I read 600 comic strips yesterday, the entire anthology of xkcd.com. Geektastic! Oddly, I also wandered upon a coworker with one of the unfunniest comeback quips in a long time. Specifically, "That's gotta hurt." It ranks up there with "That's gonna leave a mark" and it's kin: "That's what she said." And yet there are people who, I swear, wander through life in search of the proper set ups to unleash their so-far-beyond-trite-it-was-funny-and-it's-reached-unfunny-again zingers.
For the record, yesterday's set up was created by steering a conversation toward bowling. One peer stated her husband was a serious bowling addict, that he averages about 210, and that he's got soooo much stuff - "Heck, he's got bowling balls out the wazoo."
(So what if I laughed.)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
L'Reason d'etre
I had an entire weekend to decide if/how I want to direct this blog, and the only conclusion I definitively reached is that I’m not writing on weekends. A stretch to call that progress, no?
As I’ve told only my sister about it (and Amy has found it on her own, congrats), I could use this as a diary to divulge my innermost feelings about the [physical, mental, emotional and spiritual] health status of my family, both immediate and in-laws. God knows there’s plenty to discuss – seems as if someone named Becker or Parrish is running a tab at the nearest hospital; I recently hit my annual deductible on my HDHP, so I can finally get my septum un-deviated free of charge; I’ve learned more about dairy-free (and briefly Gluten-free) diets than I ever care to retain. But what’s the point, besides keeping a journal to find dates, doctor’s names, and medical records? Isn’t that what EOBs and overpriced psychiatrists are for? Thanks, pass.
I could use this to critique the latest movies I see – I already maintain a document with 241 entries and counting. I regularly flex my Netflix, and that would supply sufficient fodder for at least one entry (and probably more) per week. Again: motivation, where is thy sting?
Fiction? What’s the point in stringing a free serial here, when I submit to StoryMash and can make pennies on the month for it? (For the price of a cup of coffee every day, I can support a child in a third world wasteland. Unfortunately for those starving, faceless masses, I don’t drink coffee.) I’ll stick to my big fish in StoryMash’s small pond.
Expertise on disc golf/board games/NFL football? Perhaps I’ll run my Kitty Pool through this site, but I doubt it. And if I reveal my secrets here where no one reads it, what’s the point of revealing secrets?
How to maintain the advantage of anonymity while soliciting feedback? No, wait - that question is all wrong. Isn’t the point of blogging to get reactions and comments? Update the universe on my significance? Exploit my cleverness and achieve my dreams of national recognition when someone discovers this via their google search for “brilliance”?
Methinks I’ll stick to writing words and not worrying about context. It’s easy for me to run on for seven paragraphs and have said next to nothing. Call it a gift. Safely packaged in bubble wrap.
As I’ve told only my sister about it (and Amy has found it on her own, congrats), I could use this as a diary to divulge my innermost feelings about the [physical, mental, emotional and spiritual] health status of my family, both immediate and in-laws. God knows there’s plenty to discuss – seems as if someone named Becker or Parrish is running a tab at the nearest hospital; I recently hit my annual deductible on my HDHP, so I can finally get my septum un-deviated free of charge; I’ve learned more about dairy-free (and briefly Gluten-free) diets than I ever care to retain. But what’s the point, besides keeping a journal to find dates, doctor’s names, and medical records? Isn’t that what EOBs and overpriced psychiatrists are for? Thanks, pass.
I could use this to critique the latest movies I see – I already maintain a document with 241 entries and counting. I regularly flex my Netflix, and that would supply sufficient fodder for at least one entry (and probably more) per week. Again: motivation, where is thy sting?
Fiction? What’s the point in stringing a free serial here, when I submit to StoryMash and can make pennies on the month for it? (For the price of a cup of coffee every day, I can support a child in a third world wasteland. Unfortunately for those starving, faceless masses, I don’t drink coffee.) I’ll stick to my big fish in StoryMash’s small pond.
Expertise on disc golf/board games/NFL football? Perhaps I’ll run my Kitty Pool through this site, but I doubt it. And if I reveal my secrets here where no one reads it, what’s the point of revealing secrets?
How to maintain the advantage of anonymity while soliciting feedback? No, wait - that question is all wrong. Isn’t the point of blogging to get reactions and comments? Update the universe on my significance? Exploit my cleverness and achieve my dreams of national recognition when someone discovers this via their google search for “brilliance”?
Methinks I’ll stick to writing words and not worrying about context. It’s easy for me to run on for seven paragraphs and have said next to nothing. Call it a gift. Safely packaged in bubble wrap.
