Although it seems unpossible (as Ralphie might say) that I managed to make it through a rather book-filled childhood without reading The Phantom Tollbooth, that seems to be the sad truth. (Too much time spent reading and re-reading Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, perhaps, although James W. and Christopher K. agree that it's a classic.) Powells' interview with author Norton Juster sort of makes me want to jettison the rest of the reading material stacked up on my desk and go right to Dictionopolis.
6.07.2002
6.05.2002
6.03.2002
Notes
I was planning to write something about Milan Kundera's musings on nostalgia in his New Yorker story The Great Return, but that was before I spent the day editing other people's work and fighting off impending illness. So for now I'll settle instead for two notes:
1.) Benicassim keeps getting better. B&S! Sigur Ros! Low! I'm increasingly sure that the experience will be worth trekking halfway (or so) across the globe and inserting myself into the belly of a Catalunian summer.
2.) Sloo and I once went to get coffee at the little pre-Specialty's cafe in the China Basin building and were wildly amused by the rolling hot dog machine, stamped with words advertising its contents that, as David noted, just had to be in a font called 'Hot Dog.' So I've done a search, and while I've not yet come across the lower-case, right-listing font we saw that day, I did find this, which is both Swedish and supremely cool.
1.) Benicassim keeps getting better. B&S! Sigur Ros! Low! I'm increasingly sure that the experience will be worth trekking halfway (or so) across the globe and inserting myself into the belly of a Catalunian summer.
2.) Sloo and I once went to get coffee at the little pre-Specialty's cafe in the China Basin building and were wildly amused by the rolling hot dog machine, stamped with words advertising its contents that, as David noted, just had to be in a font called 'Hot Dog.' So I've done a search, and while I've not yet come across the lower-case, right-listing font we saw that day, I did find this, which is both Swedish and supremely cool.
5.30.2002
Of heartbreak and Vancouver at dusk
It's both depressing and reassuring to learn that gay boys can be just as assholic and incomprehensible as straight boys. (As an aside, I should note here that the vast majority of the straight boys I know have been well-behaved lately, leaving the screw-ups and stupid decisions instead to the straight girls.) I mean, I'm never happy to hear about a friend being treated badly, but I do have to admit that it's oddly refreshing to be reminded that there are socially inept and emotionally cruel people spread across the sexual orientation spectrum.
On a wholly unrelated note, I find myself especially wistful for Vancouver around 9.15 p.m., when it's just passing into darkness here, and when it's still impossibly light there. And while I'd be a fool to deny San Francisco's natural charms, the impetuous part of me keeps stomping its feet and whining, 'Yes, but there are no mountains, and there's less waaater, and it's not as greeeeeeen here.'
Would that I could legally and feasibly divide my time between the two cities. That would surely be the best of both worlds.
On a wholly unrelated note, I find myself especially wistful for Vancouver around 9.15 p.m., when it's just passing into darkness here, and when it's still impossibly light there. And while I'd be a fool to deny San Francisco's natural charms, the impetuous part of me keeps stomping its feet and whining, 'Yes, but there are no mountains, and there's less waaater, and it's not as greeeeeeen here.'
Would that I could legally and feasibly divide my time between the two cities. That would surely be the best of both worlds.
5.29.2002
Oh you're bound to look like a monkey when you're old
In Nashville, loopy from fatigue, hunger, and the desire not to be standing on a random street corner waiting for a cab to bring us to Mad Hatter where we could finally finally eat (and, heavens, drink), Eric, Erfert, and I started singing camp songs. The fact that we were able to dredge these up with little to no effort speaks to the odd phenomenon of the mind holding fast to things that probably don't have much use in the wider world. Why is it that I can remember clear as day the lyrics to any song ever to hit the Top 40 at any point in the 80s but cannot easily fathom, say, basic European geography is something of a disappointment.
But maybe my brain's desire to squirrel away camp songs stems from the fact that it associates them with years in which I actually had proper summer vacations (with proper summer weather to match) and got to devote my energies to tasks like keeping my perms as curly as possible and mastering the culinary intricacies of s'mores rather than balancing my checkbook and dealing with the various stresses of the workaday world.
