The new debate: which do I hate more, shoe shopping or my current pair of sneakers?
My last pair was comfortable enough until the poorly-structured side ripped out. My wife found a sale at Target and brought home a new pair of sneakers, but the insoles were somehow a few millimeters too small (and unattached), so they float around while I walk. For something so small, they're disproportionately annoying - much like acne.
After a week of podiatric bother, I ventured to buy myself a new pair of sneakers. (My nature is to use synonyms, but I refuse to call them "tennis shoes." Never have, never will. I also won't call slippers "house shoes," nor will I call a bathrobe a "housecoat." (While I'm rambling, I drink soda, not pop. "Coke" is only Coca-cola, and if I ask for one at a restaurant, I don't want the waitress to ask what kind. "Roof" has the same double-o as in tooth or zoo, and doesn't rhyme with "hoof." And I'll quit the semantics and colloquialisms here to avoid riffing like an old George Carlin bit.)
I went to Shoe Carnival. (1) They almost always run a special - buy one pair, get the second pair half-0ff. (2) I had two of my boys with me, and they can shoot hoops at the basketball cage. (3) Clearance specials cover a good section of the back, and size 12.5 shoes aren't the easiest to find. When I arrived, I discovered (1) no specials beyond spinning the wheel ($1.00 off? Wow! For a cheap pair, that's like one third off the sales tax! Joy!) (2) The boys are big enough to climb into the basketball cage, and I'm too big to chase them. (3) Clearance, schmerence. Nothing my size. After perusing aisle after aisle for thirty minutes, I decide I'm not shelling out fifty bucks here. Plus, there's a mall across the street with multiple sneaker options.
Holy crap! Nikes run three figures. So do most reputable brand names. I visit three stores, check price tags, and politely depart as the salespeople dismiss me as the cheap tightwad I am.
I finally abandon this endeavor and hit the play area by the food court so the boys can expend the energy collected by walking around with their old man. And I see it: Payless.
We enter the store, find a pair of nice, comfy, Champion sneakers that run $24.99. I try 'em on and walk around - they're not the best pair I've ever worn, but they'll work. I make the purchase and we leave.
Three days later, playing basketball, I come to a quick stop, my feet slide inside my shoes to the front, and my big toenail pushes against the leather. Not through it - which, retrospectively, I would've preferred. Instead, it pops like I just dropped a hammer on it. Black toenail. Bloody sock. New limp. The snug shoes are ten times more painful now, and I get to wait however long for the nail itself to die and fall off.
So do I buy another pair of shoes? Or do I quit my job and try to get hired by Crocs?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Pressure for Intelligent Substance
A few minutes ago, I posted on Ebert's blog. (I'd say Roger Ebert's blog, but I assume the surname is sufficient, as if he was a female pop singer or South American soccer player.) I could link his blog here, but my [miniscule] readership is intelligent enough to use Google, plus if you're one of the people that came here because of my link there, you need only hit your Back button.
On the off-chance you (1) were transported here from clicking my name on Ebert's blog and (2) haven't yet hit said Back button, I feel like I should prepare a worthwhile welcome -- something witty and sincere, something to convey the care I may or may not feel about you. It should portray this blog as the meaningless writer's idea book that it sometimes is, and you should think to yourself, "With a lifetime of practice and polish, this Becker guy's drivel could resemble a lesser draft of a Steve Martin piece." After all, we should all have aspirations.
If, however, you didn't travel to my corner of cyberspace via the Ebert link, odds are you're one of the six people I already know. As such, I should reward you for being stalwart followers of my babble, consistently encouraging me to greater heights (allowing me to bang my head against this blog's glass ceiling even harder). With every abusive slam, my brain swells, a side effect of which is mind growth and potential for more ideas to reside up there in the new expansion. Because of "friends" like you, I'll eventually be able to have... I dunno... SEVEN people follow me. (If too many people stalk, will it be as if I have my own Verizon network. They'd be creepy when I want a quiet moment with my wife.)
So to all the people who have made it this far, I salute you. I've never served in the military, I wasn't a cub scout, I didn't root for the Denver Broncos in the late 90s, and though I've done many a Bronx salute, I'll spare you that indignity. But consider yourself saluted.
Salud!
(And with that, I can safely state I failed in my endeavor for intelligent substance. At least I'm consistent.)
On the off-chance you (1) were transported here from clicking my name on Ebert's blog and (2) haven't yet hit said Back button, I feel like I should prepare a worthwhile welcome -- something witty and sincere, something to convey the care I may or may not feel about you. It should portray this blog as the meaningless writer's idea book that it sometimes is, and you should think to yourself, "With a lifetime of practice and polish, this Becker guy's drivel could resemble a lesser draft of a Steve Martin piece." After all, we should all have aspirations.
If, however, you didn't travel to my corner of cyberspace via the Ebert link, odds are you're one of the six people I already know. As such, I should reward you for being stalwart followers of my babble, consistently encouraging me to greater heights (allowing me to bang my head against this blog's glass ceiling even harder). With every abusive slam, my brain swells, a side effect of which is mind growth and potential for more ideas to reside up there in the new expansion. Because of "friends" like you, I'll eventually be able to have... I dunno... SEVEN people follow me. (If too many people stalk, will it be as if I have my own Verizon network. They'd be creepy when I want a quiet moment with my wife.)
So to all the people who have made it this far, I salute you. I've never served in the military, I wasn't a cub scout, I didn't root for the Denver Broncos in the late 90s, and though I've done many a Bronx salute, I'll spare you that indignity. But consider yourself saluted.
Salud!
(And with that, I can safely state I failed in my endeavor for intelligent substance. At least I'm consistent.)
Friday, September 25, 2009
Audience of Me
For an extra challenge, try completing today's newspaper's crossword puzzle using a Magnum marker.
Last night, I stopped at WalMart to buy ink cartridges for our printer. Black ink runs $21/box, and the tri-color collection will drain your account $38.88 (dunno what it is about rollback prices having repeated digits, but that's not the only reason I'm not a marketing guru). So I could've spent over $60 (after tax) and walked out with two cartridges. Or, as the result ended up, I could walk out of the store with a brand new printer complete with color and B&W cartridges for $32. Somewhere, environmentalists will freak out at all the once-used printers discarded because re-equipping was cheaper than re-upping ink. If there was thought or logic involved in pricing, I don't want any of these people elected to public office.
Last night, I stopped at WalMart to buy ink cartridges for our printer. Black ink runs $21/box, and the tri-color collection will drain your account $38.88 (dunno what it is about rollback prices having repeated digits, but that's not the only reason I'm not a marketing guru). So I could've spent over $60 (after tax) and walked out with two cartridges. Or, as the result ended up, I could walk out of the store with a brand new printer complete with color and B&W cartridges for $32. Somewhere, environmentalists will freak out at all the once-used printers discarded because re-equipping was cheaper than re-upping ink. If there was thought or logic involved in pricing, I don't want any of these people elected to public office.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
I Want a Robot
My robot will dispense (and never run out of) M&Ms of whatever flavor I crave, be it peanut, krispie, new strawberry/peanut butter, or coconut. Does M&M have a headquarters where they distribute every flavor, like the Coca-Cola Museum in Atlanta?
My robot will provide GPS for errant golf shots I hit. It will also send out an inaudible, low-frequency pitch that negatively effects the backswing and follow-through of anyone I play with. Neither of these will help me break 120.
My robot will smell like freshly cooked cinnamon buns.
My robot will run two steps faster than I do, but it won't complain or hurt either of us when I tackle the crap out of it.
