"Well, the more you try to shave the cat
The more the thing will bite and scratch.
It's best I think to leave it's fur
And to listen to it's silky purr."
-Cake, Tougher Than It Is
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Saturday, October 28, 2006
See, I Was Listening
My roommate was trying to decide what to wear out to dinner. Others may have called him indecisive. I called him Muse.
Friday, October 27, 2006
As It Turns Out...
Yesterday was this blog's two-year anniversary. Therefore today is actually Making Up for Not Caring About Your Second Year Anniversary Day, You Blog. In honor of not caring about this blog's second anniversary, I am going to take a nap.
HAPPY MAKING UP FOR NOT CARING ABOUT YOUR FIRST YEAR ANNIVERSARY DAY, You Blog
This Year's Resolutions:
1) take a shower today
2) maybe dry off and get dressed and the rest of it
p.s. shut up, I don't have class 'til 12:30.
1) take a shower today
2) maybe dry off and get dressed and the rest of it
p.s. shut up, I don't have class 'til 12:30.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Ninth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series
Part Nine*:
I
"I" stands for Ichthyology, which means "the branch of zoology dealing with fishes." Unfortunately, in conversation the word could easily be misunderstood for "Ick, theology," which means "eww gross, the study of God" and is not welcome in many religious circles. To avoid this and a host of other socially awkward situations, zoologists who specialize in fish should avoid the topic of their occupation altogether and talk about something else, such as politics.
*In recent usage the word "nine" also represented the planet Neptune in the mnemonic, "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas." However, despite vehement protest from Red Baron the Neptune representative was changed to Nutella after the International Astronomical Union approved a definition for "planet" that excludes Pluto.
I
"I" stands for Ichthyology, which means "the branch of zoology dealing with fishes." Unfortunately, in conversation the word could easily be misunderstood for "Ick, theology," which means "eww gross, the study of God" and is not welcome in many religious circles. To avoid this and a host of other socially awkward situations, zoologists who specialize in fish should avoid the topic of their occupation altogether and talk about something else, such as politics.
*In recent usage the word "nine" also represented the planet Neptune in the mnemonic, "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas." However, despite vehement protest from Red Baron the Neptune representative was changed to Nutella after the International Astronomical Union approved a definition for "planet" that excludes Pluto.
This Is What Happens When I Say "Hey Mike," and Michael Pretends Not to Hear Me
Some of those cushions are from the apartment next door.
Monday, October 23, 2006
This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 1 Number 1
Good atnoon all yea faithful.
The writers of This Guy are currently hard at work on things among other things, but we want to take a moment to make you aware of a few exciting events on the horizon.
Many of you are probably aware that this Friday marks the first annual Two Year Anniversary of our publication. Expect something big and prepare to be disappointed or appointed accordingly.
The construction of "Wild Animal Panorama Puzzle," by Haruo Takino (alternately titled "Noah's Ark Panorama" by those who maintain that hippos ship separately) has hit a blog-worthy (we're highly selective here at TG) snag. Keep your eyes peeled (metaphorically) for "Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part II," out soon.
Finally, the editor would like to acknowledge Anonymous, a frequent contributor of comments, by again, and this time willfully, publishing this fine and oft-used response: "word."
Word indeed, Anonymous. Your word has touched us all.
The writers of This Guy are currently hard at work on things among other things, but we want to take a moment to make you aware of a few exciting events on the horizon.
Many of you are probably aware that this Friday marks the first annual Two Year Anniversary of our publication. Expect something big and prepare to be disappointed or appointed accordingly.
The construction of "Wild Animal Panorama Puzzle," by Haruo Takino (alternately titled "Noah's Ark Panorama" by those who maintain that hippos ship separately) has hit a blog-worthy (we're highly selective here at TG) snag. Keep your eyes peeled (metaphorically) for "Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part II," out soon.
Finally, the editor would like to acknowledge Anonymous, a frequent contributor of comments, by again, and this time willfully, publishing this fine and oft-used response: "word."
Word indeed, Anonymous. Your word has touched us all.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
My Roommate Is the Master of Metaphors... Metaphors Disguised as Similes
"Dub, get a load of this carrot."
"Whoa. It's like, a mini carrot."
"A baby carrot, perhaps?"
"No, it's more like a... like a, Shetland carrot."
"Whoa. It's like, a mini carrot."
"A baby carrot, perhaps?"
"No, it's more like a... like a, Shetland carrot."
My Last Swing at Redemption
Both of you might recognize this story, but it's gone through some pretty heavy revisions "for publication" and, to quote Mitch Hedberg, "I couldn't [expletive] rob you of this one."
Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. She was a year older than me and probably six inches taller, and she lived next door. I was running in the opposite direction.
