31 July 2007
Hijinx-Related Projects
Possibly the funniest article I've read all month: Marvel Comics vs. Science: 5 of the Most Absurd Superhero Origins. Makes me sad to think that there are no Commie villains anymore (well, Putin is just too easy...).
30 July 2007
I Heart Jon Stewart
Dear God, this test and its writer have flattered me more than any man (or woman) could possibly hope to: they've validated my sense of humor.
And I, being the selfish hack that I am, most definitely saw fit to post the results:
The Wit
(76% dark, 11% spontaneous, 10% vulgar)
Your humor style: CLEAN COMPLEX DARK
You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.
I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer.
Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.
You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.
PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais
And I, being the selfish hack that I am, most definitely saw fit to post the results:
The Wit
(76% dark, 11% spontaneous, 10% vulgar)
Your humor style: CLEAN COMPLEX DARK
You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.
I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer.
Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.
You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.
PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais
29 July 2007
Wilshire Village
Here in Houston, there is a beautiful old apartment complex at West Alabama and Dunlavy; those of you from here will know what I'm talking about. It's called Wilshire Village, or at least it was in better times. Wilshire Village was built at the tail end of the Depression and with a 1939 price tag of $1,000,000, it was the largest and most expensive building project in the South at that time. When they were completed, the apartments were state of the art -- stainless-steel Westinghouse appliances in the kitchens, telephone nooks in the hallways, art deco architectural details throughout -- and had beautiful wood floors and a clever system that used crosswinds from the many courtyards to keep the apartments cool in the Houston heat, long before central air would become standard. The "village" is set in park-like grounds that are heavy with magnolia trees and thick ferns. Each apartment had a front door in a hallway shared with four other apartments and a separate back door that led out onto one of the courtyards. The buildings were fireproof yet beautiful, with copper awnings and window casings -- function and form met as one.
Since I was a very little girl, these apartments have stood mostly abandoned. I remember them as clearly as I remember the first time I was sent to the principal's office in first grade (for flipping the bird to a fellow seven-year-old) or the time in fifth grade that I beat up a classmate with my lunchbox for making fun of my glasses. These apartments have always stood out starkly in my memory. When I was younger, I didn't know why I was so enthralled by them. Now that I'm older, I can see that I'm drawn not just to the distinct architectural beauty of them, but to what they represent -- hopes and possibilities and people striving for something better. When these apartments were built, they were a huge undertaking. They were the embodiment of a collective voice saying We're pulling ourselves out of this mire -- this Depression -- and creating our own futures. I've always been fond of human representations of possibility, and Wilshire Village is just one of those examples.
My camera is another object of possibility of which I'm very fond. I still use an old 35mm Canon that my father gave to me ages ago. Digital cameras are okay, but there's something hollow about the images that they produce. Don't like a picture you took on your digital camera? Erase it -- it's gone forever. Trying to get that perfect shot? Just take a few dozen with your digital camera and eventually one of them will turn out right -- you can choose which one you like best later. It's soulless.
With a traditional camera, every picture you take means something -- whether you know it or not. It means something because once it's taken, it's there for good. It's imprinted on that tiny piece of negative or glossy photo that you have developed. It's something concrete and tangible that you can hold onto. With a traditional camera, you have to make a real effort in your photography. Once that shutter is released, you're committed to that one photo that you just took -- you're twinned forever to that moment. It's more than a little sacred.
I went to Wilshire Village this afternoon to take some photographs of the property before its inevitable destruction. While I don't feel like dwelling on this particular topic right now, as it pains me to no end that our city has adopted their "Never Look Back" stance with such short-sighted gusto and literalism, you're welcome to read more at any number of Houston architectural or preservationist websites. I wouldn't feel right taking along a digital camera to a place like this, its very nature incongruous to the weight that I feel every time I visit the complex. It's a very haunting place by nature, but today was different. Storms have been rolling through the city every day for the past -- two? three? months, I don't know anymore. They're the typical Houston summer storms, what we used to call "the devil beating his wife" when I was younger (I don't hear that particular spousal-abuse weather euphemism much anymore) -- heavy, pounding rain while all around you are blue skies. The rain moves from place to place like a sentient, schizophrenic being. It's something everyone should experience.
I caught a break in the random rainstorms for about an hour. There was no wind the entire time and everything was perfectly still. It was mid-afternoon, so there were no katydids or crickets yet and therefore almost complete silence. It was such a perfect, crystalline moment in time -- just one hour -- punctuated only by the occasional cheuckh of the camera shutter, as sturdy and beautiful as a heartbeat.
***
Pictures (click on the links below):
Peaks of windows fall in line across the courtyard.
Windchimes wait for a breeze.
Graceful curves and a view to the sky.
A woman and her owl guard their post.
Branches hang low and heavy across a path.
Here's hoping they remembered to take the bird with them.
Counting the days until Christmas
Where does one obtain
28 July 2007
Thoughts
I do not run for the Presidency merely to oppose any man, but to propose new policies. I run because I am convinced that this country is on a perilous course and because I have such strong feelings about what must be done, and I feel that I'm obliged to do all I can.
Kennedy stood on a ticket of racial and economic justice, non-aggression in foreign policy, decentralization of power and social improvement. A crucial element to his campaign was an engagement with the young, whom he identified as being the future of a reinvigorated American society based on partnership and equality.
What if Robert Kennedy hadn't been assassinated?
What do our current presidential candidates stand for? Or rather, what do they stand for that's anywhere near as vital or crucial as the things that people like RFK stood for? Where have the Ginsbergs and Kings of our generation gone? Are we so bereft of soul and substance as a nation that our voices are those self-serving, disingenuous cries of Al Sharpton and assorted Fox News pundits?
When will our voice come?
And where is our path leading?
and, no, I haven't seen Bobby nor am I intending to, so stop asking
Kennedy stood on a ticket of racial and economic justice, non-aggression in foreign policy, decentralization of power and social improvement. A crucial element to his campaign was an engagement with the young, whom he identified as being the future of a reinvigorated American society based on partnership and equality.
What if Robert Kennedy hadn't been assassinated?
What do our current presidential candidates stand for? Or rather, what do they stand for that's anywhere near as vital or crucial as the things that people like RFK stood for? Where have the Ginsbergs and Kings of our generation gone? Are we so bereft of soul and substance as a nation that our voices are those self-serving, disingenuous cries of Al Sharpton and assorted Fox News pundits?
When will our voice come?
And where is our path leading?
and, no, I haven't seen Bobby nor am I intending to, so stop asking
27 July 2007
My Inner Foodie
Where I work, we have a Breakfast Club, like so many other offices across the nation. And every Friday morning we are subjected to the unrepentant and unfailing cycle of bagels, donuts, bagels, donuts, bagels, breakfast tacos and more donuts. I don't know why I used the word "subjected," since we've all undertaken this breakfast mission voluntarily, but I definitely get the feeling that most people participate due to either peer pressure or the knowledge that by spending $10 on a box of Shipley's, they can get free breakfasts on Fridays for the next twelve weeks (I mean, it's a pretty good trade if you think about it).
