little brother: hey sis, how's the weather?
sister: the weather is bad. you're obviously watching the news.
little brother: yeah, it was so cool, we saw some woman's pool fall into the neighbor's house.
sister: yeah, real cool. you sure know cool when you see cool. hey wait, aren't you supposed to be in canada right now?
little brother: yeah! we're here. it's awesome!
sister: and you're calling me from your cellphone?
little brother: yeah, i love this phone!
sister: you're calling me... from canada... from your cellphone?
little brother: yup
sister: are you by any chance, roaming?
little brother: hey... yeah.
sister: so you're making an international call... while roaming... while you're in peak hours?
::pause::
little brother: shit. i have to go.
::click::
::ring ring::
sister: hello?
little brother: dude... please don't tell mom.
::click::
something tells me mom will find out about this one...
sidenote: while typing this entry i kept putting bother instead of brother... i wonder what this means
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
my pants are sopping wet and i am angry
i will never again wish for rain in southern california. now that we have more rain than SEATTLE and houses are literally falling into the ocean i have decided to give up "wishing" for lent. i've posted cute little stories about lost shoes and wading to work but we're past the point of cute.
the post department is not only forced to work on the second floor- a place where all the windows are tinted gray and there are COCKROACHES hidden in the corners, but we have to park across the street in the evil parking lot of death. the said parking lot is about two inches wide and ten feet long and THEY make us cram about fifty-seven cars in there while THEY valet park in the spacious lot below the building. after leaving your car in the Parking Lot of Death, you still have to play frogger while you cross four steady lanes of traffic. not only do we not have health insurance but THEY can't even give us a crosswalk!
i can assure you everyone working here is bitter for a host of reasons, but the parking lot just brings us that much closer to commiting acts only deranged postal workers should have to commit. i wouldn't be so outraged if my pants weren't soaking wet and hair wasn't turning into its natural scary-white-girl afro. the street in front of our building floods on a regular basis and employees of the second floor usually plan ahead. we bring golashes, use plastic bags and learn to jump amazing distances. it's usually an exercise in creativity. USUALLY. but now it's personal. i know there are spots open in the nice underneath garage. two people just left the company and no one has been hired to take their place. i took a special trip upstairs to ask about garage spots and a very DRY executive had the gall to look at my sopping wet clothes and tell me the lot was full. my ass it's full! "you're probably asking because you have hypothermia" she said with a giggle, her DRY little dog nipping at my ankles. "maybe we can get you a spot when we move". when we move! when we move ! that's a month away and the rain is never going to stop! never ever ever ever ever! this is the apocalypse!
::sigh::
dude, be careful what you wish for.
the post department is not only forced to work on the second floor- a place where all the windows are tinted gray and there are COCKROACHES hidden in the corners, but we have to park across the street in the evil parking lot of death. the said parking lot is about two inches wide and ten feet long and THEY make us cram about fifty-seven cars in there while THEY valet park in the spacious lot below the building. after leaving your car in the Parking Lot of Death, you still have to play frogger while you cross four steady lanes of traffic. not only do we not have health insurance but THEY can't even give us a crosswalk!
i can assure you everyone working here is bitter for a host of reasons, but the parking lot just brings us that much closer to commiting acts only deranged postal workers should have to commit. i wouldn't be so outraged if my pants weren't soaking wet and hair wasn't turning into its natural scary-white-girl afro. the street in front of our building floods on a regular basis and employees of the second floor usually plan ahead. we bring golashes, use plastic bags and learn to jump amazing distances. it's usually an exercise in creativity. USUALLY. but now it's personal. i know there are spots open in the nice underneath garage. two people just left the company and no one has been hired to take their place. i took a special trip upstairs to ask about garage spots and a very DRY executive had the gall to look at my sopping wet clothes and tell me the lot was full. my ass it's full! "you're probably asking because you have hypothermia" she said with a giggle, her DRY little dog nipping at my ankles. "maybe we can get you a spot when we move". when we move! when we move ! that's a month away and the rain is never going to stop! never ever ever ever ever! this is the apocalypse!
::sigh::
dude, be careful what you wish for.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Become an Esteemed Intellect of the Italian Renaissance!
It's easy! This is all you need to do:
1) Be a man. Women who read are shrews and whores.
2) Come from an ancient aristocratic family that has fallen on hard times, so that you can understand the common people, yet treat them all with condescension.
3) Study law until you realize it's really boring, and then give in to your political and literary ambitions. During this time it is best to be a profligate youth. You should try, if possible, to fall in love with a married woman with whom you have no actual interaction whatsoever, so that you may celebrate her perfection in sonnet form, unsullied by, you know, a relationship of any kind. Best to pick someone who will die while still reasonably pretty.
4) Get forced to flee from somewhere. Being banished from Florence is popular, but Rome will do. This is best done by publishing metrical epistles to the Pope in which you state that the Pope's soul "is already in hell while his body on earth is controlled by Satan." Very effective. Also: always pick the losing faction in a struggle for control of the government. Seething bitterness and extraordinary self-righteousness are great motivations for writing.
5) While in exile, come under the influence of a Great Thinker (dead or alive). Give away your fortune and renounce your mistress(es). Burn the sonnets you wrote about that pretty dead lady.
6) You now have four options:
(A) Catch the plague and die.
(B) Become a monk and die shortly thereafter, before you have really done much; if you choose this, be sure to show sufficient early promise.
(C) Become a monk but continue to father illegtimate children.
(D) Retire to your villa and write a very long history of something. Really anything, as long as it is based on Herotodus or Livy. Then die.
