The basic premise of "Scare Tactics" is a little absurb, at least from the viewer's perspective. Is it really that entertaining to watch people be freaked out by completely fake and often beyond stupid scenarios? I guess there's some smug satisfaction in thinking that YOU wouldn't completely lose your shit if confronted by a "failed genetic experiment" - i.e. a midget in a rat costume.
However leave it to Japan to pervert the entire concept by taking it way above and beyond limits of reasonable restraint. Now there probably isn't anyone among us who probably wouldn't react the same way as this poor woman if two guys ON FIRE came running toward you after carjacking someone and firing weapons in your general direction.
She doesn't seem terribly relieved when she finds out that the whole thing was staged as an exploitation of her emotional response to lack of PERSONAL SAFETY. All in good fun, right? She even gets a t-shirt...and probably agoraphobia for the rest of her life.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Just Saying: Choking hazard
On the site where I sometimes shop for bras (because I need a special kind of assistance from the UK), they sell this, which both frightens and perplexes me:
Seriously?
I ask much of my bras, yes, but light bondage isn't usually part of the deal.
Seriously?
I ask much of my bras, yes, but light bondage isn't usually part of the deal.
Monday, August 04, 2008
The rest of me
I had not seen Marta, the woman I prefer to do my waxing, in several months - only because she works the evening shift on weeknights, and I had been making weekend appointments for the sake of convenience. She does an especially...shall we say thorough job, which is much appreciated in the summer months.
"You lose weight," she commented during my session last week. "Leg up now. Good girl."
People have been commenting on my weight loss a lot recently, although always in the same flat, objective way that you state obvious facts. I suppose there's the inherent implication that I look good or better than I did 15 or 20 lbs ago. "Society says it's a good thing anyway," shrugged the guy who had recently dumped me, after mentioning that I definitely looked thinner. He would go on to make the same observation two more times over the course of our attempt to be just-friends one Sunday afternoon. I realized that being thinner did nothing to make me more or less attractive to him, so why did it matter?
That's the disconcerting thing about getting attention for this particular weight loss - I can't really take any credit for it, so I feel somewhat disingenuous in accepting (implied) praise. You know how there's a running excuse among weight-challenged that they have "a thyroid problem"? Well, I really do. As in, I no longer have one. My metabolism had been on the skids for years, but now I take a pill every morning which kick starts it to a normal level my crippled thyroid could never achieve. Oh, and I can't drink anymore - which was a mostly unanticipated side effect of The Cancer. Sort of a blessing in disguise. Possibly as a side effect of the medication or my months of medically imposed abstinence, I currently have the tolerance of a 4th-grader. The last time I tried to have two glasses of wine, I felt like I might need a good old-fashioned coma to shake it off. So between the sobriety and the synthetically-boosted ability to burn calories, I have managed to drop a pants size through no real effort on my part.
I have never been what could be construed as "skinny," nor am I now. I was probably never even what's commonly thought of as "fat," even at my heaviest weight in high school. As a woman, being tall simply puts you squarely in the general category of "large" where your weight doesn't really have as much impact. "Skinny" implies that I could somehow also be "small," and there was no way of doing that. I recently told one of the guys in my office what I weigh, and he looked at me incredulously. "There's no way," he announced. "That's 50lbs more than me." I pointed out that I'm also about 4 inches taller than he is.
When I was 12, we took a class trip to Ellis Island. I chose this particular opportunity to strap one of my mother's belts around my poochy lower stomach so I could tuck my shirt in - something I never did for shame of not having the flat belly my friends did. I remember several people complimenting me during the day that I looked skinny - the highest praise you can bestow on a pre-teen, natch. Even though I got to be desperately uncomfortable over the course of the day, it still never dawned on me what a ridiculous fucking nitwit I was for doing potential damage to all of the cargo one carries in one's mid-section. And let me tell you - crushing your abdomen under the unforgiving restriction of a gingham belt is not without consequences. I had what we charmingly referred to in my family as "the trots" for two days following this little adventure in body sculpting. Sometimes I wonder if I managed to rearrange my organs - Is my spleen warped? Is one of my ovaries stuck in my gall bladder? Certainly people have done more self-destructive things in the name of vanity, but this has always been my pinnacle of lunacy for the sake of appearances.
After college I made a conscious effort to eat better - I kicked my Wendy's habit, embraced portion control and learned that low-fat dairy products are in no way offensive. As a result my weight leveled off, and while I was certainly still Large by virtue of my height, my horizontal size had stablized in the "average" range - or so says my MySpace profile, anyway. I feel no need apologize for being a size 14 in jeans anymore than being a size 11 in shoes. None of the resolutions I've made in the last several years have involved my weight - lately, they're more along the lines of "buy new cookware" or "stop saying 'retarded'."
Except now I have even casual acquantainces mentioning how thin I am, and I can't help but thinking, "How fat did you think I was before?"
The downside of being the thinnest I have in my adult life is feeling a strange paranoia about gaining the weight back. It snuck off when I wasn't paying attention, so what's to prevent it from making a return while I'm less than vigilant? I'm being forced to think about something that I had happily designated a Non-Issue.
I still don't tuck my shirts in, by the way. Some things never change.
"You lose weight," she commented during my session last week. "Leg up now. Good girl."
People have been commenting on my weight loss a lot recently, although always in the same flat, objective way that you state obvious facts. I suppose there's the inherent implication that I look good or better than I did 15 or 20 lbs ago. "Society says it's a good thing anyway," shrugged the guy who had recently dumped me, after mentioning that I definitely looked thinner. He would go on to make the same observation two more times over the course of our attempt to be just-friends one Sunday afternoon. I realized that being thinner did nothing to make me more or less attractive to him, so why did it matter?
That's the disconcerting thing about getting attention for this particular weight loss - I can't really take any credit for it, so I feel somewhat disingenuous in accepting (implied) praise. You know how there's a running excuse among weight-challenged that they have "a thyroid problem"? Well, I really do. As in, I no longer have one. My metabolism had been on the skids for years, but now I take a pill every morning which kick starts it to a normal level my crippled thyroid could never achieve. Oh, and I can't drink anymore - which was a mostly unanticipated side effect of The Cancer. Sort of a blessing in disguise. Possibly as a side effect of the medication or my months of medically imposed abstinence, I currently have the tolerance of a 4th-grader. The last time I tried to have two glasses of wine, I felt like I might need a good old-fashioned coma to shake it off. So between the sobriety and the synthetically-boosted ability to burn calories, I have managed to drop a pants size through no real effort on my part.