This morning it was my turn to bring breakfast. Little-known fact time: my mother is a chef and has instilled in (or rather, beaten into) me a deep respect for food. While I have clearly not inherited her culinary talents, I do at least have a strong appreciation for good, nutritious, quality food and the ability to make home-cooked Southern meals (who needs that fancy French shit anyway?). And, with a very few exceptions, bagels and donuts do not fall under that appreciation. With that in mind, I was definitely excited to bring a real breakfast for my co-workers this morning.
I went to the grocery store last night -- being a vocal proponent of the idea that one should shop in the short-term, for what you need in order to fix your meal, not the monthly shopping binges to Costco that result in unnecessary junk food and waste -- and bought some cream, high-quality butter, grits, hot sausage, strawberries, blueberries, peaches and low-fat vanilla yogurt. The grits -- God bless them -- cost $0.55 for an entire box and were the centerpiece of the meal. This is just one of the many, many reasons I love grits.
This morning, I got up around 6am and started on the breakfast. The sausage took about five minutes in a hot skillet before it was done and then onto some paper towels to be drained. In the meantime, I set some water (and a cup of cream) to boil in a large, stainless steel Dutch oven (this is important -- you can't cook grits with just water, or else they'll be runny and tasteless; you need heavy whipping cream or at the very least, some whole milk). While the water was coming to a boil, I cut up the strawberries and peaches and tossed them together in a bowl with the blueberries. By the time that was done, the water in the Dutch oven was rolling quite fiercely.
I added the entire box of grits along with a few teaspoons of Kosher salt and half a stick of butter. With grits, I know it says that you can simmer them "covered, stirring occasionally." That's a lie, and I don't recommend it unless you want to eat wallpaper paste for breakfast. You need to stir them constantly, continually adding small licks of cream and butter here and there for taste. When the grits finally started to thicken (which only takes about five minutes, by the by), I added the sausage and stirred it in. And that's pretty much it for the grits -- plain and simple and delicious, if a little calorie-laden by the addition of the butter and cream.
Turning my attention back to my side dish, I poured the vanilla yogurt on top of the small, glistening pieces of fruit and smoothed it with a spoon. Garnish the top with a few stray blueberries and you're ready to go.
Getting the food to the car was easy enough with Richard helping, but actually getting it up into the building was another story. I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman in the lobby -- wet hair from a hurried shower, purse on one shoulder, bag full of fruit & yogurt one the other, briefcase shoved under one arm and a giant Dutch oven held out in front of me, with bright red potholders covering my hands. And, as I've already addressed, I don't exactly look the part where I work on a normal basis anyway.
I finally made it up to my floor, after almost dropping the Dutch oven twice, cursing loudly at the weight of everything on my tiny frame and the deepening crevasses on my shoulder from the fruit-laden bag (fruit & yogurt are deceptively heavy). As I laid everything out in the common area for my co-workers, I could hear plaintive whispers of "What is that?" and "Please say we're not having donuts again." When everything was finally assembled -- butter on plate, salt in bowl, spoons and forks laid out, napkins at the ready -- I stood back and admired my work. It wasn't the most beautiful thing to behold (grits aren't exactly visually appealing food), but it was real and unprocessed and warm and breakfast.
And they loved it.
That was the best part of all. Only two people on my entire floor had ever had grits before, and only one of them actually liked the damn things. With odds like that, I wasn't expecting a very good reception to my Southern cooking. But the mighty hominy kernel triumphed over all expectations. I got request after request for the recipe (what recipe?) and probably -- hopefully -- changed the course of the breakfast mission at least for a while.
This morning it was my turn to bring breakfast. Little-known fact time: my mother is a chef and has instilled in (or rather, beaten into) me a deep respect for food. While I have clearly not inherited her culinary talents, I do at least have a strong appreciation for good, nutritious, quality food and the ability to make home-cooked Southern meals (who needs that fancy French shit anyway?). And, with a very few exceptions, bagels and donuts do not fall under that appreciation. With that in mind, I was definitely excited to bring a real breakfast for my co-workers this morning.
I went to the grocery store last night -- being a vocal proponent of the idea that one should shop in the short-term, for what you need in order to fix your meal, not the monthly shopping binges to Costco that result in unnecessary junk food and waste -- and bought some cream, high-quality butter, grits, hot sausage, strawberries, blueberries, peaches and low-fat vanilla yogurt. The grits -- God bless them -- cost $0.55 for an entire box and were the centerpiece of the meal. This is just one of the many, many reasons I love grits.
This morning, I got up around 6am and started on the breakfast. The sausage took about five minutes in a hot skillet before it was done and then onto some paper towels to be drained. In the meantime, I set some water (and a cup of cream) to boil in a large, stainless steel Dutch oven (this is important -- you can't cook grits with just water, or else they'll be runny and tasteless; you need heavy whipping cream or at the very least, some whole milk). While the water was coming to a boil, I cut up the strawberries and peaches and tossed them together in a bowl with the blueberries. By the time that was done, the water in the Dutch oven was rolling quite fiercely.
I added the entire box of grits along with a few teaspoons of Kosher salt and half a stick of butter. With grits, I know it says that you can simmer them "covered, stirring occasionally." That's a lie, and I don't recommend it unless you want to eat wallpaper paste for breakfast. You need to stir them constantly, continually adding small licks of cream and butter here and there for taste. When the grits finally started to thicken (which only takes about five minutes, by the by), I added the sausage and stirred it in. And that's pretty much it for the grits -- plain and simple and delicious, if a little calorie-laden by the addition of the butter and cream.
Turning my attention back to my side dish, I poured the vanilla yogurt on top of the small, glistening pieces of fruit and smoothed it with a spoon. Garnish the top with a few stray blueberries and you're ready to go.
Getting the food to the car was easy enough with Richard helping, but actually getting it up into the building was another story. I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman in the lobby -- wet hair from a hurried shower, purse on one shoulder, bag full of fruit & yogurt one the other, briefcase shoved under one arm and a giant Dutch oven held out in front of me, with bright red potholders covering my hands. And, as I've already addressed, I don't exactly look the part where I work on a normal basis anyway.
I finally made it up to my floor, after almost dropping the Dutch oven twice, cursing loudly at the weight of everything on my tiny frame and the deepening crevasses on my shoulder from the fruit-laden bag (fruit & yogurt are deceptively heavy). As I laid everything out in the common area for my co-workers, I could hear plaintive whispers of "What is that?" and "Please say we're not having donuts again." When everything was finally assembled -- butter on plate, salt in bowl, spoons and forks laid out, napkins at the ready -- I stood back and admired my work. It wasn't the most beautiful thing to behold (grits aren't exactly visually appealing food), but it was real and unprocessed and warm and breakfast.
And they loved it.
That was the best part of all. Only two people on my entire floor had ever had grits before, and only one of them actually liked the damn things. With odds like that, I wasn't expecting a very good reception to my Southern cooking. But the mighty hominy kernel triumphed over all expectations. I got request after request for the recipe (what recipe?) and probably -- hopefully -- changed the course of the breakfast mission at least for a while.