Longing for a return to one's childhood summers is probably exceedingly trite, I admit, but sometimes what's trite is also what's undeniably true.
But maybe my brain's desire to squirrel away camp songs stems from the fact that it associates them with years in which I actually had proper summer vacations (with proper summer weather to match) and got to devote my energies to tasks like keeping my perms as curly as possible and mastering the culinary intricacies of s'mores rather than balancing my checkbook and dealing with the various stresses of the workaday world.
Longing for a return to one's childhood summers is probably exceedingly trite, I admit, but sometimes what's trite is also what's undeniably true.
5.23.2002
Wilska's Complaint
If you really, really need to program your cellphone with the major theme of 'The William Tell Overture' as its ringtone, at least have the common decency not to leave it sitting on your desk in an office of open cubicles, ringer at top volume and voicemail programmed to pick up only after, like, six rings, while you skip off to lunch, because, you know, that's just damn annoying.
5.22.2002
5.20.2002
A question
If we accept the definition of 'desert' as an arid and generally water-less locale, is 'desert island' (as in, shipwrecked on) not a complete contradiction in terms? Or is the idea more that while the island itself (being an island and all) is surrounded by water, it doesn't actually host a (fresh)water source?
These are the quandries that threaten to keep me up nights.
These are the quandries that threaten to keep me up nights.
5.17.2002
Like a daydream, or a fever
My head is filled with words today, and half-formed thoughts, all jockeying for prime position so that I might latch onto them and investigate them further: lost, found, aphorism, Schadenfreude, the nature (and limits) of forgiveness, poetry as solace, recovery, guilt.
But I can't focus. I need to let myself be all over the place, because this seems like some bizarre treasure hunt of sorts, and I'm not sure where I'll find the next clue.
In no way is it easy to watch a friend suffer, even (or perhaps *especially*) if she's brought the suffering on herself. My instinct, countless hours of empathic listening training aside, is to make things better. But of course I can't do that here, because I'm neither the cause of nor the solution to the problem. So I do what I can--listen (and hear), take her out for wine, try not to let my own opinions and neuroses come too much into play.
There's a saying, often attributed to the Dalai Lama (although really, who knows) that when you lose, you should not lose the lesson. I don't think Val is in any danger of losing the lesson here. And although I'm not the one who has lost (knock on wood), I'd still like to believe there's something for me to learn from all of this as well.
I guess when the walls that have been surrounding your life as you know it start to crack and crumble, you can do one of two things: either stand there in the midst of the rubble and rue what you've lost, or step beyond the mess for a while, over those broken walls, and see what's there.
But I can't focus. I need to let myself be all over the place, because this seems like some bizarre treasure hunt of sorts, and I'm not sure where I'll find the next clue.
In no way is it easy to watch a friend suffer, even (or perhaps *especially*) if she's brought the suffering on herself. My instinct, countless hours of empathic listening training aside, is to make things better. But of course I can't do that here, because I'm neither the cause of nor the solution to the problem. So I do what I can--listen (and hear), take her out for wine, try not to let my own opinions and neuroses come too much into play.
There's a saying, often attributed to the Dalai Lama (although really, who knows) that when you lose, you should not lose the lesson. I don't think Val is in any danger of losing the lesson here. And although I'm not the one who has lost (knock on wood), I'd still like to believe there's something for me to learn from all of this as well.
I guess when the walls that have been surrounding your life as you know it start to crack and crumble, you can do one of two things: either stand there in the midst of the rubble and rue what you've lost, or step beyond the mess for a while, over those broken walls, and see what's there.
5.16.2002
Public ablutions
Add to the list of Things I'll Never Understand the insistence on grooming oneself on public transportation. In the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit that I've filed a nail once or twice while on (or waiting for, or cursing) Muni, but I try to do it as subtly and quickly as possible.
Subtlety and speed clearly did not interest the man performing a serious cleaning of his ears this morning on the inbound train I had the misfortune to board at the same time he did. This cleaning process--stick index finger in ear; move finger around to gather whatever substance is in ear; remove finger to investigate substance before wiping it off on shoulder bag; repeat ad infin-fucking-itum-- lasted from Van Ness to Embarcadero, which is a seven- or eight-minute ride in the best of times, and significantly longer when your train is subject to mysterious waits, as ours was.