I have never been what could be construed as "skinny," nor am I now. I was probably never even what's commonly thought of as "fat," even at my heaviest weight in high school. As a woman, being tall simply puts you squarely in the general category of "large" where your weight doesn't really have as much impact. "Skinny" implies that I could somehow also be "small," and there was no way of doing that. I recently told one of the guys in my office what I weigh, and he looked at me incredulously. "There's no way," he announced. "That's 50lbs more than me." I pointed out that I'm also about 4 inches taller than he is.
When I was 12, we took a class trip to Ellis Island. I chose this particular opportunity to strap one of my mother's belts around my poochy lower stomach so I could tuck my shirt in - something I never did for shame of not having the flat belly my friends did. I remember several people complimenting me during the day that I looked skinny - the highest praise you can bestow on a pre-teen, natch. Even though I got to be desperately uncomfortable over the course of the day, it still never dawned on me what a ridiculous fucking nitwit I was for doing potential damage to all of the cargo one carries in one's mid-section. And let me tell you - crushing your abdomen under the unforgiving restriction of a gingham belt is not without consequences. I had what we charmingly referred to in my family as "the trots" for two days following this little adventure in body sculpting. Sometimes I wonder if I managed to rearrange my organs - Is my spleen warped? Is one of my ovaries stuck in my gall bladder? Certainly people have done more self-destructive things in the name of vanity, but this has always been my pinnacle of lunacy for the sake of appearances.
After college I made a conscious effort to eat better - I kicked my Wendy's habit, embraced portion control and learned that low-fat dairy products are in no way offensive. As a result my weight leveled off, and while I was certainly still Large by virtue of my height, my horizontal size had stablized in the "average" range - or so says my MySpace profile, anyway. I feel no need apologize for being a size 14 in jeans anymore than being a size 11 in shoes. None of the resolutions I've made in the last several years have involved my weight - lately, they're more along the lines of "buy new cookware" or "stop saying 'retarded'."
Except now I have even casual acquantainces mentioning how thin I am, and I can't help but thinking, "How fat did you think I was before?"
The downside of being the thinnest I have in my adult life is feeling a strange paranoia about gaining the weight back. It snuck off when I wasn't paying attention, so what's to prevent it from making a return while I'm less than vigilant? I'm being forced to think about something that I had happily designated a Non-Issue.
I still don't tuck my shirts in, by the way. Some things never change.
Friday, August 01, 2008
29 Dimensions of Evil
I've decided that I'm not comfortable with eHarmony.
My primary reason for this is the obvious – people that require a 40-question survey to find someone suitable for a relationship don’t need to be validated or encouraged to breed. These are the same singles that shake their fist at the sky with one hand while the other clutches a dog-eared copy of The Rules. They just can’t understand why it’s not working out. After all, they know exactly what they want - right down to the percentage of time their ideal partner ought to spend thinking about lawn fertilizer.
Enter Dr. Neil Clark Warren (and do we really believe he's a doctor in any legitimate sense?) acting as the shepherd of lonely hearts everywhere, guiding the lost and lovelorn into satisfying, nurturing, heterosexual relationships (read: marriage - living in sin is not eHarmonious). But live and let live, right? What do I care if a website wants to get some aggressively rigid people hitched? As long as they pair up with each other, fewer of them are left to intermingle with the general population.
On the other hand, more and more I notice how subversive the eHarmony message really is. That’s right - I'm on to you, Dr. Neil, and your propaganda machine. Something about all the shiny, happy, racially matched couples in the commercials is starting to look very Orwellian, is it not? Big Brother wants you to get on with the business of socially-approved mating and populating The Nation. Your life is empty and meaningless - find your pre-screened, genetically suitable mate today! Work is good! Resistance is futile! Soylent green is people! Pretty soon we're all going to be assigned numbers, sent off to gender-specific work camps and living under the rule of androids. So maybe that's a little dramatic, but it's a slippery slope - especially given that we live in a time when our rights to bring shampoo aboard an airplane are under attack.
It's also worth pointing out that the whole foundation of the eHarmony process is false: "We match you based on 29 dimensions of compatibility." Let's face it - most people don't have 29 dimensions. None of the people I know have more than two or three. If you do have 29 dimensions, then it's a probably safe bet you also yell obscenities at strangers and wear your underwear outside your clothes. Stay right there - the bus for the group home will be picking you up shortly. Try this experiment: find someone in your general vicinity and ask him to tell you 29 things about himself. I guarantee that by the time he reaches number 7, he's saying things like "I like beer pong" or "I own the Foreigner box set."
Have we all gotten so jaded as a culture that we no longer trust ourselves to decide whether or not we get along with someone well enough to engage in a relationship? Has the day come when we need to have a computer program determine this for us, based on whether we like “slapstick” or “gentle” humor? There is no option to select “dead baby jokes” which eliminates most of the people that I personally would find compatible.
The other premise of their “matching system” is also laughable. According to Dr. Neil, we can only find The Right Person by showing them "who you really are at the very deepest level." This makes me think of the moment in the V miniseries when the aliens peeled their skin off, revealing who they really were at the very deepest level: EVIL LIZARDS FROM SPACE! Think about the last few people you even remotely considered seeing naked - did you really want to know who they were at the Very. Deepest. Level? Probably not. For that very reason, most of us have enough common sense to keep our crazy to ourselves. Quite frankly, I don't even want to know who I really am at the very deepest level - I'm sure it's a cold, dark pit of dysfunction. Let's not even think about it. For that reason, I'm keeping my reptilian sheen under wraps, thank you very much. Is it really the best idea to wear your damage on your sleeve for the sake of dating efficiency? That’s like being introduced to someone and saying, "Hi, I'm Terry, and I have deep-seated issues with abandonment and an unresolved attachment to my mother. Are you free this weekend?" Trust me when I say that your deepest levels need to be kept away from the masses whenever possible if we’re all expected to deal with each other on a daily basis.
Despite the assertions of the eHarmony ads, there is not “someone who’s been waiting for you since the day you were born.” Besides being more than a little creepy, it promotes the false notion that two people can be snapped together like Legos, assuming that their tic marks in a survey match up. That being the case, I'd even like to start a campaign here and now to champion the superficial relationship. One which might not lead to marriage! One based on only 1 or 2 dimensions of compatibility! There’s something to be said for simply – and this is crazy, so bear with me – getting to know someone in order to ascertain his or her suitability as a mate. Or maybe even just suitability for hanging out and watching the SciFi Channel. Let’s all try to have fewer relationship requirements beyond “Not a convicted felon” and “Makes a genuine effort,” and maybe we have a chance to beat Dr. Neil at his own game.
My primary reason for this is the obvious – people that require a 40-question survey to find someone suitable for a relationship don’t need to be validated or encouraged to breed. These are the same singles that shake their fist at the sky with one hand while the other clutches a dog-eared copy of The Rules. They just can’t understand why it’s not working out. After all, they know exactly what they want - right down to the percentage of time their ideal partner ought to spend thinking about lawn fertilizer.