E-Mail Hell
Since one of my favorite pastimes is gently (okay, maybe viciously at times) mocking the people I work with and transcribing some of their better moments, I present you with this head-pounding-against-the-wall chain of e-mails (with all random spacing, spelling and punctuation left intact):
Katharine-
***
-Sev
Sev-
Sorry, nothing came through...
-Katharine
Katharine-
His information cannot be retrieved?
-Sev
Sev-
I'm sorry, I meant that your prior e-mail was blank -- there was nothing in the body. What do you need?
-Katharine
Katharine-
I apologies for the misunderstanding. We need a copy of Mr.Smith's elections, when he elected benefits; and / or a screen print of when (lots of blank spaces here that Blogger won't let me format) Mr. Smith benefits.
-Sev
24 July 2007
The Evils of Fashion
I have big boobs. For those of you who know me, that's as aphoristic as it gets.
I don't like having them; if it were up to me, I'd have a nice set of Bs, maybe small Cs. I desperately wish that reduction surgery was a covered procedure under my medical plan. Even though I'm scared to death of being anesthetized, I think I'd butch up and deal with it if it meant that I could wake up with average-sized babylons.
Clothes shopping sucks on many different fronts. One of those is the Hobbit Legs front. I am hovering around the five foot mark, so it's difficult for me to find pants that don't completely devour my little legs. "Use a tailor!" you say, with your 5'7" body and perfect 32" inseam. "Fuck off!" I say. The women's fashion industry needs to take a tip from the men's and create trousers that come in a variety of inseams, not just waist sizes. Also, have you ever taken anything to a tailor? No, you haven't, because you're 5'7" and perfect and are therefore blissfully unaware of the fact that tailoring pants often costs half as much as buying the damn things in the first place. Thanks, but I'd rather pay my mortgage and car note than spend $187.50 on one lousy pair of pants.
Then there's the stupid, Massive Rack front, always lurking and skulking about and rearing its ugly head every time I step into a fitting room. Adorable little tops with spaghetti straps or cute little V-necks? Say hello to painful lack of support and/or inappropriate cleavage. Summery little sundresses? Not unless you want to look like someone who accidentally left the house in their nightgown. Clean, classic button-up shirts? Not yours. Cannot have.
Those are the worst of all -- those bastard button-up shirts. I am completely incapable of wearing one unless I have the thing disassembled at the tailor and put back together, bionic-shirt style. A medium shirt will fit me on the lower torso, but I would need an extra-large to fit the upper torso (also known as the boobage area). I can't even come close to buttoning a medium over my chest; I'm afraid the buttons would shoot off and blind some poor passer-by. On the other hand, while an extra-large fits comfortably over my chest, the bottom half of my torso looks like it's been draped with a circus tent. That's when I start to get even angrier at the women's fashion industry; as I undress, glowing with anger, I wonder why on earth they think that every single woman in America has the exact same cup and band size. Shoes come in sizes. Watchbands are adjustable. BRAS come in sizes, for God's sake. WHY NOT SHIRTS? Why is it that a "small" immediately signifies a 32AAA chest? Or that an "extra-large" means you've got 36DDs?
Oh, God. I'm sorry. That spiraled into a rant really quickly. Anyway...
So, I was in Old Navy today, looking for some work shirts. I was close to the dreaded button-up shirt section when I saw an extremely cute, white button-up with what looked like darting in all the right places AND the bosom looked like it would actually fit me. I was overjoyed. I grabbed it in a medium and grabbed the blue one behind it for good measure.
As I buttoned up the white shirt in the fitting room, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. It fit; it actually fit. And it fit really well. The bottom half was still a little tent-y, but it was nothing that tucking the shirt in wouldn't hide. The top half fit neatly and perfectly over my chest and the clever darting underneath meant that my torso didn't look like a shapeless mess; the girls were supported and tastefully accented without being trashy. I was in button-up heaven. With ideas in my head of buying one of these miracle shirts in every color, I quickly tore it off to try on the blue one.
Hmm. The blue one is a bit snugger as my fingers work the buttons upwards. Hmm. Very snug. Wait a second...I can't button this bitch to save my life! What the fuck?
I yanked the shirt off and stared at it, the Judas Iscariot of Old Navy button-up shirts. Your little white friend worked -- why don't you? You have the same clever little darting! The same collar and cuffs! The same...oh. I see. Your label says "Classic Button Front Shirt." And your little white friend's label says
MATERNITY
The shame hit me like a ton of tiny, tiny babies. I fit perfectly...into a maternity shirt. Yes, it was poufy in the midsection, but -- MATERNITY, Y'ALL. MADE FOR GIGANTIC, ABOUT-TO-FEED-A-BABY BOOBS. I threw both of the shirts down in horror and made a beeline for the exit.
A tailor doesn't seem so bad all of a sudden.
I don't like having them; if it were up to me, I'd have a nice set of Bs, maybe small Cs. I desperately wish that reduction surgery was a covered procedure under my medical plan. Even though I'm scared to death of being anesthetized, I think I'd butch up and deal with it if it meant that I could wake up with average-sized babylons.
Clothes shopping sucks on many different fronts. One of those is the Hobbit Legs front. I am hovering around the five foot mark, so it's difficult for me to find pants that don't completely devour my little legs. "Use a tailor!" you say, with your 5'7" body and perfect 32" inseam. "Fuck off!" I say. The women's fashion industry needs to take a tip from the men's and create trousers that come in a variety of inseams, not just waist sizes. Also, have you ever taken anything to a tailor? No, you haven't, because you're 5'7" and perfect and are therefore blissfully unaware of the fact that tailoring pants often costs half as much as buying the damn things in the first place. Thanks, but I'd rather pay my mortgage and car note than spend $187.50 on one lousy pair of pants.
Then there's the stupid, Massive Rack front, always lurking and skulking about and rearing its ugly head every time I step into a fitting room. Adorable little tops with spaghetti straps or cute little V-necks? Say hello to painful lack of support and/or inappropriate cleavage. Summery little sundresses? Not unless you want to look like someone who accidentally left the house in their nightgown. Clean, classic button-up shirts? Not yours. Cannot have.
Those are the worst of all -- those bastard button-up shirts. I am completely incapable of wearing one unless I have the thing disassembled at the tailor and put back together, bionic-shirt style. A medium shirt will fit me on the lower torso, but I would need an extra-large to fit the upper torso (also known as the boobage area). I can't even come close to buttoning a medium over my chest; I'm afraid the buttons would shoot off and blind some poor passer-by. On the other hand, while an extra-large fits comfortably over my chest, the bottom half of my torso looks like it's been draped with a circus tent. That's when I start to get even angrier at the women's fashion industry; as I undress, glowing with anger, I wonder why on earth they think that every single woman in America has the exact same cup and band size. Shoes come in sizes. Watchbands are adjustable. BRAS come in sizes, for God's sake. WHY NOT SHIRTS? Why is it that a "small" immediately signifies a 32AAA chest? Or that an "extra-large" means you've got 36DDs?
