1.20.2010
8.26.2009
4.23.2009
To the Kid in the Yellow Jacket Who Gave Me a Backwards Peace Sign As I Drove Past
I guess you weren't really giving me a peace sign backwards. You had two fingers up, but it was more "What up, Dawg?" than "Peace, Man." Of course I'm not well versed in urban hand gestures, you could have just as easily been giving me the British version of the finger. Most likely you have never been much farther than the edges of your yard so this probably isn't the case. Speaking of yards, really?
Your mom lets you stand one good push away from the edge of the highway? Really.
The worst part is I can't remember your face. Instead, just above that yellow jacket, sits the baby's head from Eraserhead. Maybe it's because I was thinking about how much I enjoy the movie Eraserhead but I don't really understand it and then I thought of the weird kid on the side of the road.
In a yellow jacket.
What up, my little Dawg.
Your mom lets you stand one good push away from the edge of the highway? Really.
The worst part is I can't remember your face. Instead, just above that yellow jacket, sits the baby's head from Eraserhead. Maybe it's because I was thinking about how much I enjoy the movie Eraserhead but I don't really understand it and then I thought of the weird kid on the side of the road.
In a yellow jacket.
What up, my little Dawg.
10.19.2008
The Brad Pitt Rule
I've come across a revelation. A revelation, at least, to me. A couple of places on the intertubes have called it "The Brad Pitt Rule" and I think that's a pretty good name.
There was a girl in college. There was a girl in college in one of my classes. There was a girl in college in one of my classes that I often felt like walking out of. Instead, we'd pass the time talking quietly and jotting witty quips on our "notes."
I got to know her and thought something along the lines of "Hey, this is a pretty cool chick." I didn't throw myself out there much, but for some reason I did this time. I called her up and asked if she wanted to grab some coffee. She hemmed and hawed a bit and said that she'd love to, but she had to "go running." One of the things that we had in common was the fact that we both risked death by trying the Atkins low-carb diet. She had started running and had really gotten into it. I, on the other hand, had started napping and had really gotten into it.
I tried a couple more times and every time she had to "run." After the third time I started to catch on.
This is where the Brad Pitt Rule kicks in.
The Brad Pitt Rule states that if you ask a girl out and she says yes, then great, she probably likes you. If she gives an excuse, then you have to ask yourself, "What if it weren't me who asked her out? What if it were Brad Pitt? Would she still have to study, or hang out with friends, or run?"
Of course not.
She would have moved things around, made exceptions, rescheduled, done pretty much anything to go out on that date.
Brad Pitt himself isn't really relevant; it's what he represents. He represent what she wants.
If you are what she wants, she will drop her other plans to spend time with you. You make time for what your heart truly wants.
Of course, there are exceptions. She very well may have to work all night or need to study for her midterm that's in the morning. But if she's really into it, she'll be up for something some other time (and maybe even suggest it herself).
So if there's an excuse and nothing else is planned, she's just not into you.
Sorry.
Quit calling her.
Weirdo.
There was a girl in college. There was a girl in college in one of my classes. There was a girl in college in one of my classes that I often felt like walking out of. Instead, we'd pass the time talking quietly and jotting witty quips on our "notes."
I got to know her and thought something along the lines of "Hey, this is a pretty cool chick." I didn't throw myself out there much, but for some reason I did this time. I called her up and asked if she wanted to grab some coffee. She hemmed and hawed a bit and said that she'd love to, but she had to "go running." One of the things that we had in common was the fact that we both risked death by trying the Atkins low-carb diet. She had started running and had really gotten into it. I, on the other hand, had started napping and had really gotten into it.
I tried a couple more times and every time she had to "run." After the third time I started to catch on.
This is where the Brad Pitt Rule kicks in.
The Brad Pitt Rule states that if you ask a girl out and she says yes, then great, she probably likes you. If she gives an excuse, then you have to ask yourself, "What if it weren't me who asked her out? What if it were Brad Pitt? Would she still have to study, or hang out with friends, or run?"
