you calling, but figured it was for something lame, so I went back to sleep." Will totally haunt him now, no matter what.
Call father for further consultation, need to get a new plug for dryer, which I will have to manually install in a very electrical-wiry way myself. Fear for mankind's safety in general, my own in very specific. Go to Home Depot, am promptly supplied with proper plug and out of the store within 3 minutes, at 75% discounted price. HD knows their stuff. Return home, vow never to go out in 108 degree weather ever again, even for desperately wanted items that would allow me to dry wet things in the privacy of my own home without the use of quarters.
Exchanging of the electrical cords involves all of the following: The tipping over of the dryer (directly onto my foot, being the optional part there), the removal of the back panel, the poking of the multicolored wires while hoping not to be shocked to death, the reassuring call to my father that I could not die from electrocution while the dryer was not plugged into the wall, the discovery that the new plug was not color coordinated like the old plug, requiring a second consultation call to my father (including a second reassurance: "Gosh, Jason, no, you will not be electrocuted, the thing isn't even touching the wall."), the removal of the old plug, the installation of the new plug, the realization that I have an almost pathological fear of electricity, the affixing of the back of the dryer to the machine again, and the fervent prayer that nothing will explode
when I plug it into the wall.
Nothing explodes when plugged. Dryer makes appropriate whirring noises when started.
And there was rejoicing like you have no idea.
Still planning on totally haunting the heck out of Frank, though.
Let us begin the rundown:
Saturday Morning
To begin, we had already placed both the washer and dryer into what was previously named our Trash Room, now dubbed the Laundry Room of Excellence (and Also Potential Untimely Death, but that comes later). I look at the systems for attaching both of them to their respective walls and decide that the washer looks far more complicated (there are things that screw into things, electrical plugs, and a very menacing looking tube) so I decide to do it first, figuring that an easy dryer will be my reward for all that hard work.
Attempt to move the washer backwards into position - Failed, washer is heavy. I'm like an ant straining away at the side of an entire sandwich. Attempt rocking washer back and forth on each corner into position - Is successful, despite 3 near misses on cutting my toes off with a flailing washer.
After quick phone consultation with father on which pipes attach to which tubes, get tubes tightly screwed onto pipes. Turn pipes on - get doused with gallons of spraying water coming from previously thought to be tight connections. Turn off pipes, utilize pliers to tighten the connections as much as humanly possible. Really wish that I had a wrench specifically for such occasions, or any type of muscle mass to make this job even remotely easy.
Turn water back on, only mild dripping occurs. Consider the operation a success, plug machine into wall, test a rinse cycle. Huzzah and rejoicing, washer is installed. Now just need to move on to easier task - dryer install (Note: This is a misconception of epic proportions). First, get a towel and dry off from previous dousing. Shake all excess water off my head like a twitchy dog. Back to business.
Dryer only has a wall plug and little exhaust tube to attach, decide to do tube first. Problem being, in order to be able to reach said tube, one must be behind the dryer. Dryer is located in small alcove beneath the water heater. In order to get into position, one must slide through an 18 inch gap between top of dryer and shelf holding the heater, and wedge themselves into a space roughly 2'X4' in total floor space. As I am tiny, this is accomplished, just with excessive amounts of contortion and cursing.
Once properly in place, spend many a long hour trying to get the tube attached to both the wall and the back of the dryer. This is not just frustrating, this is how you distill pure frustration that you could bottle and sell. By the time I am done, my fingers are covered in deep scratches and no longer even care if I ever get to dry anything, just so long as I never have to see a dryer tube again. Deep breath and rejoicing.
Go to plug the dryer into the wall and get the hell out of there. Dryer Plug has 4 prongs, Dryer Outlet has 3. Look back and forth between the two approximated 25 times, for the life of me not comprehending how this is possible. 4 prongs, 3 holes, 4, 3. Four, three? FOUR, THREE!?
Decide that the world is fully against me, make up mind to get the hell away from this room and go have some ice cream to calm my nerves and sooth my ragged fingers. Attempt to get out from behind dryer. What was difficult to do from the outside seems physically impossible from behind the dryer. Can find no purchase to pull myself out of the tiny hole, no way to leverage the lower half of my body beyond the dryer. Not enough room to push the dryer out far enough to widen hole. Consider myself doomed.