My robot will inspire and motivate me to compose the backlog of stories I have which would otherwise sit in my writer's notebook as idea seedlings. (What exactly is a seedling? Isn't a seed a baby plant? Do we need baby babies?)
My robot will provide traffic reports at the proper moments while I'm driving. No more receiving the report after I've poorly chosen the path with the looming jam. No more hearing the report fifteen minutes before I reach the intersection requiring a choice, since the entire pattern has changed since then. These traffic reports will be interspersed with my personal iPod which works by voice command. My robot will recognize the word "Kajagoogoo."
My robot will have a cooler that supplies tapioca pudding and Big Dog Root Beer on separate taps.
My robot will sense when my wife is angry at me, since I have such difficulty figuring this out early enough. It will also offer me intelligent suggestions for things to say, rather than egg me on sarcastically. My robot will slap me upside the head in front of my wife, sufficiently hard enough to appease her but not painful enough to inflict permanent damage.
My robot will transform into a go-cart which can safely bounce off other cars' tires along the highway with no fear of causing any accidents.
My robot will remember everything I forget. It will not remind me unless I ask it to.
My robot will be eco-friendly, whether that means solar power, rechargeable batteries, or better yet, perpetual motion. My robot will also possess an off-switch and it won't resist me killing its power.
My robot will read and record my dreams, calculate the precise moment when my sleep cycle would allow me to wake up feeling well-rested, and gently play wake-up music that encourages me to get out of bed. Or Sade, if it senses a good morning.
My robot will supply blog entries when I have nothing better to write about than robots.
My robot will provide GPS for errant golf shots I hit. It will also send out an inaudible, low-frequency pitch that negatively effects the backswing and follow-through of anyone I play with. Neither of these will help me break 120.
My robot will smell like freshly cooked cinnamon buns.
My robot will run two steps faster than I do, but it won't complain or hurt either of us when I tackle the crap out of it.
My robot will inspire and motivate me to compose the backlog of stories I have which would otherwise sit in my writer's notebook as idea seedlings. (What exactly is a seedling? Isn't a seed a baby plant? Do we need baby babies?)
My robot will provide traffic reports at the proper moments while I'm driving. No more receiving the report after I've poorly chosen the path with the looming jam. No more hearing the report fifteen minutes before I reach the intersection requiring a choice, since the entire pattern has changed since then. These traffic reports will be interspersed with my personal iPod which works by voice command. My robot will recognize the word "Kajagoogoo."
My robot will have a cooler that supplies tapioca pudding and Big Dog Root Beer on separate taps.
My robot will sense when my wife is angry at me, since I have such difficulty figuring this out early enough. It will also offer me intelligent suggestions for things to say, rather than egg me on sarcastically. My robot will slap me upside the head in front of my wife, sufficiently hard enough to appease her but not painful enough to inflict permanent damage.
My robot will transform into a go-cart which can safely bounce off other cars' tires along the highway with no fear of causing any accidents.
My robot will remember everything I forget. It will not remind me unless I ask it to.
My robot will be eco-friendly, whether that means solar power, rechargeable batteries, or better yet, perpetual motion. My robot will also possess an off-switch and it won't resist me killing its power.
My robot will read and record my dreams, calculate the precise moment when my sleep cycle would allow me to wake up feeling well-rested, and gently play wake-up music that encourages me to get out of bed. Or Sade, if it senses a good morning.
My robot will supply blog entries when I have nothing better to write about than robots.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Functional Wardrobe
I’m wearing pants with a hole at the crotch. The tear along the seams runs about an inch long. This isn’t the first time I noticed the gap – in fact, I’ve probably worn these slacks a dozen times since discovering it. What I can’t discern is my motivation. I sit at a desk most of the day with my lap hidden safely underneath, so it’s not that I’m trying to show off my boxer briefs to co-workers. While a lack of desire (or ability) to sew might explain why the hole still exists, such lack doesn’t justify my wearing the pants.
Over time, I've donned more than my fair share of holy socks and even a dress shirt or three with a rip. As I don't want to hand in my man-card yet, I own plenty of boxer-briefs with tears beneath the elastic waistband (do they use genetically-modified, weaker cotton there?). But these are the only slacks with a defect that could get me in trouble, should someone happen to spot the spot.
But then... wouldn't reporting a crotchal discrepancy be as much a mark on the reporter's record as mine? It's one thing to comment on a sprig of broccoli in someone else's teeth, but how can someone approach their supervisor to tattle on this kind of problem? Would it be considered sexual harassment somehow? I realize HR departments have to keep reporter's identities anonymous, but man, figuring out whosaidit would make my workdays more mysterious. Worth it? Dunno.
'Course, I'm the guy who drove to Blockbuster's drop-box last night at 11:45 in my boxer shorts and nothing else. And I don't park in my garage. (My neighbors may soon revisit the adage about good fences...)
Over time, I've donned more than my fair share of holy socks and even a dress shirt or three with a rip. As I don't want to hand in my man-card yet, I own plenty of boxer-briefs with tears beneath the elastic waistband (do they use genetically-modified, weaker cotton there?). But these are the only slacks with a defect that could get me in trouble, should someone happen to spot the spot.
But then... wouldn't reporting a crotchal discrepancy be as much a mark on the reporter's record as mine? It's one thing to comment on a sprig of broccoli in someone else's teeth, but how can someone approach their supervisor to tattle on this kind of problem? Would it be considered sexual harassment somehow? I realize HR departments have to keep reporter's identities anonymous, but man, figuring out whosaidit would make my workdays more mysterious. Worth it? Dunno.
'Course, I'm the guy who drove to Blockbuster's drop-box last night at 11:45 in my boxer shorts and nothing else. And I don't park in my garage. (My neighbors may soon revisit the adage about good fences...)
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Inspired to Puke
Oatmeal flakes, popcorn shells and coconut shavings. Preferably not combined.
98% of the food I consume passes between my lips, gets processed by my teeth, moves through my mouth, down my throat, and into my stomach. The above trio shares a distinct trait: fragments get stuck against my gums, between my teeth, or on the walls of my throat. I don't have as much difficulty with coconut, but I understand that's why my sister-in-law complains about the texture.
Popcorn, on the other hand, offers a tricky conundrum. If I'm willing to spend five bucks at a movie theater for a small bucket, must I also splurge another fiver for three pounds of ice and 6 ounces of Dr. Pepper? If I don't, I can guarantee a shard of kernel skin will lodge against my epiglottis or near my uvula. If I resisted conceding at the concessions stand, I can either gag incessantly for the duration of the movie or excuse myself and find the germ incubator known as a water fountain. (I'm not much of a germaphobe, but that's a lot of kids licking metal...) My other (and usually chosen) option is to perform a popcornotomy on myself, fishing around my mouth with my finger-tweezers, hoping I don't trigger my hypersensitive upchuck reflex. (Notice I don't refer to it as a gag reflex; I wish I could stop at that stage.)
So why do I persist eating the threesome of tormenting foods? I don't like hot drinks or spicy foods, and even the thought of an eggshell in my french toast can ruin my entire appetite. It isn't like popcorn or oatmeal is a fine cuisine that'll cause me to wake in the middle of the night with cold sweats, yearning for the flavor. (Maybe coconut, but as I mentioned, I've no problems there.) I don't know.
In life, 'tis best to leave some mysteries unanswered.
(Ooh. I feel like I just wrote a daily devotional, complete with horrible illustration that doesn't relate to anything. I'll stop here.)
98% of the food I consume passes between my lips, gets processed by my teeth, moves through my mouth, down my throat, and into my stomach. The above trio shares a distinct trait: fragments get stuck against my gums, between my teeth, or on the walls of my throat. I don't have as much difficulty with coconut, but I understand that's why my sister-in-law complains about the texture.