I tried to bury my eyes in my magazine, but such is the curse of peripheral vision that the process of emptying this man's aural cavities kept seeping into the corners of my sight. I eventually wised up and turned my back to him, but I still felt queasy and creepingly annoyed.
This begs the question, do people who groom (clean ears, cut nails, empty sinus cavities in an unending series of nose blowings, etc.) in public places (especially enclosed, relatively inescapable public places) do it because they have no idea how unpleasant it is for everyone around them, or precisely because they do know, and are making some sort of statement? Further, if it's the latter, are their lives so devoid of other meaning that they're reduced to making faux political/cultural statements simply by being disgusting? This has put me in high dudgeon.
I hope Squeaky Clean Ear Man is benefiting from his newly-emptied ear canals, and I further hope that the next time he finds himself in need of such grooming, he happens to be somewhere other than on Muni.
Subtlety and speed clearly did not interest the man performing a serious cleaning of his ears this morning on the inbound train I had the misfortune to board at the same time he did. This cleaning process--stick index finger in ear; move finger around to gather whatever substance is in ear; remove finger to investigate substance before wiping it off on shoulder bag; repeat ad infin-fucking-itum-- lasted from Van Ness to Embarcadero, which is a seven- or eight-minute ride in the best of times, and significantly longer when your train is subject to mysterious waits, as ours was.
I tried to bury my eyes in my magazine, but such is the curse of peripheral vision that the process of emptying this man's aural cavities kept seeping into the corners of my sight. I eventually wised up and turned my back to him, but I still felt queasy and creepingly annoyed.
This begs the question, do people who groom (clean ears, cut nails, empty sinus cavities in an unending series of nose blowings, etc.) in public places (especially enclosed, relatively inescapable public places) do it because they have no idea how unpleasant it is for everyone around them, or precisely because they do know, and are making some sort of statement? Further, if it's the latter, are their lives so devoid of other meaning that they're reduced to making faux political/cultural statements simply by being disgusting? This has put me in high dudgeon.
I hope Squeaky Clean Ear Man is benefiting from his newly-emptied ear canals, and I further hope that the next time he finds himself in need of such grooming, he happens to be somewhere other than on Muni.
5.14.2002
Cancer, something or other rising
Damn my Yahooroscope (shouldn't that be Yahoo!roscope?) for being more or less accurate today:
Rid yourself of all regrets about the past, dear Cancer. Guilt is a useless emotion. It doesn't do any good for anyone. Your emotions are quite volatile and they are apt to emerge in sudden, unexpected bursts. Feel free to let it all out. Today is not the best day to ask for sympathy, but that shouldn't be your goal anyway. Only you can clean out the negative issues that are floating around in your own heart and mind.
Growing up, I used to read the horoscope in our local newspaper (the illustrious New London Day) religiously, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that it was never, ever even remotely close to being either relevant or correct. (I think the idea was to make the predictions vague enough that, statistically, they'd have to apply to someone, somewhere, but that someone was never me.)
Then again, I also used to read the comics every day, and with the exception of Doonesbury and the long-departed Bloom County, they were models of humorlessness. Force of habit is a funny thing (unlike, say, Family Circus).
Rid yourself of all regrets about the past, dear Cancer. Guilt is a useless emotion. It doesn't do any good for anyone. Your emotions are quite volatile and they are apt to emerge in sudden, unexpected bursts. Feel free to let it all out. Today is not the best day to ask for sympathy, but that shouldn't be your goal anyway. Only you can clean out the negative issues that are floating around in your own heart and mind.
Growing up, I used to read the horoscope in our local newspaper (the illustrious New London Day) religiously, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that it was never, ever even remotely close to being either relevant or correct. (I think the idea was to make the predictions vague enough that, statistically, they'd have to apply to someone, somewhere, but that someone was never me.)
Then again, I also used to read the comics every day, and with the exception of Doonesbury and the long-departed Bloom County, they were models of humorlessness. Force of habit is a funny thing (unlike, say, Family Circus).