Call for roommate to come to my aid, as I know he is in his room nearby. No answer. Increasingly desperate calls for his help, as visions of my death walled up behind an inoperable dryer dance in my head. Regret ever reading Edgar Allen Poe. Vow to haunt Frank for the rest of his life if I die lodged behind a large appliance while he sleeps in the room less than 10 feet away.
Finally, by wedging hips sideways between the shelf and top of the dryer and then pivoting the rest of my body up and against the wall, escape from my tiny lint-smelling prison. Intense bruises, but will not suffer ignominious death (just yet). Look around and realize reason that I could not move the dryer out far enough was due to a very strategically placed broomstick. Suspect sabotage, but as roommate was still asleep in next room, highly unlikely. File suspicion away for extended scrutiny later. Yell at Frank for not coming to my rescue. His response in total: "Yeah, I heard you calling, but figured it was for something lame, so I went back to sleep." Will totally haunt him now, no matter what.
Call father for further consultation, need to get a new plug for dryer, which I will have to manually install in a very electrical-wiry way myself. Fear for mankind's safety in general, my own in very specific. Go to Home Depot, am promptly supplied with proper plug and out of the store within 3 minutes, at 75% discounted price. HD knows their stuff. Return home, vow never to go out in 108 degree weather ever again, even for desperately wanted items that would allow me to dry wet things in the privacy of my own home without the use of quarters.
Exchanging of the electrical cords involves all of the following: The tipping over of the dryer (directly onto my foot, being the optional part there), the removal of the back panel, the poking of the multicolored wires while hoping not to be shocked to death, the reassuring call to my father that I could not die from electrocution while the dryer was not plugged into the wall, the discovery that the new plug was not color coordinated like the old plug, requiring a second consultation call to my father (including a second reassurance: "Gosh, Jason, no, you will not be electrocuted, the thing isn't even touching the wall."), the removal of the old plug, the installation of the new plug, the realization that I have an almost pathological fear of electricity, the affixing of the back of the dryer to the machine again, and the fervent prayer that nothing will explode
when I plug it into the wall.
Nothing explodes when plugged. Dryer makes appropriate whirring noises when started.
And there was rejoicing like you have no idea.
Still planning on totally haunting the heck out of Frank, though.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Labor Talks and Some Fabulous Parting Gifts
As some people who know me can attest, there was a time in my life where I was quite strong. To be precise about it, that time was from the start of my sophomore year of college, up through the end of the first semester of junior year. Approximately 18 months wherein I could lift huge amounts of weight, all over the place. Even above my head, if the occasion called for it. I also had a pretty impressive set of arms, if I do say so myself. All very much a "do you have your tickets? To the gun show!" sort of thing.
Only I would never have said such a thing, because I am classy.
For better or worse, those days are behind me, as my personal fitness correspondent/wacky best friend has moved on to the greener pastures of living in the desert managing hospitals, planes, and firearms. Nowadays I'm lucky to break 140 on the scale, can wrap my hand around my entire arm pretty much at any point on said arm, and get winded trying to move a box of copier paper across my office.
Which has been just loverly for the last two weeks, wherein all I have done is move gigantic things everywhere. This is all more or less neither here nor there in terms of importance, just some residual whinging about how I used to be so youthful and vibrant and muscley, whereas now I get invitations to chess clubs daily.
No, this blog is about my newest delicious acquisition for my apartment, my very-own personal in-house washer AND dryer (which were both very heavy and had to be moved this morning by just myself and a Franklin. See, there was a segue in there just waiting for me, but I'm way too tired to tease it out.)
Can you imagine a world where you can do laundry whenever you want? And you don't have to have quarters to do it? And you can just wash, like, one thing if you really wanted to, or do a whole load of nothing but whites. Or if something goes through the dryer and is still a tiny bit damp after the cycle ends, you can just run it for a little while longer. Can you feel my excitement actually pouring out of the internet? Because seriously. So excited that I may need to be sedated.