Oh, God. I'm sorry. That spiraled into a rant really quickly. Anyway...
So, I was in Old Navy today, looking for some work shirts. I was close to the dreaded button-up shirt section when I saw an extremely cute, white button-up with what looked like darting in all the right places AND the bosom looked like it would actually fit me. I was overjoyed. I grabbed it in a medium and grabbed the blue one behind it for good measure.
As I buttoned up the white shirt in the fitting room, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. It fit; it actually fit. And it fit really well. The bottom half was still a little tent-y, but it was nothing that tucking the shirt in wouldn't hide. The top half fit neatly and perfectly over my chest and the clever darting underneath meant that my torso didn't look like a shapeless mess; the girls were supported and tastefully accented without being trashy. I was in button-up heaven. With ideas in my head of buying one of these miracle shirts in every color, I quickly tore it off to try on the blue one.
Hmm. The blue one is a bit snugger as my fingers work the buttons upwards. Hmm. Very snug. Wait a second...I can't button this bitch to save my life! What the fuck?
I yanked the shirt off and stared at it, the Judas Iscariot of Old Navy button-up shirts. Your little white friend worked -- why don't you? You have the same clever little darting! The same collar and cuffs! The same...oh. I see. Your label says "Classic Button Front Shirt." And your little white friend's label says
MATERNITY
The shame hit me like a ton of tiny, tiny babies. I fit perfectly...into a maternity shirt. Yes, it was poufy in the midsection, but -- MATERNITY, Y'ALL. MADE FOR GIGANTIC, ABOUT-TO-FEED-A-BABY BOOBS. I threw both of the shirts down in horror and made a beeline for the exit.
A tailor doesn't seem so bad all of a sudden.
20 July 2007
Not If You Were The Last Ride On Earth
Richard was involved in a motor vehicle accident today (hee! sounding all official and whatnot). He's okay, so let's cut to the meat of the story here.
He's tooling down Gessner, minding his own business, when this old woman blasts through an intersection (Gessner and Rip Van Winkle, the coolest street name ever) and T-bones his car. He's sent spinning into a Dukes of Hazzard-style 360 but manages to get the car to stop before it hits anyone else. His car is a sad, twisted mess. Although quite shaken and with a severly mangled car, he pulls off onto a side street and the old woman eventually follows suit.
Once out of traffic, they exchange information, the old woman apologizes for hitting him ("I guess I didn't see you there..." "Well, recklessly speeding and being about 85 years old will do that to your line of sight somtimes.") and before she drives back to whatever senior center she came from, she asks him what I think is the best question after an auto accident of all time:
"Would you like a ride somewhere?"
Richard's response: "Yeah, you know, given the stellar driving you've just displayed for me thus far, I think I'll decline that offer."
Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of crazy idiots out there. 85 years old or not, that is one stupid fucking question.
He's tooling down Gessner, minding his own business, when this old woman blasts through an intersection (Gessner and Rip Van Winkle, the coolest street name ever) and T-bones his car. He's sent spinning into a Dukes of Hazzard-style 360 but manages to get the car to stop before it hits anyone else. His car is a sad, twisted mess. Although quite shaken and with a severly mangled car, he pulls off onto a side street and the old woman eventually follows suit.
Once out of traffic, they exchange information, the old woman apologizes for hitting him ("I guess I didn't see you there..." "Well, recklessly speeding and being about 85 years old will do that to your line of sight somtimes.") and before she drives back to whatever senior center she came from, she asks him what I think is the best question after an auto accident of all time:
"Would you like a ride somewhere?"
Richard's response: "Yeah, you know, given the stellar driving you've just displayed for me thus far, I think I'll decline that offer."
Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of crazy idiots out there. 85 years old or not, that is one stupid fucking question.
19 July 2007
The Staircase
I am intimidated by the 14th floor of our building. We call it the Mausoleum due to the deathly silence -- quiet as the grave -- that greets you upon entering its inner sanctum through the twelve-foot-high mahogany doors. The air is incredibly cool and still up there; amazing considering the way that the heat rises throughout the rest of the building. The color palate -- medium grey upon darker and lighter shades of grey -- even suggestes a funereal quality. The furniture is stark and muted, and even the potted plants are those sad little breeds that have learned to live in the absence of natural light. The ceilings are soaringly high and your footsteps have a way of echoing in their vastness, even though the floors are carpeted.
Our highest-level executives work up there, in the Mausoleum. The atmosphere of the place certainly lends itself to the no-nonsense attitude displayed by the executives, who seem to have all the humor and liveliness of exquisitely-dressed undertakers. The smattering of times that I've been up to the 14th floor, I haven't heard a single conversation taking place nor have I seen a single soul roaming the hallways. I make my way, quietly and discreetly, towards my destination. There, I have only once seen the actual person I've come for. Every other time, I've left my papers at her desk and made a quick exit, afraid that my naturally clumsy or over-talkative tendencies will take over at any minute if I were to see an actual person up there.
The only time I've ever seen any of the actual executives in the flesh is during their infrequent sojourns down to the 13th floor, where I work, to ensconce themselves in the state-of-the-art Executive Boardroom. I'm not entirely sure why it's located on our floor -- I'm guessing you'd run out of room pretty quickly on a floor when the offices are the size of my townhome, though, so maybe that's why. It's a positively posh little setup they've got, all floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the entire Houston skyline -- from Reliant Stadium to the Medical Center to Downtown and all the way over to the Galleria -- flat-screen plasmas, wet bars, set of kitchens and serving areas. It takes up a good quarter of our entire floor and, I imagine, is quite impressive to the right people.
On the opposite side of the elevator lobby from the Executive Boardroom is a grand staircase. It looks like something out of the Queen Elizabeth 2. It leads from the 13th floor up to the 14th. Above it, midway between the two floors, hangs a hideous piece of mixed-media artwork that probably cost entirely too much money (as is usually the case with corporate office art). And at the top and bottom of the staircase are two ornate, gilt-trimmed, bird's-eye-maple grandfather clocks that -- once again -- probably cost more apiece than I'll make in three years. Immediately after my first of many interviews for the job, as I was being escorted back to the elevator lobby, I made an incredibly lame joke about the company's apparent predilection for grandfather clocks. It was not only lame because it was completely unfunny, but was made even lamer by the fact that I actually used the word "predilection" in conversation. (Side note: this is a problem of which I'm fully aware, thank you very much, Richard and I don't do it on purpose; inside my little cranium, I tend to think in [probably archaic] prose instead of in normal, human conversation, which may be why I'm obsessed with quotes out of everyday conversations. Did that just make any sense?)
