Here's the thing about living alone. Whatever it is you love to do, you kinda just start doing, no matter how ridiculous or potentially embarrassing it might be. It makes me dread the day I con some lady/fella into cohabiting with me again and they get to be introduced to my bizarre..."home habits", let's call them.
One of my home habits is talking to my cats.
Okay, and sometimes I sing to them.
...and sometimes I sing songs about them, to them.
Here is a song I just composed for my elder cat, Mouse. I had just let him into the utility closet where the water boiler is, so he can make sure it is free of mice and other vermin.
Mouse the mouser
Hunting mice!
He's gonna put them all on ice!
Hunting them down!
Making them pay!
He's gonna keep all the mice far away!
If possible, try to imagine it sung to a corrupted version of the tune to the Speed Racer theme song.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Ah, Yes. My Reputation Precedes Me...
As you can probably tell, I haven't really narrowed my focus yet. I'm pretty much blogging about whatever I feel like in the vain hope that somebody will think it is interesting and perhaps I will get a comment or a fourth follower. That last blog really should have been a tweet, but it's in the past now. I'm going to tell one of my better stories now.
Something you might not know about me is that before I had a real job, I used to follow bands on their tours, or at least drive stupid distances to see them. One band that I did this for a lot is Locksley.
I met Locksley in the fall of 2007 when they were opening for...another band (more on that in another blog). I went to seven or eight shows on that tour, and at some point I met the guys from Locksley and hung out at their merch table enough that they were forced to remember me. Myspace was still relevant back then (side note: it's kind of unbelievable how fast Myspace became irrelevant?), and after the tour ended I traded a few messages with their bass player on there and we developed a bit of a friendship.
At some point after the tour I'd met them on, I'd seen them maybe once or twice since then playing one-off gigs in New York City. I somehow ended up with the bassist's phone number, which only served to further my obsession and fuel my desire to see their gigs.
I was living in the middle of Pennsylvania at the time. So, you know:
(Click to embiggen)
I should qualify that I actually did this all the time back then, sometimes even longer distances, for other bands besides Locksley. But still.
At some point in the winter of 2007-2008, they announced a one-off gig in New York at a venue called the Hawaiian Tropic Zone, which is kind of like an upscale Luau-themed Hooters on Times Square. The cover that night was just $10 and included a complimentary drink, so I reasoned that the $80 I would spend in gas was totally worth it. I didn't know how right I would turn out to be.
I arrived at the gig early. I got a metered parking space on the street immediately outside of the venue. (In Times. Fucking. Square. I have this uncanny ability to find legal street parking in places where you shouldn't be able to. Taylor Swift got her voice; I got this.) I went inside and began consuming my free beer. I was nervous because I had sent a text message to the bassist earlier in the week saying I was coming and he hadn't responded, probably because he didn't really care, but rather than consider apathy, I was worried he might have been mad at me for some inexplicable reason. When I am nervous, especially about social situations, I have a tendency to...get really drunk.
To make a long story less long, I had the luck to sit down next to a guy who was traveling on business and whose company was comping all his expenses, including alcohol. We got to chatting and he ordered me another drink or four. I don't really remember. Also, somewhere in the middle there, Locksley showed up and found me at the bar to say hello. The bassist offered to bring me one of their free beers from backstage. Just as they were about to take the stage, I ordered an extra drink before rushing to the front of a crowd of maybe 15 people with two drinks in hand. I'd had something like eight drinks or more all told, in a span of maybe three hours.
The rest of the night is something of a blur. I took something like 96 photos of their 30 minute set. (Later, when I was trying to understand what was going on in the photos, a girl I met online who had been in that crowd of 15 with me informed me that in the middle of the set, the power went out and the band led the crowd in a singalong of the Star-Spangled Banner. I have no memory of this whatsoever.) I'm fairly certain that the other 14 people in the crowd hated me and I probably spilled beer on all of them and scream-sang in all their ears, though I was unaware of it at the time. I'm only assuming this because that's what drunks do. I vaguely remember going to a bathroom in the basement, presumably after their set was over, and vomiting and getting vomit on my scarf. There was also a prolonged exchange where I sat with the bassist and kept trying to compliment him on the largeness of his eyes while he vigorously denied having large eyes.
At some point, the entire venue was empty and everyone was leaving and I was far too wasted to even contemplate driving. My car was parked out front (in my rockstar parking space) and there were of course parking restrictions in the morning. I also drove a stick shift, which nobody really knew how to drive!