Popcorn, on the other hand, offers a tricky conundrum. If I'm willing to spend five bucks at a movie theater for a small bucket, must I also splurge another fiver for three pounds of ice and 6 ounces of Dr. Pepper? If I don't, I can guarantee a shard of kernel skin will lodge against my epiglottis or near my uvula. If I resisted conceding at the concessions stand, I can either gag incessantly for the duration of the movie or excuse myself and find the germ incubator known as a water fountain. (I'm not much of a germaphobe, but that's a lot of kids licking metal...) My other (and usually chosen) option is to perform a popcornotomy on myself, fishing around my mouth with my finger-tweezers, hoping I don't trigger my hypersensitive upchuck reflex. (Notice I don't refer to it as a gag reflex; I wish I could stop at that stage.)
So why do I persist eating the threesome of tormenting foods? I don't like hot drinks or spicy foods, and even the thought of an eggshell in my french toast can ruin my entire appetite. It isn't like popcorn or oatmeal is a fine cuisine that'll cause me to wake in the middle of the night with cold sweats, yearning for the flavor. (Maybe coconut, but as I mentioned, I've no problems there.) I don't know.
In life, 'tis best to leave some mysteries unanswered.
(Ooh. I feel like I just wrote a daily devotional, complete with horrible illustration that doesn't relate to anything. I'll stop here.)
Monday, September 21, 2009
Exit Strategory
I posted a blog entry on Friday. It was personal and a little too transparent for me to keep somewhere public for anyone to read. Morose, depressing, and a genuine side of myself I don't care to share. Fortunately, it doesn't appear often and the circumstances to conjure my response have since subsided. This morning, I deleted Friday's post. Gone. There's probably a cyberpirategeek somewhere who could infiltrate my system/network and retrieve the file, though I'd prefer it if they didn't.
It brings to mind another consideration, though: Storage. This entire blog has been self-contained, as I've not saved any of the entries anywhere else. Should Blogspot suddenly vanish off the planet, so will these thoughts. My response to which is simple...
So?
No, I'm not quoting Peter Gabriel album titles. But has anything here done more than provide three minutes of bathroom reading material? Is there a post worthy of a search engine tracking me down and offering me a job as a humorist/satirist/house mother for Big Brother XIII? Doubtful.
The idea hit me - I could delete one post every day. By the end of -- I think I'm in the fifties now, but I'm nervous navigating away from this page lest I lose what little I've typed this sitting - however many days, I'd be back to ground zero. As if it never existed. Seems appropriate. Also seems like a sociological experiment conducted by a needy attention-whore. Hmm. Semantics, I suppose.
I doubt I'll delete them, but when I finally decide I've got nothing left to say about nothing, I know one avenue to take. Yep, me and The Neverending Story. Like that needed another sequel. Phew.
It brings to mind another consideration, though: Storage. This entire blog has been self-contained, as I've not saved any of the entries anywhere else. Should Blogspot suddenly vanish off the planet, so will these thoughts. My response to which is simple...
So?
No, I'm not quoting Peter Gabriel album titles. But has anything here done more than provide three minutes of bathroom reading material? Is there a post worthy of a search engine tracking me down and offering me a job as a humorist/satirist/house mother for Big Brother XIII? Doubtful.
The idea hit me - I could delete one post every day. By the end of -- I think I'm in the fifties now, but I'm nervous navigating away from this page lest I lose what little I've typed this sitting - however many days, I'd be back to ground zero. As if it never existed. Seems appropriate. Also seems like a sociological experiment conducted by a needy attention-whore. Hmm. Semantics, I suppose.
I doubt I'll delete them, but when I finally decide I've got nothing left to say about nothing, I know one avenue to take. Yep, me and The Neverending Story. Like that needed another sequel. Phew.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Buy Me a Drink?
Cold oatmeal. Cold English muffins. Cold fried eggs. A three-course breakfast gone horribly wrong. Can English muffins be eaten without being toasted? Fresh, out of the bag? For that matter, why are they best when slightly overtoasted, and a few of the tips are dark brown?
The above meal nutritionally surpasses my standard morning fare of cheddar goldfish and Coke. Orange juice is my favorite beverage, but it doesn't compliment the variety of other foods as well as I'd prefer. OJ and pretzels sounds disgusting. Heck, I have trouble switching back and forth between cereal and OJ, since the combination with milk reminds me too much of Heathers. Maybe it's just me.
Also on my top five beverage is Dogs and Suds Root Beer - ideally, the BIG DOG can (20 oz.) A quick Google search informs me D&S is an actual fast food chain in the midwest (mostly north), though I don't foresee making a road trip solely to visit one. Sadly, the lone Nashville supermarket that sold it closed about two years ago, so I'll have to find alternatives to get it again.
Hmm. Pennsylvania Dutch Birch Beer. It's red. It's sweet. It has sasparilla. What more could you ask for? (Besides national distribution.)
Barq's French Vanilla Creme soda. Both this and the above birch beer only come in two-liter bottles. Is this a deliberate conspiracy (as compared to a coincidental conspiracy?) by soft drink manufacturers to keep me from transporting my favorite drinks in airplane carry-on luggage? Methinks the flight attendant protest too much.
Stewart's Orange Creme soda. Only good when really cold. Tastes like someone melted a creamsicle and shoved it in a bottle. Gooood stuff.
By now, you should notice a trend toward sodas once you pass OJ. There was (and remarkably, is an orange juice soda on the market: Orangina. Complete with minimal pulp. Absolutely revolting. Looks like someone backwashed in the bottle. Yuck.)
Started this blog entry two hours ago and left the window open while I did other work. Now the English muffin is soggy and feels like a cold sponge in my mouth. So this is what people are talking about when they refer to British cuisine? I understand the reputation now.
The above meal nutritionally surpasses my standard morning fare of cheddar goldfish and Coke. Orange juice is my favorite beverage, but it doesn't compliment the variety of other foods as well as I'd prefer. OJ and pretzels sounds disgusting. Heck, I have trouble switching back and forth between cereal and OJ, since the combination with milk reminds me too much of Heathers. Maybe it's just me.
Also on my top five beverage is Dogs and Suds Root Beer - ideally, the BIG DOG can (20 oz.) A quick Google search informs me D&S is an actual fast food chain in the midwest (mostly north), though I don't foresee making a road trip solely to visit one. Sadly, the lone Nashville supermarket that sold it closed about two years ago, so I'll have to find alternatives to get it again.
Hmm. Pennsylvania Dutch Birch Beer. It's red. It's sweet. It has sasparilla. What more could you ask for? (Besides national distribution.)
Barq's French Vanilla Creme soda. Both this and the above birch beer only come in two-liter bottles. Is this a deliberate conspiracy (as compared to a coincidental conspiracy?) by soft drink manufacturers to keep me from transporting my favorite drinks in airplane carry-on luggage? Methinks the flight attendant protest too much.
Stewart's Orange Creme soda. Only good when really cold. Tastes like someone melted a creamsicle and shoved it in a bottle. Gooood stuff.
By now, you should notice a trend toward sodas once you pass OJ. There was (and remarkably, is an orange juice soda on the market: Orangina. Complete with minimal pulp. Absolutely revolting. Looks like someone backwashed in the bottle. Yuck.)
Started this blog entry two hours ago and left the window open while I did other work. Now the English muffin is soggy and feels like a cold sponge in my mouth. So this is what people are talking about when they refer to British cuisine? I understand the reputation now.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
10 For Tuesday (on Wednesady)
She's a bottomless pit of information. Which is to say she can never retrieve anything I teach her.
