Let's look at a number line. You know, the kind we learned about in school with has marks along a single line that have numbers underneath them. In the middle is 0, with 1, 2, 3, 4, etc. to the right and, if you'd like, -1, -2, -3, etc. to the left. It's just a simple number line.
Imagine a man is standing on 1. His desire is to walk to 2. Every step he takes takes him half way between himself and his goal (in other words, he crossed half the distance with each step). From his perspective, his first step is huge. He crossed half the distance between 1 and 2 with little effort.
There's another thing we learned about in school. When you divide a number (or thing) in half (by two), and then divide it in half, and keep on doing this, there is no end. You will end up with exquisitely small things, yes, but never will you reach the next integer.
Step by step he realizes that despite the great journey he's taken, he will never reach the next number, the next hash mark on the line. He will walk for all eternity. There is infinity between 1 and 2. Since there is nothing beyond infinity, if this is the case, then "2" doesn't really exist.
Since he could just have easily gone left instead of right, infinity lies that direction as well. The only "number" at all is the starting point, which is really an arbitrarily chosen spot in the vast infinity. We have an idea of numbers that serves our purposes, but these really are nothing more than created symbols set in place to help us quantify something than is, in actuality, unquantifiable.
12.21.2007
12.07.2007
I Want To Work Here
The execution of this is pretty solid, but the thing I get most out of this is the fact that wherever, whatever this company is, it looks like my dream job.
This was just a random Thursday night, where the employees have an official hanging out time in the office.
Lip Dub - Flagpole Sitta by Harvey Danger from amandalynferri on Vimeo.
This was just a random Thursday night, where the employees have an official hanging out time in the office.
Lip Dub - Flagpole Sitta by Harvey Danger from amandalynferri on Vimeo.
11.25.2007
Bad News, Sports Fans.
I have the unfortunate duty to declare that my digital self will remain in limbo for an undetermined amount of time. We were supposed to have had this remedied Saturday, but the complete idiocy of the installer and the jackassery of the customer service drove my mother to out and out cancel our service and declare a ban on all things Time Warner in our home. So, until we settle on a satellite company, I am only yours on the weekends and the occasional weekday trips to the library.
I also saw a woman on the TV the other day on a show I'd never before watched. She quietly but strongly stood (sometimes sat) by her friend's side while others judged her appearance. The other other friend (the other support member) was the one that always commented or spoke, while this first one simply laughed and smiled (perhaps all of her comments were edited out). But near the end, she had her time in the sun with a well spoken interview.
She was beautiful. And she was a star.
I also saw a woman on the TV the other day on a show I'd never before watched. She quietly but strongly stood (sometimes sat) by her friend's side while others judged her appearance. The other other friend (the other support member) was the one that always commented or spoke, while this first one simply laughed and smiled (perhaps all of her comments were edited out). But near the end, she had her time in the sun with a well spoken interview.
She was beautiful. And she was a star.
11.17.2007
Ahem:
Okay. Internet went wonky (thank you ron weasley for my new favorite adjective [wonky cross]). should be back up next week. Have had to check emails at library, which is no fun. News later (I hope . . . there's really no news right now . . . but maybe by the time I write again something, somewhere will have happened).
11.16.2007
11.05.2007
shells
Invariably, spend long enough time at the beach and everybody starts picking up shells. You almost have to. when you start picking them up you pick up anything you find: shell fragment, pieces, etc. after a while you stop picking up fragments and start only picking up whole shells. Any whole shell you see you pick up. Even the shells that aren't particularly aesthetically pleasing, you pick them up because somehow, despite crashing on the shore and withstanding who knows what other kinds of punishment, it is still whole.
After picking up several whole, though somewhat ugly, shells, you start only picking up the pretty looking ones. The ones that have different color striations, no barnacles, clean edges. You pick up several of these and realize that your bag or pockets are now close to full, and in order to fix the new dilemma you dump out all the fragments and most of the ugly whole shells. You feel satisfied at your finds and start to walk home from the beach. You kick up something out in the hot, dry sand, the kind right in front of the dunes. You reach down and pick it up.