Optional embellishments include nagging a city until its citizens offer you a crown of laurels for being Best Poet Since Dante, writing autobiographical pieces in which you make no mention of any of your vices (i.e. having those bastard children after joining the ranks of the Holy Church), going grey at a very, very early age, and writing poetry that later historians will say is an "epic bore".
Please understand that your name will live on mainly through being printed in bold letters in ninth-grade textbooks and you will basically be known for your one hit single, which will be acknowledged only with demeaning qualifiers. For example: "He won a Lifetime Achievement Award in the category of Works For Italian Theater Written Between 1250 and 1550 By Tall, Handsome-Though-Prematurely-Grey Men From Middle-Class Families With Pretend Lovers Who Were Once Profligate Youths In Law School And At One Time Also Had A Small Dog Named Franco."
You should also realize that position of Best Poet Ever will be taken by Shakespeare and held indefinitely, so there's really no need to try that hard. In short, this is a no-pressure kind of club and you should feel free to be as misogenystic, egotistical, and morally dubious as you please. Don't pull a muscle wrestling against vanity or the sins of the flesh; your reputation will largely be carried by Da Vinci anyway.
1) Be a man. Women who read are shrews and whores.
2) Come from an ancient aristocratic family that has fallen on hard times, so that you can understand the common people, yet treat them all with condescension.
3) Study law until you realize it's really boring, and then give in to your political and literary ambitions. During this time it is best to be a profligate youth. You should try, if possible, to fall in love with a married woman with whom you have no actual interaction whatsoever, so that you may celebrate her perfection in sonnet form, unsullied by, you know, a relationship of any kind. Best to pick someone who will die while still reasonably pretty.
4) Get forced to flee from somewhere. Being banished from Florence is popular, but Rome will do. This is best done by publishing metrical epistles to the Pope in which you state that the Pope's soul "is already in hell while his body on earth is controlled by Satan." Very effective. Also: always pick the losing faction in a struggle for control of the government. Seething bitterness and extraordinary self-righteousness are great motivations for writing.
5) While in exile, come under the influence of a Great Thinker (dead or alive). Give away your fortune and renounce your mistress(es). Burn the sonnets you wrote about that pretty dead lady.
6) You now have four options:
(A) Catch the plague and die.
(B) Become a monk and die shortly thereafter, before you have really done much; if you choose this, be sure to show sufficient early promise.
(C) Become a monk but continue to father illegtimate children.
(D) Retire to your villa and write a very long history of something. Really anything, as long as it is based on Herotodus or Livy. Then die.
Optional embellishments include nagging a city until its citizens offer you a crown of laurels for being Best Poet Since Dante, writing autobiographical pieces in which you make no mention of any of your vices (i.e. having those bastard children after joining the ranks of the Holy Church), going grey at a very, very early age, and writing poetry that later historians will say is an "epic bore".
Please understand that your name will live on mainly through being printed in bold letters in ninth-grade textbooks and you will basically be known for your one hit single, which will be acknowledged only with demeaning qualifiers. For example: "He won a Lifetime Achievement Award in the category of Works For Italian Theater Written Between 1250 and 1550 By Tall, Handsome-Though-Prematurely-Grey Men From Middle-Class Families With Pretend Lovers Who Were Once Profligate Youths In Law School And At One Time Also Had A Small Dog Named Franco."
You should also realize that position of Best Poet Ever will be taken by Shakespeare and held indefinitely, so there's really no need to try that hard. In short, this is a no-pressure kind of club and you should feel free to be as misogenystic, egotistical, and morally dubious as you please. Don't pull a muscle wrestling against vanity or the sins of the flesh; your reputation will largely be carried by Da Vinci anyway.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
frustrant
things that currently anger me:
i live in southern california.
i live in southern california and for some reason the heat is constantly running in my apartment.
i live in southern california and i can walk outside in a t-shirt WHY THE HELL IS THE HEAT ON IN MY APARTMENT.
i live in southern california and i get called a "fucking bitch" for turning the heat off in the apartment. who DOES that?
my absolute inability to parallel park.
my absolute inability to meanuever my car in the "reverse" position. i was at a gas station and everything was full except one pump but it was the cheapest gas i could find so i went to the free pump even though i had to BACK into the spot. it took like four tries for my brain to process which direction i needed to turn the wheel. you could see fear in the other drivers eyes as i pulled forward and had to try AGAIN. what's wrong with me?
the fact that my tofu never cooks right. should it be this mushy on the inside? do i need to charbroil it or something? i'm almost positive flame-cooked tofu is the answer. hand me my blowtorch.
i cannot find a post office where i can mail my valentine's day presents. saturday: post office closed due to a power outage. sunday: all post offices closed. monday: post offices close at 5:00, who knew? tuesday: post office i was going to vist on monday was actually demolished a week ago. this is getting out of hand.
a spider drowned in my shower. this should have served as a warning to the EARWIG that camped out all night behind my shampoo bottle (doesn't anyone read this blog?). i even checked for this vile beast before i got in. i am not a cold-blooded killer but if you are going to sit like a COWARD behind a tube of brilliant brunett you deserve to die. darwin approves.
i put my license plates on all by myself. i put the front one on and realized, wow, i'm missing the back one. where could it be? oh wait, yes, i think i screwed them both onto the front. so much for saving time by doing it right the first time.
my mother is a lunatic. i hope she finds happiness before she ruins all our lives.
chocolate is good. it's so good i stopped at vons to buy a bag on my way home. it's so good i had to eat half the bag in the car. whoops.
