Wednesday, February 14, 2007
A Valentine's Message from Dave Barry
"The discovery that the Valentine heart resembles the prostate gland and not the human heart has MAJOR implications, and not just for people who play bridge (I bid three prostates). It also means that there are thousands, perhaps millions, of hairy men walking around with the word 'Mom' tattooed on a picture of a prostate gland."
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Tenth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series
Part Ten*:
J
"J" stands for Jack-a-dandy, which means "a little dandy; a little, foppish, impertinent fellow." That's exactly what it should mean.
*binary for three
J
"J" stands for Jack-a-dandy, which means "a little dandy; a little, foppish, impertinent fellow." That's exactly what it should mean.
*binary for three
Dent
You should have stopped.
You’ll be telling yourself that for a while, until time fades today into distant gray. But today—today is stark black and white. Today the locked front door will frustrate you to tears before you remember the keys still in the ignition, the car still running.
“I hit a deer,” you’ll say. That will explain the dent. That will explain why your arms won’t stop shaking. He’ll pull you close, hold you tight. “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” he’ll say. “Let’s be glad no one’s hurt.”
And that much is true. It has to be true.
You’ll be telling yourself that for a while, until time fades today into distant gray. But today—today is stark black and white. Today the locked front door will frustrate you to tears before you remember the keys still in the ignition, the car still running.
“I hit a deer,” you’ll say. That will explain the dent. That will explain why your arms won’t stop shaking. He’ll pull you close, hold you tight. “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” he’ll say. “Let’s be glad no one’s hurt.”
And that much is true. It has to be true.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Does This Guy Have the Coolest Address (dot blogspot dot com)?
Hey.
I think I can change this blog's URL.
Should I try?
p.s. This has been a readership poll.
I think I can change this blog's URL.
Should I try?
p.s. This has been a readership poll.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Journal Entry of the Wet Cushion on the Floor
day 167
They left me outside again. This time in the rain. Things are getting worse every day. Ever since the air cooled, their visits have become irregular at best. It wasn’t so bad with just the cold, but I fear this business with the rain may be a sign of potentially damaging neglect. With each passing day I become increasingly convinced that it is no longer safe for me to stay here.
day 168
I saw him watching me last night. It might have been early morning.
Someone’s been looking in my journal.
day 169
Reading over my last two entries, I find it odd that they cover a span of a couple days though I only started this journal several minutes ago.
day 170
It occurred to me that I don’t know how to read or write. Whoever is writing this journal, it isn’t me. Tomorrow, I go.
They left me outside again. This time in the rain. Things are getting worse every day. Ever since the air cooled, their visits have become irregular at best. It wasn’t so bad with just the cold, but I fear this business with the rain may be a sign of potentially damaging neglect. With each passing day I become increasingly convinced that it is no longer safe for me to stay here.
day 168
I saw him watching me last night. It might have been early morning.
Someone’s been looking in my journal.
day 169
Reading over my last two entries, I find it odd that they cover a span of a couple days though I only started this journal several minutes ago.
day 170
It occurred to me that I don’t know how to read or write. Whoever is writing this journal, it isn’t me. Tomorrow, I go.
Monday, January 22, 2007
I'm Just Stretching Them Out for Someone, I Swear
I found out something awful about myself today (and to think I've been introspective all this time). I'd just finished velcroing a bear-shaped puzzle to the kitchen wall (because, why not?) when I decided that it was time to display the last puzzle I'd built ("Wild Animal Panorama") and also Mod Podged together (as much for the puzzle's preservation as for the smell of Mod Podge [Wet carrots and broccoli; the folks at Bath and Body Works are fools if they've ever been in a craft supply store]).
"Where should I put this puzzle, guys?"
No answer.
I hold it up to a possible location. Michael seems less than pleased.
"It's just kind of a weird place to hang anything," he explains. Dub doesn't look up from the TV, apparently engrossed in a commercial about how patriotic Chevy trucks are.
"Well, what about over here?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
Huh. "Dub, what do you think? Over your desk, or where should I put it?"
Dub hesitates before letting his eyes leave the screen, probably pulled in by the stellar performance of the Swiffer Wet Jet. "Um... over my desk could work, I guess... or maybe in our room somewhere."
"Well, I don't want to put if over your desk if you don't want it there, but if I put it in our room I feel like no one's ever going to see..." Suddenly it hits me. "Oh my gosh, I'm a weird puzzle person, aren't I?"
Michael gives me a look like he just found out his girlfriend wasn't pregnant. Dub lets out a nervous laugh. I'm feeling dizzy, and my roommates' voices sound muffled and far away. "Well... not exactly," someone says, I'm not sure who. The Bears/Saints game comes back on but Dub isn't watching. Instead he's saying something about how it's not weird to build puzzles at all, so long as you put them back in the box when you're done. Michael mentions that his grandparents are always building puzzles.
Even in that moment, I know I want a puzzle on every wall, as if I were a 12-year-old girl from 1995 and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. As if I were a 42-year-old mouth breather living in my ailing mother's musty basement and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and Ritz crackers were decent social skills and acceptable hygiene (because I also wanted some Ritz crackers just then, but I didn't have any). I don't even think building puzzles is all that fun; I just like having them when they are done. It's true. I am a weird puzzle person.
Dub and Michael are still talking, their muffled voices assuring me that it's okay to make mistakes, that everyone gets a little excessive from time to time. "It's not you, it's me," they might as well be saying. I close my eyes, figuring my only hope is to wake up into a world of black and white and find out that it was all just a dream. "And you were there, and you were there, and you were there..." but to no avail—my life really has come to this, and I can tell from the way they're looking at me that my ruby slippers are only making things worse.
"Where should I put this puzzle, guys?"
No answer.
I hold it up to a possible location. Michael seems less than pleased.
"It's just kind of a weird place to hang anything," he explains. Dub doesn't look up from the TV, apparently engrossed in a commercial about how patriotic Chevy trucks are.
"Well, what about over here?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
Huh. "Dub, what do you think? Over your desk, or where should I put it?"
Dub hesitates before letting his eyes leave the screen, probably pulled in by the stellar performance of the Swiffer Wet Jet. "Um... over my desk could work, I guess... or maybe in our room somewhere."