Friday, June 26, 2009
I take my sugar straight-up
Cherry PopTarts now advertise REAL FRUIT FILLING. Why? Will that inspire anyone that didn't formerly enjoy the artificial goodness to suddenly switch to PopTarts now that they're real, natural, dare I say - healthy? Was Kelloggs impacted enough by the recession that they felt it necessary to cater to nutritonists? As I opened a package of these environmentally friendly (no doubt biodegradable) toaster pastries, I was concerned that they'd sacrifice their taste in order to market to a new demographic. Screw the health-nuts! Let 'em make their own PopTarts! (No doubt they do.) Are they going to figure out a way to replace the hardened-toothpaste-textured icing with some kind of compote? Blasphemy!
It wouldn't surprise me if Kelloggs hired the same marketing campaign guru who used to pitch three liter bottles of Coke as "50% more than 2 Liters!" Idiots.
It wouldn't surprise me if Kelloggs hired the same marketing campaign guru who used to pitch three liter bottles of Coke as "50% more than 2 Liters!" Idiots.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
100 Degrees of Showeration
Work has introduced a health program: better eating, more workouts, even a regular walking group during Friday lunches. I exercise plenty already - disc golf on weekends, basketball Tuesday and Thursday mornings, hitting the gym with friends the other three weekday mornings, volleyball Friday nights, yoga Wednesdays, occasional pickup ultimate frisbee, softball, or football games, plus chasing around three boys while I'm home... It's a wonder I'm not on the cover of fitness magazines. But that's not my point.
Because I exercise in the mornings before work, I arrive at my law firm in shorts and a T-shirt, set my day in motion for a half hour at my desk (sweating up my area for good measure), then I use the firm showers, which were probably set up for attorneys who felt required to bill overnighters and camp in the building. And that's not my point either.
I crank the water to a nearly boiling temperature, wince as I enter, and spend an unhealthy fifteen minutes melting skin follicles off my body. I'm too cheap (and usually late) to spend that much time in my home shower, but on someone else's water bill? Not a problem. Even if I'm farmer-sunburned (sleeves and collar), I don't compromise my boil-a-thon. I'll rotate so my scalp, my shoulders, or the back of my neck endures the direct hit - I can't bear that much heat on my face beyond the trickle down - and, like a frog in a frying pan, once my body adapts, I'll nudge the dial a little further towards H. This can't be good for me. And yet, the torturous temperature stall is more inspiring than the workouts themselves. (I haven't yet located the zen of exercising without a ball or disc; if friends weren't there to trash talk me through my kvetching/lifting, I'd quit.)
Hmm. I think that my point was somewhere in that last paragraph, though I'm unwilling to study it long enough to phrase it better. Steaming Shower = divine. Is that a point?
Because I exercise in the mornings before work, I arrive at my law firm in shorts and a T-shirt, set my day in motion for a half hour at my desk (sweating up my area for good measure), then I use the firm showers, which were probably set up for attorneys who felt required to bill overnighters and camp in the building. And that's not my point either.
I crank the water to a nearly boiling temperature, wince as I enter, and spend an unhealthy fifteen minutes melting skin follicles off my body. I'm too cheap (and usually late) to spend that much time in my home shower, but on someone else's water bill? Not a problem. Even if I'm farmer-sunburned (sleeves and collar), I don't compromise my boil-a-thon. I'll rotate so my scalp, my shoulders, or the back of my neck endures the direct hit - I can't bear that much heat on my face beyond the trickle down - and, like a frog in a frying pan, once my body adapts, I'll nudge the dial a little further towards H. This can't be good for me. And yet, the torturous temperature stall is more inspiring than the workouts themselves. (I haven't yet located the zen of exercising without a ball or disc; if friends weren't there to trash talk me through my kvetching/lifting, I'd quit.)
Hmm. I think that my point was somewhere in that last paragraph, though I'm unwilling to study it long enough to phrase it better. Steaming Shower = divine. Is that a point?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Too Much of It
So I was walking the hallways at the office, whistling like I usually do, and suddenly I was struck with the question: was time invented or discovered? Not that it mattered at all, but I felt compelled to find the answer. I almost checked wikipedia.
Time is a measurement, right? And yet it's pretty globally reflected in 24-hour days, roughly the same calendar year (whether you're Chinese, Mayan, or Alaskan), and those hours have sixty minutes - even in military time. So it doesn't necessitate any conversion charts from metric time - except for time zones, which are another matter altogether.