i ran 189 stairs 5 times to counteract the half bag of chocolate i ate and now i can't walk. i look absolutely deranged whenever i try to go down the stairs because my calves sieze up and i feel compelled to roll the rest of the way. such issues...
i live in southern california.
i live in southern california and for some reason the heat is constantly running in my apartment.
i live in southern california and i can walk outside in a t-shirt WHY THE HELL IS THE HEAT ON IN MY APARTMENT.
i live in southern california and i get called a "fucking bitch" for turning the heat off in the apartment. who DOES that?
my absolute inability to parallel park.
my absolute inability to meanuever my car in the "reverse" position. i was at a gas station and everything was full except one pump but it was the cheapest gas i could find so i went to the free pump even though i had to BACK into the spot. it took like four tries for my brain to process which direction i needed to turn the wheel. you could see fear in the other drivers eyes as i pulled forward and had to try AGAIN. what's wrong with me?
the fact that my tofu never cooks right. should it be this mushy on the inside? do i need to charbroil it or something? i'm almost positive flame-cooked tofu is the answer. hand me my blowtorch.
i cannot find a post office where i can mail my valentine's day presents. saturday: post office closed due to a power outage. sunday: all post offices closed. monday: post offices close at 5:00, who knew? tuesday: post office i was going to vist on monday was actually demolished a week ago. this is getting out of hand.
a spider drowned in my shower. this should have served as a warning to the EARWIG that camped out all night behind my shampoo bottle (doesn't anyone read this blog?). i even checked for this vile beast before i got in. i am not a cold-blooded killer but if you are going to sit like a COWARD behind a tube of brilliant brunett you deserve to die. darwin approves.
i put my license plates on all by myself. i put the front one on and realized, wow, i'm missing the back one. where could it be? oh wait, yes, i think i screwed them both onto the front. so much for saving time by doing it right the first time.
my mother is a lunatic. i hope she finds happiness before she ruins all our lives.
chocolate is good. it's so good i stopped at vons to buy a bag on my way home. it's so good i had to eat half the bag in the car. whoops.
i ran 189 stairs 5 times to counteract the half bag of chocolate i ate and now i can't walk. i look absolutely deranged whenever i try to go down the stairs because my calves sieze up and i feel compelled to roll the rest of the way. such issues...
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Dream
Last night was the first night in a long time that I haven't woken up at least three times for whatever reason (it seems usually to have something to do with trying to save myself from being smothered by or getting hyperthermia from my monstrously huge comforter). So finally I get some real sleep, and this is what my REM cycle brings me:
The library is a department store. I still work behind the desk in the reserve room. It is going on as usual. Then this kid turns in a book and I go put it away. Then Rebecca comes in and tells me I am doing something wrong, and I realize, oh no, I have shelved that 600-page biography with the Gummi Worms! So I have to slip out of the reserve room without Rebecca noticing and run to get the book from the library's candy section. On the way I pass clothes racks, linens, and parents with strollers containing very cute children. When I reach the book, there's a kid there who wanted to eat it but his father explains to him that it is there by mistake. It is not a Gummi Book.
Then, as I'm walking back to the reserve room, I realize the place is crawling with FBI agents who are dressed like a SWAT team (yes, I realize that's like saying ATM machine) but are carrying Storm Trooper guns. They all kind of point their guns at me as I pass and I see that they are in fact toys with little flashing lights where the laser should shoot out.
When I get back to the desk, I discover that Dana Scully has dropped in. I guess something weird was going on and she was trying to help, but then she told us we should restrain her because she was about to lose her mind or something. (It is this kind of foresight and common sense that might have made certain X-Files episodes more believable.) I am suddenly inside the reserve room with her and various co-workers when an alien craft lands outside the desk and, while we are distracted with Scully, nabs one of our reserve desk patrons.
At that point I started laughing in the dream and then I woke up.
The library is a department store. I still work behind the desk in the reserve room. It is going on as usual. Then this kid turns in a book and I go put it away. Then Rebecca comes in and tells me I am doing something wrong, and I realize, oh no, I have shelved that 600-page biography with the Gummi Worms! So I have to slip out of the reserve room without Rebecca noticing and run to get the book from the library's candy section. On the way I pass clothes racks, linens, and parents with strollers containing very cute children. When I reach the book, there's a kid there who wanted to eat it but his father explains to him that it is there by mistake. It is not a Gummi Book.
Then, as I'm walking back to the reserve room, I realize the place is crawling with FBI agents who are dressed like a SWAT team (yes, I realize that's like saying ATM machine) but are carrying Storm Trooper guns. They all kind of point their guns at me as I pass and I see that they are in fact toys with little flashing lights where the laser should shoot out.
When I get back to the desk, I discover that Dana Scully has dropped in. I guess something weird was going on and she was trying to help, but then she told us we should restrain her because she was about to lose her mind or something. (It is this kind of foresight and common sense that might have made certain X-Files episodes more believable.) I am suddenly inside the reserve room with her and various co-workers when an alien craft lands outside the desk and, while we are distracted with Scully, nabs one of our reserve desk patrons.
At that point I started laughing in the dream and then I woke up.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Gaudiam et utilis indeed.
In the words of plasticann, the following is a reconstructed conversation between me and my Latin professor, whose anonymity we shall preserve by calling him Ernie:
Me: Hey, Mr. Ernie, do you happen to by any chance possibly still have Life of Brian out of the library?
Ernie: Yeah.
Me: What, seriously? For three months? Five months? Since October?
Ernie looks taken aback.
Ernie: I really don't go to the library. I have research assistants.
Me: Well they failed you.
Ernie: Well, it was probably me. You could have seen it at the Bardovan, they were showing it.