Finally, one of the crew who lived in Brooklyn volunteered to drive me and my car to his house and let me sleep in his apartment. If only my mom could see me now! Getting tucked into my passenger seat by a big-eyed bass player and handing the keys to a complete stranger whose qualifications amounted to "ability to drive stick shift" and willingly going back to his home in Brooklyn without anyone I knew!
Did I also mention above that I had class at 11am the next day? And I was giving a presentation in it? And it was a 4.5-hour drive back? Because those were all true things.
I don't really remember much about the rest of the night. The guy did not rape me and gave me a blanket and a couch. I threw up in his bathroom probably multiple times during the night, and then left at about 6am without waking him and somehow navigated my way (WITHOUT a GPS) out of New York and back home.
I pulled into the school parking lot at 10:40am, with just enough time to catch the shuttle to campus and get to class on time to give an outstanding presentation on Max Weber's Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft before going directly home and sleeping for six hours.
EPILOGUE: More than a year later, I was following Locksley on yet another tour. At a show in Philadelphia, I was re-introduced to their manager. He looked at me for a second, and then I saw recognition flicker in his eyes. I thought it was because I had been to so many shows, but no. "You're the girl who got really wasted at Little Stephen's Underground Garage!" he exclaimed.
Something you might not know about me is that before I had a real job, I used to follow bands on their tours, or at least drive stupid distances to see them. One band that I did this for a lot is Locksley.
I met Locksley in the fall of 2007 when they were opening for...another band (more on that in another blog). I went to seven or eight shows on that tour, and at some point I met the guys from Locksley and hung out at their merch table enough that they were forced to remember me. Myspace was still relevant back then (side note: it's kind of unbelievable how fast Myspace became irrelevant?), and after the tour ended I traded a few messages with their bass player on there and we developed a bit of a friendship.
At some point after the tour I'd met them on, I'd seen them maybe once or twice since then playing one-off gigs in New York City. I somehow ended up with the bassist's phone number, which only served to further my obsession and fuel my desire to see their gigs.
I was living in the middle of Pennsylvania at the time. So, you know:
I should qualify that I actually did this all the time back then, sometimes even longer distances, for other bands besides Locksley. But still.
At some point in the winter of 2007-2008, they announced a one-off gig in New York at a venue called the Hawaiian Tropic Zone, which is kind of like an upscale Luau-themed Hooters on Times Square. The cover that night was just $10 and included a complimentary drink, so I reasoned that the $80 I would spend in gas was totally worth it. I didn't know how right I would turn out to be.
I arrived at the gig early. I got a metered parking space on the street immediately outside of the venue. (In Times. Fucking. Square. I have this uncanny ability to find legal street parking in places where you shouldn't be able to. Taylor Swift got her voice; I got this.) I went inside and began consuming my free beer. I was nervous because I had sent a text message to the bassist earlier in the week saying I was coming and he hadn't responded, probably because he didn't really care, but rather than consider apathy, I was worried he might have been mad at me for some inexplicable reason. When I am nervous, especially about social situations, I have a tendency to...get really drunk.
To make a long story less long, I had the luck to sit down next to a guy who was traveling on business and whose company was comping all his expenses, including alcohol. We got to chatting and he ordered me another drink or four. I don't really remember. Also, somewhere in the middle there, Locksley showed up and found me at the bar to say hello. The bassist offered to bring me one of their free beers from backstage. Just as they were about to take the stage, I ordered an extra drink before rushing to the front of a crowd of maybe 15 people with two drinks in hand. I'd had something like eight drinks or more all told, in a span of maybe three hours.
The rest of the night is something of a blur. I took something like 96 photos of their 30 minute set. (Later, when I was trying to understand what was going on in the photos, a girl I met online who had been in that crowd of 15 with me informed me that in the middle of the set, the power went out and the band led the crowd in a singalong of the Star-Spangled Banner. I have no memory of this whatsoever.) I'm fairly certain that the other 14 people in the crowd hated me and I probably spilled beer on all of them and scream-sang in all their ears, though I was unaware of it at the time. I'm only assuming this because that's what drunks do. I vaguely remember going to a bathroom in the basement, presumably after their set was over, and vomiting and getting vomit on my scarf. There was also a prolonged exchange where I sat with the bassist and kept trying to compliment him on the largeness of his eyes while he vigorously denied having large eyes.