Who wears tall, pointed, conical hats? Wizards, dunces, partygoers. Try as I might, I'm unable to draw a connection without a sharpie.
One type of Scotch tape claims to be invisible. It fell out of my Office Depot bag and now I can't see it anywhere.
Has anyone invented a sailboat with a detachable sail usable for parasailing? The boat would also come equipped with a power-motor. Glide all you want, and when you finish, enjoy a relaxing sail. Bonus uses if boating near tall waterfalls.
While I imagine the difference between hair and fur is an issue of density, I doubt any scientist has a definitive follicle per square inch ratio correlating to each.
Music sidekicks like John Oates or Andrew from WHAM! - if I ran into one of them at the supermarket, would I recognize them? Would they want me to?
I'm not slouching. I'm positioning myself aerodynamically in case my monitor tranforms into a giant turbine. I'm surprised OSHA hasn't come after those people with "proper" posture.
Sure, they call them life jackets, but have you ever seen a jacket perform CPR? I think not.
I shall now alphabetically list the letters in list: I, L, S, T. I shall now leave the chronological list up to someone else.
There must be an opposite of epiphanies, where someone is filled with brilliant ideas and suddenly, they vanish! I'm sure I suffer from this malady.
Who wears tall, pointed, conical hats? Wizards, dunces, partygoers. Try as I might, I'm unable to draw a connection without a sharpie.
One type of Scotch tape claims to be invisible. It fell out of my Office Depot bag and now I can't see it anywhere.
Has anyone invented a sailboat with a detachable sail usable for parasailing? The boat would also come equipped with a power-motor. Glide all you want, and when you finish, enjoy a relaxing sail. Bonus uses if boating near tall waterfalls.
While I imagine the difference between hair and fur is an issue of density, I doubt any scientist has a definitive follicle per square inch ratio correlating to each.
Music sidekicks like John Oates or Andrew from WHAM! - if I ran into one of them at the supermarket, would I recognize them? Would they want me to?
I'm not slouching. I'm positioning myself aerodynamically in case my monitor tranforms into a giant turbine. I'm surprised OSHA hasn't come after those people with "proper" posture.
Sure, they call them life jackets, but have you ever seen a jacket perform CPR? I think not.
I shall now alphabetically list the letters in list: I, L, S, T. I shall now leave the chronological list up to someone else.
There must be an opposite of epiphanies, where someone is filled with brilliant ideas and suddenly, they vanish! I'm sure I suffer from this malady.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Appetite for Restructure
A biologist studied and experimented enough with fruit genetics to create a Clementine orange that doesn't have seeds. I know of seedless grapes as well, and I've heard of seedless watermelons (though that would deprive the only reason for eating them). My limited knowledge recalls the only way for fruits to reproduce is with new seeds. If we keep conviencing ourselves of picking out the spitters, are we not reducing the flora on our planet? Who decided it was okay to play God and de-seed the garden of eatin'?
This morning, I ate two packages of Quaker oatmeal, Cinnamon Roll flavor. Later, I grabbed a leftover cinnamon roll from an attorney meeting. What are the odds of winning a lawsuit against Quaker oatmeal for false advertising?
My car radio crapped out months ago. It sporadically turns on, sometimes at full (and unadjustable) volume. Heaven only knows what station it will tune to, and it only plays a few minutes before going mute again. Last night, I adjusted my car antenna, so if I can't listen to bad music or sports radio, at least I can warn the planet about potential alien invasions. I'm generous in that (and only that) way.
My brother-in-law claims that I enjoy torturing small animals. Hmm. I need better parameters for "small."
At some point, candy manufacturers will start wrapping M&Ms individually. Then M&M minis. Seriously. How far can they go to make consumers believe they're not eating something bad for them? NEWSFLASH: If you buy something from an aisle that includes Mallo Cups, Big League Chew and Whatchamacallits, you're not a health nut. Let us eat, you nutritionist Nazis. And stop teasing us at Halloween with mini-bite-size-1/2 ounce morsels, or else I'm loading my leaf blower with Granola and coming to your house.
This morning, I ate two packages of Quaker oatmeal, Cinnamon Roll flavor. Later, I grabbed a leftover cinnamon roll from an attorney meeting. What are the odds of winning a lawsuit against Quaker oatmeal for false advertising?
My car radio crapped out months ago. It sporadically turns on, sometimes at full (and unadjustable) volume. Heaven only knows what station it will tune to, and it only plays a few minutes before going mute again. Last night, I adjusted my car antenna, so if I can't listen to bad music or sports radio, at least I can warn the planet about potential alien invasions. I'm generous in that (and only that) way.
My brother-in-law claims that I enjoy torturing small animals. Hmm. I need better parameters for "small."
At some point, candy manufacturers will start wrapping M&Ms individually. Then M&M minis. Seriously. How far can they go to make consumers believe they're not eating something bad for them? NEWSFLASH: If you buy something from an aisle that includes Mallo Cups, Big League Chew and Whatchamacallits, you're not a health nut. Let us eat, you nutritionist Nazis. And stop teasing us at Halloween with mini-bite-size-1/2 ounce morsels, or else I'm loading my leaf blower with Granola and coming to your house.
Monday, September 14, 2009
An Apples and Oranges a Day
Said it before and I'll say it again: Stupid people piss me off.
Do they know they're morons? Is there a subsect of self-awareness that includes enligtened stupidity? Or is ignorance a prerequisite, lest they sense a nagging to improve their intelligence (or lack thereof)? It's not a lower IQ that bothers me; it's the deliberate life choices that supply proof for the argument against Darwinism. Better yet are the self-righteous few who preach their idiocy from pedestals and achieve support groups to encourage them toward greater accomplishments in the realm of dumb (the dumbdom?)
Today's example: I take two nasal decongestants. Veramist and P...nase. (The name escapes me, but while a crappy memory correlates with an impenetrable skull, it doesn't necessarily make me one of them.) The P-nase is to be taken in the morning. Veramist at night. One of the side effects of P-nase is sleepiness. Veramist can cause restlessness.
Thanks, Dr. Pharmacist. Imbecile.
Do they know they're morons? Is there a subsect of self-awareness that includes enligtened stupidity? Or is ignorance a prerequisite, lest they sense a nagging to improve their intelligence (or lack thereof)? It's not a lower IQ that bothers me; it's the deliberate life choices that supply proof for the argument against Darwinism. Better yet are the self-righteous few who preach their idiocy from pedestals and achieve support groups to encourage them toward greater accomplishments in the realm of dumb (the dumbdom?)
Today's example: I take two nasal decongestants. Veramist and P...nase. (The name escapes me, but while a crappy memory correlates with an impenetrable skull, it doesn't necessarily make me one of them.) The P-nase is to be taken in the morning. Veramist at night. One of the side effects of P-nase is sleepiness. Veramist can cause restlessness.
Thanks, Dr. Pharmacist. Imbecile.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sleepometer
With the seemingly unlimited technology we possess, has a machine yet been invented that quantifies the amount of sleep a person needs on a nightly basis? I underwent a sleep study two years ago for sleep apnea; doctors observed and videotaped me snoring and determined I stopped breathing twenty or so times every hour, which explained my grogginess at the time. Since then, I've worn the tube+mask apparatus on my face nightly, which makes it all but impossible to get a decent goodnight kiss.