"Well, I don't want to put if over your desk if you don't want it there, but if I put it in our room I feel like no one's ever going to see..." Suddenly it hits me. "Oh my gosh, I'm a weird puzzle person, aren't I?"
Michael gives me a look like he just found out his girlfriend wasn't pregnant. Dub lets out a nervous laugh. I'm feeling dizzy, and my roommates' voices sound muffled and far away. "Well... not exactly," someone says, I'm not sure who. The Bears/Saints game comes back on but Dub isn't watching. Instead he's saying something about how it's not weird to build puzzles at all, so long as you put them back in the box when you're done. Michael mentions that his grandparents are always building puzzles.
Even in that moment, I know I want a puzzle on every wall, as if I were a 12-year-old girl from 1995 and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. As if I were a 42-year-old mouth breather living in my ailing mother's musty basement and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and Ritz crackers were decent social skills and acceptable hygiene (because I also wanted some Ritz crackers just then, but I didn't have any). I don't even think building puzzles is all that fun; I just like having them when they are done. It's true. I am a weird puzzle person.
Dub and Michael are still talking, their muffled voices assuring me that it's okay to make mistakes, that everyone gets a little excessive from time to time. "It's not you, it's me," they might as well be saying. I close my eyes, figuring my only hope is to wake up into a world of black and white and find out that it was all just a dream. "And you were there, and you were there, and you were there..." but to no avail—my life really has come to this, and I can tell from the way they're looking at me that my ruby slippers are only making things worse.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
self titled
Should a poem about getting a free burrito in an order of several burritos really be called a poem? I think we're about to find out.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Spending any more time on the title will cause me to miss the sunset. Yes, today we get rain and a sunset.
Chessie looks unmoved by the rumblings outside. Perhaps if the storm moves closer she will don the usual "I hope this won't poke me in the eye" demeanor she displays whenever anyone so much as stretches a rubber band or picks up a letter opener.
But it sounds as if I'm out of luck. God has finished rolling his garbage can out to the street, returned up his heavenly driveway, and shut the gate. I hear only rain, and keyboard.
And computer hum. And rain gutter—either that or there's a bored kid with a bunch of bubble wrap in the back yard. And if so, he's probably the one banging chimes. But I think that's the wind, which, for an invisible force of nature, sucks at stealth.
I hear a small plane chancing the weather overhead (naturally), perhaps challenging it. Neighborhood dogs (really the only type of dog we have around here) are amicably discussing their philosophical ponderings one howl at a time, but far enough away that only unhappy people would dare to mind. Chessie's breaths are making a squeaking noise, and so are mine, which is acceptable when you're breathing through your nose. So pretty much it's loud as heck. All it took for me to notice was a little thunder.
They say that, on a day like this, if you listen very carefully past the rainfall and wind-tossed pine needles and snoring dogs, you will hear the soft call of a good book whispering your name. Actually, no one says that, but I'm going to go read, which is a lot of verbs for such an activity.
But it sounds as if I'm out of luck. God has finished rolling his garbage can out to the street, returned up his heavenly driveway, and shut the gate. I hear only rain, and keyboard.
And computer hum. And rain gutter—either that or there's a bored kid with a bunch of bubble wrap in the back yard. And if so, he's probably the one banging chimes. But I think that's the wind, which, for an invisible force of nature, sucks at stealth.
I hear a small plane chancing the weather overhead (naturally), perhaps challenging it. Neighborhood dogs (really the only type of dog we have around here) are amicably discussing their philosophical ponderings one howl at a time, but far enough away that only unhappy people would dare to mind. Chessie's breaths are making a squeaking noise, and so are mine, which is acceptable when you're breathing through your nose. So pretty much it's loud as heck. All it took for me to notice was a little thunder.
They say that, on a day like this, if you listen very carefully past the rainfall and wind-tossed pine needles and snoring dogs, you will hear the soft call of a good book whispering your name. Actually, no one says that, but I'm going to go read, which is a lot of verbs for such an activity.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Oh Crap*
A friend of mine suggested today that the little things we are doing now could very well be God's way of preparing us for the great things we will do in the future. I pretty much just stepped in dog poop today, so I'm kind of hoping she's wrong.
*third part in the ongoing series, "Posts with Crap in the Title"
*third part in the ongoing series, "Posts with Crap in the Title"
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Entry in an Ever-Growing List
Colgate flouride toothpaste
Baking soda and peroxide
Whitening
Gel,
In my right eye,
Hurts like hell.
Baking soda and peroxide
Whitening
Gel,
In my right eye,
Hurts like hell.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Elmo Whisper in My Ear...
"Elmo, nothing is beyond you,
So let those good thoughts fill your head.
You are furry, proud and red."
Amen.
So let those good thoughts fill your head.
You are furry, proud and red."
Amen.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Friday, December 01, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
TGIS
It’s Saturday and I’m awake at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. Yes, I know most of the world is up by now, but we Christians are supposed to be in the world, not of it. My heart is instantly contrite, but the alarm blaring six feet away is not mine, and it shows no remorse.
Josh rolls over and hits the snooze button like a saint. I hear Andrew make a few sleeping position adjustments in the bunk overhead. Two minutes later I’m the only one still awake. If Chris or Michael walked in and asked me what I planned to do today I’d probably say I have to find the flying basketball before the puppies go marching by. Incoherent, yet painfully awake.
The alarm goes off again, beckoning my roommates to join in my vigilant stupor.
Why Josh, why?
Josh rolls over and hits snooze a second time. The bunk shifts and creaks for a few seconds. Quiet. Awake.
The closed blinds over Josh’s bed are growing bright enough to read a book by, and I can sense my opportunity for ever falling back to sleep becoming smaller by the minute. So much pain from that side of the room. I turn my head. Can’t sleep. I pull the blanket over my eyes. Can’t breathe. I turn toward the opposite wall and search for a place to put my arms. That button is a liar.
The alarm starts beeping again, conveniently censoring my thoughts about the situation. This time I don’t look. I pretend to sleep, hoping to lose myself in the role.
Click. Creak.
Silence.
They don’t give Oscars for pretending to be asleep, but I give a stunning performance nonetheless. I’m like Ferris Bueller without the part where he sneaks out of the house. It’s so convincing I could set up Santa Clause for Punk’d. After a few minutes, I’m not even sure it’s an act anymore.