5.13.2002
Anniversary
Sometimes, when you don't expect it and most likely don't deserve it--say, after thinking that the appearance of some random boy in your life is reason enough to rather unceremoniously dump the man who's been very good to you, and who, it turns out, you're wildly in love with--you get a second chance.
And sometimes that second chance changes the shape and pitch of your life so radically that you can't quite fathom what the parameters of your world might have been if you hadn't been granted said chance.
And when, in the wake of that chance, you see and feel things fall into place such that you know what you're heading into may not be easy but definitely seems right, and meant to be, you had damn well better be thankful. And I am.
And sometimes that second chance changes the shape and pitch of your life so radically that you can't quite fathom what the parameters of your world might have been if you hadn't been granted said chance.
And when, in the wake of that chance, you see and feel things fall into place such that you know what you're heading into may not be easy but definitely seems right, and meant to be, you had damn well better be thankful. And I am.
5.10.2002
Nashville
Safely ensconced once again in San Francisco, and soon to consume some sort of soy product for dinner (which I literally dreamt of while down South), I feel I should jot a few notes about my time in Nashville, lest I forget.
Lest I forget, for example, that when I asked for some sort of bread with the salad I ordered on Sunday night, I got a plate of iceberg lettuce topped with strips of fried pita. (I am not making this up.)
Lest I forget the looks of either perplexion or sheer loathing (or both) leveled by our table mates at us three Californians aboard the General Jackson showboat during its Monday night dinner cruise. Was it because we didn't understand their long-vowelled requests for swaaayt taaaay and buddher? Was it because we were already tipsy on whiskey-heavy cocktails when we sat down? (Hey, we were only supporting the Tennessee economy by drinking locally.) Was it because we had to contain our laughter during the way overblown jingoistic segment of the post-dinner entertainment? We'll never know.
But fried foods and cold shouldered table mates aside, we did have a swell time in Nashville, especially at the Bluebird Cafe, where we sat in that beautifully hushed, dim room drinking beer and listening to four men with guitars (one of whom wrote '867-5309/Jenny,' and one of whom sang what can only be described as an insanely catchy tune about a vibrator). I'm already feeling a bit nostalgic for that, as well as for our late-night meal at the Mad Platter, and our trip to tiny little Lynchburg, and our al fresco dinner at Mambu.
What I miss, I guess, is that feeling I got while listening to sad songs at the Bluebird, or watching the sun go down over the Cumberland, or looking through inky prints at Hatch--that feeling of life's annoyances and disappointments and uncertainties just disappearing. That only ever happens in spurts, and in the back of my mind I know those moments don't (won't, can't) last. But that doesn't stop me from loving them when they happen, or from feeling a tug of longing for them when they're gone.
Lest I forget, for example, that when I asked for some sort of bread with the salad I ordered on Sunday night, I got a plate of iceberg lettuce topped with strips of fried pita. (I am not making this up.)
Lest I forget the looks of either perplexion or sheer loathing (or both) leveled by our table mates at us three Californians aboard the General Jackson showboat during its Monday night dinner cruise. Was it because we didn't understand their long-vowelled requests for swaaayt taaaay and buddher? Was it because we were already tipsy on whiskey-heavy cocktails when we sat down? (Hey, we were only supporting the Tennessee economy by drinking locally.) Was it because we had to contain our laughter during the way overblown jingoistic segment of the post-dinner entertainment? We'll never know.
But fried foods and cold shouldered table mates aside, we did have a swell time in Nashville, especially at the Bluebird Cafe, where we sat in that beautifully hushed, dim room drinking beer and listening to four men with guitars (one of whom wrote '867-5309/Jenny,' and one of whom sang what can only be described as an insanely catchy tune about a vibrator). I'm already feeling a bit nostalgic for that, as well as for our late-night meal at the Mad Platter, and our trip to tiny little Lynchburg, and our al fresco dinner at Mambu.
What I miss, I guess, is that feeling I got while listening to sad songs at the Bluebird, or watching the sun go down over the Cumberland, or looking through inky prints at Hatch--that feeling of life's annoyances and disappointments and uncertainties just disappearing. That only ever happens in spurts, and in the back of my mind I know those moments don't (won't, can't) last. But that doesn't stop me from loving them when they happen, or from feeling a tug of longing for them when they're gone.