Enter Dr. Neil Clark Warren (and do we really believe he's a doctor in any legitimate sense?) acting as the shepherd of lonely hearts everywhere, guiding the lost and lovelorn into satisfying, nurturing, heterosexual relationships (read: marriage - living in sin is not eHarmonious). But live and let live, right? What do I care if a website wants to get some aggressively rigid people hitched? As long as they pair up with each other, fewer of them are left to intermingle with the general population.
On the other hand, more and more I notice how subversive the eHarmony message really is. That’s right - I'm on to you, Dr. Neil, and your propaganda machine. Something about all the shiny, happy, racially matched couples in the commercials is starting to look very Orwellian, is it not? Big Brother wants you to get on with the business of socially-approved mating and populating The Nation. Your life is empty and meaningless - find your pre-screened, genetically suitable mate today! Work is good! Resistance is futile! Soylent green is people! Pretty soon we're all going to be assigned numbers, sent off to gender-specific work camps and living under the rule of androids. So maybe that's a little dramatic, but it's a slippery slope - especially given that we live in a time when our rights to bring shampoo aboard an airplane are under attack.
It's also worth pointing out that the whole foundation of the eHarmony process is false: "We match you based on 29 dimensions of compatibility." Let's face it - most people don't have 29 dimensions. None of the people I know have more than two or three. If you do have 29 dimensions, then it's a probably safe bet you also yell obscenities at strangers and wear your underwear outside your clothes. Stay right there - the bus for the group home will be picking you up shortly. Try this experiment: find someone in your general vicinity and ask him to tell you 29 things about himself. I guarantee that by the time he reaches number 7, he's saying things like "I like beer pong" or "I own the Foreigner box set."
Have we all gotten so jaded as a culture that we no longer trust ourselves to decide whether or not we get along with someone well enough to engage in a relationship? Has the day come when we need to have a computer program determine this for us, based on whether we like “slapstick” or “gentle” humor? There is no option to select “dead baby jokes” which eliminates most of the people that I personally would find compatible.
The other premise of their “matching system” is also laughable. According to Dr. Neil, we can only find The Right Person by showing them "who you really are at the very deepest level." This makes me think of the moment in the V miniseries when the aliens peeled their skin off, revealing who they really were at the very deepest level: EVIL LIZARDS FROM SPACE! Think about the last few people you even remotely considered seeing naked - did you really want to know who they were at the Very. Deepest. Level? Probably not. For that very reason, most of us have enough common sense to keep our crazy to ourselves. Quite frankly, I don't even want to know who I really am at the very deepest level - I'm sure it's a cold, dark pit of dysfunction. Let's not even think about it. For that reason, I'm keeping my reptilian sheen under wraps, thank you very much. Is it really the best idea to wear your damage on your sleeve for the sake of dating efficiency? That’s like being introduced to someone and saying, "Hi, I'm Terry, and I have deep-seated issues with abandonment and an unresolved attachment to my mother. Are you free this weekend?" Trust me when I say that your deepest levels need to be kept away from the masses whenever possible if we’re all expected to deal with each other on a daily basis.
Despite the assertions of the eHarmony ads, there is not “someone who’s been waiting for you since the day you were born.” Besides being more than a little creepy, it promotes the false notion that two people can be snapped together like Legos, assuming that their tic marks in a survey match up. That being the case, I'd even like to start a campaign here and now to champion the superficial relationship. One which might not lead to marriage! One based on only 1 or 2 dimensions of compatibility! There’s something to be said for simply – and this is crazy, so bear with me – getting to know someone in order to ascertain his or her suitability as a mate. Or maybe even just suitability for hanging out and watching the SciFi Channel. Let’s all try to have fewer relationship requirements beyond “Not a convicted felon” and “Makes a genuine effort,” and maybe we have a chance to beat Dr. Neil at his own game.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Just Saying: This is my office
We are a sitcom waiting to happen.
Mike: I was so exhausted, and then I got home last night and had dinner, and I was like "Shit, now I'm all awake."
Jay: What did you have for dinner? Cocaine?
Mike: I was so exhausted, and then I got home last night and had dinner, and I was like "Shit, now I'm all awake."
Jay: What did you have for dinner? Cocaine?
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Another Year
Today is my birthday, so I can do what I want.
Maybe it's a bad idea. In high school and through part of college, I used to go to McDonald's on my birthday and order the Deluxe Big Breakfast - the one with the pancakes, biscuit, eggs and sausage. That was also a bad idea, yet one that I kept up for a good many years. The only remotely edible thing out of that assortment was maybe the biscuit - god, what was I thinking?
The next birthday tradition that I instated was to wear a nice dress and get so drunk that I spent July 7th filled with stomach upset and shame (not all that dissimilar to the Deluxe Big Breakfast, actually). Anytime there are more than 3 complimentary drinks lined up for you on the bar, the night will not end well. Or so I hear. However since I how have the tolerance of a 4th-grader and no real desire to put myself to sleep at 8PM, binge drinking is off the list.
This year I've decided that I'm going to be fancy for no good reason, other than it is my birthday. So why not? James and I are having brunch (something I almost never do - as a rule, breakfast food should cost no more than $5 and be consumed before 10AM) in Soho, going shopping for things like fragrance and shoes, and then indulging in a dinner that we probably can't afford. I will wear a nice dress and probably end up dancing to Kylie Minogue at a club where none of the men want anything to do with my equipment. And that's pretty much fine with me.
Maybe it's a bad idea. In high school and through part of college, I used to go to McDonald's on my birthday and order the Deluxe Big Breakfast - the one with the pancakes, biscuit, eggs and sausage. That was also a bad idea, yet one that I kept up for a good many years. The only remotely edible thing out of that assortment was maybe the biscuit - god, what was I thinking?
The next birthday tradition that I instated was to wear a nice dress and get so drunk that I spent July 7th filled with stomach upset and shame (not all that dissimilar to the Deluxe Big Breakfast, actually). Anytime there are more than 3 complimentary drinks lined up for you on the bar, the night will not end well. Or so I hear. However since I how have the tolerance of a 4th-grader and no real desire to put myself to sleep at 8PM, binge drinking is off the list.
This year I've decided that I'm going to be fancy for no good reason, other than it is my birthday. So why not? James and I are having brunch (something I almost never do - as a rule, breakfast food should cost no more than $5 and be consumed before 10AM) in Soho, going shopping for things like fragrance and shoes, and then indulging in a dinner that we probably can't afford. I will wear a nice dress and probably end up dancing to Kylie Minogue at a club where none of the men want anything to do with my equipment. And that's pretty much fine with me.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Crush Alert System raised to code red
I spent today doing the most patriotic thing I could think of - watching both seasons of Sleeper Cell and rooting for the terrorists.