Apparently Josh’s alarm wants to play it safe. Again with the beeping. Again, Josh hits snooze. Andrew rolls over (again).
Silence returns. I find something soothing about the grain of the wood in the bunk above me, and I need soothing right now, so I stare at it and look for faces in the lines—calm, restful faces. It’s so quiet that I can hear the phone start ringing four feet away from my head.
Four feet: that’s closer to Josh than it is to me, but he’s not moving. I wish the phone were closer so I could throw it at him. I almost fall out of bed answering it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is Josh there?”
Hmm… let me check.
“Uh… yeah, hang on a sec.” I don’t have to say anything more—my blessed roommate is already sitting up bright-eyed and reaching for the phone like he expected the call.
I’m not listening. I don’t want to know who is calling or why. I only hope that whoever it is wants Josh to come over right away and never come back.
After a few uh-huh’s and a couple all right’s he hangs up the phone and goes back to sleep. But not before turning his alarm off. It’s 8:45. I get out of bed. I’m not feeling very religious anyway.
Josh rolls over and hits the snooze button like a saint. I hear Andrew make a few sleeping position adjustments in the bunk overhead. Two minutes later I’m the only one still awake. If Chris or Michael walked in and asked me what I planned to do today I’d probably say I have to find the flying basketball before the puppies go marching by. Incoherent, yet painfully awake.
The alarm goes off again, beckoning my roommates to join in my vigilant stupor.
Why Josh, why?
Josh rolls over and hits snooze a second time. The bunk shifts and creaks for a few seconds. Quiet. Awake.
The closed blinds over Josh’s bed are growing bright enough to read a book by, and I can sense my opportunity for ever falling back to sleep becoming smaller by the minute. So much pain from that side of the room. I turn my head. Can’t sleep. I pull the blanket over my eyes. Can’t breathe. I turn toward the opposite wall and search for a place to put my arms. That button is a liar.
The alarm starts beeping again, conveniently censoring my thoughts about the situation. This time I don’t look. I pretend to sleep, hoping to lose myself in the role.
Click. Creak.
Silence.
They don’t give Oscars for pretending to be asleep, but I give a stunning performance nonetheless. I’m like Ferris Bueller without the part where he sneaks out of the house. It’s so convincing I could set up Santa Clause for Punk’d. After a few minutes, I’m not even sure it’s an act anymore.
Apparently Josh’s alarm wants to play it safe. Again with the beeping. Again, Josh hits snooze. Andrew rolls over (again).
Silence returns. I find something soothing about the grain of the wood in the bunk above me, and I need soothing right now, so I stare at it and look for faces in the lines—calm, restful faces. It’s so quiet that I can hear the phone start ringing four feet away from my head.
Four feet: that’s closer to Josh than it is to me, but he’s not moving. I wish the phone were closer so I could throw it at him. I almost fall out of bed answering it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is Josh there?”
Hmm… let me check.
“Uh… yeah, hang on a sec.” I don’t have to say anything more—my blessed roommate is already sitting up bright-eyed and reaching for the phone like he expected the call.
I’m not listening. I don’t want to know who is calling or why. I only hope that whoever it is wants Josh to come over right away and never come back.
After a few uh-huh’s and a couple all right’s he hangs up the phone and goes back to sleep. But not before turning his alarm off. It’s 8:45. I get out of bed. I’m not feeling very religious anyway.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
It's just funny, that's all I'm saying
Sorry about the fuzzy picture. I guess I was laughing too much. This is inside a Rite-Aid in Idaho, just above the pharmacy I believe.
FRP, and if you don't know what that means, DET
I'm posting this only because it's freaking rad, which, incidentally, is the only reason I ever post anything on this site.
MSN Messenger Has Deteriorated...
into a place where Jesse "No Eye" tells me to go away.
Lot's of people used to tell me to go away on MSN Messenger.
This is a new level of lonely.
Lot's of people used to tell me to go away on MSN Messenger.
This is a new level of lonely.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Spanish Alphabet Math
n + ~ = ñ ("~" is pronounced "yea!")
Let's use it "n" a sentence.
Aww Dip! Daddy bought puddñ.
Let's use it "n" a sentence.
Aww Dip! Daddy bought puddñ.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
I Ran Into an Old Classmate a Couple Days Ago
It reminded me of a funny story. We were in eighth grade science class learning the difference between organic and inorganic... the concepts in general. Someone whispered a question to a friend.
"No, the sun's not organic."
(a couple students snicker)
"Right, but... what is the sun made of?"
(someone says plasma, but no one knows what plasma is)
"The sun is made of superheated gasses—mostly hydrogen and helium," our teacher says.
"Oh," says my classmate in a flash of inspiration, "is that why the sun goes down at night, because it runs out of helium?"
"No, the sun's not organic."
(a couple students snicker)
"Right, but... what is the sun made of?"
(someone says plasma, but no one knows what plasma is)
"The sun is made of superheated gasses—mostly hydrogen and helium," our teacher says.
"Oh," says my classmate in a flash of inspiration, "is that why the sun goes down at night, because it runs out of helium?"
Friday, November 10, 2006
Recipe for a Missing Friend
12 2½ inch abalone
1 tbsp. minced fresh ginger
12 oz. fresh spinach, cleaned, stemmed and patted dry
1 bunch fresh chives, cleaned and dried
4 sprigs fresh cilantro
4 fresh basil leaves
¼ cup chicken stock
¾ cup whipping cream
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. Chinese chili sauce
1 tbsp. cornstarch
1 tbsp. cold water
¼ cup butter, cubed
Fresh ground black pepper
After this I'm not really sure what to do. It sorta just happened. I guess maybe you could combine ingredients in a microwave-safe bowl. Preheat microwave to room temperature, then microwave ingredients on High for 5 1/2 - 6 1/2 minutes or until hot. Careful, let sit for 1 minute before singing "Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Hip, hip, horrific are the words we sing. Hip, hip, horrific is our thing. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) become a robot. (Help help) help, help, help, help help, help, help" (serving suggestion courtesy They Might Be Giants).