At some point, the entire venue was empty and everyone was leaving and I was far too wasted to even contemplate driving. My car was parked out front (in my rockstar parking space) and there were of course parking restrictions in the morning. I also drove a stick shift, which nobody really knew how to drive!
Finally, one of the crew who lived in Brooklyn volunteered to drive me and my car to his house and let me sleep in his apartment. If only my mom could see me now! Getting tucked into my passenger seat by a big-eyed bass player and handing the keys to a complete stranger whose qualifications amounted to "ability to drive stick shift" and willingly going back to his home in Brooklyn without anyone I knew!
Did I also mention above that I had class at 11am the next day? And I was giving a presentation in it? And it was a 4.5-hour drive back? Because those were all true things.
I don't really remember much about the rest of the night. The guy did not rape me and gave me a blanket and a couch. I threw up in his bathroom probably multiple times during the night, and then left at about 6am without waking him and somehow navigated my way (WITHOUT a GPS) out of New York and back home.
I pulled into the school parking lot at 10:40am, with just enough time to catch the shuttle to campus and get to class on time to give an outstanding presentation on Max Weber's Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft before going directly home and sleeping for six hours.
EPILOGUE: More than a year later, I was following Locksley on yet another tour. At a show in Philadelphia, I was re-introduced to their manager. He looked at me for a second, and then I saw recognition flicker in his eyes. I thought it was because I had been to so many shows, but no. "You're the girl who got really wasted at Little Stephen's Underground Garage!" he exclaimed.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Have You Seen My Crush?
This weekend my long-distance friends wanted us to share photos of our crushes, so these are mine:
If you see either of them, please let me know where they are hiding.
If you see either of them, please let me know where they are hiding.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Humiliation is the Wages of Friendliness OR Food Tastes Better When it's Free
I get a fair amount of free stuff, mostly food, from businesses that I regularly frequent. I attribute this to the fact that I say things like, "Good morning," "How are you?" and "Have a good weekend!" and thus acknowledge the humanity and dignity in the person behind the register who has probably been treated like an order-taking automaton by the previous 25 people to come through his or her line.
Sometimes this can have unintended humiliating consequences. Like when you go off to work in the morning and don't realize until 2pm that you have a giant hickey on your neck, and you think back to all the people who gave you strange looks that day and they include:
Once I went to a music festival called Bamboozle even though I was about 50% above the median age and 250% below the median hipster-factor of the crowd. I had to go because LOCKSLEY was playing, and I don't know if you all knew this, but Locksley is the best band ever. It was cold and rainy and loud and miserable and embarrassing and made me feel older than I've ever felt in my life and there was nowhere to sit down while waiting for Locksley's evening set and finally I got hungry and resigned myself to the fact I was about to pay $15 for a soft pretzel and a cup of coffee/cocoa. (Mixing coffee and cocoa is like MacGyver Café Mocha, only you need about 4-5 of them to equal a double mocha.)
Coming from a Southern heritage, growing up I was always taught to put on a smile and be pleasant to strangers no matter how cold and rainy it is and no matter how much your back hurts from standing all day in a muddy gravel wasteland and no matter how overpriced the food is. So when I got to the front of the line to order, I smiled and engaged in small talk with the older gentleman working the counter who was totally impressed with my clever coffee/cocoa idea. I got my food and moved down to the register line to pay for my overpriced nitrites. As I was approaching the cashier, Counter Guy popped over and told Cashier Lady, "Hers is on me!" and I didn't have to pay! It is very possible that without this small act of kindness, I may have killed myself just to put myself out of my misery that day. When you think about it, that Counter Guy might have saved my life.
I also regularly get free drinks and sometimes food at the place where I buy lunch a lot at work. I know pop is totally bad for me, so I never order a drink with my meal, but if the guy behind the counter says, "Here, have a drink on us!" and hands me a fountain drink, it would be totally rude if I said, "Sorry, drinking anything other than water is super unhealthy!" so I go ahead and get 20 oz of Mr. Pibb -- just out of politeness, of course.