Actually no, I don't need to be sedated anymore because after moving them in, I am quite drained beyond normal measures. My injury level is quite low, considering it all, though. While Frank and I did manage to drop the washer on my foot twice, and we totally crushed Frank's hand on the doorframe into the apartment enough that I actually heard the "Crunch!" there was no ice, bandages, or excessive cursing required.
They still have to be installed, though, which is something that I don't really want to do myself, as I can barely hook-up a DVD player, let alone a major appliance. Hopefully we can recruit some buff maintenance sort of person who can do this sort of thing in his sleep. Otherwise it will be wise of you to avoid the entire uptown area of Dallas, just in case I cause some sort of washer related explosion that wipes out all of the West Village.
You know, like one does.
Only I would never have said such a thing, because I am classy.
For better or worse, those days are behind me, as my personal fitness correspondent/wacky best friend has moved on to the greener pastures of living in the desert managing hospitals, planes, and firearms. Nowadays I'm lucky to break 140 on the scale, can wrap my hand around my entire arm pretty much at any point on said arm, and get winded trying to move a box of copier paper across my office.
Which has been just loverly for the last two weeks, wherein all I have done is move gigantic things everywhere. This is all more or less neither here nor there in terms of importance, just some residual whinging about how I used to be so youthful and vibrant and muscley, whereas now I get invitations to chess clubs daily.
No, this blog is about my newest delicious acquisition for my apartment, my very-own personal in-house washer AND dryer (which were both very heavy and had to be moved this morning by just myself and a Franklin. See, there was a segue in there just waiting for me, but I'm way too tired to tease it out.)
Can you imagine a world where you can do laundry whenever you want? And you don't have to have quarters to do it? And you can just wash, like, one thing if you really wanted to, or do a whole load of nothing but whites. Or if something goes through the dryer and is still a tiny bit damp after the cycle ends, you can just run it for a little while longer. Can you feel my excitement actually pouring out of the internet? Because seriously. So excited that I may need to be sedated.
Actually no, I don't need to be sedated anymore because after moving them in, I am quite drained beyond normal measures. My injury level is quite low, considering it all, though. While Frank and I did manage to drop the washer on my foot twice, and we totally crushed Frank's hand on the doorframe into the apartment enough that I actually heard the "Crunch!" there was no ice, bandages, or excessive cursing required.
They still have to be installed, though, which is something that I don't really want to do myself, as I can barely hook-up a DVD player, let alone a major appliance. Hopefully we can recruit some buff maintenance sort of person who can do this sort of thing in his sleep. Otherwise it will be wise of you to avoid the entire uptown area of Dallas, just in case I cause some sort of washer related explosion that wipes out all of the West Village.
You know, like one does.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Where Cuteness and Gambling Reign Supreme
Not anything of actual consequence, (is anything on here ever of consequence?) but do you want to know how I've been spending every waking second of my downtime for the past three days?
KittenWar!
Seriously, has there ever been a more perfect site? Battle of who is cutest? Kittens who think they are cans of soda? Kittens that endorse McDonalds?
I also really love that they keep a statistical analysis of the kitten wars as well, so you can track the relative cuteness of your cat over periods of time. I now want to adopt a kitten for the sole purpose of trying to out-cute the obvious ringers.
And when I'm just too overwhelmed with the cuteness, I go on the gambling equivalent of Cute Battling Cats...
DiceWars!
Because it's like Risk, only you can play a whole game in about 10 minutes, but still feel like you've conquered the world. But watch out for those pink dice, man. Frickin' Pink is a bastard. Also, you will easily get violent with your computer the first time you roll a total of 8 with 6 dice. Exactly the same as in Risk, only there is less chance of fisticuffs with your friends and more chance of throwing your monitor through a window.
Good times, man.
KittenWar!
Seriously, has there ever been a more perfect site? Battle of who is cutest? Kittens who think they are cans of soda? Kittens that endorse McDonalds?
I also really love that they keep a statistical analysis of the kitten wars as well, so you can track the relative cuteness of your cat over periods of time. I now want to adopt a kitten for the sole purpose of trying to out-cute the obvious ringers.