1 tbsp. minced fresh ginger
12 oz. fresh spinach, cleaned, stemmed and patted dry
1 bunch fresh chives, cleaned and dried
4 sprigs fresh cilantro
4 fresh basil leaves
¼ cup chicken stock
¾ cup whipping cream
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. Chinese chili sauce
1 tbsp. cornstarch
1 tbsp. cold water
¼ cup butter, cubed
Fresh ground black pepper
After this I'm not really sure what to do. It sorta just happened. I guess maybe you could combine ingredients in a microwave-safe bowl. Preheat microwave to room temperature, then microwave ingredients on High for 5 1/2 - 6 1/2 minutes or until hot. Careful, let sit for 1 minute before singing "Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Hip, hip, horrific are the words we sing. Hip, hip, horrific is our thing. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) become a robot. (Help help) help, help, help, help help, help, help" (serving suggestion courtesy They Might Be Giants).
How to Become a Writer in Two Easy Steps.
It is no large etymological leap to say that writers are people who write. Sometimes I wonder if writing instuctors just say things like that to see how long they can keep a straight face. Surely they know that’s only half of the definition. It’s only common sense to include that, not only do writers write, writers refrain from deleting at least some portion of what they have written.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Oh, right.
The headache I've had all day today was caused by the fact that my glasses were dirty. I just cleaned them with dish soap and I'm reminded of what it's like to see. I wonder what it's like to see.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
The More You Try to Qualify...
"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
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
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
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
mewithoutYou Struck Again
Hence this burning red
Marked by a sadness
They'll look back
and call Joy
Or something like that anyway.
Marked by a sadness
They'll look back
and call Joy
Or something like that anyway.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
This In at Just This Time
A recent series of readership polls at a popular blog found that readership polls are completely worthless when the readership is not large enough to establish a plurality without including the writer.
"Sometimes I wonder what I'm really doing here," the writer, affectionately called "Two Guns" by no one, really, was overheard saying in his head. "But more often I wonder what [the blog's faithful reader(s)] are doing here. I mean, couldn't they be watching episodes of Freakazoid on YouTube or something?"
Two Guns went on to edit the title of his current post so it didn't end in a preposition, which he noted is actually a noun.
"I guess I get it," he said, regarding the previous sentence. "I'm just not sure it was worth getting."
"Sometimes I wonder what I'm really doing here," the writer, affectionately called "Two Guns" by no one, really, was overheard saying in his head. "But more often I wonder what [the blog's faithful reader(s)] are doing here. I mean, couldn't they be watching episodes of Freakazoid on YouTube or something?"
Two Guns went on to edit the title of his current post so it didn't end in a preposition, which he noted is actually a noun.
"I guess I get it," he said, regarding the previous sentence. "I'm just not sure it was worth getting."
Monday, September 18, 2006
A Readership Poll Inspired by a Readership Poll Inspired by Felipe Tamayo Collins
Now that my entire readership has been polled, here's another.
Are you a mythbuster or an artist?
Are you a mythbuster or an artist?
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Craig's List Struck the Matches in Our Hands
To quote a misunderstood not-poet, "We burned you alive."
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Fiddle Sticks
I recently switched my laundry from the washer to the dryer. Upon making the switch, I was happy to note that no socks were missing but less pleased to discover that I was in receipt of one (1) additional two-inch long grasshopper thigh and lower leg, intact with knee, for a grand total of one (1) grasshopper leg.
As usual, I hope I don't have a five-legged grasshopper in my underpants.
As usual, I hope I don't have a five-legged grasshopper in my underpants.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
This Random Thought Has Been Labeled "Significant," and "Random"
Sometimes I wonder if I'd rather be quoted than understood. By "sometimes" I mean "just now."
Monday, September 04, 2006
not sure if this is a Haiku for Table at Michael's Birthday Party
Lighting sandy beach—
Craig's List hung you out to dry.
We burned you alive.
Craig's List hung you out to dry.
We burned you alive.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
Why The Natural Isn't About Me
Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. I was in the height of my love affair with baseball, which started when I was six and was still going strong almost a year later. For me, it wasn’t the smell of the field, or the crack of the bat, or the heroism of the players that made me passionate about the game. For me, baseball was a great game because my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum.
But right now I was learning that whenever the neighborhood children were gathering players for a game of street baseball, that was an opportunity I should turn down. During my first at-bat I’d hit the ball and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion. I was too busy with running toward the first base cone to see the impact. When I turned around to see what all the commotion was about, Beth’s dad was kneeled down beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like how a dying buck might look into the eyes of an approaching hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not sure how that would happen, but then again, I wasn’t sure how this had happened either.
Beth Doke was the prettiest, if not the only girl my age in the neighborhood. She must have been six inches taller than I was, with long brown hair and the kind of gymnast build that all but the least fortunate girls have at age seven. She was pretty enough that I knew better than to pay any attention to her if at all possible. It wasn’t okay with anybody that I had hit her in the shin with a bat.
“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing it,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.
I said I was sorry, and I was.
They sent me to first base, where I tried to keep my head in the game while thinking about what went wrong with the last play. I’d watched baseball numerous times on TV, both in real life and in “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” on Nintendo. I didn’t know exactly who Ryne Sandberg was, but I thought he might have been Wayne Gretzky, who I was pretty sure was a famous baseball player. Whoever he was, everyone on TV threw the bat before they ran, so what had I done wrong?
At some point before my next chance to bat I had scraped up the side of my leg. Maybe I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before. However it happened, it must not have been that traumatic because I was still in the game, and the only reason I even remember this minor detail is because I had to keep brushing away mosquito eaters that were landing on the open wound. It was kind of gross and creepy, but I also recognized that it was totally rad and that I was a man for playing on.
Somewhere around this time I’d also come to a conclusion about the accident: 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 pitches I missed were of no consequence to my long-term memory, but the one that connected will forever stay with me because of what happened next. I held onto the bat. I brought it back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, and then carefully and deliberately tossed it to my right. I watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I was standing and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and went inside.
Beth Doke went inside too.
But right now I was learning that whenever the neighborhood children were gathering players for a game of street baseball, that was an opportunity I should turn down. During my first at-bat I’d hit the ball and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion. I was too busy with running toward the first base cone to see the impact. When I turned around to see what all the commotion was about, Beth’s dad was kneeled down beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like how a dying buck might look into the eyes of an approaching hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not sure how that would happen, but then again, I wasn’t sure how this had happened either.