Sometimes receiving free things can be awkward. I understand that a gift is a gift only when freely given, so I don't want to depend on getting free stuff. This one guy is so sweet on me that even if I don't go through his line, when he sees me at the pick-up counter waiting for my order, completely bereft of beverage, he gives me a cup immediately! So now, because he goes out of his way to give me free stuff even when I don't interact with him, I feel like I have to go out of my way to interact with him! When I come in during the rush I want to say, "Hi! How are you! Good to see you! Horrible weather we are having!! THANK GOD ITS FRIDAY!!!!!" But I also don't want to disrespect him by distracting him as if his job isn't important, and making all the other customers angry because he's smiling at me instead of working. So I try to catch his eye at some point so I can smile and say pleasantries. But then if it's so busy that I never catch his eye, I am afraid when I have to walk by him again to leave the restaurant he will see me walking away and be hurt that I didn't say hi to him, and think I am just using him for the free pop.
Today the guy who usually gives me free drinks was helping another customer, and this other girl helped me instead. After chatting and conducting our business, she smiled and handed me a cup, "because I know you always get one from [the other guy]." I beamed and accepted the burden of having to drink Mr. Pibb with modesty. But then, when I went to press the Mr. Pibb button, nothing came out. I was just in the midst of mentally (or maybe quietly to myself) screaming, "Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!" and contemplating how rude it would be to ask someone to fix/restock/wizard the fountain machine so that I can have the specific drink I want that I didn't pay for, when fortunately the machine began obeying again.
Which is how I come to be drinking this delicious Mr Pibb as we speak.
Sometimes this can have unintended humiliating consequences. Like when you go off to work in the morning and don't realize until 2pm that you have a giant hickey on your neck, and you think back to all the people who gave you strange looks that day and they include:
- The crossing guard you always say good morning to on your way to the train station.
- The guy who gives out the free daily paper at the train station who you always say good morning and make small talk with.
- The barista and cashier at the coffeeshop who are so awesome that as soon as they see you come into the shop they start making your order before you even order it so you always make sure to make extra small talk with them so they know how much you appreciate the kickass jobs they do.
- The doorman who sits by the elevators at your office building who you always say good morning to.
- The receptionist who sits by the elevators on your floor who you always say good morning to.
- Your coworker who has been coming by your desk to make pleasantries all day.
Once I went to a music festival called Bamboozle even though I was about 50% above the median age and 250% below the median hipster-factor of the crowd. I had to go because LOCKSLEY was playing, and I don't know if you all knew this, but Locksley is the best band ever. It was cold and rainy and loud and miserable and embarrassing and made me feel older than I've ever felt in my life and there was nowhere to sit down while waiting for Locksley's evening set and finally I got hungry and resigned myself to the fact I was about to pay $15 for a soft pretzel and a cup of coffee/cocoa. (Mixing coffee and cocoa is like MacGyver Café Mocha, only you need about 4-5 of them to equal a double mocha.)
Coming from a Southern heritage, growing up I was always taught to put on a smile and be pleasant to strangers no matter how cold and rainy it is and no matter how much your back hurts from standing all day in a muddy gravel wasteland and no matter how overpriced the food is. So when I got to the front of the line to order, I smiled and engaged in small talk with the older gentleman working the counter who was totally impressed with my clever coffee/cocoa idea. I got my food and moved down to the register line to pay for my overpriced nitrites. As I was approaching the cashier, Counter Guy popped over and told Cashier Lady, "Hers is on me!" and I didn't have to pay! It is very possible that without this small act of kindness, I may have killed myself just to put myself out of my misery that day. When you think about it, that Counter Guy might have saved my life.
I also regularly get free drinks and sometimes food at the place where I buy lunch a lot at work. I know pop is totally bad for me, so I never order a drink with my meal, but if the guy behind the counter says, "Here, have a drink on us!" and hands me a fountain drink, it would be totally rude if I said, "Sorry, drinking anything other than water is super unhealthy!" so I go ahead and get 20 oz of Mr. Pibb -- just out of politeness, of course.
Sometimes receiving free things can be awkward. I understand that a gift is a gift only when freely given, so I don't want to depend on getting free stuff. This one guy is so sweet on me that even if I don't go through his line, when he sees me at the pick-up counter waiting for my order, completely bereft of beverage, he gives me a cup immediately! So now, because he goes out of his way to give me free stuff even when I don't interact with him, I feel like I have to go out of my way to interact with him! When I come in during the rush I want to say, "Hi! How are you! Good to see you! Horrible weather we are having!! THANK GOD ITS FRIDAY!!!!!" But I also don't want to disrespect him by distracting him as if his job isn't important, and making all the other customers angry because he's smiling at me instead of working. So I try to catch his eye at some point so I can smile and say pleasantries. But then if it's so busy that I never catch his eye, I am afraid when I have to walk by him again to leave the restaurant he will see me walking away and be hurt that I didn't say hi to him, and think I am just using him for the free pop.