The great thing about this staircase is that -- much like the hallways of the Mausoleum -- I've never seen a human being on it. I've used it once, but it felt awkward and wrong, like taking your shoes off at the front door of the Biltmore and just wandering about in your stocking feet, picking your nose and scratching your ass. I guess that what I'm really trying to get down to here is that everything so far seems very much for show -- and I don't mean that in a bad or negative sense. I just feel sometimes like I've been dropped into the middle of court at Versailles and am trying to slowly learn my way around. There seems to be a carefully orchestrated method to every conversation or look or throat-clearing, a million hidden intricacies and subtleties that I fear I'll never learn. There is an unwritten dress code guided by the beautiful, swan-like foreign women, to whom fashion is an effortless afterthought. And everything is cold and beautiful.
Those of you who know me (and haven't just stumbled onto my blog through some odd twist of Googling) know that I'm not exactly the pomp and circumstance type. I'm the nervous, giggly, clumsy, overapologetic type. And although I love my job, I live in constant fear of the day when my "professional" side gives way to my inner Woody Allen in a hideously embarassing and public way (yes, more embarassing than falling flat on my face in front of my coworkers or calling my mother an asshole in front of my boss's boss). I'm not cold or beautiful. I feel like an impostor most of the time.
But at least -- for the first time in a long time -- I'm enjoying my job. Who cares if I have to be an impostor for a while? A little glitz never hurt anyone, just as long as I can come home at the end of the day, throw on an old T-shirt, drink some cheap Mexican beer and get it all right back off my chest.
Our highest-level executives work up there, in the Mausoleum. The atmosphere of the place certainly lends itself to the no-nonsense attitude displayed by the executives, who seem to have all the humor and liveliness of exquisitely-dressed undertakers. The smattering of times that I've been up to the 14th floor, I haven't heard a single conversation taking place nor have I seen a single soul roaming the hallways. I make my way, quietly and discreetly, towards my destination. There, I have only once seen the actual person I've come for. Every other time, I've left my papers at her desk and made a quick exit, afraid that my naturally clumsy or over-talkative tendencies will take over at any minute if I were to see an actual person up there.
The only time I've ever seen any of the actual executives in the flesh is during their infrequent sojourns down to the 13th floor, where I work, to ensconce themselves in the state-of-the-art Executive Boardroom. I'm not entirely sure why it's located on our floor -- I'm guessing you'd run out of room pretty quickly on a floor when the offices are the size of my townhome, though, so maybe that's why. It's a positively posh little setup they've got, all floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the entire Houston skyline -- from Reliant Stadium to the Medical Center to Downtown and all the way over to the Galleria -- flat-screen plasmas, wet bars, set of kitchens and serving areas. It takes up a good quarter of our entire floor and, I imagine, is quite impressive to the right people.
On the opposite side of the elevator lobby from the Executive Boardroom is a grand staircase. It looks like something out of the Queen Elizabeth 2. It leads from the 13th floor up to the 14th. Above it, midway between the two floors, hangs a hideous piece of mixed-media artwork that probably cost entirely too much money (as is usually the case with corporate office art). And at the top and bottom of the staircase are two ornate, gilt-trimmed, bird's-eye-maple grandfather clocks that -- once again -- probably cost more apiece than I'll make in three years. Immediately after my first of many interviews for the job, as I was being escorted back to the elevator lobby, I made an incredibly lame joke about the company's apparent predilection for grandfather clocks. It was not only lame because it was completely unfunny, but was made even lamer by the fact that I actually used the word "predilection" in conversation. (Side note: this is a problem of which I'm fully aware, thank you very much, Richard and I don't do it on purpose; inside my little cranium, I tend to think in [probably archaic] prose instead of in normal, human conversation, which may be why I'm obsessed with quotes out of everyday conversations. Did that just make any sense?)
The great thing about this staircase is that -- much like the hallways of the Mausoleum -- I've never seen a human being on it. I've used it once, but it felt awkward and wrong, like taking your shoes off at the front door of the Biltmore and just wandering about in your stocking feet, picking your nose and scratching your ass. I guess that what I'm really trying to get down to here is that everything so far seems very much for show -- and I don't mean that in a bad or negative sense. I just feel sometimes like I've been dropped into the middle of court at Versailles and am trying to slowly learn my way around. There seems to be a carefully orchestrated method to every conversation or look or throat-clearing, a million hidden intricacies and subtleties that I fear I'll never learn. There is an unwritten dress code guided by the beautiful, swan-like foreign women, to whom fashion is an effortless afterthought. And everything is cold and beautiful.
Those of you who know me (and haven't just stumbled onto my blog through some odd twist of Googling) know that I'm not exactly the pomp and circumstance type. I'm the nervous, giggly, clumsy, overapologetic type. And although I love my job, I live in constant fear of the day when my "professional" side gives way to my inner Woody Allen in a hideously embarassing and public way (yes, more embarassing than falling flat on my face in front of my coworkers or calling my mother an asshole in front of my boss's boss). I'm not cold or beautiful. I feel like an impostor most of the time.
But at least -- for the first time in a long time -- I'm enjoying my job. Who cares if I have to be an impostor for a while? A little glitz never hurt anyone, just as long as I can come home at the end of the day, throw on an old T-shirt, drink some cheap Mexican beer and get it all right back off my chest.
18 July 2007
Learn Some Bloody Spanish!
As I've probably mentioned before, the company for which I work is foreign-owned. Although the North American headquarters are here in Houston, it's difficult to walk down any of the hallways and overhear a conversation that's actually taking place in English. This doesn't bother me -- far from it, actually -- I'm well-accustomed to a multi-lingual situation, having been born and raised in one of the world's biggest melting pots and it's something in which I've always taken pride.
Myself, I speak a couple of languages. While it isn't the first foreign language I learned, German is the one in which I'm most fluent. I attribute that to the simple fact that it's so similar to English -- no great feat there. I took two years of French in high school and made straight 100s (I didn't even do that well in English, for God's sake!) but to this day, I can only speak a few phrases. I understand it quite well, though. I have a smattering of Polish under my belt (thanks, Jess) and I can count to ten in Scots Gaelic (ach, but who canna?). The language that is the most useful to me, however, is Spanish.
Part of the reason I was hired here is that I speak Spanish. Again, it's about third on my list of languages in terms of fluency. That doesn't mean I'm terrible at it. It just means that I'm a little slower to respond to questions and I have to stop and collect my thoughts at times while speaking. My written Spanish is fine. In fact, I developed an entire line of Spanish communications (posters, brochures, booklets and a DVD) at my last job that were very well-received and caused a 200% increase in Spanish-speaking enrollment after its implementation. Yes, 200%. I have very few things to brag about these days, so just let me get that out of the way. Thanks.
At work recently, I was told that my Spanish is "too informal" (this was after asking someone I barely knew ¿Tienes una pluma?) I suppose that's a fair judgment, considering that the bulk of my Spanish was learned from my stepfather's family, contractors, cleaning crews and people I've worked with at community centers. I took four years of Spanish in high school, but that clearly sunk in about as well as my French classes. It's not like I sit down and watch telenovelas or Sábado Gigante to try and brush up on it, either. And I haven't taken a single formal course in ten years. So that's to be expected. Informal was fine for my last job, since my Spanish-speaking audience was entirely composed of electricians. Here, it's a bit different.