This is largely due to my long-standing crush on Oded Fehr.
Besides being a stone cold fox, Oded Fehr is one of those Safely Brown actors of indeterminate ethnicity, so he's often cast as The Arab Guy. This has a certain twisted irony since he's actually from Israel. Even less logical, he was inexplicably Hispanic in two of the Resident Evil movies - then again, he was also beefed up, kicking ass and cracking wise, so who am I to complain? He also reminds me of someone I have a crush on in real life, which is a little weird, but gets me one step closer to finalizing casting for the movie of my life.
Being that this is Showtime, the harrowing tale of an undercover cop infiltrating an Islamic sleeper cell in Los Angeles obviously requires lots of graphic sex and nudity. What's the point of being allowed to show tits and not doing it at every opportunity? So I was a little disappointed that pretty much everyone gets laid at some point (including someone's mom), except for Oded Fehr's character. They even give him a hot wife and still no action. So wrong. And then finally halfway through Season 2, he gets a few nude scenes...except that it involves torture and something sharp being shoved up somewhere very unpleasant. But, hey, I'll take what I can get. Thanks, homeland security.
This is largely due to my long-standing crush on Oded Fehr.
Besides being a stone cold fox, Oded Fehr is one of those Safely Brown actors of indeterminate ethnicity, so he's often cast as The Arab Guy. This has a certain twisted irony since he's actually from Israel. Even less logical, he was inexplicably Hispanic in two of the Resident Evil movies - then again, he was also beefed up, kicking ass and cracking wise, so who am I to complain? He also reminds me of someone I have a crush on in real life, which is a little weird, but gets me one step closer to finalizing casting for the movie of my life.
Being that this is Showtime, the harrowing tale of an undercover cop infiltrating an Islamic sleeper cell in Los Angeles obviously requires lots of graphic sex and nudity. What's the point of being allowed to show tits and not doing it at every opportunity? So I was a little disappointed that pretty much everyone gets laid at some point (including someone's mom), except for Oded Fehr's character. They even give him a hot wife and still no action. So wrong. And then finally halfway through Season 2, he gets a few nude scenes...except that it involves torture and something sharp being shoved up somewhere very unpleasant. But, hey, I'll take what I can get. Thanks, homeland security.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Overprotected
I've decided I really need to get going with this tanning business. It's now officially summer, and I'm still morgue-quality pale. I know, it's shameful.
Unfortunately, I no longer have the luxury of a roof deck on which to drench myself in UV goodness. Like most amenities at my last apartment building, the roof deck was nice in theory and a little low-rent in practice. It had fake grass, lots of oversized wood furniture and essentially looked like the lawn & garden department at Home Depot. I haven't been up to the roof of my building now, but I suspect that it's probably not somewhere I want to be while scantily clad. That being the case, this summer I'm left with laying out in Central Park, where the trade off for real grass is being ogled by tourists from Minnesota. Ah, well, so be it.
This afternoon, during my regular Duane Reade run, I realized that I need to get some sunscreen. I'm a fan of the current trend in spray-on suncreen because it meets the needs of the independent sunbather quite well. Maybe other people are capable of oiling themselves up between their shoulder blades, but quite frankly, if I could bend that way, I would have more lucrative career options.
As it turns out, spray-on sunscreen is available in the following degrees of coverage:
I managed to find a spray in SPF 10. I like to live on the edge of danger. Here's hoping that I'm not immolated on the Great Lawn.
Unfortunately, I no longer have the luxury of a roof deck on which to drench myself in UV goodness. Like most amenities at my last apartment building, the roof deck was nice in theory and a little low-rent in practice. It had fake grass, lots of oversized wood furniture and essentially looked like the lawn & garden department at Home Depot. I haven't been up to the roof of my building now, but I suspect that it's probably not somewhere I want to be while scantily clad. That being the case, this summer I'm left with laying out in Central Park, where the trade off for real grass is being ogled by tourists from Minnesota. Ah, well, so be it.
This afternoon, during my regular Duane Reade run, I realized that I need to get some sunscreen. I'm a fan of the current trend in spray-on suncreen because it meets the needs of the independent sunbather quite well. Maybe other people are capable of oiling themselves up between their shoulder blades, but quite frankly, if I could bend that way, I would have more lucrative career options.
As it turns out, spray-on sunscreen is available in the following degrees of coverage:
- SPF 4 - probably just Pam cooking spray in a different package, no?
- SPF 30 -the new standard in bare minimum sun safety. Remember when just 15 was OK?
- SPF 80
I managed to find a spray in SPF 10. I like to live on the edge of danger. Here's hoping that I'm not immolated on the Great Lawn.
Monday, June 23, 2008
May Joe bless you
It's a sad day. George Carlin is dead, and somehow there seems to be a little less honesty in the world.
As previously mentioned, he was responsible for my earliest realization that simply pointing out the ridiculousness of everyday life could be funny. Thanks for that, sir.
As previously mentioned, he was responsible for my earliest realization that simply pointing out the ridiculousness of everyday life could be funny. Thanks for that, sir.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
How to be dead
Yesterday afternoon at work, Jenny and I were discussing how we would like to be disposed of after we're dead. As you do.
"I think I'd want people to eat me," she announced. "Like, you know, have a big dinner and eat me. They could have roasted Jenny or rack of Jenny or Jenny burgers."
This is extra awesome because Jenny is vegetarian. Her original plan was simply to be buried in her black & white polka-dot Betsey Johnson dress.
"I think I'd want people to eat me," she announced. "Like, you know, have a big dinner and eat me. They could have roasted Jenny or rack of Jenny or Jenny burgers."
This is extra awesome because Jenny is vegetarian. Her original plan was simply to be buried in her black & white polka-dot Betsey Johnson dress.
I had never really put all that much thought into specifics, although I definitely don't want to be buried. Or eaten, for that matter. Although for some reason, the indignity of being stuffed, dressed and put on display in an expensive box before being left to rot seems worse than having my remains marinated and pan-seared to be served with au gratin potatoes.
The preciousness with which dead people are treated has always confused me. We are, in the simplest terms, just sacks of meat with a temporary sparkle of consciousness. The whole ceremony behind the disposal of the meat-sack - whether it be to bury it, taking up (as George Carlin once said) valuable land space that we could put to better use, or burn it and keep the ashes on display somewhere to be revered - is weird and a little cultish.
So as these things go, the concept of being made into jewelry is no less dignified, I suppose. But really? Who comes up with this stuff?
What is a LifeGem®?
The LifeGem® is a certified, high-quality diamond created from the carbon of your loved one as a memorial to their unique life, or as a symbol of your personal and precious bond with another.