Sure, there's the arbitrary "some people require only four hours of sleep, while most need a solid eight" guideline. I've also heard that too much sleep leaves you just as tired as not enough. If it hasn't yet been created, someone needs to build a contraption that considers comfort, time, REM (the one without Michael Stipe), stress, and whatever other factors, then derives an exact figure. If I was positive the ideal amount of sleep was seven hours and twelve minutes - and any more or less would make waking up like escaping quicksand - you can bet your sweet bippy (like I need anyone's sweet bippy?) I'd set my alarm clock appropriately and I'd leave the snooze untouched.
The other variable I only now considered is falling asleep. Though I've been tired enough lately to hit the pillow and feel the embrace of slumber within moments, that's not always the case. How many times have I stared at the illuminated red numbers beside my head to tell me I'm down to five hours and twenty-one minutes before the ugliest sound in the world pierces my ears? We need to have off-switches. Computers have sleep mode; why can't we?
Would waking up to an enjoyable noise make me happier in the morning? I used to possess a CD-player alarm clock, so I could set it to play whatever song I wanted. I utilized Duncan Sheik or something relatively smooth and calm, and I often woke up to the sound of the disc spinning as the gadget powered up so as not to wake my wife. I also slept through the first three tracks on occasion.
Methinks I need to take the Thomas Edison route. Wasn't he the inventor who took naps whenever and wherever he wanted?
Restaurant waiter: How would you like your steak, sir? Sir?
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Wife: Medium rare for him, please. And if you have any quilts in the back, he's a big tipper.
Sure, there's the arbitrary "some people require only four hours of sleep, while most need a solid eight" guideline. I've also heard that too much sleep leaves you just as tired as not enough. If it hasn't yet been created, someone needs to build a contraption that considers comfort, time, REM (the one without Michael Stipe), stress, and whatever other factors, then derives an exact figure. If I was positive the ideal amount of sleep was seven hours and twelve minutes - and any more or less would make waking up like escaping quicksand - you can bet your sweet bippy (like I need anyone's sweet bippy?) I'd set my alarm clock appropriately and I'd leave the snooze untouched.
The other variable I only now considered is falling asleep. Though I've been tired enough lately to hit the pillow and feel the embrace of slumber within moments, that's not always the case. How many times have I stared at the illuminated red numbers beside my head to tell me I'm down to five hours and twenty-one minutes before the ugliest sound in the world pierces my ears? We need to have off-switches. Computers have sleep mode; why can't we?
Would waking up to an enjoyable noise make me happier in the morning? I used to possess a CD-player alarm clock, so I could set it to play whatever song I wanted. I utilized Duncan Sheik or something relatively smooth and calm, and I often woke up to the sound of the disc spinning as the gadget powered up so as not to wake my wife. I also slept through the first three tracks on occasion.
Methinks I need to take the Thomas Edison route. Wasn't he the inventor who took naps whenever and wherever he wanted?
Restaurant waiter: How would you like your steak, sir? Sir?
Me: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Wife: Medium rare for him, please. And if you have any quilts in the back, he's a big tipper.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
No, I Don't Speak Droid
Star Wars and Transformers have cross-platform toys. I know this because, last night at Target, I perused an aisle where I could buy some kind of transport ship (no chance of me remembering the name) that could reconfigure into a robot. I'm trying to figure out which would be worse: George Lucas writing the script for such a film or Michael Bay directing it?
A friend wants to sit down and watch Episodes I-VI in order in one day. I think if I could go a lifetime without seeing The Phantom Menace again, I'd be a happier person. While I enjoyed Star Wars as much as the next guy, I'm no fanboy. I owned about a dozen action figures, the land speeder (with retractable wheels!), and a couple t-shirts. I had to play with other kids who owned the Millenium Falcon or the next-to-impossible-to-find blue Snaggletooth. I've probably seen the 1977 movie a dozen times total, I made the buzzing light saber sound while waving sticks, and I may have debated whether or not the Force was with me at age 10.
For Justin's birthday, he received a Lego set to build a ship. (Again, without the box in front of me, I can't tell you what it was.) I'm estimating there are 300 individual Legos to build this. The instruction manual is rougly 50 pages long. This is a toy? Don't get me wrong; it's nice to share a bonding moment every night where my eldest can laugh at his old man for not finding four 1x1 light grey pieces (not dark grey, those are for a different component). When [read: if] this masterpiece is completed, it'll be roughly the size of a softball. With 300 pieces. And heaven forbid they try to play with it, as Scooter will invariably explore the intricacies of space dogfights and collide the ship into a wall/the piano/the ceiling fan, sprawling THREE HUNDRED Legos across our living room.
My brother-in-law works at Hasbro in the Star Wars toy department. He's to blame.
Writing that reminds me that in life, it's not as important to find a solution to our problems as it is to accuse a scapegoat. I feel better now.
A friend wants to sit down and watch Episodes I-VI in order in one day. I think if I could go a lifetime without seeing The Phantom Menace again, I'd be a happier person. While I enjoyed Star Wars as much as the next guy, I'm no fanboy. I owned about a dozen action figures, the land speeder (with retractable wheels!), and a couple t-shirts. I had to play with other kids who owned the Millenium Falcon or the next-to-impossible-to-find blue Snaggletooth. I've probably seen the 1977 movie a dozen times total, I made the buzzing light saber sound while waving sticks, and I may have debated whether or not the Force was with me at age 10.
For Justin's birthday, he received a Lego set to build a ship. (Again, without the box in front of me, I can't tell you what it was.) I'm estimating there are 300 individual Legos to build this. The instruction manual is rougly 50 pages long. This is a toy? Don't get me wrong; it's nice to share a bonding moment every night where my eldest can laugh at his old man for not finding four 1x1 light grey pieces (not dark grey, those are for a different component). When [read: if] this masterpiece is completed, it'll be roughly the size of a softball. With 300 pieces. And heaven forbid they try to play with it, as Scooter will invariably explore the intricacies of space dogfights and collide the ship into a wall/the piano/the ceiling fan, sprawling THREE HUNDRED Legos across our living room.
My brother-in-law works at Hasbro in the Star Wars toy department. He's to blame.
Writing that reminds me that in life, it's not as important to find a solution to our problems as it is to accuse a scapegoat. I feel better now.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Odd Antennae
I have a crop of skin tags where my right shoulder connects with my neck. They itch today. But I'm hesitant to scratch them, lest I accidentally pry one off beneath a fingernail. I've done it before, and (1) they bleed a LOT, plus (2) somehow, a disproportionate number of nerves squeeze into each tiny flap of skin, so blotting away the torrent of blood stings. A long time ago, when I was feeling particularly stupid/tired/annoyed/like myself, I performed some amateur surgeries with a pair of nail clippers. To my not-so-stupid/tired/annoyed eyes, I can't determine if the tags I severed grew back; the unnecessary (and unwanted) skin garden has a variety of sizes and shapes.
I don't think there are any medical concerns beyond my wife's nausea when she gives me shoulder massages. So having a real doctor examine and remove them would be considered an elective procedure, causing me to pay. (I reached my 2009 medical deductible just before Independence Day, and I'm trying to figure out what other ailments I need now that they're free.)
In related news, I had another instance of brainfreeze today. That's nothing unusual by itself, but this one carried an odd sense of deja vu. So not only did I know that I knew the song I couldn't think of, but I felt like I couldn't remember it before. Jumping into the wayback machine before internet searching made everything easy, no one could ever remember Naked Eyes was the band that did "Always Something There to Remind Me" (technically, a remake of a Motown track). Today's tune was finally tracked down: Sundown, by Gordon Lightfoot. Weird. I knew I'd be embarrassed asking people what it was because I had to sing a few bars, but thankfully, the melody is distinguishable enough. Can't imagine I'll hear Mr. Lightfoot sampled by any rappers anytime soon. Maybe Weird Al?