Today the guy who usually gives me free drinks was helping another customer, and this other girl helped me instead. After chatting and conducting our business, she smiled and handed me a cup, "because I know you always get one from [the other guy]." I beamed and accepted the burden of having to drink Mr. Pibb with modesty. But then, when I went to press the Mr. Pibb button, nothing came out. I was just in the midst of mentally (or maybe quietly to myself) screaming, "Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!" and contemplating how rude it would be to ask someone to fix/restock/wizard the fountain machine so that I can have the specific drink I want that I didn't pay for, when fortunately the machine began obeying again.
Which is how I come to be drinking this delicious Mr Pibb as we speak.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Drug Opinions: Adderall Should Be Sold in Vending Machines Edition
If Mark McGuire has taught me anything about life, it's that hard work can't compete with cyborgizing your body and making it better than it was before. There are just some of us who aren't as good at life or its various aspects as other people, and we need performance-enhancing drugs to level the playing field.
It would be great if being "successful" was directly correlated with a person's sense of humor, nurturing qualities, uncanny ability to find an appropriate analogy for any situation, or skill at selecting scarves and hats to match one's outfit. Instead, success seems to depend more on things like punctuality, organization, and the ability to churn out jaw-dropping quantities of often mind-numbingly boring work each day. Yes, our society cruelly and unjustly privileges organized, productive, punctual folk over loving, funny, creative, and well-accessorized folk!
And lo, Shire Pharmaceuticals brought forth Adderall XR, and the people rejoiced.
Thanks to Adderall, the less-efficient, well-accessorized among us can now be successful too!
Guys, I took an Adderall when I started writing this post and then worked for 8 hours straight at my actual job instead of this blog!
The DEA says Adderall is a Schedule II drug due to its having "significant abuse and addiction potential", which sounds really scary until you remember that they also say cannabis is a Schedule I drug due to "significant abuse and addiction potential and no accepted medical use". So in other words, Adderall: Safer Than Pot!
Furthermore, is there even such thing as "abusing" a drug that makes you better in every way that society chooses to evaluate you? Does it even matter if I get "addicted" to a drug that my insurance covers and whose main effect is to make me objectively better at my job and my life in general? Is addictiveness alone reason to keep something away from us? What if strawberries were really addictive -- would we require a prescription for them just because someone might get hooked? Of course that would be silly.
Some of us are able to see a doctor and get a prescription for Adderall, but for those who need Adderall the most, this is a huge obstacle! For the disorganized and chronically late among us, who can find the time to locate a doctor, verify insurance coverage, schedule an appointment, show up to it, get a prescription, and then go get it filled at a pharmacy? I estimate it would take the average well-accessorized person at least 18 months to complete this series of tasks. All that, when we could just put the stuff in vending machines so anyone with a few bucks could improve their life, or at least their day. It can't be any worse thancigarettes candy.
Adderall: My Solution To The World's Problems
It would be great if being "successful" was directly correlated with a person's sense of humor, nurturing qualities, uncanny ability to find an appropriate analogy for any situation, or skill at selecting scarves and hats to match one's outfit. Instead, success seems to depend more on things like punctuality, organization, and the ability to churn out jaw-dropping quantities of often mind-numbingly boring work each day. Yes, our society cruelly and unjustly privileges organized, productive, punctual folk over loving, funny, creative, and well-accessorized folk!
And lo, Shire Pharmaceuticals brought forth Adderall XR, and the people rejoiced.
Thanks to Adderall, the less-efficient, well-accessorized among us can now be successful too!Guys, I took an Adderall when I started writing this post and then worked for 8 hours straight at my actual job instead of this blog!
The DEA says Adderall is a Schedule II drug due to its having "significant abuse and addiction potential", which sounds really scary until you remember that they also say cannabis is a Schedule I drug due to "significant abuse and addiction potential and no accepted medical use". So in other words, Adderall: Safer Than Pot!