Me: I don't have a car.
Ernie: You have feet.
Me: To the Bardovan? People get mugged on the path to the THs!
Brief pause.
Ernie: Do not fear the world.
It turns out that by returning Ernie's movie for him, I have saved him the indignity of getting the price of the movie removed from his paycheck. For Life of Brian. I mean, how embarrassing. I should get an A for this.
Me: Hey, Mr. Ernie, do you happen to by any chance possibly still have Life of Brian out of the library?
Ernie: Yeah.
Me: What, seriously? For three months? Five months? Since October?
Ernie looks taken aback.
Ernie: I really don't go to the library. I have research assistants.
Me: Well they failed you.
Ernie: Well, it was probably me. You could have seen it at the Bardovan, they were showing it.
Me: I don't have a car.
Ernie: You have feet.
Me: To the Bardovan? People get mugged on the path to the THs!
Brief pause.
Ernie: Do not fear the world.
It turns out that by returning Ernie's movie for him, I have saved him the indignity of getting the price of the movie removed from his paycheck. For Life of Brian. I mean, how embarrassing. I should get an A for this.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
"beverly glen" or "how to maximize your mileage"
i've always had a terrible sense of direction. i panic as soon as i think i'm lost and i'm almost always lost so i spend a lot of car time sweating and shaking and going over landmarks in my head. being lost in small town upstate new york is not a big deal... being lost in boston is a bigger deal. as soon as i got to boston and realized the entire infrastructure was based on bovine feeding patterns i almost cried. what kind of city paves cow paths?! i spent the whole summer getting to places hours after my estimated time of arrival, dangerously close to a mental breakdown, muttering to friends that i would be camped out in their apartment until the train opened in the morning.
things changed a little when i moved to los angeles. the rental car was a challenge, but we crossed that bridge and i found i had a pretty decent sense of north, south, east west. too far west, you're in the ocean... too far east... you're in one of those other states, too far south, mexico, north... the valley. not too hard. of course with my new apartment there is no good way to get to work. either i have to take the hellishly congested excuse for a freeway called the 405 or else take a curvy, scary canyon road all the way up to the top, pray that i don't launch myself off a cliff, and somehow manage not to hit anyone when i get to the parking lot. that's a lot of pressure before 9:30 in the morning. this is the reason i usually brave the 405 and inch along some road in the valley until i reach the parking lot of death.
the other night i was fed up with the stupid freeway and decided to take a road called "beverly glen". sounds nice and sweet, like fern gully or something, right? this road cuts all the way down to my apartment. it's practically door to door service if you survive. i twisted and i turned and i made it down the canyon and i was so proud of myself! yeah! no death! of course the party stopped when i reached the intersection of sunset and beverly glen. now, all the signs say "beverly glen right lane" but what they really mean is "beverly glen, right lane, then please haul your ass across four lanes to get into the left lane so you can make the actual turn: we sincerely hope you got that from the sign". i always miss this turn... always. it's a mental road block. so, as usual, i found myself in a boston-like situation where i didn't really know where i was or where i was going or how to get back to a road that actually led to my apartment. my first instinct was to return to beverly glen. i was like a homing pigeon without an actual sense of direction.
i took a road called hilgard (sounds like a not-so-fierce viking warrior, this should have been my first clue that i was making a mistake) hilgard took me to rochester street which i knew crossed beverly somewhere so i took it, but it curved and i was on something else and the i was on national and i crossed wilshire so i knew i was going the wrong way and i took veteran to get back and then all of a sudden, i was back on sunset! what?! how?! who?! i have no idea how the hell i got where i was going. eventually i got back to beverly glen and made it home. this was two hours later. i was shaking and sweating. i have vowed never to drive again. who wants to let me crash at their apartment until the train opens up?
things changed a little when i moved to los angeles. the rental car was a challenge, but we crossed that bridge and i found i had a pretty decent sense of north, south, east west. too far west, you're in the ocean... too far east... you're in one of those other states, too far south, mexico, north... the valley. not too hard. of course with my new apartment there is no good way to get to work. either i have to take the hellishly congested excuse for a freeway called the 405 or else take a curvy, scary canyon road all the way up to the top, pray that i don't launch myself off a cliff, and somehow manage not to hit anyone when i get to the parking lot. that's a lot of pressure before 9:30 in the morning. this is the reason i usually brave the 405 and inch along some road in the valley until i reach the parking lot of death.
the other night i was fed up with the stupid freeway and decided to take a road called "beverly glen". sounds nice and sweet, like fern gully or something, right? this road cuts all the way down to my apartment. it's practically door to door service if you survive. i twisted and i turned and i made it down the canyon and i was so proud of myself! yeah! no death! of course the party stopped when i reached the intersection of sunset and beverly glen. now, all the signs say "beverly glen right lane" but what they really mean is "beverly glen, right lane, then please haul your ass across four lanes to get into the left lane so you can make the actual turn: we sincerely hope you got that from the sign". i always miss this turn... always. it's a mental road block. so, as usual, i found myself in a boston-like situation where i didn't really know where i was or where i was going or how to get back to a road that actually led to my apartment. my first instinct was to return to beverly glen. i was like a homing pigeon without an actual sense of direction.
i took a road called hilgard (sounds like a not-so-fierce viking warrior, this should have been my first clue that i was making a mistake) hilgard took me to rochester street which i knew crossed beverly somewhere so i took it, but it curved and i was on something else and the i was on national and i crossed wilshire so i knew i was going the wrong way and i took veteran to get back and then all of a sudden, i was back on sunset! what?! how?! who?! i have no idea how the hell i got where i was going. eventually i got back to beverly glen and made it home. this was two hours later. i was shaking and sweating. i have vowed never to drive again. who wants to let me crash at their apartment until the train opens up?