Beth Doke was the prettiest, if not the only girl my age in the neighborhood. She must have been six inches taller than I was, with long brown hair and the kind of gymnast build that all but the least fortunate girls have at age seven. She was pretty enough that I knew better than to pay any attention to her if at all possible. It wasn’t okay with anybody that I had hit her in the shin with a bat.
“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing it,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.
I said I was sorry, and I was.
They sent me to first base, where I tried to keep my head in the game while thinking about what went wrong with the last play. I’d watched baseball numerous times on TV, both in real life and in “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” on Nintendo. I didn’t know exactly who Ryne Sandberg was, but I thought he might have been Wayne Gretzky, who I was pretty sure was a famous baseball player. Whoever he was, everyone on TV threw the bat before they ran, so what had I done wrong?
At some point before my next chance to bat I had scraped up the side of my leg. Maybe I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before. However it happened, it must not have been that traumatic because I was still in the game, and the only reason I even remember this minor detail is because I had to keep brushing away mosquito eaters that were landing on the open wound. It was kind of gross and creepy, but I also recognized that it was totally rad and that I was a man for playing on.
Somewhere around this time I’d also come to a conclusion about the accident: 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 pitches I missed were of no consequence to my long-term memory, but the one that connected will forever stay with me because of what happened next. I held onto the bat. I brought it back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, and then carefully and deliberately tossed it to my right. I watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I was standing and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and went inside.
Beth Doke went inside too.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
What I Was Wondering While My Professor Read the Syllabus
Can the word "arbitrary" be spelled incorrectly, or is that impossible by definition?
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Nine More to Go
As I approach the end of the hallway,
With arcing path and leaning body
In anticipation of the bend,
My toe looks on with dismay
At the corner blocking his way
And asks,
"Why?"
With arcing path and leaning body
In anticipation of the bend,
My toe looks on with dismay
At the corner blocking his way
And asks,
"Why?"
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The New Title, an Explanation
As it turns out, I am usually right. This is true despite popular opinion. In addition, I can generally come up with a reason to be troubled. It's a gift. And finally, modern American adolescence lasts until around age 25. Mine will probably last longer. Although I have yet to determine if I am usually correct in being troubled, all signs point to maybe, save one I haven't seen for a while.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Move Over, Lone Star
It has been decided by myself that no other slogan has been ripped off and misapplied more often than "Got Milk?" not even "Don't Mess With Texas," originally part of an anti-littering campaign, now the key "point" of the vast apologetic propoganda defending that endless expanse of desert, concrete and sewage smells (see also, "Everything's Bigger in Texas").
What brought me to this conclusion? (Surely you must be wondering.)
Not the "Got Jesus?" devotionals, or the "Got Crabs?" memorabilia sold by various seafood restaurants, or even my Pacific Islander friend's "Got Adobo?" t-shirt, as you may have thought. No, today I passed a printer supply truck with the giant white lowercase letters on a black background spelling out "Got Toner?"
That was the kicker.
What brought me to this conclusion? (Surely you must be wondering.)
Not the "Got Jesus?" devotionals, or the "Got Crabs?" memorabilia sold by various seafood restaurants, or even my Pacific Islander friend's "Got Adobo?" t-shirt, as you may have thought. No, today I passed a printer supply truck with the giant white lowercase letters on a black background spelling out "Got Toner?"
That was the kicker.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
Aside from Potato-Related Contexts...
Am I alone in thinking the expression "keep your eyes peeled" needlessly evokes a disturbingly graphic and unwholesome image in the minds of the vigilant?
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Please, Keep Your Comments To Yourselves
Sorry, that was just me lashing out with sarcasm. It's a defense mechanism.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Paddington, Don't Go.
I love you, Paddington. I want to buy all your books. I promise to write you that poem. There's just some other stuff I've got to take care of first. We'll get through this, Paddington.
My Art Professor, on Having His Neighbor Drive Him to the Hospital After He Broke His Hand as a Child:
"My parents were Christian Scientists, so thank God they weren't home."
Monday, July 10, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part
Yesterday I went to Denio's Roseville Farmers Market and Auction, not to see what was new, mind you, but to accompany a dear friend in need of a new pair of stolen Converse. However, while my friend Josh, who will remain "un"named, was pursuing his particular podiaic preferences, I happened into a nearby store that sold used books and really used books, and various items that probably have collectable value to people who save old q-tips and reuse Big Mac containers.
At first I thought I had gone in because it was hot enough outside to fire an ashtray in your hands, but once I got there I realized that it was fate. This store sold used puzzles.
My search for the perfect puzzle met with early resistance, as I had to step aside twice for the same elderly gentleman to shuffle by and because most of the puzzles promised little more than bald eagles or the daily life of the Amish for what would amount to days of puzzling efforts. But just as I was beginning to give in to the mounting tidal wave of despair, there called out to me from between the Eagle with Trout and Whimsical Kittens, "Zoos & Aquariums of North America" in all its 1000 piece glory.
The title of the piece sat just above a map in the puzzle's center, right where Canada would usually go, and a wise-eyed and aged Panda and his accompaniment of bamboo served to block out Mexico, while the United States of America shown proudly amid a halo of fierce and exotic animals. The border of the piece was a colorful display of zoo and aquarium posters, including the Waikiki Aquarium (home to endangered Hawaiian Monk Seals) and the Denver Zoo (one of the world's largest areas for monkeys and apes). I was pretty excited about paying the $1.75 for this bad boy.
Today I didn't have a whole lot to do. I did some reading, a little bit of moping, and a fair amount of sweating in bed and throwing up. I'm calling the doctor tomorrow. However, in the meantime I also did a lot of thinking about my puzzle while watching the second half of Jurassic Park on A&E.
As an experienced builder of used puzzles, I knew it would be a foolish waste of time to begin building the puzzle without confirming that all 1000 pieces were present. And so I counted. In less than an hour I had all four corner pieces accounted for, and probably 90 percent of the edge pieces in a separate bag, and then I began counting. With every ten pieces I would mark a tally on the bag and then watch a Velociraptor eat someone. After a while of this the raptors began opening doors and I decided I would rather watch Jeff Goldblum stutter than count and categorize scraps of cardboard, so I temporarily ended the count at 170.
Temporarily, that is, until I put the top back on the puzzle box. Temporarily, that is, until I noticed the sticker on the cover, the sticker marked "1 pc missing."
