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.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
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.
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