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Dear Winter
There are some things about our relationship that I think need to be addressed. I know that in the past we've been pretty good friends: you were always very reliable when it came to getting days off from school, you always snowed during winter break and then warmed up just enough for a trek into the woods, and you were often very packable for purposes of making snowpersons, snowballs, snow forts, etc. Oh, and you smelled nice. By that I mean you didn't smell like anything and that can be a great quality. In short, Winter, you were good to me.
But something changed. I think it happened on the day I was run over by a sled and practically knocked unconscious. I resented you, and I think you knew it. The next year, you didn't even show up and Spring had to cover for you. The year after that, you went overboard and inflicted a vicious storm on me every time I needed to travel by taxi. I think you were trying to murder me, and frankly, Winter, that kind of behavior really makes me rethink all those poems I wrote about you in eleventh grade, glorifying you--only to find out that you're a common thug.
This year has shown no improvements. First you were late arriving, and then you seemed to mistake the Hudson Valley for the arctic tundra and the inhabiting humans for woolly mammoths. When I go outside, Winter, I have an immediate brain freeze. You make my eyes water and then you freeze the tears; you make my nose run and then you freeze the snot; you make the shower cold and then you freeze my hair so that it creaks and clinks when I walk to class. In case hypothermia doesn't kill me, you make a death trap of any slope or stairway you can find.
You also freeze the batteries in my camera and that really annoys me.
Because I am the bigger person, and also have the advantage of being sentient, I'm going to forgive you first. Winter, I hereby declare peace on you. This peace will be contingent upon the following:
1) Temperatures may be decided at your discretion but wind factors may not exceed -5.
2) The formation of icy pathways will be considered "acting out".
3) A consistent, yet gentle, pattern of snowfall will be mandatory.
4) Any attempt to emulate the ninth circle of hell, i.e. encasing all living things in ice up to their necks, will automatically end the truce.
I'd really like for us to be friends again, Winter. But you have to do your part.
With equal parts affection and fear,
Simon
But something changed. I think it happened on the day I was run over by a sled and practically knocked unconscious. I resented you, and I think you knew it. The next year, you didn't even show up and Spring had to cover for you. The year after that, you went overboard and inflicted a vicious storm on me every time I needed to travel by taxi. I think you were trying to murder me, and frankly, Winter, that kind of behavior really makes me rethink all those poems I wrote about you in eleventh grade, glorifying you--only to find out that you're a common thug.
This year has shown no improvements. First you were late arriving, and then you seemed to mistake the Hudson Valley for the arctic tundra and the inhabiting humans for woolly mammoths. When I go outside, Winter, I have an immediate brain freeze. You make my eyes water and then you freeze the tears; you make my nose run and then you freeze the snot; you make the shower cold and then you freeze my hair so that it creaks and clinks when I walk to class. In case hypothermia doesn't kill me, you make a death trap of any slope or stairway you can find.
You also freeze the batteries in my camera and that really annoys me.
Because I am the bigger person, and also have the advantage of being sentient, I'm going to forgive you first. Winter, I hereby declare peace on you. This peace will be contingent upon the following:
1) Temperatures may be decided at your discretion but wind factors may not exceed -5.
2) The formation of icy pathways will be considered "acting out".
3) A consistent, yet gentle, pattern of snowfall will be mandatory.
4) Any attempt to emulate the ninth circle of hell, i.e. encasing all living things in ice up to their necks, will automatically end the truce.
I'd really like for us to be friends again, Winter. But you have to do your part.
With equal parts affection and fear,
Simon
Monday, January 24, 2005
apology to a small, dead spider
i have my own bathroom. i pay more money every month to have my own bathroom. i live with the guilt of stealing this bathroom from my roommate jeff ( who really really wanted the bathroom) every day. i suffered enough to get this bathroom. this is the reason i do not check the shower for living things before i turn on the hot water. everyone in the house knows it's my bathroom! alas, the spider missed the memo. i stepped into the shower this morning and saw him struggling on the tile floor. i figured once i blocked the flow of water he would just climb out-- spiders are supposed to be resourceful like that. he was even showing signs of progress; every few seconds he would climb part way up the wall, leading me to believe he was not only alive, but enjoying the shower. it was like playing in the sprinkler. but then he stopped climbing. i thought he was just resting but he started to look a little stiff.
not wanting the spider to get too water-logged, i leaned down to give him a hand (knowing full well if he actually crawled up my arm i would have to reenact the psycho shower scene, letting out the most blood curdling scream you have ever heard and smashing things with a shampoo bottle). sadly, when i leaned down i realized i have a drainage problem in my shower. the little spider had actually drown in a quarter inch of water while i was washing my hair. call me heartless, but i was almost relieved. if he crawled up my arm i would have gone into cardiac arrest. oh well, i still felt bad when i washed him down the drain.
in closing: small, dead spider, i apologize for being unable to differientiate between a drowning victim and a happy bather. as a lifeguard it's my responsibility to save swimmers in distress. please, next time wave your arms and yell a little louder... or try hanging out in the boy's bathroom, they're used to sharing.
not wanting the spider to get too water-logged, i leaned down to give him a hand (knowing full well if he actually crawled up my arm i would have to reenact the psycho shower scene, letting out the most blood curdling scream you have ever heard and smashing things with a shampoo bottle). sadly, when i leaned down i realized i have a drainage problem in my shower. the little spider had actually drown in a quarter inch of water while i was washing my hair. call me heartless, but i was almost relieved. if he crawled up my arm i would have gone into cardiac arrest. oh well, i still felt bad when i washed him down the drain.