I set the box down, took a sip of water and glared at the box while Laura Dern stumbled around in air ducts and T-Rex decimated the main lobby. I turned off the movie during a commercial and never bothered to see the survivors off the island, even though Jurassic Park was on three times today and I watched the kitchen scene twice. I probably won't even care if Jurassic Park IV sucks. In my opinion, since things have become clear in the last couple of hours, the zoos and aquariums of North America suck.
At first I thought I had gone in because it was hot enough outside to fire an ashtray in your hands, but once I got there I realized that it was fate. This store sold used puzzles.
My search for the perfect puzzle met with early resistance, as I had to step aside twice for the same elderly gentleman to shuffle by and because most of the puzzles promised little more than bald eagles or the daily life of the Amish for what would amount to days of puzzling efforts. But just as I was beginning to give in to the mounting tidal wave of despair, there called out to me from between the Eagle with Trout and Whimsical Kittens, "Zoos & Aquariums of North America" in all its 1000 piece glory.
The title of the piece sat just above a map in the puzzle's center, right where Canada would usually go, and a wise-eyed and aged Panda and his accompaniment of bamboo served to block out Mexico, while the United States of America shown proudly amid a halo of fierce and exotic animals. The border of the piece was a colorful display of zoo and aquarium posters, including the Waikiki Aquarium (home to endangered Hawaiian Monk Seals) and the Denver Zoo (one of the world's largest areas for monkeys and apes). I was pretty excited about paying the $1.75 for this bad boy.
Today I didn't have a whole lot to do. I did some reading, a little bit of moping, and a fair amount of sweating in bed and throwing up. I'm calling the doctor tomorrow. However, in the meantime I also did a lot of thinking about my puzzle while watching the second half of Jurassic Park on A&E.
As an experienced builder of used puzzles, I knew it would be a foolish waste of time to begin building the puzzle without confirming that all 1000 pieces were present. And so I counted. In less than an hour I had all four corner pieces accounted for, and probably 90 percent of the edge pieces in a separate bag, and then I began counting. With every ten pieces I would mark a tally on the bag and then watch a Velociraptor eat someone. After a while of this the raptors began opening doors and I decided I would rather watch Jeff Goldblum stutter than count and categorize scraps of cardboard, so I temporarily ended the count at 170.
Temporarily, that is, until I put the top back on the puzzle box. Temporarily, that is, until I noticed the sticker on the cover, the sticker marked "1 pc missing."
I set the box down, took a sip of water and glared at the box while Laura Dern stumbled around in air ducts and T-Rex decimated the main lobby. I turned off the movie during a commercial and never bothered to see the survivors off the island, even though Jurassic Park was on three times today and I watched the kitchen scene twice. I probably won't even care if Jurassic Park IV sucks. In my opinion, since things have become clear in the last couple of hours, the zoos and aquariums of North America suck.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
I Just Beat Solitaire in One Game
I can't even decide if that counts as playing. I don't even know if that was an accomplishment. I think I need to go write.
Monday, June 05, 2006
The "Easy" Button
So, there I was sitting in an office chair, starring at a computer screen, hoping the phone wouldn't ring, when I noticed the easy button lying on the desk. I'd seen the commercials before, and, oh crap, the phone is ringing.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Nabisco Has Gone Too Far
I find the Nilla wafers packaging to be highly unsettling.
Nilla wafers are as calm a snack product as there will ever be, but there is way too much action on the cover of the box. Namely, one of the wafers is plunging—with no apparent source of propulsion—into a short, though probably refreshing, glass of milk. I don't like it. There is no way this wafer could possibly have propelled itself into the milk without a prime mover. No form of wafer, Nilla being no exception, has any sort of locomotive ability aside from the aptitude to roll down an incline or fall from a precariously balanced position, i.e. edge of a precipice. This wafer was obviously thrown.
What kind of sick individual would throw a Nilla wafer, I do not know. But I would add that it was hardly necessary to immortalize the event by plastering such an offense on every box of Nilla wafers currently in print.
My many faithful and highly irregular readers can testify that I have never been one to call out my corporate sponsors in such a widely read forum as my very own blog, but Nabisco, you've got some explaining to do. My Nilla wafers will be no part of your high-flying acrobatic spectacle or your Hollywood blockbuster stunt. No sir, my Nilla wafers will be arranged on a separate plate, and I will enjoy them with a glass of milk, and that milk will not be poured so close to the top that I have to sip a little before picking it up, because my Nilla wafers will be wafers of comfort, and my Nilla wafers will be wafers of peace. You can keep your "simple goodness," Nabisco, but you best set my Nilla wafers down, on a paper towel, with half a sliced banana. And you most certainly will not disturb me from my nap after I have cleaned up my mess and wiped off my placemat. And with that, good day to you, Nabisco.
Nilla wafers are as calm a snack product as there will ever be, but there is way too much action on the cover of the box. Namely, one of the wafers is plunging—with no apparent source of propulsion—into a short, though probably refreshing, glass of milk. I don't like it. There is no way this wafer could possibly have propelled itself into the milk without a prime mover. No form of wafer, Nilla being no exception, has any sort of locomotive ability aside from the aptitude to roll down an incline or fall from a precariously balanced position, i.e. edge of a precipice. This wafer was obviously thrown.
What kind of sick individual would throw a Nilla wafer, I do not know. But I would add that it was hardly necessary to immortalize the event by plastering such an offense on every box of Nilla wafers currently in print.
My many faithful and highly irregular readers can testify that I have never been one to call out my corporate sponsors in such a widely read forum as my very own blog, but Nabisco, you've got some explaining to do. My Nilla wafers will be no part of your high-flying acrobatic spectacle or your Hollywood blockbuster stunt. No sir, my Nilla wafers will be arranged on a separate plate, and I will enjoy them with a glass of milk, and that milk will not be poured so close to the top that I have to sip a little before picking it up, because my Nilla wafers will be wafers of comfort, and my Nilla wafers will be wafers of peace. You can keep your "simple goodness," Nabisco, but you best set my Nilla wafers down, on a paper towel, with half a sliced banana. And you most certainly will not disturb me from my nap after I have cleaned up my mess and wiped off my placemat. And with that, good day to you, Nabisco.
Friday, May 12, 2006
I Laugh When a Flamingo Trips
I laugh when a flamingo trips
and plays it off like nothing happened,
and when a llama gazes into the distance,
contemplating,
then turns and meets my eyes
and declares us equals with his gaze.