Speaking of that other matter, who decided which one counted as the first zone of the day? It's something to do with a Global Meridian Line, if I remember that much from high school science class (and I usually don't). I could move to a city sprawled across two time zones, I suppose, but that seems pointless - almost as much as the areas in Arizona and Indiana that don't observe daylight savings time.
So if time has always existed and someone merely categorized it as such, does that make it invented or discovered?
Have I mentioned this isn't remotely important?
Time is a measurement, right? And yet it's pretty globally reflected in 24-hour days, roughly the same calendar year (whether you're Chinese, Mayan, or Alaskan), and those hours have sixty minutes - even in military time. So it doesn't necessitate any conversion charts from metric time - except for time zones, which are another matter altogether.
Speaking of that other matter, who decided which one counted as the first zone of the day? It's something to do with a Global Meridian Line, if I remember that much from high school science class (and I usually don't). I could move to a city sprawled across two time zones, I suppose, but that seems pointless - almost as much as the areas in Arizona and Indiana that don't observe daylight savings time.
So if time has always existed and someone merely categorized it as such, does that make it invented or discovered?
Have I mentioned this isn't remotely important?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sketchbookers
Camping is for men who enjoy the great outdoors: staking a tent, stoking a fire, stinking up a storm (unless they want to bathe with the fishes). Me? I'm an indoorsman. Give me a soft recliner and a microwave (preferably with remote controls) and I'm a happy camper, at least in name. I don't care for fishing. (Throw 'em back? Why not leave 'em alone in the first place?) I've never hunted. Hiking is simply jogging with a better landscape, but I loathe jogging. Only one aspect associated with camping is worth roughing it: S'mores. And, to one-up that, S'mOreos. Same concept as the original - take a toasted marshmallow and a Hershey's chunk, except instead of graham crackers, unscrew an Oreo cookie and squeeze the forementioned two ingredients inside. Divine.
Compliment. (kam'-pla-mant) n. an expression of regard or admiration; flattering speech
Mompliment. (mom'-pla-mant) n. an empty expression of hollow encouragement often provided to the child picked last; flattening speech
Compliment. (kam'-pla-mant) n. an expression of regard or admiration; flattering speech
Mompliment. (mom'-pla-mant) n. an empty expression of hollow encouragement often provided to the child picked last; flattening speech
Monday, June 22, 2009
Origins
Call me whatever you want. Lace it with profanities and strive for personal attacks. I'm from Philly; I've been called worse.
While growing up, my older sister consistently referred to me as ignorant. I suppose she considered it an inside joke, since I honestly didn't know what it meant and I was too stubborn/full of apathy to look up the definition. Even that didn't bug me, though.
The only term to get my blood boiling is "hypocrite." And yet, here I am: in the blogosphere, somewhere I swore up and down I'd never reside. So what do I have to offer? What catalyst inspired me to jump the proverbial fence and check out the not-at-all greener grass? Nothing. Not a flipping thing.
No, that can't be right. Within the last week, my sister introduced me to her blog. Two co-writers from Storymash.com (where I'm nashvillebecker, in case you're curious or stupid) post their musings on-line. Multiple friends maintain their blogs with regularity - I have at least a dozen bookmarked in my Favorites. (Not that I check them often, but a fact is a fact.)
So I'll use this space for little observations, I suppose. Jokes that don't work. Phrases or bits to use in larger stories later on. I have a journal I don't use; now I have an e-journal I won't use too. Joy. Rapture. Tapioca.
While growing up, my older sister consistently referred to me as ignorant. I suppose she considered it an inside joke, since I honestly didn't know what it meant and I was too stubborn/full of apathy to look up the definition. Even that didn't bug me, though.
The only term to get my blood boiling is "hypocrite." And yet, here I am: in the blogosphere, somewhere I swore up and down I'd never reside. So what do I have to offer? What catalyst inspired me to jump the proverbial fence and check out the not-at-all greener grass? Nothing. Not a flipping thing.
No, that can't be right. Within the last week, my sister introduced me to her blog. Two co-writers from Storymash.com (where I'm nashvillebecker, in case you're curious or stupid) post their musings on-line. Multiple friends maintain their blogs with regularity - I have at least a dozen bookmarked in my Favorites. (Not that I check them often, but a fact is a fact.)
So I'll use this space for little observations, I suppose. Jokes that don't work. Phrases or bits to use in larger stories later on. I have a journal I don't use; now I have an e-journal I won't use too. Joy. Rapture. Tapioca.
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