So in fact diamonds could literally be your best friend, assuming your best friend is dead.
The whole site is completely bizarre - moreso because they are Totally Not Kidding - but my favorite bit was in the "how to order" section.
Separate out NO MORE THAN 8 ounces (about 1 Cup) of the cremated remains and tightly secure in a plastic bag or other plastic container. DO NOT send all of the remains unless you have chosen our additional scattering option or return option. We only need 8 ounces to produce all of the LifeGem diamonds on your order.
Just to clarify - they want you to MEASURE OUT a cup of your loved one's ashes, put them in a Tupperware and mail them off.
"Hey, I love your ring!"
"Thanks - all it took was one scoop of Grandma!"
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
More Great Moments In Music Licensing
Here's something YOU oughta know, VH1: I'm going to have a seizure if I hear that Duffy song one more time.
Maybe it's not really fair to complain, though, since any small gesture by the mainstream entertainment overlords to promote up-and-coming artists should be encouraged. I have over 700 hours worth of music on my iPod, and even I'm bored. Given that I'm inundated with new music on a regular basis, I can't imagine how people with real jobs and no access to free album advances manage to stumble across anything other than what the marketing monkeys dangle in front of you.
Ah, but there is a way. Music supervision to the rescue. However, they will only take you halfway there. Like all good things, you have to work for it.
Generally I have very little patience for car commericals since (along with erectile dysfunction medication) there are few products that I'm less likely to buy, no matter how hard you sell it. I do have to applaud Kia, though, for a clever concept as well as for introducing me to Joe Purdy.
After seeing the commerical for the 30th time, I realized that I found the song endearing rather than annoying and did a little research online. Having an intense fondess for gifted songwriters, I promptly added all of Joe Purdy's albums to my collection. I can't imagine I ever would have heard of him otherwise, given that he is unlikely to collaborate with Timbaland and my refusal to watch Grey's Anatomy.
One afternoon there was a marathon of that short-lived Dick Wolf experiement Conviction on SleuthTV (yes, it's really a channel, and I feel sorry for you if you don't have it - Simon & Simon reruns!). I got sort of suckered into the show itself, but after 12 hours of hearing the theme song, I was intrigued enough to find out who it was. The song was edgy and electronic and not really the sort of thing that you'd think would lend itself to a show about 20-something Manhattan ADAs and their wacky hijinx. Oh but it works! Thus my introduction to Syntax.
Streaming episodes of Conviction are archived here, for the curious - it's really pretty entertaining.
More recently, VH1 was running an ad for it's trifecta of trainwreck narcissim featuring Rock of Love, My Fair Brady and Scott Baio is 45...And A Tool, using the inspired choice of (thanks for the chyron in this case) Ben Lee's "American Television." Solely through pop culture osmosis, I knew two things about Ben Lee up until that point - a) he is Australian and b) he once dated Mandy Moore. While I wasn't totally in love with the album after I finally listened to it, there were certainly enough good songs to make it worthy of downloading. As a matter of fact, I apparently wasn't the only one who realized there was a possible marketing opportunity here (really? you think?) - about a month after the ad stopped airing, VH1 added the actual video to its limited rotation of music video programming.
So this is how it's going to be now, I guess - we're forced to use commercials for things we don't even want as our introduction to new music. I just hope the cold hard truth of that inspires the creative use of lesser-known artists. I'm proof that it actually will entice people to purchase music by the artist in question. It does take the extra step of digging around on the internet sometimes, but when your iPod has 10,000 songs that you don't want to hear, isn't it worth it?
Maybe it's not really fair to complain, though, since any small gesture by the mainstream entertainment overlords to promote up-and-coming artists should be encouraged. I have over 700 hours worth of music on my iPod, and even I'm bored. Given that I'm inundated with new music on a regular basis, I can't imagine how people with real jobs and no access to free album advances manage to stumble across anything other than what the marketing monkeys dangle in front of you.
Ah, but there is a way. Music supervision to the rescue. However, they will only take you halfway there. Like all good things, you have to work for it.
Generally I have very little patience for car commericals since (along with erectile dysfunction medication) there are few products that I'm less likely to buy, no matter how hard you sell it. I do have to applaud Kia, though, for a clever concept as well as for introducing me to Joe Purdy.
After seeing the commerical for the 30th time, I realized that I found the song endearing rather than annoying and did a little research online. Having an intense fondess for gifted songwriters, I promptly added all of Joe Purdy's albums to my collection. I can't imagine I ever would have heard of him otherwise, given that he is unlikely to collaborate with Timbaland and my refusal to watch Grey's Anatomy.
One afternoon there was a marathon of that short-lived Dick Wolf experiement Conviction on SleuthTV (yes, it's really a channel, and I feel sorry for you if you don't have it - Simon & Simon reruns!). I got sort of suckered into the show itself, but after 12 hours of hearing the theme song, I was intrigued enough to find out who it was. The song was edgy and electronic and not really the sort of thing that you'd think would lend itself to a show about 20-something Manhattan ADAs and their wacky hijinx. Oh but it works! Thus my introduction to Syntax.
Streaming episodes of Conviction are archived here, for the curious - it's really pretty entertaining.
More recently, VH1 was running an ad for it's trifecta of trainwreck narcissim featuring Rock of Love, My Fair Brady and Scott Baio is 45...And A Tool, using the inspired choice of (thanks for the chyron in this case) Ben Lee's "American Television." Solely through pop culture osmosis, I knew two things about Ben Lee up until that point - a) he is Australian and b) he once dated Mandy Moore. While I wasn't totally in love with the album after I finally listened to it, there were certainly enough good songs to make it worthy of downloading. As a matter of fact, I apparently wasn't the only one who realized there was a possible marketing opportunity here (really? you think?) - about a month after the ad stopped airing, VH1 added the actual video to its limited rotation of music video programming.
So this is how it's going to be now, I guess - we're forced to use commercials for things we don't even want as our introduction to new music. I just hope the cold hard truth of that inspires the creative use of lesser-known artists. I'm proof that it actually will entice people to purchase music by the artist in question. It does take the extra step of digging around on the internet sometimes, but when your iPod has 10,000 songs that you don't want to hear, isn't it worth it?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Nothing on the internet ever dies
You know how we always hear that once you unleash something into the wilds of cyberspace, there's really no way to effectively kill it? It just spreads and mutates like that virus in Resident Evil, except maybe with less reanimating of the undead. OK, fine, bad analogy - shut up.
Anyway, when I was in college, I maintained a fansite for Rockapella. Yes, really. Lo and behold, I discovered this morning that it still exists.
And it's AMAZING: Rockapella Paradise
Anyway, when I was in college, I maintained a fansite for Rockapella. Yes, really. Lo and behold, I discovered this morning that it still exists.