And when I'm just too overwhelmed with the cuteness, I go on the gambling equivalent of Cute Battling Cats...
DiceWars!
Because it's like Risk, only you can play a whole game in about 10 minutes, but still feel like you've conquered the world. But watch out for those pink dice, man. Frickin' Pink is a bastard. Also, you will easily get violent with your computer the first time you roll a total of 8 with 6 dice. Exactly the same as in Risk, only there is less chance of fisticuffs with your friends and more chance of throwing your monitor through a window.
Good times, man.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Unsent #2
Now with 100% more Unoriginality!
-------------------------------------
To: The Woman in my Office, Three Doors Down
Re: Work Attire
Hi, so seriously? That was the best outfit you could come up with to wear to work today? You got up this morning, went to your closet and thought to yourself: "Self, you know what you should wear today? A lime green spandex top, a flowing brown peasant skirt, and a belt that is covered in tiny bells! So everywhere you go people will hear the delightful sound of ringing and think that Santa Claus and his reindeer have invaded the office in the middle of summer! Oh yeah, you are so fashion-forward!"
I can only assume that's how the thought process went, because...yeah.
Only, no dear. On every single level imaginable. I would wish for blindness, except that the shirt already did that job for me. And that still doesn't help with the constant ringing.
Yours Truly in Fashion Solidarity,
Jason
--------------------------------
To: Office Moving Guys
Re: The Concept of Moving
Okay guys, I understand. Our move is not that big, three offices moving to a different space on the same floor, we're not exactly a high priority on the list of Pressing Moving Issues. But when you show up three hours late, with three guys instead of the expected 5 (one of whom was at least 60 years old and walked with a limp), don't bring all of our equipment, and forget the keys to our filing cabinets, it is considered common courtesy to, I don't know, actually FINISH MOVING EVERYTHING, before bolting out of the office at 6:00, leaving a 140-pound former-computer-science-major with a propensity for clumsiness to move two 150 lb modular walls, three copiers from the 1980's and a filing cabinet that weighs as much as the space shuttle, by himself into the new offices.
And maybe I'm just old fashioned or something, but I would think that after all that you shouldn't also have the gall to then bill us for 3 additional hours (at the after-hours delivery rates), when you were only here for 2 hours total. It only incites my rage and gives me the intense urge to work up my own invoice that puts a dollar value on the difficulties I had moving those gigantic walls by myself after 6:00 on a Friday afternoon and deliver it to you in a fitting manner (read: wrapped around a brick through a window, or similar).
My Best in Back Pain,
Jason
-----------------------------------------
To: The Heat
Re: Yeah, The Heat
Okay, we get it, you're hot. Enough already. Seriously. You understand that I still don't have working air conditioning in my TOM right? Your point = Made. I don't need to walk into my office building, take a deep breath and literally feel the interior or my lungs cooling off.
Yesterday I was moving some boxes out of the back of the TOM around 3:oo in the afternoon and I got a physical burn on my arm from the surface of the truck. Where is the fun in that? Do you feel like a big man? Burning a poor innocent pale guy who is just trying to do his (amended to include new personalized tasks for a crazy person) job? Just wait until Fall gets here and then we'll see how tough you are.
(Incidentally, I don't mean all this in a goading fashion, because seriously, if it gets any hotter I may actually die. From spontaneous human combustion. We cool, right? (Geddit? Cool? That was a joke, from me to you, Heat.))
Face Meltingly Yours,
Jason
-------------------------------------------
To: The Cute Blockbuster Guy
Re: Totally not Stalking You
Hi. Yeah. So how's it going? Good. Okay, so recently when I was in the store, I know I totally brought up the fact that you had recently got a new haircut (by saying "OMG you got a haircut!" like a crazy person, or perhaps an awestruck 13 year old), despite the fact that we barely know each other beyond our near daily interactions at the checkout counter, in my seemingly unending quest to rent every movie Blockbuster has in stock. But that does not mean that I am a crazy stalker guy! I just really liked your hair before, so it was shocking when I came in and it was all different.