Furthermore, is there even such thing as "abusing" a drug that makes you better in every way that society chooses to evaluate you? Does it even matter if I get "addicted" to a drug that my insurance covers and whose main effect is to make me objectively better at my job and my life in general? Is addictiveness alone reason to keep something away from us? What if strawberries were really addictive -- would we require a prescription for them just because someone might get hooked? Of course that would be silly.
Some of us are able to see a doctor and get a prescription for Adderall, but for those who need Adderall the most, this is a huge obstacle! For the disorganized and chronically late among us, who can find the time to locate a doctor, verify insurance coverage, schedule an appointment, show up to it, get a prescription, and then go get it filled at a pharmacy? I estimate it would take the average well-accessorized person at least 18 months to complete this series of tasks. All that, when we could just put the stuff in vending machines so anyone with a few bucks could improve their life, or at least their day. It can't be any worse than
Adderall: My Solution To The World's ProblemsMonday, October 11, 2010
Highly-Recommended Ladies: Lizzy Caplan Edition
This is a blog about Lizzy Caplan:
Aww.
I am supposed to be unpacking my apartment right now, but I was thinking about how cool Lizzy Caplan is, and decided to write about it so everyone else could love her if they don't already.
You have seen Lizzy Caplan in at least half a dozen of the best shows and movies on TV. You loved Lizzy Caplan as Janis Ian in Mean Girls. You loved Lizzy Caplan hooked on V and staking vampers in True Blood.
This was the only True Blood still I could find that wasn't NSFW.
You probably loved Lizzy Caplan in Cloverfield and Hot Tub Time Machine, but I didn't see those movies, so I can't point to the specifics. Whatever, I'm sure she was amazing. Because she's Lizzy Caplan and that's how she operates.
Whatever, I'm Lizzy Caplan. I will go blonde if I want.
What really makes Lizzy Caplan so underrated is her unlucky fate of landing a role in a quirky TV show that gets canceled after one season. WHY DO YOU KEEP CANCELING LIZZY CAPLAN, TV PROGRAMMERS?! Lizzy Caplan's TV credits include Freak and Geeks (one season), Related (one season), The Class (one season), and Party Down (two seasons!).
Lizzy Caplan has class, yet somehow made a starched shirt and bowtie seem inexplicably sexy.
How are you so cute?!
Zooey Deschanel wishes she was Lizzy Caplan. Right about now. you should all be eagerly navigating to Netflix's page for Lizzy Caplan and renting every piece of filmography she has ever appeared in. I guarantee it will be worthwhile.
Aww.I am supposed to be unpacking my apartment right now, but I was thinking about how cool Lizzy Caplan is, and decided to write about it so everyone else could love her if they don't already.
You have seen Lizzy Caplan in at least half a dozen of the best shows and movies on TV. You loved Lizzy Caplan as Janis Ian in Mean Girls. You loved Lizzy Caplan hooked on V and staking vampers in True Blood.
This was the only True Blood still I could find that wasn't NSFW.You probably loved Lizzy Caplan in Cloverfield and Hot Tub Time Machine, but I didn't see those movies, so I can't point to the specifics. Whatever, I'm sure she was amazing. Because she's Lizzy Caplan and that's how she operates.
Whatever, I'm Lizzy Caplan. I will go blonde if I want.What really makes Lizzy Caplan so underrated is her unlucky fate of landing a role in a quirky TV show that gets canceled after one season. WHY DO YOU KEEP CANCELING LIZZY CAPLAN, TV PROGRAMMERS?! Lizzy Caplan's TV credits include Freak and Geeks (one season), Related (one season), The Class (one season), and Party Down (two seasons!).
Lizzy Caplan has class, yet somehow made a starched shirt and bowtie seem inexplicably sexy.
How are you so cute?!Zooey Deschanel wishes she was Lizzy Caplan. Right about now. you should all be eagerly navigating to Netflix's page for Lizzy Caplan and renting every piece of filmography she has ever appeared in. I guarantee it will be worthwhile.
Friday, October 8, 2010
I Believe in Brilliance, Not Wizardry
There is an anecdote about a old-timey Artist Dude who people said was pretty awesome. The King or Pope or whoever was interested in hiring him to paint a portrait, so he sent an emissary to get a sample from the Artist to prove himself. According to the story, Mr BigTimeArtist whipped out a sheet of paper and free-handed a perfect. circle. (!!!)