And it's AMAZING: Rockapella Paradise
Monday, June 16, 2008
Where purpose goes to starve to death
I hate Times Square.
Contrary to what everyone might think about my cold black heart, there are very few things I actually, legitimately hate. I can't even think of what they are right now because they usually hang out in "Inoffensive" territory until they try to get all up in my face and I have to bring the drama. Hating things takes too much mental energy, and that's time I can spend watching "Law & Order."
First of all, there's a distinct lack of purpose in Times Square. No one really has anywhere they need to be. No one is motivating with focused intention toward the ESPN Zone, I promise you. There's a lot of aimless wandering, a lot of being distracted by shiny objects. Look, there's the big Cup O' Noodles with REAL STEAM, holy shit! And I don't mean this purely as a standard rant on tourists who at least have the excuse of New York City being a novelty or sorts. (Although, PS, this is not Disneyland, my out-of-town friends - I don't come and stand in your driveway back in North Dakota and impede your getting things done, do I?) There's also plenty of people who live here who get in my way. Believe me when I tell you: I walk with purpose. Even if I don't have somewhere I expressly need to be, I walk like I do. I have long legs, I walk quickly (plus, it's hard to hit a moving target). Respect the natives and those with purpose - move aside.
The other reason Times Square is even more off the list than normal is something I discovered rather accidentally. After enjoying a Henry Rollins talking show at Town Hall one night, my roommate and I went in search of something to eat. It was 11pm. On a Thursday. Late for some, sure, but this is the city that never sleeps! This is Times Square! The neon-lit, corporate-owned tourist trap where anything is possible! Surely some chicken fingers and a Diet Coke at one of the fine franchise restaurants is a reasonable goal. Sure, we were going to have to pay $15 for it, but we made peace with that. First stop: the Olive Garden - closed. Fine, ok, although I could have rocked some (unlimited) soup, salad and breadsticks like a hurricane at that point. Next stop: Heartland Brewery - closed. Seriously? What is this shit? Ok, enough with the chain eateries - we head over to Ellen's Stardust Diner. Open! Score! Although only serving dessert. It should not be this hard to get some actual food at 11pm in Manhattan. If you're going to incite the huddled masses to breathe free, at least have some potato skins waiting for them. We finally ended up at Applebee's, whose kitchen miraculously closed at midnight.
So I am done - DONE - with you, Times Square. It's bad enough that I have a lot of Stupid And Useless in fanny packs preventing me from getting where I need to be at my usual speed. But to nearly deny me edibles at a perfectly reasonable hour, oh "center of the universe"? Unacceptable. You officially have nothing to offer me, and I will cry no tears when the remainder of you that isn't owned by Disney is converted into NYU dorms.
Contrary to what everyone might think about my cold black heart, there are very few things I actually, legitimately hate. I can't even think of what they are right now because they usually hang out in "Inoffensive" territory until they try to get all up in my face and I have to bring the drama. Hating things takes too much mental energy, and that's time I can spend watching "Law & Order."
First of all, there's a distinct lack of purpose in Times Square. No one really has anywhere they need to be. No one is motivating with focused intention toward the ESPN Zone, I promise you. There's a lot of aimless wandering, a lot of being distracted by shiny objects. Look, there's the big Cup O' Noodles with REAL STEAM, holy shit! And I don't mean this purely as a standard rant on tourists who at least have the excuse of New York City being a novelty or sorts. (Although, PS, this is not Disneyland, my out-of-town friends - I don't come and stand in your driveway back in North Dakota and impede your getting things done, do I?) There's also plenty of people who live here who get in my way. Believe me when I tell you: I walk with purpose. Even if I don't have somewhere I expressly need to be, I walk like I do. I have long legs, I walk quickly (plus, it's hard to hit a moving target). Respect the natives and those with purpose - move aside.
The other reason Times Square is even more off the list than normal is something I discovered rather accidentally. After enjoying a Henry Rollins talking show at Town Hall one night, my roommate and I went in search of something to eat. It was 11pm. On a Thursday. Late for some, sure, but this is the city that never sleeps! This is Times Square! The neon-lit, corporate-owned tourist trap where anything is possible! Surely some chicken fingers and a Diet Coke at one of the fine franchise restaurants is a reasonable goal. Sure, we were going to have to pay $15 for it, but we made peace with that. First stop: the Olive Garden - closed. Fine, ok, although I could have rocked some (unlimited) soup, salad and breadsticks like a hurricane at that point. Next stop: Heartland Brewery - closed. Seriously? What is this shit? Ok, enough with the chain eateries - we head over to Ellen's Stardust Diner. Open! Score! Although only serving dessert. It should not be this hard to get some actual food at 11pm in Manhattan. If you're going to incite the huddled masses to breathe free, at least have some potato skins waiting for them. We finally ended up at Applebee's, whose kitchen miraculously closed at midnight.
So I am done - DONE - with you, Times Square. It's bad enough that I have a lot of Stupid And Useless in fanny packs preventing me from getting where I need to be at my usual speed. But to nearly deny me edibles at a perfectly reasonable hour, oh "center of the universe"? Unacceptable. You officially have nothing to offer me, and I will cry no tears when the remainder of you that isn't owned by Disney is converted into NYU dorms.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
You mean...they lost?
One of the most distinct memories that I have of growing up under the care of my dad is his favorite Hank Williams Jr song. We used to listen to this particular album on cassette (I know - old school) over and over in his car. I can't believe that I still know all the words to this day.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Just Saying: Snack Edition
"Bacon: the candy bar of meats," Tom opined over email.
"I'm getting that on a t-shirt for you," I replied.
"Too late. Where you think I first saw it?"
Oh, I don't know - apparently they sell these bad boys at Whole Foods.
"I'm getting that on a t-shirt for you," I replied.
"Too late. Where you think I first saw it?"
Oh, I don't know - apparently they sell these bad boys at Whole Foods.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Living Unicorn, Take 2
Like most little girls (and the occasional little boy - hi, Chris), I was obsessed with all things equine, unicorns in particular. I had a vast collection of My Little Ponys. I pretty much wore out our VHS copy of "Legend" (although, to be fair, Tim Curry as Satan almost trumps the unicorn factor on the scale of awesome in that movie). I'm fairly certain at one point I made myself a horn out of an old paper towel tube and some glitter (I mean, really, who didn't?) and wore it around the house.