So last night I downloaded an entire podcast series on conversational Spanish. It was highly-rated and promised to teach both formal and informal Spanish, both of which I really need to brush up on. I was excited to start relearning Spanish (hey, I get excited about learning new keyboard shortcuts; I'm not exactly the epitome of cool) and was looking forward to going to the gym this morning even more than usual, since I now had my iPod chock-full of of Spanish lessons -- this was going to be the best multi-tasking I'd done in a long time.
After my first five minutes on the treadmill this morning, I switched from my standard workout playlist once I'd woken up a bit and over to the highly-anticipated Spanish lessons. What I heard coming through my earphones sounded like this:
From what I could discern, I believe what was being said was this: "Welcome to Coffee Break Spanish! I'm your host, Craig MacDonald, and today we'll be learning Spanish for the Spanish mainland!"
First of all, there is no way that I'm going to be able to learn Spanish from a guy whose Scottish accent is so thick that I can't even understand him in my native language. His Spanish accent -- God bless him -- was worse than the fake French accents that the staff at La Madeleine uses.
Second of all, "Spanish mainland?" No, thank you, I prefer not to speak with a lisp. I would be laughed out of the building -- and out of Texas -- if I started speaking Castilian Spanish all of a sudden. No dice.
I guess I need to pay more attention the next time I download random podcasts. For now, I'm just going to suck it up and purchase that stupid Rosetta Stone software. I think I can do picture = word well enough. We'll see how that goes.
Myself, I speak a couple of languages. While it isn't the first foreign language I learned, German is the one in which I'm most fluent. I attribute that to the simple fact that it's so similar to English -- no great feat there. I took two years of French in high school and made straight 100s (I didn't even do that well in English, for God's sake!) but to this day, I can only speak a few phrases. I understand it quite well, though. I have a smattering of Polish under my belt (thanks, Jess) and I can count to ten in Scots Gaelic (ach, but who canna?). The language that is the most useful to me, however, is Spanish.
Part of the reason I was hired here is that I speak Spanish. Again, it's about third on my list of languages in terms of fluency. That doesn't mean I'm terrible at it. It just means that I'm a little slower to respond to questions and I have to stop and collect my thoughts at times while speaking. My written Spanish is fine. In fact, I developed an entire line of Spanish communications (posters, brochures, booklets and a DVD) at my last job that were very well-received and caused a 200% increase in Spanish-speaking enrollment after its implementation. Yes, 200%. I have very few things to brag about these days, so just let me get that out of the way. Thanks.
At work recently, I was told that my Spanish is "too informal" (this was after asking someone I barely knew ¿Tienes una pluma?) I suppose that's a fair judgment, considering that the bulk of my Spanish was learned from my stepfather's family, contractors, cleaning crews and people I've worked with at community centers. I took four years of Spanish in high school, but that clearly sunk in about as well as my French classes. It's not like I sit down and watch telenovelas or Sábado Gigante to try and brush up on it, either. And I haven't taken a single formal course in ten years. So that's to be expected. Informal was fine for my last job, since my Spanish-speaking audience was entirely composed of electricians. Here, it's a bit different.
So last night I downloaded an entire podcast series on conversational Spanish. It was highly-rated and promised to teach both formal and informal Spanish, both of which I really need to brush up on. I was excited to start relearning Spanish (hey, I get excited about learning new keyboard shortcuts; I'm not exactly the epitome of cool) and was looking forward to going to the gym this morning even more than usual, since I now had my iPod chock-full of of Spanish lessons -- this was going to be the best multi-tasking I'd done in a long time.
After my first five minutes on the treadmill this morning, I switched from my standard workout playlist once I'd woken up a bit and over to the highly-anticipated Spanish lessons. What I heard coming through my earphones sounded like this:
From what I could discern, I believe what was being said was this: "Welcome to Coffee Break Spanish! I'm your host, Craig MacDonald, and today we'll be learning Spanish for the Spanish mainland!"
First of all, there is no way that I'm going to be able to learn Spanish from a guy whose Scottish accent is so thick that I can't even understand him in my native language. His Spanish accent -- God bless him -- was worse than the fake French accents that the staff at La Madeleine uses.
Second of all, "Spanish mainland?" No, thank you, I prefer not to speak with a lisp. I would be laughed out of the building -- and out of Texas -- if I started speaking Castilian Spanish all of a sudden. No dice.
I guess I need to pay more attention the next time I download random podcasts. For now, I'm just going to suck it up and purchase that stupid Rosetta Stone software. I think I can do picture = word well enough. We'll see how that goes.
17 July 2007
I Can Has Cheezburger?
I don't care if you think it's old and busted. I don't care that it's been steadily amusing me for two years now and should have worn off ages ago. I still love this site: I Can Has Cheezburger?
But what I love even more is The Cheezburger Factory. Here, when bored and indulgent, I can create even more useless lolcat jpegs with which to burden my hard drive and annoy my friends. To whit:
I should probably get back to work now.
13 July 2007
We Have Another WINNAR!
My parents are in New York right now on a shopping excursion. This spells trouble in ways too legion to enumerate here. Let's just get to the quote of the week:
Me: What did you do this morning?
Ralph (my dad): Oh, your mother dragged me to some store...
Me: What was it called?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: ...what?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: There's a store called Herpes? And you went to it?
Mother (shouting in the background): HERMES, DUMBASS.
Ralph: Oh, "her-meees."
Me: I think you mean "er-mez."
Ralph: Whatever. You're both assholes.
Well, pronunciation issues aside, he's got a point. Also, do you see now where I get this from?
Me: What did you do this morning?
Ralph (my dad): Oh, your mother dragged me to some store...
Me: What was it called?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: ...what?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: There's a store called Herpes? And you went to it?
Mother (shouting in the background): HERMES, DUMBASS.
Ralph: Oh, "her-meees."
Me: I think you mean "er-mez."
Ralph: Whatever. You're both assholes.
Well, pronunciation issues aside, he's got a point. Also, do you see now where I get this from?
11 July 2007
What Your Friendly HR Department Really Thinks Of You
During the course of a five-and-a-half-hour budget review meeting today:
Trust me, people. It's all true.
Actuary: You've got a really large ongoing claim out in California.Later on:
HR Director: Oh, really? How much?
Actuary: At least $200,000 over stop loss.
HR Director: What's the diagnosis?
Actuary: I'm not sure.
HR Analyst: Let's see...right here it says "lymphoma."
HR Director: That's bad, right?
HR Analyst: Yeah...that's pretty bad.
HR Director: Well, hopefully they'll die soon.
Actuary: Tell me about it.
Actuary: ...and you've still got 352 retirees on the capped plan.
HR Director: How many fewer is that from last year?
Actuary: Looks like about 30 less.
HR Director: These people really need to start dying off.
Trust me, people. It's all true.
10 July 2007
Dr. Spock Would Not Approve, My Overly-Tanned Friend
This morning at Starbucks, I had the great fortune of being in line behind a lovely specimen of the local breed of housewife:
Memorial BarbieThis yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of Rolls Royce convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won’t be able to afford any of them.