Now, some people chalk this up to a myth or exaggeration. I believe it happened, I just want to know what his trick was. I can believe he was such a brilliant artist that he figured out The Secret To Drawing Perfect Circles the way I learned how to draw a perfect turkey by tracing my hand. What I can't believe is that he was such a brilliant artist that when his hand touched drafting paper perfect circles poured out like coins from a slot machine. I believe in brilliance, not wizardry.
Basically I am saying that I am pretty sure I could learn to draw a perfect circle by hand if someone would just tell me the damn trick.
On an unrelated note, I once told this story to someone who was completely unimpressed and scoffingly told me that drawing perfect circles was no big deal and anyone could do it and was so convinced of his rightness that I began to question my own sanity and grip on reality.
Now, some people chalk this up to a myth or exaggeration. I believe it happened, I just want to know what his trick was. I can believe he was such a brilliant artist that he figured out The Secret To Drawing Perfect Circles the way I learned how to draw a perfect turkey by tracing my hand. What I can't believe is that he was such a brilliant artist that when his hand touched drafting paper perfect circles poured out like coins from a slot machine. I believe in brilliance, not wizardry.
Basically I am saying that I am pretty sure I could learn to draw a perfect circle by hand if someone would just tell me the damn trick.
On an unrelated note, I once told this story to someone who was completely unimpressed and scoffingly told me that drawing perfect circles was no big deal and anyone could do it and was so convinced of his rightness that I began to question my own sanity and grip on reality.
You Are Thwarting Your Own Efforts
I'm talking to you, Whoever-Stocks-My-Office's-Shared-Bathroom-Facilities.
I have noticed that the paper towel dispenser is often crammed SO. FULL. of paper towels that they exert a Chinese-finger-trap-like effect on themselves.
I attempt to pull out a paper towel, but it is held in a vice-like grip by the weight of its fellow disposable hygiene products straining against the confines of their metal home. This weight, combined with my wet hands, quickly leads to me tearing the soggy paper towel into 15 tiny pieces in a futile attempt to remove it.
I am unable to dry my hands with these 2" x 2" shreds of Cheap Office Supplies brand paper towel, so I try to pull another paper towel out, with the same results. Finally, in frustration, I pull out a handful of 5 or 6 paper towels, use one of them to dry my hands, and throw them all away.
I realize, Office Cleaning Service, that you probably think you are saving yourself from having to restock the bathroom more than twice per day by giving us such an abundance of paper towels! Perhaps you are even motivated by an altruistic concern that we, the Office Drones, might be caught without drying implements!
What you fail to realize is that I am now using an average of 8 paper towels every time I dry my hands.*
You are actually forcing me to deplete the bathroom stocks far quicker than is necessary.
Please, let the paper towels have some room to breathe, so that when I need one it slides easily out from under its brethren in one contiguous piece that is suitable for hand-drying!
I will use less paper towels, feel like less of a landfill-filling asshole, and you get to stock the bathroom less often! Everybody wins!
*Also, due to a crippling addiction to caffeine, I pee at least 80 times each workday.
I have noticed that the paper towel dispenser is often crammed SO. FULL. of paper towels that they exert a Chinese-finger-trap-like effect on themselves.
I attempt to pull out a paper towel, but it is held in a vice-like grip by the weight of its fellow disposable hygiene products straining against the confines of their metal home. This weight, combined with my wet hands, quickly leads to me tearing the soggy paper towel into 15 tiny pieces in a futile attempt to remove it.
I am unable to dry my hands with these 2" x 2" shreds of Cheap Office Supplies brand paper towel, so I try to pull another paper towel out, with the same results. Finally, in frustration, I pull out a handful of 5 or 6 paper towels, use one of them to dry my hands, and throw them all away.
I realize, Office Cleaning Service, that you probably think you are saving yourself from having to restock the bathroom more than twice per day by giving us such an abundance of paper towels! Perhaps you are even motivated by an altruistic concern that we, the Office Drones, might be caught without drying implements!
What you fail to realize is that I am now using an average of 8 paper towels every time I dry my hands.*
You are actually forcing me to deplete the bathroom stocks far quicker than is necessary.
Please, let the paper towels have some room to breathe, so that when I need one it slides easily out from under its brethren in one contiguous piece that is suitable for hand-drying!
I will use less paper towels, feel like less of a landfill-filling asshole, and you get to stock the bathroom less often! Everybody wins!
*Also, due to a crippling addiction to caffeine, I pee at least 80 times each workday.