So you can imagine my utter glee to find out that the big selling point of the Barnum & Bailey Circus in 1985 was...are you ready...a real live unicorn. I'm totally not making this up. I was so excited by the mere concept that I almost had a heart attack while sitting in the nosebleed seats at Madison Square Garden, waiting for a glimpse of The Living Unicorn. There is also the distinct possibility that I was wired on the sugar from too many Cracker Jacks. Finally, finally at the end of the whole fiasco, with lots of dramatic fanfare, a single spotlight illuminated a creature in the middle of the center ring - and it was an alpaca with a plastic horn strapped to it's head. I think it was the most anti-climactic moment I've experienced thus far. Would it really have been too much to ask that they use, oh I don't know, a horse? I have been disillusioned with the circus ever since.
Fast forward 20 or so years, and this is kind of like that. Maybe slightly more biologically valid, but come on.
So you can imagine my utter glee to find out that the big selling point of the Barnum & Bailey Circus in 1985 was...are you ready...a real live unicorn. I'm totally not making this up. I was so excited by the mere concept that I almost had a heart attack while sitting in the nosebleed seats at Madison Square Garden, waiting for a glimpse of The Living Unicorn. There is also the distinct possibility that I was wired on the sugar from too many Cracker Jacks. Finally, finally at the end of the whole fiasco, with lots of dramatic fanfare, a single spotlight illuminated a creature in the middle of the center ring - and it was an alpaca with a plastic horn strapped to it's head. I think it was the most anti-climactic moment I've experienced thus far. Would it really have been too much to ask that they use, oh I don't know, a horse? I have been disillusioned with the circus ever since.
Fast forward 20 or so years, and this is kind of like that. Maybe slightly more biologically valid, but come on.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tyranny & the blank page
OK, I admit it - I have a complicated relationship with Barnes & Noble.
For one thing, the only books I ever buy these days are blank. I like to have at least 2 or 3 blank journals on deck at all times, for some reason. It feels good to have them sitting there on the bookshelf, waiting for the future to be scrawled on their pages. Of all the chain bookstores, Barnes & Noble really has the best selection of journals. So much so that I had a hard time choosing one this past weekend - there were several leatherbound versions that I really liked. Although one of them had a big brass medallion on the cover and looked like it ought to contain some kind scripture from the Priory of Sion, so I passed on that.
I can often spend the better part of an hour picking through the assortment, since I have rather particular requirements. I do prefer lined to unlined, but that's not a dealbreaker. It probably goes without saying that I have no use for anything with inspirational quotes or fuzzy pink covers. I also pass up anything with a page count less than the King James edition of the Bible - since I can burn through an average journal in 3 or 4 months, bigger is better. I have visions of trying to store these things in 10 or 15 years, and finding the space for a series of mismatched little notebooks with 6 weeks worth of entries.
The downside is that going to Barnes & Noble also means facing my deep-seated issues with my own unrealized potential (according to other people, anyway). The Union Square megastore in particular gives me a minor anxiety attack - it is mind-bendingly huge, the stacks rising like monoliths on all sides. Being confronted with that much reading material at once is overwhelming - it always makes me consider the fact that there are more books in the world that I could ever read in a lifetime, even if my reading habits weren't limited to the time I spend waiting in airports. And, quite frankly, books make me feel bad about myself.
Someone commented to me recently that it was funny how musicians need almost no incentive to be creative, whereas writers need to "force" themselves to write. I can't speak to the former since I'm only musically employed, as opposed to musically inclined; however I certainly can attest to the defeatist struggle with words. It's my own fault (as most things are, at the end of the day) for simply sitting around, thinking about writing instead of actually doing it. There are some nights when I even have to force myself to write in my journal. I can generally only muster the willpower for that because (to paraphrase my friend Jenny), if I don't write it down it's like it didn't happen. But when all is said and done, my journals end up in the trunk in my living room. I'd really like to write something for public consumption, and it's been an albatross I've carried around for a good long time.
"You should really do something with your writing," people tell me, as though its an antique lamp that I let lanquish unused in my garage. Sometimes I get motivated and think "They're right, I'm going to sit down and really be serious about this." Then I generally stumble into a Barnes & Noble and immediately feel defeated by the idea that any book I would write has already been written by someone who wasn't an unmotivated procrastinator and with a better vocabulary. Sigh.
I need to go home and confront my journal tonight - I didn't write anything last night, although I had plenty to record. It was after midnight by the time I got home, and I simply didn't have it in me. As for writing things that other people might actually see, I'm working on that.
For one thing, the only books I ever buy these days are blank. I like to have at least 2 or 3 blank journals on deck at all times, for some reason. It feels good to have them sitting there on the bookshelf, waiting for the future to be scrawled on their pages. Of all the chain bookstores, Barnes & Noble really has the best selection of journals. So much so that I had a hard time choosing one this past weekend - there were several leatherbound versions that I really liked. Although one of them had a big brass medallion on the cover and looked like it ought to contain some kind scripture from the Priory of Sion, so I passed on that.
I can often spend the better part of an hour picking through the assortment, since I have rather particular requirements. I do prefer lined to unlined, but that's not a dealbreaker. It probably goes without saying that I have no use for anything with inspirational quotes or fuzzy pink covers. I also pass up anything with a page count less than the King James edition of the Bible - since I can burn through an average journal in 3 or 4 months, bigger is better. I have visions of trying to store these things in 10 or 15 years, and finding the space for a series of mismatched little notebooks with 6 weeks worth of entries.
The downside is that going to Barnes & Noble also means facing my deep-seated issues with my own unrealized potential (according to other people, anyway). The Union Square megastore in particular gives me a minor anxiety attack - it is mind-bendingly huge, the stacks rising like monoliths on all sides. Being confronted with that much reading material at once is overwhelming - it always makes me consider the fact that there are more books in the world that I could ever read in a lifetime, even if my reading habits weren't limited to the time I spend waiting in airports. And, quite frankly, books make me feel bad about myself.
Someone commented to me recently that it was funny how musicians need almost no incentive to be creative, whereas writers need to "force" themselves to write. I can't speak to the former since I'm only musically employed, as opposed to musically inclined; however I certainly can attest to the defeatist struggle with words. It's my own fault (as most things are, at the end of the day) for simply sitting around, thinking about writing instead of actually doing it. There are some nights when I even have to force myself to write in my journal. I can generally only muster the willpower for that because (to paraphrase my friend Jenny), if I don't write it down it's like it didn't happen. But when all is said and done, my journals end up in the trunk in my living room. I'd really like to write something for public consumption, and it's been an albatross I've carried around for a good long time.
"You should really do something with your writing," people tell me, as though its an antique lamp that I let lanquish unused in my garage. Sometimes I get motivated and think "They're right, I'm going to sit down and really be serious about this." Then I generally stumble into a Barnes & Noble and immediately feel defeated by the idea that any book I would write has already been written by someone who wasn't an unmotivated procrastinator and with a better vocabulary. Sigh.
I need to go home and confront my journal tonight - I didn't write anything last night, although I had plenty to record. It was after midnight by the time I got home, and I simply didn't have it in me. As for writing things that other people might actually see, I'm working on that.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Oh Hai, I Can Has Wabbit?