This all started when I fell in love with baseball back in the first grade, and while childhood loves are often short-lived, my passion for the game was still a problem almost a year later. The sweet, earthy smell of the field, the exhilarating crack of the bat, the electricity in the air on opening day—these were all completely foreign concepts to me. But my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum, so baseball was a way of life.
That’s why, when the neighborhood kids gathered for a game in the street outside our house, I turned off the Nintendo without even saving and raced to get my glove. In my first at-bat I launched the ball almost past the pitcher and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion, then raced toward the first base cone. My lightning speed was deteriorating as I neared the cone, but no one ran to tag me out. No one even tried to stop the ball for that matter, which was rolling past second and still going deep. Everyone just stood there looking across the street.
I turned around to see Beth’s dad knelt beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like a dying buck looking into the eyes of a hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not really sure how that would happen, but I wasn’t really sure how this had happened either.
“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.
“I’m, sorry.” My apology squeezed out awkwardly between labored breaths. Beth looked at me and quit sobbing long enough to gulp down a couple gallons of air, then started up again. “Sorry Beth.” I thought we should maybe take a break and sing the national anthem or something, but baseball isn’t a stop and go ordeal, so we played on. I stayed on first and tried to keep my head in the game while analyzing the last play.
It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t a baseball expert or anything, but even if there wasn’t a game on TV I always had “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” to study on Nintendo. I didn’t know who Ryne Sandberg was exactly, but I figured he must have been Wayne Gretzky, who everyone knows is the greatest ball player of all time. But that was beside the point. The point was no one holds onto the bat while running the bases. It simply isn’t done. So what had I done wrong?
The rest of the inning went smoothly enough; I even managed to scrape up my right leg before it was over—I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before only hadn’t made it all the way to the base, which was evident by the size of the wound. But I didn’t even go inside for a knee band-aid, I just brushed off the gravel, grabbed my glove and trotted to the edge of the block. Satisfied that I was safely in the outfield, Beth wiped away her last few tears and limped around for a better place to sit.
As the sun sank below our rooftop horizon, I buried my left hand snuggly into the warm leather glove, then spread out the fingers of my right hand and let the cool air drift by. My ears drank in the scuffing sounds of tennis shoes on asphalt, the eager hey batter batter, sw-ing batter batter of the players and the steady conversations of a few watchful parents, who broke here and there into shouts of encouragement. Sure, the blood dripping down my leg was attracting mosquito eaters like a porch light, but that was no big deal, this was baseball.
I stood there and watched four or five kids strike out before someone came to borrow my glove and told me it was time to bat. I nodded and jogged confidently to the plate. After thinking about the accident and I’d come to a conclusion: I’d thrown the bat with too little control and in the wrong direction. Now everyone was counting on me to be awesome, and I wasn’t going to let them down.
The first pitch looked high, but apparently I was just short. Strike one. I closed my eyes to concentrate.
Strike two.
“Keep your eyes on the ball,” my brother shouted.
The pitcher gave me a reassuring nod; he obviously meant business. His arm drew down and back and my eyes locked onto the ball in his hand. The bat hung still over my shoulder. My breathing went silent. The mosquito eaters clung frozen to my leg. What happened next will stay with me forever.
The pitch came at me like a sixth grader off a swing set. I swung hard and grounded it past second, but this time I held onto the bat. I brought the bat back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, then carefully tossed it to my right, then watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I stood and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and I went inside.
Beth Doke went inside too.
Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. She was a year older than me and probably six inches taller, and she lived next door. I was running in the opposite direction.
This all started when I fell in love with baseball back in the first grade, and while childhood loves are often short-lived, my passion for the game was still a problem almost a year later. The sweet, earthy smell of the field, the exhilarating crack of the bat, the electricity in the air on opening day—these were all completely foreign concepts to me. But my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum, so baseball was a way of life.
That’s why, when the neighborhood kids gathered for a game in the street outside our house, I turned off the Nintendo without even saving and raced to get my glove. In my first at-bat I launched the ball almost past the pitcher and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion, then raced toward the first base cone. My lightning speed was deteriorating as I neared the cone, but no one ran to tag me out. No one even tried to stop the ball for that matter, which was rolling past second and still going deep. Everyone just stood there looking across the street.
I turned around to see Beth’s dad knelt beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like a dying buck looking into the eyes of a hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not really sure how that would happen, but I wasn’t really sure how this had happened either.
“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.
“I’m, sorry.” My apology squeezed out awkwardly between labored breaths. Beth looked at me and quit sobbing long enough to gulp down a couple gallons of air, then started up again. “Sorry Beth.” I thought we should maybe take a break and sing the national anthem or something, but baseball isn’t a stop and go ordeal, so we played on. I stayed on first and tried to keep my head in the game while analyzing the last play.