Yeah, okay, so that's a little weird, but everyone has their quirks, mine just happen to be a little more extensive in number and include an appreciation of a really good highlights job. Can't one guy just comment on a near stranger's haircut without seeming completely insane? And yeah, maybe I have a little crush on you, and your new haircut with even more prominent highlights, and your tendency to compliment my taste in movies. Totally doesn't mean I'm stalking you, though. Admiring from nearby is something totally different.
Anyways, what are you doing later?
With Movie Love,
Jason
-------------------------------------
To: The Woman in my Office, Three Doors Down
Re: Work Attire
Hi, so seriously? That was the best outfit you could come up with to wear to work today? You got up this morning, went to your closet and thought to yourself: "Self, you know what you should wear today? A lime green spandex top, a flowing brown peasant skirt, and a belt that is covered in tiny bells! So everywhere you go people will hear the delightful sound of ringing and think that Santa Claus and his reindeer have invaded the office in the middle of summer! Oh yeah, you are so fashion-forward!"
I can only assume that's how the thought process went, because...yeah.
Only, no dear. On every single level imaginable. I would wish for blindness, except that the shirt already did that job for me. And that still doesn't help with the constant ringing.
Yours Truly in Fashion Solidarity,
Jason
--------------------------------
To: Office Moving Guys
Re: The Concept of Moving
Okay guys, I understand. Our move is not that big, three offices moving to a different space on the same floor, we're not exactly a high priority on the list of Pressing Moving Issues. But when you show up three hours late, with three guys instead of the expected 5 (one of whom was at least 60 years old and walked with a limp), don't bring all of our equipment, and forget the keys to our filing cabinets, it is considered common courtesy to, I don't know, actually FINISH MOVING EVERYTHING, before bolting out of the office at 6:00, leaving a 140-pound former-computer-science-major with a propensity for clumsiness to move two 150 lb modular walls, three copiers from the 1980's and a filing cabinet that weighs as much as the space shuttle, by himself into the new offices.
And maybe I'm just old fashioned or something, but I would think that after all that you shouldn't also have the gall to then bill us for 3 additional hours (at the after-hours delivery rates), when you were only here for 2 hours total. It only incites my rage and gives me the intense urge to work up my own invoice that puts a dollar value on the difficulties I had moving those gigantic walls by myself after 6:00 on a Friday afternoon and deliver it to you in a fitting manner (read: wrapped around a brick through a window, or similar).
My Best in Back Pain,
Jason
-----------------------------------------
To: The Heat
Re: Yeah, The Heat
Okay, we get it, you're hot. Enough already. Seriously. You understand that I still don't have working air conditioning in my TOM right? Your point = Made. I don't need to walk into my office building, take a deep breath and literally feel the interior or my lungs cooling off.
Yesterday I was moving some boxes out of the back of the TOM around 3:oo in the afternoon and I got a physical burn on my arm from the surface of the truck. Where is the fun in that? Do you feel like a big man? Burning a poor innocent pale guy who is just trying to do his (amended to include new personalized tasks for a crazy person) job? Just wait until Fall gets here and then we'll see how tough you are.
(Incidentally, I don't mean all this in a goading fashion, because seriously, if it gets any hotter I may actually die. From spontaneous human combustion. We cool, right? (Geddit? Cool? That was a joke, from me to you, Heat.))
Face Meltingly Yours,
Jason
-------------------------------------------
To: The Cute Blockbuster Guy
Re: Totally not Stalking You
Hi. Yeah. So how's it going? Good. Okay, so recently when I was in the store, I know I totally brought up the fact that you had recently got a new haircut (by saying "OMG you got a haircut!" like a crazy person, or perhaps an awestruck 13 year old), despite the fact that we barely know each other beyond our near daily interactions at the checkout counter, in my seemingly unending quest to rent every movie Blockbuster has in stock. But that does not mean that I am a crazy stalker guy! I just really liked your hair before, so it was shocking when I came in and it was all different.
Yeah, okay, so that's a little weird, but everyone has their quirks, mine just happen to be a little more extensive in number and include an appreciation of a really good highlights job. Can't one guy just comment on a near stranger's haircut without seeming completely insane? And yeah, maybe I have a little crush on you, and your new haircut with even more prominent highlights, and your tendency to compliment my taste in movies. Totally doesn't mean I'm stalking you, though. Admiring from nearby is something totally different.