in closing: small, dead spider, i apologize for being unable to differientiate between a drowning victim and a happy bather. as a lifeguard it's my responsibility to save swimmers in distress. please, next time wave your arms and yell a little louder... or try hanging out in the boy's bathroom, they're used to sharing.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
workin' it
my typical working day consists of drinking coffee, checking my email every four seconds for job offers, avoiding car insurance websites, and saying over and over "no i do not know where that tape is. no i don't know where that one is either. yes, feel free to look for yourself. yes, you're right, someone who worked here before me must have taken it as a souvenier. oh, you don't think it spontaneously combusted? you don't think it was very cute when i said that? oh so sorry. i didn't realize tape stock was such a sensative issue." honestly, there must be some disgruntled employee sitting around watching tv in their underwear with a full set of BetaSP master tapes serving as cheap substitutes for plates and coasters. not that i blame this person. i am close to doing the same. it would be oh so satisfying to say, "yes, i know exactly where that tape is. it's propping up the loose leg of my patio table. jerk."
Monday, January 17, 2005
slight nargh
well, it's january. i should be hibernating. sipping hot chocolate and reading under multiple fleece-lined blankets. but no. i am here. in los angeles. where i have no excuse for sitting in my room hour after hour being bored out of my mind. so, this weekend, instead of sitting in my room hour after hour being bored out of my mind i moved my newly inherited rocking chair to the balcony and sat there watching humming birds flying around in the lemon tree... and being bored out of my mind. i felt like an 85-year-old. no doubt it was nice, but i found myself wishing i worked weekends, or that the painful blisters on my feet would heal so i could go running, or that i had friends in los angeles that also dispised sitting in rocking chairs watching birds and wanted to go adventuring. I even contemplated calling the over zealous co-worker i rejected last semester. Friday (my new honda civic) and I went to the grocery store, but he's not talkative and pretty submissive... not good friend qualities. so i am sending out a blog of slight narghs. i am bored here. work is fine, work is good, but i certainly wouldn't mind a decent running partner or even another over zealous boy to reject... ::sigh:: slight nargh.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
It's international; I can't throw it away.
Some people, when they clean out old coats or purses or seldom-used pockets, find things like $20 bills or Borders gift cards. Today I found a packet of sugar, practically caramelized by now, from the British Library.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout
i moved to los angeles last wednesday. i said a tearful goodbye to my faithful puppy and my mother and set off for sunny california with my good ole' dad. upon arrival i realized instead of packing sheets and towels, i probably should have brought a collapsable arc. yes, you probably saw it on the news, southern california almost fell into the ocean this week. at work, our main source of entertainment was standing in a warm, dry edit bay watching people cross the street. when three or four feet of calf-deep water fills both parking lanes you can really see creativity blossom in your co-workers. take josh, the new post coordinator. josh thought he could outwit the river formerly known as lankershim blvd. josh wore flip flops and rolled his pants up before he even left his car. his co-workers cried out in dismay when they saw josh had planned ahead. it's no fun watching prepared people cross the street. but, as josh entered the rushing water, the audience saw a look of horror cross his face. as he emerged from parking lane #1 josh sadly watched his flip flops float towards the los angeles river. he scrambled barefoot across the street. poor, poor josh. mwahahahah.
A Revelation Concerning Ombeline
A year and a half ago, my hard drive emitted its death rattle and gave out, three or so days before I was to leave the country for a year. I ran up and down the halls screaming and weeping while my father calmly performed the miracles that a computer programmer, the Holy Man of the modern era, can do. He saved all of my files and installed a new hard drive, and I got on the plane with a healthy and happy computer.
I was plagued by one problem, however, of a very Disturbing nature: a philosophical nature. Philosophy goes in the Disturbing category because it’s always forcing you to make decisions between the life of your grandmother and your adorable, helpless puppy or asking you things like, “Is there a difference in value between one life and a million lives?” These are questions I feel I am no more qualified to answer than, say, George W. Bush.
On second thought, the fact that I may actually be slightly more qualified than George W. Bush is enough to put him officially in the Disturbing category along with his entire Cabinet, Willem Dafoe, probability, the death of Douglas Adams, Mr. Rochester’s idea of moral correctness, global warming, misused punctuation, and my uninsured and jobless future.
Anyway, the replacement of my computer’s hard drive gave me cause to regret not paying attention in Philosophy 105 when we talked about whether Joe is still Joe after his brain transplant. Watching the hard drive being physically removed from my computer, I asked myself tearfully, “I am witnessing the death of my faithful, if not entirely trusty, laptop? Is my Ombeline still Ombeline?” Until this question could be answered, I resorted to calling my computer Noripsni.
Yesterday my dad, the aforementioned shaman of electronics, was updating some software on my computer and he was supposed to name it. He was about to type in NORIPSNI when I began to bemoan (again) the tragic loss of Ombeline. And he said, “The hard drive is more like the spleen. The processor would be the brain.”
As he spoke, rays of divine light shone down upon Ombeline, and all present struck Classical poses with handkercheifs and garlands, and wept.
And that settles the excrutiating philosophical question around which my life has been centered since October 2003. Ombeline survives! And hopefully will forgive me for calling her Noripsni for a third of her life. The alarming question I now wrestle with is this: will the transplant of Ombeline’s spleen affect, in anyway, her French accent?