I ate lunch at a restaurant with prepackaged music today. All 80s. As crappy as the music the electronic era may have produced, it's still the decade of nostalgic radio. I also recalled a talk show segment asking for a big pop star who everyone knew (and some must have enjoyed), but no one ever owned their albums. Suggestions were Kool & The Gang and Eddie Money. I figured out a third today: REO Speedwagon. They're appearing in concert, along with Styx. What must it be like to go through your entire career as an opening act?
Hey! I have a story idea!
I don't think there are any medical concerns beyond my wife's nausea when she gives me shoulder massages. So having a real doctor examine and remove them would be considered an elective procedure, causing me to pay. (I reached my 2009 medical deductible just before Independence Day, and I'm trying to figure out what other ailments I need now that they're free.)
In related news, I had another instance of brainfreeze today. That's nothing unusual by itself, but this one carried an odd sense of deja vu. So not only did I know that I knew the song I couldn't think of, but I felt like I couldn't remember it before. Jumping into the wayback machine before internet searching made everything easy, no one could ever remember Naked Eyes was the band that did "Always Something There to Remind Me" (technically, a remake of a Motown track). Today's tune was finally tracked down: Sundown, by Gordon Lightfoot. Weird. I knew I'd be embarrassed asking people what it was because I had to sing a few bars, but thankfully, the melody is distinguishable enough. Can't imagine I'll hear Mr. Lightfoot sampled by any rappers anytime soon. Maybe Weird Al?
I ate lunch at a restaurant with prepackaged music today. All 80s. As crappy as the music the electronic era may have produced, it's still the decade of nostalgic radio. I also recalled a talk show segment asking for a big pop star who everyone knew (and some must have enjoyed), but no one ever owned their albums. Suggestions were Kool & The Gang and Eddie Money. I figured out a third today: REO Speedwagon. They're appearing in concert, along with Styx. What must it be like to go through your entire career as an opening act?
Hey! I have a story idea!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Probably Productive Time
In case you've not deduced it yet, I fancy myself a writer. I know the clues leading to such a conclusion were sparse, and I'd hate to think you were still wandering aimlessly in your missive to figure out why I was put on this planet. (Rest assured, this is the only planet I've burdened with my presence.)
So Friday afternoon, I engaged in a serious discussion about the value of Facebook. My co-worker is closer to retirement age, and he doesn't understand how people can waste so much time updating people with "I'm going to do the laundry," "The clothes are in the washer," and "Thank God for stain removers." I agreed that the consistent status changes announcing every trivial event was overwhelming in volume and underwhelming in substance. I also don't use FB for games, discovering which of Snow White's seven dwarfs/how many 1964 album covers I can identify/learning what my name says about my personality type. While I am having fun with Gilthe Ghoul, I really only use my main profile for chatting with friends. (And, of course, comparing my number of friends with others to inflate my superiority complex.)
My argument was if people weren't wasting away on FB, they'd be sitting on their couches watching crappy TV programs. Which was where I believed the perpetual updating stemmed - our heightened sense of voyeurism. With over a decade's barrage of "reality" programming, people have determined their importance by parodying themselves (or, in most cases, being a pitifully laughable character that is themself). By twitting/incessant posting, they develop the belief that other people care about Downy's ability to remove strained carrots from a polyester blouse.
In other words: if people weren't devolving on FB, they'd be eroding from TV. My co-worker was disappointed, nearly appalled that society could let so much valuable time go to waste when they could be doing something worthwhile. Like what? Working out? Is it for health or vanity? Sports? Again, upon what foundation? Although we agreed that people create more memories from sports and face-to-face interaction than they ever will online. I can't think of a single instance where I've resurfaced a chat... "Do you remember when you typed....?" Nope.
After a solid 30 minutes of back-and-forth, he brought up how he's finishing his CPA license/degree/certification/shows how good my listening skills are. He recently attended law school - just for the hell of it. Didn't finish, but put two years in to get a better idea of how the legal mind operates. The more I learned of his escapades, the more I realized he was one of those people.
And I am not.
After all, the time I'm using writing this blog could be better invested in writing a novel. That way, someone else would have my book to read on the couch while their body and mind atrophies. My little contribution to the worsement (opposite of betterment?) of society.
So Friday afternoon, I engaged in a serious discussion about the value of Facebook. My co-worker is closer to retirement age, and he doesn't understand how people can waste so much time updating people with "I'm going to do the laundry," "The clothes are in the washer," and "Thank God for stain removers." I agreed that the consistent status changes announcing every trivial event was overwhelming in volume and underwhelming in substance. I also don't use FB for games, discovering which of Snow White's seven dwarfs/how many 1964 album covers I can identify/learning what my name says about my personality type. While I am having fun with Gilthe Ghoul, I really only use my main profile for chatting with friends. (And, of course, comparing my number of friends with others to inflate my superiority complex.)
My argument was if people weren't wasting away on FB, they'd be sitting on their couches watching crappy TV programs. Which was where I believed the perpetual updating stemmed - our heightened sense of voyeurism. With over a decade's barrage of "reality" programming, people have determined their importance by parodying themselves (or, in most cases, being a pitifully laughable character that is themself). By twitting/incessant posting, they develop the belief that other people care about Downy's ability to remove strained carrots from a polyester blouse.
In other words: if people weren't devolving on FB, they'd be eroding from TV. My co-worker was disappointed, nearly appalled that society could let so much valuable time go to waste when they could be doing something worthwhile. Like what? Working out? Is it for health or vanity? Sports? Again, upon what foundation? Although we agreed that people create more memories from sports and face-to-face interaction than they ever will online. I can't think of a single instance where I've resurfaced a chat... "Do you remember when you typed....?" Nope.
After a solid 30 minutes of back-and-forth, he brought up how he's finishing his CPA license/degree/certification/shows how good my listening skills are. He recently attended law school - just for the hell of it. Didn't finish, but put two years in to get a better idea of how the legal mind operates. The more I learned of his escapades, the more I realized he was one of those people.
And I am not.
After all, the time I'm using writing this blog could be better invested in writing a novel. That way, someone else would have my book to read on the couch while their body and mind atrophies. My little contribution to the worsement (opposite of betterment?) of society.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Crowd Ignorance
Know your audience. It’s a cardinal rule of writing, so long as you’re not a humble monk or a pretentious rock lyricist claiming apathy toward their following. Strangely, as I wrote “cardinal,” the Catholic hierarchy popped into my mind. Reinforced by the idea that even a monk would have an audience – specifically, God. And yet, one Biblical meaning of “know” has a connotation that means knowing an entire audience would minimally be disturbing, and potentially lead to a bevy of lawsuits and personal appearances on the Maury Povich show. Running that tangent one step further, I had the bad fortune of seeing Nick Cage’s “Knowing” in the theater over the summer. Contradictory to the word, I’ve no clue why I did that.
I wonder whether it’d be worth my while to re-spew my Kitty Pool reports here. Rod was a former participant, Sue’s husband is a current player, and Jim Curran used to play football on Sunday afternoons before D&D marathons at the Lansdowne Library. That’s 50% of my followers with some tie-in to football. Recognizing my predestined inability to please all the people all the time (even if I knew them), shouldn’t half be sufficient to reprint my weekly commentary?
I suspect it’d be like retelling people about a fantasy football team. Which is pathetic. I could cross-culture my audience and tell the 20 Kitty poolers they have to get their updates here. With 20 people, that’d get me one/one-billionth towards Ashton Kutcher’s Twitterheads. Good. The less I have in common with Kelso, the happier I am.