However, today she actually had Private School Skipper and Private School Ken Jr. with her. Skipper and Ken Jr. were about three and four years old. They were your typical tow-headed, Gap Kids-outfitted, squrimy younglings -- nothing particularly good or bad about them, except that they were insistently tugging the bottom of Barbie's yoga pants and whining about coffee. So, really, nothing that special. I figured they were whining because they either wanted a sip of their mother's coffee (I used to try and sneak sips of my mom's coffee when I was little...why, I don't know) or they were bored and wanted to move on to the next destination.
Then, Barbie blew my mind.
She approached the counter and in her high-pitched, giggly little girl voice, she ordered a venti-something-extremely-convoluted for herself and two tall milks, steamed, with a shot of espresso and caramel in each one. For her three-year-old and four-year-old. Espresso. With sugary caramel, just for good measure, cause she's a good mom like that.
The barista behind the counter stared at Barbie, wax pencil hovering blankly over a tall paper cup. The woman giggled again and said, "I know it's a little out of the ordinary, but y'all have made it for me before." Still no movement from the barista. Barbie continued, "You know, I just can't get through a morning when we don't all have our coffee, right? This morning they were just screaming for it! They've got to have their coffee!" Her face was a bright, blank grin. She clearly felt that she was doing the right thing here, indulging her precious children and their every whim, never mind the fact that she was stunting their growth, teaching them that whining gets you whatever you want and getting their tiny bodies hooked on copius amounts of caffeine and sugar before they could even pronounce the word "addiction." Finally, after a few awkward seconds, the barista processed Barbie's order and rang her up in utter silence, glaring at her the entire time.
I like to think that she's been hitting up the 2,300 or so Starbucks we have in a roughly five-mile radius, pulling this crap every morning at a different one and then moving on to another one the next day. She's probably thinking to herself, Wow, the service is so slow and rude at this Starbucks; I think I'll try another one tomorrow. It must be nice to be so clueless.
Then, Barbie blew my mind.
She approached the counter and in her high-pitched, giggly little girl voice, she ordered a venti-something-extremely-convoluted for herself and two tall milks, steamed, with a shot of espresso and caramel in each one. For her three-year-old and four-year-old. Espresso. With sugary caramel, just for good measure, cause she's a good mom like that.
The barista behind the counter stared at Barbie, wax pencil hovering blankly over a tall paper cup. The woman giggled again and said, "I know it's a little out of the ordinary, but y'all have made it for me before." Still no movement from the barista. Barbie continued, "You know, I just can't get through a morning when we don't all have our coffee, right? This morning they were just screaming for it! They've got to have their coffee!" Her face was a bright, blank grin. She clearly felt that she was doing the right thing here, indulging her precious children and their every whim, never mind the fact that she was stunting their growth, teaching them that whining gets you whatever you want and getting their tiny bodies hooked on copius amounts of caffeine and sugar before they could even pronounce the word "addiction." Finally, after a few awkward seconds, the barista processed Barbie's order and rang her up in utter silence, glaring at her the entire time.
I like to think that she's been hitting up the 2,300 or so Starbucks we have in a roughly five-mile radius, pulling this crap every morning at a different one and then moving on to another one the next day. She's probably thinking to herself, Wow, the service is so slow and rude at this Starbucks; I think I'll try another one tomorrow. It must be nice to be so clueless.
09 July 2007
Politickin'
Well...obviously.
1) Libertarian Party 84% (absou-freaking-lutely)
2) Constitution Party 68%
3) Reform Party 58%
4) Republican Party 47%
5) Green Party 37%
6) Democratic Party 26%
7) Natural Law Party 26%
Although I have to say I'm really quite troubled at how "Constitution Party" slipped in there. Just because I favor decreased taxes I'm all of a sudden a raving lunatic who fervently hates gays, black people, women and just about everything else that's not white, male and attends Bob Jones University? Heh...BJU. Anyway, I'm curious as how one could be both Libertarian and Constitutional; they more or less stand in stark opposition to one another: yeah, probably not gonna happen.
Your turn: ready, set, GO.
1) Libertarian Party 84% (absou-freaking-lutely)
2) Constitution Party 68%
3) Reform Party 58%
4) Republican Party 47%
5) Green Party 37%
6) Democratic Party 26%
7) Natural Law Party 26%
Although I have to say I'm really quite troubled at how "Constitution Party" slipped in there. Just because I favor decreased taxes I'm all of a sudden a raving lunatic who fervently hates gays, black people, women and just about everything else that's not white, male and attends Bob Jones University? Heh...BJU. Anyway, I'm curious as how one could be both Libertarian and Constitutional; they more or less stand in stark opposition to one another: yeah, probably not gonna happen.
Your turn: ready, set, GO.
06 July 2007
Breakfast of Champions
I got to have a super-fun conversation today at work (but, really, what else is new?). I was on the phone, perhaps talking a bit too loudly, when my boss's boss walked past my office. All she heard was this:
Me: Are you going to the doctor or not, asshole?
She peeked her head in the door slightly and, fumbling around to hang up the phone with some semblance of dignity, I quickly ended my phone call.
Big Boss: Katharine, did I just hear you call an employee an "asshole"?
Me: No! Oh, God, no. Of course not!
Big Boss: Then who were you calling an "asshole"?
Me: ...my mother.
*awkward silence*
Big Boss: That's really nice, Katharine.
So, you see, there's a reason I created an entire tag called "ways I embarass myself." The frequency with which I need to use it is just shameful, though.
Me: Are you going to the doctor or not, asshole?
She peeked her head in the door slightly and, fumbling around to hang up the phone with some semblance of dignity, I quickly ended my phone call.
Big Boss: Katharine, did I just hear you call an employee an "asshole"?
Me: No! Oh, God, no. Of course not!
Big Boss: Then who were you calling an "asshole"?
Me: ...my mother.
*awkward silence*
Big Boss: That's really nice, Katharine.
So, you see, there's a reason I created an entire tag called "ways I embarass myself." The frequency with which I need to use it is just shameful, though.
05 July 2007
I'm Not Planning On Going Solo
Rolling Stone recently released its list of 20 Most Annoying Songs, which I've included for your reading pleasure below. I really couldn't find any fault at all with the list, so...spot on, Rolling Stone. You still know your shit...sometimes.
Some of them make me want to cringe and/or vomit after reading only the first syllable. I mean, I saw "Mac--" and that was enough for me. I was instantly transported back to 1997, a terribly awkward and annoying time in and of itself, and to the memory of doing the Macarena at my 16th birthday party, all flailing limbs and Elaine Bennett dance moves. Why? Why???
Basically anything by Nickelback belongs on this list, I think you'll agree. For the love of all things holy, I can't understand why this band is so popular. The lead singer looks like the bastard offspring of Sammy Hagar and a quarterhorse. Not exactly cream-inducing. And the music itself...ugh. Words literally fail me. I can't describe how awful and mass-produced and insulting it is without my head caving in. Let's move on.