I was plagued by one problem, however, of a very Disturbing nature: a philosophical nature. Philosophy goes in the Disturbing category because it’s always forcing you to make decisions between the life of your grandmother and your adorable, helpless puppy or asking you things like, “Is there a difference in value between one life and a million lives?” These are questions I feel I am no more qualified to answer than, say, George W. Bush.
On second thought, the fact that I may actually be slightly more qualified than George W. Bush is enough to put him officially in the Disturbing category along with his entire Cabinet, Willem Dafoe, probability, the death of Douglas Adams, Mr. Rochester’s idea of moral correctness, global warming, misused punctuation, and my uninsured and jobless future.
Anyway, the replacement of my computer’s hard drive gave me cause to regret not paying attention in Philosophy 105 when we talked about whether Joe is still Joe after his brain transplant. Watching the hard drive being physically removed from my computer, I asked myself tearfully, “I am witnessing the death of my faithful, if not entirely trusty, laptop? Is my Ombeline still Ombeline?” Until this question could be answered, I resorted to calling my computer Noripsni.
Yesterday my dad, the aforementioned shaman of electronics, was updating some software on my computer and he was supposed to name it. He was about to type in NORIPSNI when I began to bemoan (again) the tragic loss of Ombeline. And he said, “The hard drive is more like the spleen. The processor would be the brain.”
As he spoke, rays of divine light shone down upon Ombeline, and all present struck Classical poses with handkercheifs and garlands, and wept.
And that settles the excrutiating philosophical question around which my life has been centered since October 2003. Ombeline survives! And hopefully will forgive me for calling her Noripsni for a third of her life. The alarming question I now wrestle with is this: will the transplant of Ombeline’s spleen affect, in anyway, her French accent?
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Go ye not unto the Gravel Pit!
A week or so ago, it was pretty warm here. One night, around eleven, I opened my window to let cool air into my room. Then I settled into my bed to read more of King Hereafter (which, if anyone is interested, has improved). A half hour or so passed (in which time, if those interested before were planning to read the book solely on the basis of the character named Skeggi, I should tell you that Skeggi dies--sorry) Then, as I was contentedly reading, I heard, outside, something which seemed closely to resemble the sound of a lion killing a wildebeest. This not being the African savannah, that scenario seemed unlikely. Though my survival instincts were telling me that the correct reaction was to run and hide, or get out the machete, I heroically turned off all the lights and peered out the window.
Silence and a slight breeze. A zephyr, even, if you will. If my life was Jurassic Park, that’s when the hungry uber-predator would have smashed through the window, torn off my head, and drunk all of my spewing blood. (In my Jurassic Park, they apparently found the DNA of Grendel.) However, I ended up just going back to my book and forgetting about it for a while, and it was all very anti-climactic.
The next morning, my mother went for her routine walk with my dog when she heard the following sound (this is a quote from my mother): “Aroo-aroo-aroooooooo!” It sounds like Scooby-Doo is in trouble when I do it, but she, an infinitely more intelligent person, recognized it as the unmistakable call of a coyote. A coyote. One more time: coyote. She saw one of our neighbors and said, “I think there are coyotes in the gravel pit.” And he said, “I think so too.” And my brave dog, my fierce dog, The Mutilator, said: “Holy Mother Mary and Joseph, SAVE ME FROM THE THING THAT MAKES THE SCARY NOISE!” (The Mutilator is not religious but she has an excellent sense of verbal effect.)
The Mutilator then leapt into Shaggy’s arms.
My mother did not, however, relay this information to me until after dinner tonight, a week later. Let us review the information: there are hyenas . . . oh, excuse me, just coyotes . . . living in packs in the gravel pit across the street, planning a hostile takeover of our defenceless neighborhood, feasting on the flesh of the local wildebeest population. You might wonder whether there actually is a wildebeest population anywhere in the lower 48 excluding zoos. There is not. And I think we can rule out Alaska and Hawaii too. You might then wonder, as I wonder, what are they eating?
Says my mother, “Apparently they’ve been known to take small children and cats!”
She follows this up with, “Are you going to take the dog out?”
When the child-eaters get me, at least I will be remembered as the first casualty in the war between suburbia and the Wolf Platoon . . . I’m sorry, I meant Coyote . . .
Silence and a slight breeze. A zephyr, even, if you will. If my life was Jurassic Park, that’s when the hungry uber-predator would have smashed through the window, torn off my head, and drunk all of my spewing blood. (In my Jurassic Park, they apparently found the DNA of Grendel.) However, I ended up just going back to my book and forgetting about it for a while, and it was all very anti-climactic.
The next morning, my mother went for her routine walk with my dog when she heard the following sound (this is a quote from my mother): “Aroo-aroo-aroooooooo!” It sounds like Scooby-Doo is in trouble when I do it, but she, an infinitely more intelligent person, recognized it as the unmistakable call of a coyote. A coyote. One more time: coyote. She saw one of our neighbors and said, “I think there are coyotes in the gravel pit.” And he said, “I think so too.” And my brave dog, my fierce dog, The Mutilator, said: “Holy Mother Mary and Joseph, SAVE ME FROM THE THING THAT MAKES THE SCARY NOISE!” (The Mutilator is not religious but she has an excellent sense of verbal effect.)
The Mutilator then leapt into Shaggy’s arms.
My mother did not, however, relay this information to me until after dinner tonight, a week later. Let us review the information: there are hyenas . . . oh, excuse me, just coyotes . . . living in packs in the gravel pit across the street, planning a hostile takeover of our defenceless neighborhood, feasting on the flesh of the local wildebeest population. You might wonder whether there actually is a wildebeest population anywhere in the lower 48 excluding zoos. There is not. And I think we can rule out Alaska and Hawaii too. You might then wonder, as I wonder, what are they eating?