4.30.2002
Alberta
While I do indeed plan to marvel at Alberta's staggering abundance this summer, the decision to do so has nothing to do with this site. Judging by the links on the top of the page, I'm guessing the intended audience here is businesspeople, specifically those looking for a place to set up shop. And while it's true that all of the marketing/sales-type people I know have a much higher tolerance for abused metaphors and inconsistent voice than I do, even they have standards.
Consider:
Hello there and welcome! I'm the western province, the wild one - the one that makes you want to whistle in the morning - whether it's from a jolt of java at a trendy cafe or the view of a sun-kissed wheatfield - Alberta does that to you.
Here we move from the first person to the third person (where we stay for the remainder of the essay) with an ease bordering on alacrity. We also learn that Alberta is evidently the western province, presumably having muscled BC into the Pacific, which is disappointing, as I'd planned to go to Vancouver over Memorial Day.
But, like Alberta's ghostwriter, I digress.
One more excerpt, though:
Whether your interests lean toward high peaks or high tea - we hope you have a great time and ultimately, find leaving this remarkable outdoor playground - well, tough.
Why--the excessive--use of em-dashes--to the exclusion of other punctuation? Also, isn't 'outdoor playground' somewhat redundant? (Perhaps Alberta's long-ass winters mean lots of indoor playgrounds; what do I know?) And finally, is it me or is Alberta threatening me, suggesting that if I'm fond of my kneecaps and eyeteeth I'll do what's wise and decide not to leave? Because really, Alberta, just because you're the western province--the wild one--doesn't mean you need to swagger so. Maybe a bit of humility would do you good.
Consider:
Hello there and welcome! I'm the western province, the wild one - the one that makes you want to whistle in the morning - whether it's from a jolt of java at a trendy cafe or the view of a sun-kissed wheatfield - Alberta does that to you.
Here we move from the first person to the third person (where we stay for the remainder of the essay) with an ease bordering on alacrity. We also learn that Alberta is evidently the western province, presumably having muscled BC into the Pacific, which is disappointing, as I'd planned to go to Vancouver over Memorial Day.
But, like Alberta's ghostwriter, I digress.
One more excerpt, though:
Whether your interests lean toward high peaks or high tea - we hope you have a great time and ultimately, find leaving this remarkable outdoor playground - well, tough.
Why--the excessive--use of em-dashes--to the exclusion of other punctuation? Also, isn't 'outdoor playground' somewhat redundant? (Perhaps Alberta's long-ass winters mean lots of indoor playgrounds; what do I know?) And finally, is it me or is Alberta threatening me, suggesting that if I'm fond of my kneecaps and eyeteeth I'll do what's wise and decide not to leave? Because really, Alberta, just because you're the western province--the wild one--doesn't mean you need to swagger so. Maybe a bit of humility would do you good.
4.26.2002
Back when
It is wise to remember that there are worse things than housemates who mysteriously hoard flatware, fail to clean the bathroom, or have no concept of putting away dishes once they're dry.
The departure this week of what can only be described as a gaggle of (now-former) co-workers has left me a bit wistful for the days when we all worked in a converted garage and still got all the free Odwalla we could drink (or leave, caps on, on desktops over the weekend in uninentional scientific experiments) and had people like Josh around as a steady source of entertainment. It was brain-melting work, and the pay was laughable, but the whole experience wound up being the sort of thing that, in retrospect, seems deceptively pleasant and simple and desirable.
That's probably just corporate burnout talking. But it is hard to watch good people walk out of your life.
The departure this week of what can only be described as a gaggle of (now-former) co-workers has left me a bit wistful for the days when we all worked in a converted garage and still got all the free Odwalla we could drink (or leave, caps on, on desktops over the weekend in uninentional scientific experiments) and had people like Josh around as a steady source of entertainment. It was brain-melting work, and the pay was laughable, but the whole experience wound up being the sort of thing that, in retrospect, seems deceptively pleasant and simple and desirable.
That's probably just corporate burnout talking. But it is hard to watch good people walk out of your life.