I laugh when my mom looses her glasses
on her head.
and when Dad realizes he is wrong
halfway through explaining why he is right,
and when they both have to call me
because they can’t work the remote.
I laugh when I chomp down on a fork
even though I’ve been feeding myself
for a good while now,
and when I fart loudly during the final,
in the class I might be failing
but no one seems to notice.
and plays it off like nothing happened,
and when a llama gazes into the distance,
contemplating,
then turns and meets my eyes
and declares us equals with his gaze.
I laugh when my mom looses her glasses
on her head.
and when Dad realizes he is wrong
halfway through explaining why he is right,
and when they both have to call me
because they can’t work the remote.
I laugh when I chomp down on a fork
even though I’ve been feeding myself
for a good while now,
and when I fart loudly during the final,
in the class I might be failing
but no one seems to notice.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Hey Look at Me
I'm doing work and being productive, I mean, wasting my life away online. Okay I love ya ba-bye.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
What Sitting on a Bench Did to Me
When my cousin Rosalind was three years old, my aunt heated up a bottle of milk for her. But Rosalind thought the milk was too cold, so my aunt heated it some more. Still, Rosalind said her bottle was too cold, and my Aunt kept heating it up, and it was always too cold, so finally she tested a few drops on her wrist, and the milk was scalding.
When my Aunt told me about this, I first thought that something must be wrong with Rosalind’s nervous system, but that wasn’t the case. Somehow, Rosalind had confused the words “hot” and “cold.” Hot still felt hot, and cold felt cold, but somehow the words had gotten switched in her head.
I don’t really know why I am writing this, except it just came to me as a parallel for where I am at in life, and I don’t really know why yet.
I guess I figured someone out there might find a witty way to ridicule my subconcious.
When my Aunt told me about this, I first thought that something must be wrong with Rosalind’s nervous system, but that wasn’t the case. Somehow, Rosalind had confused the words “hot” and “cold.” Hot still felt hot, and cold felt cold, but somehow the words had gotten switched in her head.
I don’t really know why I am writing this, except it just came to me as a parallel for where I am at in life, and I don’t really know why yet.
I guess I figured someone out there might find a witty way to ridicule my subconcious.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
We Put Mother Nature in a Home, feedback would be lovely
The modern shady tree beside a lazy brook
Charges and syncs via USB.
Or, for more serious thinkers,
There’s the contemplative rock,
Assuming they're lucky enough to run across one
On the race to work, or class, or distraction.
But there’s nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in etched glass and silver plate.
Charges and syncs via USB.
Or, for more serious thinkers,
There’s the contemplative rock,
Assuming they're lucky enough to run across one
On the race to work, or class, or distraction.
But there’s nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in etched glass and silver plate.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Eye Kneed Too Bee Moore Carful
I'm not really sure what "butter irony" is, but I know it doesn't belong in my American Novel critical analysis essay.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Things that Blow
Heavy winds, light breezes and wind patterns inbetween
Oscillating fans
Bellows
American Novel critical analysis papers on Invisible Man due tomorrow morning
Oscillating fans
Bellows
American Novel critical analysis papers on Invisible Man due tomorrow morning
Friday, April 21, 2006
I Seem to have Gotten Ahead of Myself
I think... yeah, I think I'll get something accomplished today.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Sunday, April 09, 2006
We Put Mother Nature in a Home, take two
The modern shady tree beside a lazy brook
Is a five-ounce contraption with a color display,
Or, if you’re serious about it,
A contemplative rock,
Assuming you’re lucky enough to run across one
On the race to work, or class, or distraction.
But there’s just nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in etched glass and silver plate.
Is a five-ounce contraption with a color display,
Or, if you’re serious about it,
A contemplative rock,
Assuming you’re lucky enough to run across one
On the race to work, or class, or distraction.
But there’s just nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in etched glass and silver plate.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
A Cute Little Post or, A Reader Sits in with Two Guns at a Weekly Session
I came here to espouse that obtuse is a stupid word and should only be used in mathematical and scientific references, but then I looked up expouse, my first attempt at spelling espouse, and discovered that I really don't know how to use it in a sentence, but since I signed in I might as well say something.
I think obtuse is a wonderful word and it ought to be used more often.
Please watch closely as until-now-obscure Amazon.com reviewer Brian Seiler from Kingwood, Texas uses the word obtuse in a real-life setting, describing the band Cake's most recent release, Pressure Chief:
"On the whole, this is a different, more mature, less obtuse effort for Cake--the metaphors here aren't nearly as thickly obfuscated as those that you find on their previous efforts." - Brian Seiler (emphasis added).
Such adjectival mastery.
Actually, I think this would be a good time to stop and think about the word "obfuscated" for a moment.
hmm... obfuscated.
You might think that I inadvertently deleted a vowel from that word, but the root word, obfuscate, is actually part of a small-but-growing movement within the English language, in cooperation with a, e, i, o, u and, sometimes, y, to bring b and f together, with the hope that their familiarity will eventually lead to the formation of a new letter (which I lack the key to display) and, along with it, a host of new curse words that will be really difficult, and therefore very satisfying, to say.
Anyway, as I was saying, obtuse... wow. And not just obtuse, but obtuser and obtusest, respectively. Amazing.
Okay, I am going to be honest, this really all started because I wanted to make fun of Brian Seiler, which isn't really fair, because it isn't right to make fun of someone just because he or she (in this case, he) has a larger vocabulary than you do. So why don't you just leave the guy alone. Seriously, lay off, alright?
In fact, why don't you get a bflippin' dictionary and maybe learn something new in the process? I mean, who makes fun of a guy for what he says on Amazon.com? Get a life.
Alright, alright, I'm not mad, I'm not mad. I'm just... disappointed, is all. You're better than this. I know you are. Now, pick yourself up, dust off your jeans, maybe put them in the wash sometime soon (maybe toss your pillow case in there too... it's been awhile...) and go get something to eat.
Yeah, you get 'em, tiger.
I think obtuse is a wonderful word and it ought to be used more often.