Says my mother, “Apparently they’ve been known to take small children and cats!”
She follows this up with, “Are you going to take the dog out?”
When the child-eaters get me, at least I will be remembered as the first casualty in the war between suburbia and the Wolf Platoon . . . I’m sorry, I meant Coyote . . .
Saturday, January 01, 2005
In Which Simon Attempts to Make up for Not Posting by Writing Something of Excessive Length
Because I detest the idea of boiling down an entire year to into one sentimental blog, magazine article, newscast, or other media type of your preference, this will have nothing to do with today being the arbitrarily selected first day of a new year. I realize my boycotting this holiday may serve the mortal blow to modern use of the Roman calendar, which I think we all realize is only hanging on by a thread, but my recklessness simply cannot be stopped.
I have very little to say because I am home, and while home has the advantages of being generally cleaner than C9, less dubiously constructed than C9, better-functioning than C9, and having a kitchen sink that is distinctly superior to C9’s, the native population tends to be a little sterner, somewhat disapproving, and all-powerful in the way of annoying the bejeezus out of my housebound and increasingly irrational self. In short: I miss home. The other one.
Here is what I have been doing whilst imprisoned:
1) Running. I have not run regularly for so long that it’s torture now, and the only reason I go is because when I get back to my street, I can see my dog sitting outside watching me with a big doggie-grin on her face, eagerly waiting for when I get to the driveway. . . . Once I get there, of course, I am accosted by the Hound of the Baskervilles, a.k.a. Georgie, who lives next door and does not approve of me running, stretching, walking, or breathing without her assistance. She likes to assist by suddenly looming up from her driveway, with which she blends perfectly, and directing several throat-closing barks in my direction. If she could do that before the run, the I-AM-GOING-TO-BE-MAULED adrenaline rush might be helpful. As it is, I do not find myself wanting to be her exercise buddy.
2) Reading. If you have not read Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, you should. If you have not read America: The Book, you should. If you have not read King Hereafter by my beloved Dorothy Dunnett, it might be just as well, but you should not be denied the pleasure of the name “Skeggi,” which will doubtless be the name of my first son. After I move to Iceland.
3) Listening to old A Prairie Home Companion shows. The pre- and post-election shows are comforting:
My feeling is that born-again people are citizens of heaven. That’s where their citizenship is, is in heaven. Not here, among us, in America. If you feel that war in the Middle East is simply prophecy fulfilled, if you believe that tribulation and suffering are just the natural conditions of life, if you believe that higher education is vanity, unnecessary, that there is only one book that one need to read, if you feel that unemployment is God’s way of making you more dependent on him and drawing you closer to him, if you feel that lousy health care is simply a portal to paradise, then you don’t really share our same interests do you no you do not. So if you vote, why not Canadians, why not Scandinavians, they speak English, perfectly well-informed . . . but we have moved on! It’s all behind us. No bitterness remains.
4) Sleeping. I have been going to bed around 2 and getting up at 10. Or 11. Or 12. BECKY HAD BETTER READ THIS.
And as this is now much too long, I think I’ll go back to doing one of the above four things. If you can think of a fifth, call me and tell me.
I have very little to say because I am home, and while home has the advantages of being generally cleaner than C9, less dubiously constructed than C9, better-functioning than C9, and having a kitchen sink that is distinctly superior to C9’s, the native population tends to be a little sterner, somewhat disapproving, and all-powerful in the way of annoying the bejeezus out of my housebound and increasingly irrational self. In short: I miss home. The other one.
Here is what I have been doing whilst imprisoned:
1) Running. I have not run regularly for so long that it’s torture now, and the only reason I go is because when I get back to my street, I can see my dog sitting outside watching me with a big doggie-grin on her face, eagerly waiting for when I get to the driveway. . . . Once I get there, of course, I am accosted by the Hound of the Baskervilles, a.k.a. Georgie, who lives next door and does not approve of me running, stretching, walking, or breathing without her assistance. She likes to assist by suddenly looming up from her driveway, with which she blends perfectly, and directing several throat-closing barks in my direction. If she could do that before the run, the I-AM-GOING-TO-BE-MAULED adrenaline rush might be helpful. As it is, I do not find myself wanting to be her exercise buddy.
2) Reading. If you have not read Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, you should. If you have not read America: The Book, you should. If you have not read King Hereafter by my beloved Dorothy Dunnett, it might be just as well, but you should not be denied the pleasure of the name “Skeggi,” which will doubtless be the name of my first son. After I move to Iceland.
3) Listening to old A Prairie Home Companion shows. The pre- and post-election shows are comforting:
My feeling is that born-again people are citizens of heaven. That’s where their citizenship is, is in heaven. Not here, among us, in America. If you feel that war in the Middle East is simply prophecy fulfilled, if you believe that tribulation and suffering are just the natural conditions of life, if you believe that higher education is vanity, unnecessary, that there is only one book that one need to read, if you feel that unemployment is God’s way of making you more dependent on him and drawing you closer to him, if you feel that lousy health care is simply a portal to paradise, then you don’t really share our same interests do you no you do not. So if you vote, why not Canadians, why not Scandinavians, they speak English, perfectly well-informed . . . but we have moved on! It’s all behind us. No bitterness remains.
4) Sleeping. I have been going to bed around 2 and getting up at 10. Or 11. Or 12. BECKY HAD BETTER READ THIS.
And as this is now much too long, I think I’ll go back to doing one of the above four things. If you can think of a fifth, call me and tell me.
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