4.25.2002
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
I'm not sure what to think about the fact that the anthem of my week, as best I can figure it, is the Goo Goo Dolls' Iris. This puts me in league with (in no particular order) self-identified outcasts, self-injurers, and the otherwise depressed (warning: there's a somewhat painful MIDI on this page).
Which is why, I must say, I'm intensely glad to be pulling myself out of the mopeyness of the past few days. There's just not much good that can be said of letting a pseudo-alternative radio hit speak for your mental state.
Someone posted this to Sinister yesterday: "music can’t save you if you haven’t decided you’ll be saved." Nothing really can, right? Salvation (like belief, and love) is at least a two-part process.
On the Sinister wisdom tip, this was and remains one of the most insightful things I've ever read there:
I hadn't slept properly in a month. You know that they say if you hate someone too much everything gets all twisted? Well, the same thing can happen with love, only that won't go away just because you decide it should. There's no way you can just leave it alone either, especially when the other person loves you back just as much, or thinks they do. I guess you wouldn't really understand unless you knew someone who made you so nervous that you couldn't speak to them for fear of having them despise you. You'd always be afraid of giving away something of your character and having them realise, instantly, that you are in no way their equal, or even their second best.
Which is why, I must say, I'm intensely glad to be pulling myself out of the mopeyness of the past few days. There's just not much good that can be said of letting a pseudo-alternative radio hit speak for your mental state.
Someone posted this to Sinister yesterday: "music can’t save you if you haven’t decided you’ll be saved." Nothing really can, right? Salvation (like belief, and love) is at least a two-part process.
On the Sinister wisdom tip, this was and remains one of the most insightful things I've ever read there:
I hadn't slept properly in a month. You know that they say if you hate someone too much everything gets all twisted? Well, the same thing can happen with love, only that won't go away just because you decide it should. There's no way you can just leave it alone either, especially when the other person loves you back just as much, or thinks they do. I guess you wouldn't really understand unless you knew someone who made you so nervous that you couldn't speak to them for fear of having them despise you. You'd always be afraid of giving away something of your character and having them realise, instantly, that you are in no way their equal, or even their second best.
4.22.2002
Jean-Marie and Eric
Jean-Marie LePen? The mind boggles. I remember reading about him in my high school French class (once a right-wing crackpot, always a right-wing crackpot, evidently), but even back then it seemed like his chance at being taken seriously was gone and not likely to return.
He's frightening and assholic enough to make Bush seem relatively like a left-leaning dream come true. Relatively.
I run into Eric in the office kitchen this morning, and we spend a few minutes catching up. My synopsis of the past few weeks includes a good deal of work-related whinging; his includes the announcement that he's gotten engaged. This makes my chin drop, my eyes widen, something in my stomach swell so completely with happiness and pride that I swear I'm feeling those two emotions in their very purest forms. And it occurs to me that that's a sensation I don't often experience--I'm used to my happiness and pride (and anger, and sadness, and fear) being tempered by other (often contradictory) emotions, which lessens their impact. I wish there were a way of stopping that distillation, of learning to let one feeling take over (however briefly) without finding myself somehow reining it in. But can that be taught? And isn't there something to be said for the tempered emotion (like the mixed drink, or the blended ice cream)?
At any rate, Eric's getting married. Which just goes to show that sometimes the people you fret about most turn out just fine.
He's frightening and assholic enough to make Bush seem relatively like a left-leaning dream come true. Relatively.
I run into Eric in the office kitchen this morning, and we spend a few minutes catching up. My synopsis of the past few weeks includes a good deal of work-related whinging; his includes the announcement that he's gotten engaged. This makes my chin drop, my eyes widen, something in my stomach swell so completely with happiness and pride that I swear I'm feeling those two emotions in their very purest forms. And it occurs to me that that's a sensation I don't often experience--I'm used to my happiness and pride (and anger, and sadness, and fear) being tempered by other (often contradictory) emotions, which lessens their impact. I wish there were a way of stopping that distillation, of learning to let one feeling take over (however briefly) without finding myself somehow reining it in. But can that be taught? And isn't there something to be said for the tempered emotion (like the mixed drink, or the blended ice cream)?
At any rate, Eric's getting married. Which just goes to show that sometimes the people you fret about most turn out just fine.