The surreal world of pet ownership, courtesy of my mother.
Flower108055: all the boys seem to be adapting to the new food
MuseGrlNYC: what new food?
Flower108055: oh
Flower108055: i forgot to tell you
Flower108055: the vet said that dave is most probably allergic to the food that he has been eating since forever
MuseGrlNYC: oh wow
Flower108055: so he wants me to give him this new food made from rabbits
MuseGrlNYC: wait...what?
Flower108055: made from dead rabbits
Flower108055: rabbit meat
Flower108055: so on the way home, i'm thinking: how can i just give dave this food and not the others - i would have to keep him locked in a room so he couldn't get to the other food dishes downstairs, have a separate litterbox
Flower108055: that's not going to work
Flower108055: so then - duh! - i decided that everyone was going to have to change their food
MuseGrlNYC: so now they're all eating dead rabbits
Flower108055: yep and loving it
Flower108055: has to taste better than that diet food
MuseGrlNYC: that's just a scary state of affairs
Flower108055: speaking of rabbits, our little rabbit is back - the one that eats the grass outside my backdoor every nite
MuseGrlNYC: well, now the cats are going to want to eat it
Flower108055: all the boys seem to be adapting to the new food
MuseGrlNYC: what new food?
Flower108055: oh
Flower108055: i forgot to tell you
Flower108055: the vet said that dave is most probably allergic to the food that he has been eating since forever
MuseGrlNYC: oh wow
Flower108055: so he wants me to give him this new food made from rabbits
MuseGrlNYC: wait...what?
Flower108055: made from dead rabbits
Flower108055: rabbit meat
Flower108055: so on the way home, i'm thinking: how can i just give dave this food and not the others - i would have to keep him locked in a room so he couldn't get to the other food dishes downstairs, have a separate litterbox
Flower108055: that's not going to work
Flower108055: so then - duh! - i decided that everyone was going to have to change their food
MuseGrlNYC: so now they're all eating dead rabbits
Flower108055: yep and loving it
Flower108055: has to taste better than that diet food
MuseGrlNYC: that's just a scary state of affairs
Flower108055: speaking of rabbits, our little rabbit is back - the one that eats the grass outside my backdoor every nite
MuseGrlNYC: well, now the cats are going to want to eat it
Monday, June 02, 2008
Roaches: Stronger Than Reagan
There is a roach in the hallway outside my office. It's large, it's a little confused and it's a resounding endorsement of the idea that roaches are The Terminator of insects.
Tony and I first saw it this morning on our way back from Whole Foods. We haven't really had a vermin problem here since the Great Mouse Epidemic of 2004, so I was genuinely eek!ed to see Exhibit A: Large Roach. It was lying on it's back in front of the ladies' room, legs and antennae flailing. It was sort pathetic and yet still gross.
"Step on it," Tony told me with the subtext being Because I'm not going near it, ew ew ew!
No. Thanks. And besides - it looked like it was having enough trouble without me crushing its exoskeleton with my Payless flats. I did wonder, though, how a roach comes to find itself the wrong way up on the floor and not smashed or otherwise still hanging in there for good measure.
"There's a roach outside the ladies' room if anyone wants to check it out," I announced to the office. Perhaps not surprisingly for my office, someone did.
A couple of years ago I would have said that it appears to be true that roaches are like Reagan - the just refuse to die. Man, that was such a good joke - I used it for a long time and, and it had so many hilarious applications. Then Reagan had to finally up and kick it. So annoying.
When G and I were coming back from getting lunch at the deli, I was quite surprised to see the roach again - it was cautiously crawling across the linoleum, past our office door. We sidestepped it yet again, since I really don't see any reason to get yuck on my shoes. Also? Ew ew ew!
I have to admire that our friend the roach managed to not only right itself (I assume no easy task) but stumble all the way down to the hall to the offices of the UNITY church. While it did seem disorientated and unsure as to why in fact it was not dead, I assume it has found sanctuary somewhere since it was no longer in the hall when I went to the trash chute just now.
Then again maybe someone from the UNITY church decided that all God's creatures aren't equal after all.
Tony and I first saw it this morning on our way back from Whole Foods. We haven't really had a vermin problem here since the Great Mouse Epidemic of 2004, so I was genuinely eek!ed to see Exhibit A: Large Roach. It was lying on it's back in front of the ladies' room, legs and antennae flailing. It was sort pathetic and yet still gross.
"Step on it," Tony told me with the subtext being Because I'm not going near it, ew ew ew!
No. Thanks. And besides - it looked like it was having enough trouble without me crushing its exoskeleton with my Payless flats. I did wonder, though, how a roach comes to find itself the wrong way up on the floor and not smashed or otherwise still hanging in there for good measure.
"There's a roach outside the ladies' room if anyone wants to check it out," I announced to the office. Perhaps not surprisingly for my office, someone did.
A couple of years ago I would have said that it appears to be true that roaches are like Reagan - the just refuse to die. Man, that was such a good joke - I used it for a long time and, and it had so many hilarious applications. Then Reagan had to finally up and kick it. So annoying.
When G and I were coming back from getting lunch at the deli, I was quite surprised to see the roach again - it was cautiously crawling across the linoleum, past our office door. We sidestepped it yet again, since I really don't see any reason to get yuck on my shoes. Also? Ew ew ew!
I have to admire that our friend the roach managed to not only right itself (I assume no easy task) but stumble all the way down to the hall to the offices of the UNITY church. While it did seem disorientated and unsure as to why in fact it was not dead, I assume it has found sanctuary somewhere since it was no longer in the hall when I went to the trash chute just now.
Then again maybe someone from the UNITY church decided that all God's creatures aren't equal after all.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
How'd it get burned??
What is it with southern California and fire? It's just not a day out there unless something's going up in flames - trees, houses...or Courthouse Square from Back To The Future. I mean, have you people no sense of decency?
Apparently the Universal Studios backlot burned down earlier today.
A couple of years ago, when Chris was working on the lot at "Crossing Jordan," we commandeered a golf cart and did our own little private tour. Our main motivation was (obviously) that golf carts are really fun, but there was the added bonus of getting to see most of the sets, evidently for the last time.
So here's to you, Universal backlot...that fake plane crash was pretty sweet. Bummer.
Apparently the Universal Studios backlot burned down earlier today.
A couple of years ago, when Chris was working on the lot at "Crossing Jordan," we commandeered a golf cart and did our own little private tour. Our main motivation was (obviously) that golf carts are really fun, but there was the added bonus of getting to see most of the sets, evidently for the last time.
So here's to you, Universal backlot...that fake plane crash was pretty sweet. Bummer.
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