There was a brief moment in time where I actually liked James Blunt. My friend Julia burned me a James Blunt CD long before he hit the airwaves here and as I drove away from her house with it playing in the car, I thought, This guy isn't bad! Not exactly a strong sentiment, but I certainly didn't hate him. And then commerical radio ruined him like they do everything else. Aside from overplaying that goddamn song to death, they also exposed the sad fact that James was a one-trick pony with as much depth as a petri dish.
The only song I was sad to see didn't make the list is the putrescence that is Pachelbel's Canon in D. I would rather drive rusty nails under my fingernails than listen to that shit at one more wedding, gala, Christmas party, or anywhere else that lame string quartets with limited gig books hired by idiots who have no real appreciation for classical music exist. Back when I was still gigging (and that, folks, is officially a loooooong time ago), I always made it a point to tell the people hiring us that Canon in D was not in our repertoire and -- so sad! so sorry! -- we simply didn't know it well enough to play it from memory. I had also ripped all of the copies of the sheet music out of our gig books for good measure. I fucking hate that song with all of my being.
So, without further ado, the list:
Some of them make me want to cringe and/or vomit after reading only the first syllable. I mean, I saw "Mac--" and that was enough for me. I was instantly transported back to 1997, a terribly awkward and annoying time in and of itself, and to the memory of doing the Macarena at my 16th birthday party, all flailing limbs and Elaine Bennett dance moves. Why? Why???
Basically anything by Nickelback belongs on this list, I think you'll agree. For the love of all things holy, I can't understand why this band is so popular. The lead singer looks like the bastard offspring of Sammy Hagar and a quarterhorse. Not exactly cream-inducing. And the music itself...ugh. Words literally fail me. I can't describe how awful and mass-produced and insulting it is without my head caving in. Let's move on.
There was a brief moment in time where I actually liked James Blunt. My friend Julia burned me a James Blunt CD long before he hit the airwaves here and as I drove away from her house with it playing in the car, I thought, This guy isn't bad! Not exactly a strong sentiment, but I certainly didn't hate him. And then commerical radio ruined him like they do everything else. Aside from overplaying that goddamn song to death, they also exposed the sad fact that James was a one-trick pony with as much depth as a petri dish.
The only song I was sad to see didn't make the list is the putrescence that is Pachelbel's Canon in D. I would rather drive rusty nails under my fingernails than listen to that shit at one more wedding, gala, Christmas party, or anywhere else that lame string quartets with limited gig books hired by idiots who have no real appreciation for classical music exist. Back when I was still gigging (and that, folks, is officially a loooooong time ago), I always made it a point to tell the people hiring us that Canon in D was not in our repertoire and -- so sad! so sorry! -- we simply didn't know it well enough to play it from memory. I had also ripped all of the copies of the sheet music out of our gig books for good measure. I fucking hate that song with all of my being.
So, without further ado, the list:
1. Black Eyed Peas, My Humps
2. Los Del Rio, Macarena
3. Baha Men, Who Let The Dogs Out
4. Celine Dion, My Heart Will Go On
5. Nickelback, Photograph
6. Lou Bega, Mambo No. 5
7. James Blunt, You're Beautiful
8. Spice Girls, Wannabe
9. Sisqo, The Thong Song
10. Cher, Believe
11. Aqua, Barbie Girl
12. Chumbawumba, Tub Thumper
13. Rednex, Cotton-Eyed Joe
14. Eiffel 65, Blue
15. Crash Test Dummies, Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm
16. Meatloaf, I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)
17. 'NSYNC, Bye, Bye, Bye
18. Ricky Martin, Livin' La Vida Loca
19. Semisonic, Closing Time
20. Wham!, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go
04 July 2007
WINNAR
Quote of the night:
Billy: I don't get what's so bad about ninjas.
Kristin: Have you ever fought a ninja?!?
Billy: I don't get what's so bad about ninjas.
Kristin: Have you ever fought a ninja?!?
02 July 2007
kär-tŏg'ra-fē
Today at work, one of my co-workers asked me to make a quick map for her. Geekily excited to use my map-making skills (my ninja skills aren't in demand much these days), I whipped one up by hand and presented it to her. Impressed, she exclaimed to our other co-workers, "Look how professional this is! This looks fantastic!"
You know what, people? It doesn't matter that you don't know what cartography* is, they're called context clues. Employ them. They are your friend.
Inordinately proud of my mad mapping skills, I responded, "Well, I wasn't always in HR. My degree is in cartography."
Blank stares all around. Some coughing. And then eventual disbursement of all parties.
You know what, people? It doesn't matter that you don't know what cartography* is, they're called context clues. Employ them. They are your friend.
*It totally matters that you don't know what cartography is. Are we that far removed from a time before Mapquest that you can't fathom what a real map looks like or that there is an entire discipline devoted to creating them? Or are you just stupid? Really, I want to know.
01 July 2007
In the Golden State
To briefly explain my profile song back at the ranch, I love John Doe. Not the crap TV show with Dominic Purcell, but the singer / songwriter.
Back in the 80s, he was with the band X -- a pseudo punk / folk outfit whose lead singer was married to Viggo Mortensen -- but since then he's been all over the board, character-acting in random films here and there (trust me, you'll recognize him) and reinventing his sound over and over.
His latest incarnation is a neo-Western poet, still in love with the Old West and its promises and mysteries, but with a sound that strangely resembles Joni Mitchell and a younger Bob Dylan. It's intoxicating. NPR recently did a story on John Doe, which you can listen to here. And for your further listening pleasure, here's an acoustic version of "Golden State," which I prefer to the studio version on my page:
I love the simple, soaring harmonies and the equally simple but moving lyrics:
His latest incarnation is a neo-Western poet, still in love with the Old West and its promises and mysteries, but with a sound that strangely resembles Joni Mitchell and a younger Bob Dylan. It's intoxicating. NPR recently did a story on John Doe, which you can listen to here. And for your further listening pleasure, here's an acoustic version of "Golden State," which I prefer to the studio version on my page:
I love the simple, soaring harmonies and the equally simple but moving lyrics:
You are the hole in my head
I am the pain in your neck
You are the lump in my throat
I am the aching in your heart
We are tangled, we are stolen
We are living with things that are hidden
You are something in my eye
And I am the shiver down your spine
And you are the lick of my lips
I am on the tip of your tongue
We are tangled, we are stolen
We are buried up to our necks in sand
We are luck, we are fate
We are the feeling you get in the Golden State
We are love, we are hate
We are the feeling I get when you walk away
Walk away
You are the dream in my nightmare
I am that falling sensation
You are my needles and pins
I am your hangover morning
We are tangled, we are stolen
We are living with things that are hidden
We are luck, we are fate
We are the feeling you get in the Golden State
We are love, we are hate
We are the feeling I get when you walk away
Walk away, walk away
You are the hole in my head
You are the pain in my neck
You are the lump in my throat
I am the aching in your heart
Good stuff.
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