4.17.2002
Amadeus
Ry and I went to see the near-epic director's cut of Amadeus last night, which was an exceedingly pleasant way to spend three hours. While I haven't actually had time to give this the fuller thought it deserves, I'm sort of chewing on the idea that the film is really an exploration of and warning against the seven deadly sins. Salieri obviously covers envy and anger; Mozart has dibs on pride, lust, and gluttony; and, although to a lesser degree, Constanza embodies greed and sloth.
More (possibly overwrought) analysis of this soon, maybe.
It's that kind of day.
More (possibly overwrought) analysis of this soon, maybe.
It's that kind of day.
4.15.2002
Taxing
I made a quick trip to the Rincon post office this afternoon to drop off some bills, and I could not help feeling smugly superior to all the people queued up to mail their taxes. Every local news program around the country will have a segment on tonight about how many people waited until the last minute this year to send in their returns, how long the lines were, how chaotic the state of postal affairs. And while I must admit to be a Procrastinator Patty in many aspects, I just don't understand why so many people put off the tax thing so long, then subject themselves to the lines, the tension, the utterly wasted time.
But then, I also don't understand why, despite the prominent signage and ad nauseum announcements about having your ticket and id ready when going through airport security, people still scramble to dig said documents out of the deepest depths of their baggage only when they reach the front of the line with 35 people behind them.
I digress.
While looking for reviews of David Gates's Jernigan, which I just read, I came across the following sites:
Jernigan's Taxidermy specializes in longhorn mounts and stuffed armadillos
Dennis Jernigan seems to be a man on a mission
I know nothing about conformations of folded proteins in restricted spaces, but Dr. RL Jernigan sure does
Gates's protagonist would have a field day with the works of Brenda Jernigan
But then, I also don't understand why, despite the prominent signage and ad nauseum announcements about having your ticket and id ready when going through airport security, people still scramble to dig said documents out of the deepest depths of their baggage only when they reach the front of the line with 35 people behind them.
I digress.
While looking for reviews of David Gates's Jernigan, which I just read, I came across the following sites:
Jernigan's Taxidermy specializes in longhorn mounts and stuffed armadillos
Dennis Jernigan seems to be a man on a mission
I know nothing about conformations of folded proteins in restricted spaces, but Dr. RL Jernigan sure does
Gates's protagonist would have a field day with the works of Brenda Jernigan
4.10.2002
Loser
Given that it's devoted to finding and rating the dorkiness of personal (some might say navel-gazing) web sites such as this one, I acknowledge the smug irony (or something) of calling out www.losers.org. In my (somewhat feeble) defense, though, I'd like to note that I neither use animated gifs nor elucidate the differences between bestiality and zoophilia nor make observations like this:
Ben & I are both from English speaking countries and America & Great Britain share a "special relationship". However there are so many language and cultural differences that we've come across. Being in an international relationship is challenging for many reasons.
I mean, I feel your pain, babe: my boyfriend is from Canada, another English speaking country with which America shares a 'special relationship,' but I don't feel the need to note every difference between the two nations (save for Canada's significantly greater access to proper Kit Kats) and how same make for some hearty relationship challenges. But then, I guess I don't have to whinge about all of that online because I dump it on my friends instead.
On an unrelated note, Jonathan Safran Foer's novel is finally out, and I'm rejoicing. The excerpt in last year's New Yorker young authors issue was one of the best things I've read in recent memory, and it left me itchy for more.
Ben & I are both from English speaking countries and America & Great Britain share a "special relationship". However there are so many language and cultural differences that we've come across. Being in an international relationship is challenging for many reasons.
I mean, I feel your pain, babe: my boyfriend is from Canada, another English speaking country with which America shares a 'special relationship,' but I don't feel the need to note every difference between the two nations (save for Canada's significantly greater access to proper Kit Kats) and how same make for some hearty relationship challenges. But then, I guess I don't have to whinge about all of that online because I dump it on my friends instead.
On an unrelated note, Jonathan Safran Foer's novel is finally out, and I'm rejoicing. The excerpt in last year's New Yorker young authors issue was one of the best things I've read in recent memory, and it left me itchy for more.
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