Of course not.
She would have moved things around, made exceptions, rescheduled, done pretty much anything to go out on that date.
Brad Pitt himself isn't really relevant; it's what he represents. He represent what she wants.
If you are what she wants, she will drop her other plans to spend time with you. You make time for what your heart truly wants.
Of course, there are exceptions. She very well may have to work all night or need to study for her midterm that's in the morning. But if she's really into it, she'll be up for something some other time (and maybe even suggest it herself).
So if there's an excuse and nothing else is planned, she's just not into you.
Sorry.
Quit calling her.
Weirdo.
9.24.2008
JaK+8
After watching a couple of episodes of "Jon and Kate Plus 8" . . .
. . . it is becoming more probable that I will never have children.
. . . it is becoming more probable that I will never have children.
9.08.2008
Crap!
I missed it! My two year birthday came and went, and I had no idea.
Poo.
(that's two fecal interjections in 17 words. Not too shabby.)
Poo.
(that's two fecal interjections in 17 words. Not too shabby.)
8.11.2008
The Implement of My Return
I really did. I had every intention of coming back. There were several ideas that had come to fruition enough to immortalize in text. Partly screaming wreckage from my "Thing a Day" ordeal, partly updates in life. Even observations and dreamscapes. Sentence fragments for punch. But then something happened. Maybe nothing happened. Regardless, I was more than happy to continue silently. You know that squiggly circle cartoon guy on those Zoloft commercials? The one with the voice over that talks about losing interest in what you once enjoyed.
In a way, I guess, I was that squiggle man.
Honestly, I am still fairly ambivalent about it all (in this case "it all" represents the idea of making digital carbon copies of my thought and periodically anchoring them to mass of ones and zeros in the intertubes). I am both alive and dead here.
I am Schrodinger's blogger.
I am here, though, and I suppose that's the most important part. What usually brings me here is intangible. A thought, a dream, a concept. This is not the case tonight. That which brought me back is quite concrete, a thing that can be grasped and weighed and looked at with judging eyes.
It is a keyboard.
Start lighting your torches.
It's one of those white Buick-sized monsters that purr when you type. By "purr" I mean click sensuously. It's a holdover from the days when screens were monochromatic, disks were floppy, and Oregon Trail was the pinnacle of computer gaming. Since the mouse became the main way people interfaced with their computer the keyboard has suffered a slow humiliating death. It has been resigned to an afterthought, something to be cheaply produced and used only when absolutely necessary. A keystroke on a modern keyboard gives as much tactile response as pressing down on the back of a young frog. The buckled spring keys have been replaced with a (much cheaper) membrane contact system. Press the key and the two contacts squish together and register a keystroke. Woohoo.
This only really matters to a certain grouping of people. It's actually the cross section of two groups, in the middle of which I nestle myself quite comfortably. This is easiest to show in Venn Diagram:
I have wanted to return to my roots for some time now. Thoughts like "I wish I still had that old 286 computer) were intermingled with internet research. I stumbled across a few off-brand types at various thrift stores and such places. Their heaped forms stand testament that they didn't work (note to self: throw those out . . . no wait. eBay. . ."Slightly used. . . Vintage") To do it right, you need to go with the right one, the original:
IBM.
I was at a Swap-N-Shop (a nice term for "outdoor place for me to sell you my crap and vice versa") and nearly walked past the old lady's stall. Out in front sat a beat-up, dingy keyboard. The gray dust of the gravel sat heavily on it as it had been laid out to display and then packed up at the end of the day on a number of occasions. After many failed attempts I had ceased running my fingers over every keyboard I came across. I had purchased every one that didn't meet my fingers with a sickening squish and not once had one of them worked. Out of some semblance of habit I depress one of the grimy keys.
Click.