After thinking (and still not conclusively knowing), methinks I’ll keep the entities separate. I’ll pen weekly football commentary, post here weekdaily, twice weekly with Gilthe, and occasionally submit something to SM. Plus I have five years of my original ten-year promise to myself to produce one of the plays I’ve written. And I haven’t submitted a children’s story for publication to a magazine in months. Ideas abound, but all ideas are crap until they’re written out.
I suppose I could be inspired/persuaded/funded to write something for a particular audience. So, for the minor disservice of this blog, please send me a dollar. With six of you, that’s a Happy Meal with an upgrade to a milkshake. Joy.
In the long run, here I am – unsurprisingly – babbling about nothing again. It’s a gift. In fact, it’s my exclusive, free gift to you. You’re welcome.
I wonder whether it’d be worth my while to re-spew my Kitty Pool reports here. Rod was a former participant, Sue’s husband is a current player, and Jim Curran used to play football on Sunday afternoons before D&D marathons at the Lansdowne Library. That’s 50% of my followers with some tie-in to football. Recognizing my predestined inability to please all the people all the time (even if I knew them), shouldn’t half be sufficient to reprint my weekly commentary?
I suspect it’d be like retelling people about a fantasy football team. Which is pathetic. I could cross-culture my audience and tell the 20 Kitty poolers they have to get their updates here. With 20 people, that’d get me one/one-billionth towards Ashton Kutcher’s Twitterheads. Good. The less I have in common with Kelso, the happier I am.
After thinking (and still not conclusively knowing), methinks I’ll keep the entities separate. I’ll pen weekly football commentary, post here weekdaily, twice weekly with Gilthe, and occasionally submit something to SM. Plus I have five years of my original ten-year promise to myself to produce one of the plays I’ve written. And I haven’t submitted a children’s story for publication to a magazine in months. Ideas abound, but all ideas are crap until they’re written out.
I suppose I could be inspired/persuaded/funded to write something for a particular audience. So, for the minor disservice of this blog, please send me a dollar. With six of you, that’s a Happy Meal with an upgrade to a milkshake. Joy.
In the long run, here I am – unsurprisingly – babbling about nothing again. It’s a gift. In fact, it’s my exclusive, free gift to you. You’re welcome.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Site seeing
For those of you stuck at a computer with too much downtime and not enough brain cells to know any differently, here are a list of websites I frequent. If you choose to believe we are all sums of our experiences, you probably had a built-in excuse for failing math class.
Funny pages:
comics.com - 9 Chickweed Lane, Big Nate, Cow & Boy, Get Fuzzy, Frazz, Liberty Meadows, Monty, Pearls Before Swine, Scary Gary, Working Daze
ucomics.com - The Duplex, Basic Instructions
xkcd.com
Sporty Spice:
espn.page2 - especially Gregg Easterbrook, Bill Simmons, DJ Gallo
700level.com
mlb.com - weird, since I don't care much about baseball
No Explanation Possible:
awkwardfamilyphotos.com
kongregate.com - especially Castle Wars
StoryMash.com - nashvillebecker
rogerebert.com
duel2.com
SCADshorts.com
theonion.com
despair.com
Blogs I follow/ed
nortonnews.weebly.com
thegodoflove.blogspot.com
oneyearonearth.com
inklingx.com
What? A list? Seriously, I'm resorting to a lame list like this as my entire post? How pathetic is that?
26.3%
Funny pages:
comics.com - 9 Chickweed Lane, Big Nate, Cow & Boy, Get Fuzzy, Frazz, Liberty Meadows, Monty, Pearls Before Swine, Scary Gary, Working Daze
ucomics.com - The Duplex, Basic Instructions
xkcd.com
Sporty Spice:
espn.page2 - especially Gregg Easterbrook, Bill Simmons, DJ Gallo
700level.com
mlb.com - weird, since I don't care much about baseball
No Explanation Possible:
awkwardfamilyphotos.com
kongregate.com - especially Castle Wars
StoryMash.com - nashvillebecker
rogerebert.com
duel2.com
SCADshorts.com
theonion.com
despair.com
Blogs I follow/ed
nortonnews.weebly.com
thegodoflove.blogspot.com
oneyearonearth.com
inklingx.com
What? A list? Seriously, I'm resorting to a lame list like this as my entire post? How pathetic is that?
26.3%
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Exercises for a Flabby Mind
I graduated from an art college, so I have no excuse for my lame drawings. One sketching exercise I did was blind contour drawing, where I would focus on the object/model (often, my non-drawing hand) and never look away, transmitting the ideas from my brain to my right hand. (I've also said before that I have a left arm so I don't walk in circles.) Today, I recognized the similarities between blind contour drawing and typing, where I'm not supposed to look at the screen, rather expending all my focus on the page. Free writing is another exercise, where I ponder an object and write anything and everything I can about it with no editing and no stopping for sixty seconds.
I shall now attempt a blind free writing exercise. Today's topic: Inflatable pool toys.
(Closes eyes.)
I an't understand how Wal-Mart and some other big box stores are capable of selling inflatable toys for $.99 a piece, when they have hte sabig rraft transluscent, the kind you approach from below Jaws, fold in half, and they never work proerly again. Instead of placing a label on them that warrns children not to ingest the plastic (or put their head inside the packing bag), they should tell consumers not to fold their raft in haf, unless they never want it to inflate completely again. Tubes are largely the same thing, and I've laways been the guy friends recruit to blow stuff up. I do have asthma, so I'm not sur if it's the jstupid faces I make or the possibilty that I'll die that encourages my friends to encourage me to pucker my lips around some foreign plstic object nad blow until my interior cheeks hurt. (Please don't quote me out of context on that.)
(All done.)
Wow. I reread the above; besides the typos, it carries some coherency, but not enough to separate it from any other entry I've posted. Similar to the blind contour drawings, I'll most likely never use this. Unlike the corresponding sketches, I'm going to post this so everyone can see it.
Was I the only student who was embarrassed to show the nude models my final drawings? Doing the sketch wasn't the part I was ashamed of, but if they didn't think their body was configured the way I portrayed, they were probably right. On the flipside, it was one time where I could say "Whether or not it's the truth, you do look fat in this."
I shall now attempt a blind free writing exercise. Today's topic: Inflatable pool toys.
(Closes eyes.)
I an't understand how Wal-Mart and some other big box stores are capable of selling inflatable toys for $.99 a piece, when they have hte sabig rraft transluscent, the kind you approach from below Jaws, fold in half, and they never work proerly again. Instead of placing a label on them that warrns children not to ingest the plastic (or put their head inside the packing bag), they should tell consumers not to fold their raft in haf, unless they never want it to inflate completely again. Tubes are largely the same thing, and I've laways been the guy friends recruit to blow stuff up. I do have asthma, so I'm not sur if it's the jstupid faces I make or the possibilty that I'll die that encourages my friends to encourage me to pucker my lips around some foreign plstic object nad blow until my interior cheeks hurt. (Please don't quote me out of context on that.)
(All done.)
Wow. I reread the above; besides the typos, it carries some coherency, but not enough to separate it from any other entry I've posted. Similar to the blind contour drawings, I'll most likely never use this. Unlike the corresponding sketches, I'm going to post this so everyone can see it.
Was I the only student who was embarrassed to show the nude models my final drawings? Doing the sketch wasn't the part I was ashamed of, but if they didn't think their body was configured the way I portrayed, they were probably right. On the flipside, it was one time where I could say "Whether or not it's the truth, you do look fat in this."