It's a shell, not particularly colorful, a little chipped around the edges, and perhaps it has a little barnacle growth on the underside. But this shell, out of all of the shells you've found, this one is your prize. All the others will go into a baggie and be forgotten several weeks from now, but this shell stays separate from the others. Why? because it was so far away from the others, hidden in the hot sand. Somehow it ended up farther than any of the other shells and was never stepped on by beach joggers or ran over by lifeguard trucks. When others look at your prize shell they may notice brighter, more colorful shells tucked away in the baggy, but yet you have this shell separated.
It is a little sad that you are the only one who knows and sees the true beauty of the shell, but perhaps it is better that way.
when I was a lad I was a little bit shy
After picking up several whole, though somewhat ugly, shells, you start only picking up the pretty looking ones. The ones that have different color striations, no barnacles, clean edges. You pick up several of these and realize that your bag or pockets are now close to full, and in order to fix the new dilemma you dump out all the fragments and most of the ugly whole shells. You feel satisfied at your finds and start to walk home from the beach. You kick up something out in the hot, dry sand, the kind right in front of the dunes. You reach down and pick it up.
It's a shell, not particularly colorful, a little chipped around the edges, and perhaps it has a little barnacle growth on the underside. But this shell, out of all of the shells you've found, this one is your prize. All the others will go into a baggie and be forgotten several weeks from now, but this shell stays separate from the others. Why? because it was so far away from the others, hidden in the hot sand. Somehow it ended up farther than any of the other shells and was never stepped on by beach joggers or ran over by lifeguard trucks. When others look at your prize shell they may notice brighter, more colorful shells tucked away in the baggy, but yet you have this shell separated.
It is a little sad that you are the only one who knows and sees the true beauty of the shell, but perhaps it is better that way.
when I was a lad I was a little bit shy
10.27.2007
Blinding
"So. What do you like to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"I know, I know. Asking about hobbies and such, it's one of those courtesy questions that you don't expect a straight answer, like 'How are you doing?' But I mean it, what do you do to keep yourself busy? To keep from going crazy, you know, and pulling out that blonde hair of yours?"
"I don't know. I like to sing, I guess. I draw a little but mostly I watch TV in my pajamas, mostly. You're laughing at me, but I'm serious, I'm not really an adventurous person, not really. What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. What do you do to 'keep from going crazy,' as you put it. The stuff that saves that weird curly red hair of yours."
"Well, I'm just as boring as you, really, except sometimes I get this itch inside of me, you know, just like if you just need a cigarette or something, and I go blinding."
"You go blind? What do you mean?"
"Blinding, not blind. Okay, you're looking at me funny, let me explain. It's this thing I made up. Kind of a game really."
"So you play made-up games, huh? What are you, twelve?"
"Ha. I'm not done explaining it to you. First, you have to be in a car. find an intersection, preferably a traffic signal, and just fly right through?"
"What? Okay, ha, ha, you got me. I'm sorry I called you twelve. You don't have to make up dumb stories about playing chicken in a car to impress me."
"No I'm serious. That's blinding. It's best to play at an intersection at a time of day that you know the traffic won't be heavy. Give yourself a bit of an advantage, you know? I call it blinding because you're driving blind into traffic, get it?"
"Well, I think I--"
"At first you're going to want to close your eyes as you go through. Don't. When you have your eyes open, and you're going for it, you'll probably see another car in the corner of your eye. Maybe you'll make it through, maybe you won't. That glimpse of another car says that odds are stacking against you. When you see that and you make it through, that's living. If you had your eyes closed you wouldn't get the same jolt of energy, the buzz."
"You're not being funny. I'm a little touchy on the subject, because, well. . . because my dad died in a car accid--"
"Oh, and it works at a stop sign, but that's not nearly as good as a traffic signal. You actually have a bit of an excuse with a sign, they're bland red sheets of metal hidden off to the side. It's easy to miss those; people do it all the time accidentally. But traffic signals-- You've got a large red beacon hanging there in the air flashing stop at the speed of light. You've got to do it on purpose to blow through one of those."
"Do, do you have a death wish or something?"
"A death wish? No, of course not. I've got a life wish. I want to live. I want to feel the blood pounding in my veins. I want to taste the boundaries of death and walk away. I want to prove that I am alive. So, yeah, you wear pajamas and watch TV, and I, uh, I do this."
"I, I think you should take me home now."