Anyways, what are you doing later?
With Movie Love,
Jason
Monday, July 31, 2006
Ghost Story
To make up for the fact that I haven't posted in over two weeks (!) I present to you a bedtime story.
So it is late. I've finished my 11:00pm special snack (bowl of Black Cherry Jell-O and Wheat Thins), brushed my teeth, and changed into my pajamas. Before I go to bed, I decide to do a little reading, as my sleep cycle is way off lately for some reason. I settle on a book of short stories that I bought about a month ago but never got around to actually reading, due to my overwhelming workload lately.
The first two or three stories are funny and cute and a little simplistic. Y'know just like I am, so I'm completely hooked. But then the fourth story takes a really dark turn. It's still short, and pretty simplistic, but whoa it is for-serious scary. Actually, not real scary in the way that most people would be scared of it, but in a very Jason Way of Scariness, where it's all about how your imagination can take a story and run with it. Basically, it's a campfire ghost story, amped up in my mind to sudden Blair Witch-like proportions in my very sleepy state.
When I get ghost-story paranoid like this, I tend to take certain precautions (read: insanities). They are, in no particular order:
So it is late. I've finished my 11:00pm special snack (bowl of Black Cherry Jell-O and Wheat Thins), brushed my teeth, and changed into my pajamas. Before I go to bed, I decide to do a little reading, as my sleep cycle is way off lately for some reason. I settle on a book of short stories that I bought about a month ago but never got around to actually reading, due to my overwhelming workload lately.
The first two or three stories are funny and cute and a little simplistic. Y'know just like I am, so I'm completely hooked. But then the fourth story takes a really dark turn. It's still short, and pretty simplistic, but whoa it is for-serious scary. Actually, not real scary in the way that most people would be scared of it, but in a very Jason Way of Scariness, where it's all about how your imagination can take a story and run with it. Basically, it's a campfire ghost story, amped up in my mind to sudden Blair Witch-like proportions in my very sleepy state.
When I get ghost-story paranoid like this, I tend to take certain precautions (read: insanities). They are, in no particular order:
- I check the closet for any and all monsters/killers/clowns/etc, and carefully close the door behind me.
- I do the same for the bathroom (careful again to check behind the shower curtain, because monsters are clever like that).
- I lock the door to my bedroom (if something is coming in the apartment, it's getting Frank, not me).
- And I make sure that when I get in bed, I sleep right up against the wall, so there's no chance anything can sneak up behind me. (Hey, no one ever said I wasn't crazy).
Steps 1, 2, & 3 are all taken care of in due course. I'm still a little jumpy and worried about monsters, but dagnabbit, I am an adult, nearly a quarter of a century old, I can handle such things. I turn off my computer monitor, and the room is completely pitch black (damn my installation of those heavy curtains).
Again, hey, I'm cool, I'm an adult. I take the requisite four steps to my bed, stepping on various bits of clothing, books, furniture, and the like. The last step right next to my bed has me trodding on my comforter, which, whatever, right? Until all of a sudden there is this horrible WAILING NOISE coming from DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME UNDER THE BED.
I have no analogue to explain exactly how freaked out I was at this moment. Let's boil it down to the basics: Screamed like a little girl, kicked out involuntarily and seriously injured my foot on the base of my bed, fell over backwards while flailing my arms, managing to trip over the chair in front of my desk and knock a glass of water of the nightstand and all over myself before collapsing into an hysterical heap on the floor, certain that I was about to be devoured.
So it turns out that the phone in my room has a speaker phone option. Which means that if the proper button is pressed, it gives you a very loud dial tone. And that if my room is dirty enough, the phone may be buried under piles of clothes and comforter and wedged under my bed. And when you step on said phone, pressing said button, while it is properly buried under said items of clothes and comforter, it gives off a sound that is not entirely unlike a noise that a bloodthirsty monster who has a taste for nerd-flesh might make.
This is not my beautiful life. Also, my foot really hurts now.
So how have you all been?
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