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Anatomy of anatomy
It is next to impossible to type with jazz hands.
My Mr. T. chia-head has a cleft forehead; both eyebrows have rainbows above them, but there's a definitive crease down the center. As he sports a beard, I can't determine whether or not he also has a cleft chin. Though the cartilege of his nose might hide such a thing, is it possible he has a cleft skull?
What is the maximum price of something I could purchase using only loose pennies? I must have a dollar or two in copper in my car's junk tray (shows my opinion). Over time, they've accumulated a greasy coating. Dunno if that's a natural pennies-in-sunlight byproduct, or if my kids sneezed on them and the slippy goo is the chemical reaction. Another instance where ignorance is bliss.
I've managed to break the nose pads off at least three pairs of my sunglasses. My sons are responsible for damaging dozens of pairs. I have a sizeable cranium to begin with, so it's hard enough to find shades that don't resemble John Lennon specs when I wear 'em. Checking mirrors, I can see they're often crooked. Yet no one informs me of this. Is "You're glasses are crooked" along the same line as "You have food stuck between your teeth," in that you need an established relationship to inform the unknowing sufferer? Are none of my friendships quality enough to reveal that information? I'm going with option B: all my friends think the glasses are straight and my head is crooked.
Had a speck of sleepdust in my eye pocket (the part of your eye socket closest to your nose where gunk accumulates and crystallizes overnight). Rubbed it out and scratched the skin - for a miniscule thing, it was sharp. Better to suffer the discomfort now; had I left it unremoved, it could've potentially grown like rock candy and wedged my eyeball straight out of my head.
Color test: blood is red. Veins are blue. What color wire do I cut so the bomb in my circulatory system doesn't detonate?
My Mr. T. chia-head has a cleft forehead; both eyebrows have rainbows above them, but there's a definitive crease down the center. As he sports a beard, I can't determine whether or not he also has a cleft chin. Though the cartilege of his nose might hide such a thing, is it possible he has a cleft skull?
What is the maximum price of something I could purchase using only loose pennies? I must have a dollar or two in copper in my car's junk tray (shows my opinion). Over time, they've accumulated a greasy coating. Dunno if that's a natural pennies-in-sunlight byproduct, or if my kids sneezed on them and the slippy goo is the chemical reaction. Another instance where ignorance is bliss.
I've managed to break the nose pads off at least three pairs of my sunglasses. My sons are responsible for damaging dozens of pairs. I have a sizeable cranium to begin with, so it's hard enough to find shades that don't resemble John Lennon specs when I wear 'em. Checking mirrors, I can see they're often crooked. Yet no one informs me of this. Is "You're glasses are crooked" along the same line as "You have food stuck between your teeth," in that you need an established relationship to inform the unknowing sufferer? Are none of my friendships quality enough to reveal that information? I'm going with option B: all my friends think the glasses are straight and my head is crooked.
Had a speck of sleepdust in my eye pocket (the part of your eye socket closest to your nose where gunk accumulates and crystallizes overnight). Rubbed it out and scratched the skin - for a miniscule thing, it was sharp. Better to suffer the discomfort now; had I left it unremoved, it could've potentially grown like rock candy and wedged my eyeball straight out of my head.
Color test: blood is red. Veins are blue. What color wire do I cut so the bomb in my circulatory system doesn't detonate?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Misquotable Mementos
Bad comedy sketch - The Flipper Family: Similar to the 80's travesty "The Dinosaurs," have people dress up in dolphin costumes and live anthropomorphically, with every joke incorporating some form of "I did that on porpoise!" It's horrid. And probably appearing on SNL this weekend.
Once again pondering the reason behind doing this blog. It isn't that I need the justification - heck, my following has expanded at a pace that should reach infinity by infinity. But why would someone search out this particular blog? The title, while brilliant, doesn't really describe the content. I'm not consistently writing fiction, nor how-to advice, nor enough comedy to qualify as humor. I'm amassing a strange collection of essays without any common thread beyond the author. Yet, if someone Googles "Jim Becker blog," I don't pop up on the first page of results. (I'll leave it up to Curran, my crack research team, to figure out if/where I appear.) On a whim, I tried "Nash Becker Blog" and discovered I'm not even alone in that field.
As much as anything, this is a quest for meaning. I've outlasted my expectations, and while I'm not yearning to type in my latest post, I'm also not dreading the monotonous chore of developing a thought into a half-dozen paragraphs. So what is The Hypocrite's Refuge... that's funny. Minor faux pas: while I was typing in "Refuge," I mistyped "Refuse." The Hypocrite's Garbage. Considering the cornucopia of content squeezed together here (and rotting), it may be pertinent for me to alter the title.
Are Freudian slips always supposed to have some sexual connotation? I don't know whether they're as misused as the concept of irony; if so, how ironic would that be? (Answer: not at all.)
I could always post my blog updates on my Facebook status, which would give me something to do with my own profile (as compared to Gilthe's). Or I could do commentary on my "friends" status updates. Better yet, I could do theme weeks. Like the Discovery Channel, except mine won't involve elephants procreating or the predators of the deep.
For someone who detests the idea of writing for the internet, I sure do a lot of it. (Ah yes, there's that title again.) It isn't like I'll be walking up the street (as most people walk down it) and some stranger will recognize me from this website, then pay me $100 for my autograph. For the six of you reading this: if you can convince some stranger to pay me $100 (that didn't somehow come out of my bank account to begin with), I'll happily give you a percentage. A finder's fee of sorts.
I know the answer. This blog is something people will dig up after (1) I get famous and/or (2) I die. Hopefully the former won't require the latter.
Once again pondering the reason behind doing this blog. It isn't that I need the justification - heck, my following has expanded at a pace that should reach infinity by infinity. But why would someone search out this particular blog? The title, while brilliant, doesn't really describe the content. I'm not consistently writing fiction, nor how-to advice, nor enough comedy to qualify as humor. I'm amassing a strange collection of essays without any common thread beyond the author. Yet, if someone Googles "Jim Becker blog," I don't pop up on the first page of results. (I'll leave it up to Curran, my crack research team, to figure out if/where I appear.) On a whim, I tried "Nash Becker Blog" and discovered I'm not even alone in that field.
As much as anything, this is a quest for meaning. I've outlasted my expectations, and while I'm not yearning to type in my latest post, I'm also not dreading the monotonous chore of developing a thought into a half-dozen paragraphs. So what is The Hypocrite's Refuge... that's funny. Minor faux pas: while I was typing in "Refuge," I mistyped "Refuse." The Hypocrite's Garbage. Considering the cornucopia of content squeezed together here (and rotting), it may be pertinent for me to alter the title.
Are Freudian slips always supposed to have some sexual connotation? I don't know whether they're as misused as the concept of irony; if so, how ironic would that be? (Answer: not at all.)
I could always post my blog updates on my Facebook status, which would give me something to do with my own profile (as compared to Gilthe's). Or I could do commentary on my "friends" status updates. Better yet, I could do theme weeks. Like the Discovery Channel, except mine won't involve elephants procreating or the predators of the deep.
For someone who detests the idea of writing for the internet, I sure do a lot of it. (Ah yes, there's that title again.) It isn't like I'll be walking up the street (as most people walk down it) and some stranger will recognize me from this website, then pay me $100 for my autograph. For the six of you reading this: if you can convince some stranger to pay me $100 (that didn't somehow come out of my bank account to begin with), I'll happily give you a percentage. A finder's fee of sorts.
I know the answer. This blog is something people will dig up after (1) I get famous and/or (2) I die. Hopefully the former won't require the latter.
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