NOT Like the Award
I am not a person who is good with remembering trivial details like whether I have met a person before, and if so, what their name is. (My memory is filled to capacity with quotes from Boy Meets World and useless facts gleaned from Wikipedia.)
I try to use mnemonic devices to help myself remember names, but I continually make the mistake of relying on the person's current outfit to trigger my memory: Melissa is wearing Magenta. JOHN is wearing a JAUNty hat. STeve is wearing a STriped SThirt. Of course, three months later I run into Melissa at another party and though she remembers me, she's gone and worn blue, I believe I have never met this blue-shirt wearing person before, and everyone shares in the awkwardness of my error.
To make things easier for other persons with my particular handicap, and in the hopes of a divine karmic boomerang effect, I've come up with a standard mnemonic device for my own name:
Emie - Like The Award (tm)
Notice that I have appended (tm) to the end. I am pretty sure I invented this phrase, and have claimed all related dibs.
Imagine my horror, then, when I decided to start myself a blog to record all my incoherent rants, only to find that liketheaward.blogspot.com was TAKEN!!!
More than offended, I was in disbelief. I can imagine no legitimate use for this blog address other than to rob me of my rightful claim to Like The Award as my own personal tagline. As further evidence, the blog is "by invitation only" and I am pretty sure that means it doesn't even really exist.
I weighed my options: asintheaward was available, but clearly inferior. Emieliketheaward was also available, but let's face it - when people are trying to recommend my blog to strangers in the street, they don't have time to explain that despite being "like the award" it's actually spelled E-M-I-E and not E-M-M-Y.
Finally, out of frustration and spite, I chose notliketheaward.blogspot.com. Because I guess, actually, other than my name, I am nothing like the Academy Award. I am not made of solid gold, for starters. Neither do I have wings, or the body of a ballerina, or a giant hollow globe that I raise to the heavens.
Anyway, this conveniently provided me with my first rant for my rant blog. It also provided me with the excuse to create a running list of People On My List, starting with the anonymous owner of liketheaward.blogspot.com. If I can figure out this Blogger thing, expect to see a People On My List list featured prominently and permanently somewhere over there ---->
Which brings me to the point of this blog: I am a person who likes to rant, often incoherently and about petty things, but sometimes about Things of Gravity also. Welcome to my blog of rants. I hope you enjoy.
I try to use mnemonic devices to help myself remember names, but I continually make the mistake of relying on the person's current outfit to trigger my memory: Melissa is wearing Magenta. JOHN is wearing a JAUNty hat. STeve is wearing a STriped SThirt. Of course, three months later I run into Melissa at another party and though she remembers me, she's gone and worn blue, I believe I have never met this blue-shirt wearing person before, and everyone shares in the awkwardness of my error.
To make things easier for other persons with my particular handicap, and in the hopes of a divine karmic boomerang effect, I've come up with a standard mnemonic device for my own name:
Emie - Like The Award (tm)
Notice that I have appended (tm) to the end. I am pretty sure I invented this phrase, and have claimed all related dibs.
Imagine my horror, then, when I decided to start myself a blog to record all my incoherent rants, only to find that liketheaward.blogspot.com was TAKEN!!!
More than offended, I was in disbelief. I can imagine no legitimate use for this blog address other than to rob me of my rightful claim to Like The Award as my own personal tagline. As further evidence, the blog is "by invitation only" and I am pretty sure that means it doesn't even really exist.
I weighed my options: asintheaward was available, but clearly inferior. Emieliketheaward was also available, but let's face it - when people are trying to recommend my blog to strangers in the street, they don't have time to explain that despite being "like the award" it's actually spelled E-M-I-E and not E-M-M-Y.
Finally, out of frustration and spite, I chose notliketheaward.blogspot.com. Because I guess, actually, other than my name, I am nothing like the Academy Award. I am not made of solid gold, for starters. Neither do I have wings, or the body of a ballerina, or a giant hollow globe that I raise to the heavens.
Anyway, this conveniently provided me with my first rant for my rant blog. It also provided me with the excuse to create a running list of People On My List, starting with the anonymous owner of liketheaward.blogspot.com. If I can figure out this Blogger thing, expect to see a People On My List list featured prominently and permanently somewhere over there ---->
Which brings me to the point of this blog: I am a person who likes to rant, often incoherently and about petty things, but sometimes about Things of Gravity also. Welcome to my blog of rants. I hope you enjoy.
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