It took me a moment to realize the gravity of the situation. Shakingly I asked the old lady (some might call her a bag lady) what her price was. I haggled her down from five dollars to three, though inwardly this felt quite greedy.
I took it home and shelved it. The longer it sat there untested the longer the possibility that it actually worked. This seemed quite impossible, though, given its condition. I found it in my heart to nurse it back to health, bathing it in sweet rubbing alcohol and scrubbing behind its plastic ears with Q-Tips. An hour or so of TLC and it shone like the sun. Well, an old, burly sun with grime still in some crannies.
Long story long, I plugged it in and here we are!
In a way, I guess, I was that squiggle man.
Honestly, I am still fairly ambivalent about it all (in this case "it all" represents the idea of making digital carbon copies of my thought and periodically anchoring them to mass of ones and zeros in the intertubes). I am both alive and dead here.
I am Schrodinger's blogger.
I am here, though, and I suppose that's the most important part. What usually brings me here is intangible. A thought, a dream, a concept. This is not the case tonight. That which brought me back is quite concrete, a thing that can be grasped and weighed and looked at with judging eyes.
It is a keyboard.
Start lighting your torches.
It's one of those white Buick-sized monsters that purr when you type. By "purr" I mean click sensuously. It's a holdover from the days when screens were monochromatic, disks were floppy, and Oregon Trail was the pinnacle of computer gaming. Since the mouse became the main way people interfaced with their computer the keyboard has suffered a slow humiliating death. It has been resigned to an afterthought, something to be cheaply produced and used only when absolutely necessary. A keystroke on a modern keyboard gives as much tactile response as pressing down on the back of a young frog. The buckled spring keys have been replaced with a (much cheaper) membrane contact system. Press the key and the two contacts squish together and register a keystroke. Woohoo.
This only really matters to a certain grouping of people. It's actually the cross section of two groups, in the middle of which I nestle myself quite comfortably. This is easiest to show in Venn Diagram:
I have wanted to return to my roots for some time now. Thoughts like "I wish I still had that old 286 computer) were intermingled with internet research. I stumbled across a few off-brand types at various thrift stores and such places. Their heaped forms stand testament that they didn't work (note to self: throw those out . . . no wait. eBay. . ."Slightly used. . . Vintage") To do it right, you need to go with the right one, the original:
IBM.
I was at a Swap-N-Shop (a nice term for "outdoor place for me to sell you my crap and vice versa") and nearly walked past the old lady's stall. Out in front sat a beat-up, dingy keyboard. The gray dust of the gravel sat heavily on it as it had been laid out to display and then packed up at the end of the day on a number of occasions. After many failed attempts I had ceased running my fingers over every keyboard I came across. I had purchased every one that didn't meet my fingers with a sickening squish and not once had one of them worked. Out of some semblance of habit I depress one of the grimy keys.
Click.
It took me a moment to realize the gravity of the situation. Shakingly I asked the old lady (some might call her a bag lady) what her price was. I haggled her down from five dollars to three, though inwardly this felt quite greedy.
I took it home and shelved it. The longer it sat there untested the longer the possibility that it actually worked. This seemed quite impossible, though, given its condition. I found it in my heart to nurse it back to health, bathing it in sweet rubbing alcohol and scrubbing behind its plastic ears with Q-Tips. An hour or so of TLC and it shone like the sun. Well, an old, burly sun with grime still in some crannies.
Long story long, I plugged it in and here we are!
8.06.2008
7.14.2008
7.11.2008
Ten Minute Dream
I took a ten minute dream in the passenger seat
While the world was flying by
I haven't been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime.
Yes yes, I know.
I wish I had a delectable tale to pour out, something to give meaning to time past.
But all it seems I do is jump-start stalling.
While the world was flying by
I haven't been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime.
Yes yes, I know.
I wish I had a delectable tale to pour out, something to give meaning to time past.
But all it seems I do is jump-start stalling.
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