It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t a baseball expert or anything, but even if there wasn’t a game on TV I always had “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” to study on Nintendo. I didn’t know who Ryne Sandberg was exactly, but I figured he must have been Wayne Gretzky, who everyone knows is the greatest ball player of all time. But that was beside the point. The point was no one holds onto the bat while running the bases. It simply isn’t done. So what had I done wrong?
The rest of the inning went smoothly enough; I even managed to scrape up my right leg before it was over—I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before only hadn’t made it all the way to the base, which was evident by the size of the wound. But I didn’t even go inside for a knee band-aid, I just brushed off the gravel, grabbed my glove and trotted to the edge of the block. Satisfied that I was safely in the outfield, Beth wiped away her last few tears and limped around for a better place to sit.
As the sun sank below our rooftop horizon, I buried my left hand snuggly into the warm leather glove, then spread out the fingers of my right hand and let the cool air drift by. My ears drank in the scuffing sounds of tennis shoes on asphalt, the eager hey batter batter, sw-ing batter batter of the players and the steady conversations of a few watchful parents, who broke here and there into shouts of encouragement. Sure, the blood dripping down my leg was attracting mosquito eaters like a porch light, but that was no big deal, this was baseball.
I stood there and watched four or five kids strike out before someone came to borrow my glove and told me it was time to bat. I nodded and jogged confidently to the plate. After thinking about the accident and I’d come to a conclusion: I’d thrown the bat with too little control and in the wrong direction. Now everyone was counting on me to be awesome, and I wasn’t going to let them down.
The first pitch looked high, but apparently I was just short. Strike one. I closed my eyes to concentrate.
Strike two.
“Keep your eyes on the ball,” my brother shouted.
The pitcher gave me a reassuring nod; he obviously meant business. His arm drew down and back and my eyes locked onto the ball in his hand. The bat hung still over my shoulder. My breathing went silent. The mosquito eaters clung frozen to my leg. What happened next will stay with me forever.
The pitch came at me like a sixth grader off a swing set. I swung hard and grounded it past second, but this time I held onto the bat. I brought the bat back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, then carefully tossed it to my right, then watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I stood and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and I went inside.
Beth Doke went inside too.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Recommended Reading
These guys do good work. Some of them even come into my apartment and borrow towels without bothering to say hi.
I found this article while trying to figure out if I was a mythbuster or an artist. It's not as funny as the other site, but probably more socially relevant.
Quick poll: or is it socially relevant at all? (Make sure you read the "quick poll" part really quickly. That's why it's in italics.)
Finally, this is what I think of whenever I hear the word "genius."
Sorry about that... I mean, this.
I found this article while trying to figure out if I was a mythbuster or an artist. It's not as funny as the other site, but probably more socially relevant.
Quick poll: or is it socially relevant at all? (Make sure you read the "quick poll" part really quickly. That's why it's in italics.)
Finally, this is what I think of whenever I hear the word "genius."
Sorry about that... I mean, this.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Why I'm Glad I Can Mow Lawns
The following is an excerpt from the "author's notes" section of a non-fiction short story I submitted to one of my favorite professors for feedback. Her responses are italicized.
What is your initial impression of the story?
I don't think it succeeds yet at what you're up to.
Do you think this is worth submitting to the Driftwood in its present form?
It needs work.
Most importantly to me, is the story more than just "self-involved navel-gazing?"
no
What is your initial impression of the story?
I don't think it succeeds yet at what you're up to.
Do you think this is worth submitting to the Driftwood in its present form?
It needs work.
Most importantly to me, is the story more than just "self-involved navel-gazing?"
no
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Eighth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series
Part Eight*:
H
"H" stands for Hank, which means "a skein of yarn or thread." This is an interesting definition because after reading it you've learned that, whatever a hank is, it's not what you were expecting.
*Incidentally, H is the eighth letter in the alphabet.
H
"H" stands for Hank, which means "a skein of yarn or thread." This is an interesting definition because after reading it you've learned that, whatever a hank is, it's not what you were expecting.
*Incidentally, H is the eighth letter in the alphabet.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Funny to Me
I just deleted an email with the subject line "different keywords, general fewer." I think I just caught spam with its pants down. It was kind of embarrassing.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Seventh Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series
Part Seven*:
G
"G" stands for Galantry, which means "heroic courage," "the behavior of a gallant" or "a courteous act or remark." However, it could be confused for "gal lamprey," which means "an eel-like girl with a jawless, sucking mouth." This is sort of disgusting and is best avoided by using words like "bravery" or "charm."
*The shortest distance between these two points is a line.
G
"G" stands for Galantry, which means "heroic courage," "the behavior of a gallant" or "a courteous act or remark." However, it could be confused for "gal lamprey," which means "an eel-like girl with a jawless, sucking mouth." This is sort of disgusting and is best avoided by using words like "bravery" or "charm."
*The shortest distance between these two points is a line.
Monday, October 02, 2006
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