Please watch closely as until-now-obscure Amazon.com reviewer Brian Seiler from Kingwood, Texas uses the word obtuse in a real-life setting, describing the band Cake's most recent release, Pressure Chief:
"On the whole, this is a different, more mature, less obtuse effort for Cake--the metaphors here aren't nearly as thickly obfuscated as those that you find on their previous efforts." - Brian Seiler (emphasis added).
Such adjectival mastery.
Actually, I think this would be a good time to stop and think about the word "obfuscated" for a moment.
hmm... obfuscated.
You might think that I inadvertently deleted a vowel from that word, but the root word, obfuscate, is actually part of a small-but-growing movement within the English language, in cooperation with a, e, i, o, u and, sometimes, y, to bring b and f together, with the hope that their familiarity will eventually lead to the formation of a new letter (which I lack the key to display) and, along with it, a host of new curse words that will be really difficult, and therefore very satisfying, to say.
Anyway, as I was saying, obtuse... wow. And not just obtuse, but obtuser and obtusest, respectively. Amazing.
Okay, I am going to be honest, this really all started because I wanted to make fun of Brian Seiler, which isn't really fair, because it isn't right to make fun of someone just because he or she (in this case, he) has a larger vocabulary than you do. So why don't you just leave the guy alone. Seriously, lay off, alright?
In fact, why don't you get a bflippin' dictionary and maybe learn something new in the process? I mean, who makes fun of a guy for what he says on Amazon.com? Get a life.
Alright, alright, I'm not mad, I'm not mad. I'm just... disappointed, is all. You're better than this. I know you are. Now, pick yourself up, dust off your jeans, maybe put them in the wash sometime soon (maybe toss your pillow case in there too... it's been awhile...) and go get something to eat.
Yeah, you get 'em, tiger.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Murder on the Panda Express
I heard a loud crinkling noise in the alley, and when I came around the corner... when I came around the corner they were just, ripping them in half, like... like they were fortune cookies or something, and the slips of paper... my goodness the paper... it was everywhere...
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
One Wonders Whether The Weather Man Can
It's raining;
It's pouring;
One can only guess
what the old man's up to.
It's pouring;
One can only guess
what the old man's up to.
We Put Mother Nature in a Home, take one
The modern shady tree beside a lazy brook
Is a pair of earbuds and an iPod.
Or, if you’re serious about it,
A contemplative rock,
Assuming you’re lucky enough to run across one
As we race to work, or class, or distraction.
But there’s nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in plate glass and brushed metal.
Is a pair of earbuds and an iPod.
Or, if you’re serious about it,
A contemplative rock,
Assuming you’re lucky enough to run across one
As we race to work, or class, or distraction.
But there’s nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in plate glass and brushed metal.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
"Maybe Responses are More Important than Answers" - J.S. Finney
"When we have new eyes, we can look into the eyes of those we don't even like and see the One we love. We can see God's image in everyone we encounter. As Henri Nouwen puts it, 'In the face of the oppressed I recognize my own face, and in the hands of the oppressor I recognize my own hands. Their flesh is my flesh, their blood is my blood, their pain is my pain, their smile is my smile.' We are made of the same dust. We cry the same tears. No one is beyond redemption. And we are free to imagine a revolution that sets both the oppressed and the oppressors free."
-Shane Claiborne
The Irresistible Revolution, Living as an Ordinary Radical
-Shane Claiborne
The Irresistible Revolution, Living as an Ordinary Radical
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
This Guy is Always Tired or, I Am Attempting to Bring in Revenue Via Product Placement or, Never Limit Yourself with a Title
It seems pretentious, if nothing else, to make an allusion to my own body of "work," but I think simply acknowledging that fact gives me immunity. I am, of course, referring to the title of this post, and to Survivor.
What I am getting at is this: I am tired. I am always tired. This wasn't always the case. There was a time, back in '84, when I didn't exist. Then last semester I drank three Mountain Dews in one night because they were free, and because they were good and I had just remembered.
Okay, so maybe my situation is a little more realistic than that. But here is the deal: I haven't slept past 6:30 (anti-meridian, which I have recently become, by the way) since last Friday. I probably know why that is the case, but I don't want to say because you will make fun of me.
I hope this morning was the climactic event, because I woke up at 5:38, which is apparently a great time to purchase shoes. Who knew?
Maybe I should get a Select Comfort Sleep Number bed. I doubt they come in twin size, but I guess I could always send in for the free video. Maybe that would help me sleep. Maybe if I stopped writing this and got back to my homework I could get some extra sleep tonight.
I believe it was Garth Algar who said "Yeah... and monkeys might fly out of my butt."
p.s. Don't ever Google search "butt." It wasn't worth it.
What I am getting at is this: I am tired. I am always tired. This wasn't always the case. There was a time, back in '84, when I didn't exist. Then last semester I drank three Mountain Dews in one night because they were free, and because they were good and I had just remembered.
Okay, so maybe my situation is a little more realistic than that. But here is the deal: I haven't slept past 6:30 (anti-meridian, which I have recently become, by the way) since last Friday. I probably know why that is the case, but I don't want to say because you will make fun of me.
I hope this morning was the climactic event, because I woke up at 5:38, which is apparently a great time to purchase shoes. Who knew?
Maybe I should get a Select Comfort Sleep Number bed. I doubt they come in twin size, but I guess I could always send in for the free video. Maybe that would help me sleep. Maybe if I stopped writing this and got back to my homework I could get some extra sleep tonight.
I believe it was Garth Algar who said "Yeah... and monkeys might fly out of my butt."
p.s. Don't ever Google search "butt." It wasn't worth it.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I've Been Thinking
I really ought to post something new. Hmmm... yeah, I should do that soon. I think the problem is that I usually only blog to make my not-interesting life at least read in an interesting manner... and now that it seems particularly interesting, I have a bit of a problem recognizing blogging material. I guess that is only sort of bad. Okay, since I don't sleep at night anymore I think I will take a 30 minute nap. I hope that goes well. Maybe I will tell you about it sometime.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
This isn't really a costume, that is why my favorite part is the chair, or maybe my new jeans, same as the old jeans, only new, and void of unwanted holes. I seem to have gotten off topic. Maybe I should tell you that the hat that I wasn't wearing had a spider in it. Maybe I should tell you that Vat 69 has a Band of Brothers connection, and I like it for that reason, even though I have never tasted it, and probably won't ever. Maybe I should move on to the next picture and try harder next time.
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