"Sure, I'll pick up the check and we'll--"
"You know what. . . I'll get a cab instead."
this is not a quote
"What do you mean?"
"I know, I know. Asking about hobbies and such, it's one of those courtesy questions that you don't expect a straight answer, like 'How are you doing?' But I mean it, what do you do to keep yourself busy? To keep from going crazy, you know, and pulling out that blonde hair of yours?"
"I don't know. I like to sing, I guess. I draw a little but mostly I watch TV in my pajamas, mostly. You're laughing at me, but I'm serious, I'm not really an adventurous person, not really. What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. What do you do to 'keep from going crazy,' as you put it. The stuff that saves that weird curly red hair of yours."
"Well, I'm just as boring as you, really, except sometimes I get this itch inside of me, you know, just like if you just need a cigarette or something, and I go blinding."
"You go blind? What do you mean?"
"Blinding, not blind. Okay, you're looking at me funny, let me explain. It's this thing I made up. Kind of a game really."
"So you play made-up games, huh? What are you, twelve?"
"Ha. I'm not done explaining it to you. First, you have to be in a car. find an intersection, preferably a traffic signal, and just fly right through?"
"What? Okay, ha, ha, you got me. I'm sorry I called you twelve. You don't have to make up dumb stories about playing chicken in a car to impress me."
"No I'm serious. That's blinding. It's best to play at an intersection at a time of day that you know the traffic won't be heavy. Give yourself a bit of an advantage, you know? I call it blinding because you're driving blind into traffic, get it?"
"Well, I think I--"
"At first you're going to want to close your eyes as you go through. Don't. When you have your eyes open, and you're going for it, you'll probably see another car in the corner of your eye. Maybe you'll make it through, maybe you won't. That glimpse of another car says that odds are stacking against you. When you see that and you make it through, that's living. If you had your eyes closed you wouldn't get the same jolt of energy, the buzz."
"You're not being funny. I'm a little touchy on the subject, because, well. . . because my dad died in a car accid--"
"Oh, and it works at a stop sign, but that's not nearly as good as a traffic signal. You actually have a bit of an excuse with a sign, they're bland red sheets of metal hidden off to the side. It's easy to miss those; people do it all the time accidentally. But traffic signals-- You've got a large red beacon hanging there in the air flashing stop at the speed of light. You've got to do it on purpose to blow through one of those."
"Do, do you have a death wish or something?"
"A death wish? No, of course not. I've got a life wish. I want to live. I want to feel the blood pounding in my veins. I want to taste the boundaries of death and walk away. I want to prove that I am alive. So, yeah, you wear pajamas and watch TV, and I, uh, I do this."
"I, I think you should take me home now."
"Sure, I'll pick up the check and we'll--"
"You know what. . . I'll get a cab instead."
this is not a quote
10.23.2007
The Shop Around the Corner
I hereby announce that I have entered into NaNoWriMo. For the uninitiated, this stands for National Novel Writing Month. Information can be found here. In a nutshell, it's an event that happens every year, where aspiring novelists such as myself start on November 1st and hopefully conclude November 30th with a 50,000 word novel. I heard about it last year and decided that I would jump on the bandwagon come November.
I am cheating a bit, though. I am going to try to knock out my story that I have been sculpting for 3 years now. It has gone from being "the untitled dream story" (some know it as the Twilight Zone story) to (tentatively) "We Own Your Dreams." Hopefully, by Nov. 30th, it will be We Own Your Dreams. I have maybe 6-8 pages written, and at this rate I'll finish sometime near my death and will certainly have wasted my notebook full of other story ideas and leads. Hopefully this will give me the push I need toward regular writing.
I do consider myself an aspiring novelist (currently I am also an unknown essayist) and others such as myself flock to bookstores such as Barnes and Nobles' or Border's to be amongst the things they love. True, I love reading as well, and these are generally the places I come when I slake that thirst, but I have a different viewpoint of such bookstores.
They are my ninth circle of hell.
Why is this? Because all I've ever wanted to do with my life is be an author. Just like everybody else in those stores. I pour hours and hours of toil and sweat into writing a work and leave a large piece of me within. Somehow, someday someone else picks it up and decides that it should be published. I am overjoyed with this idea and ecstatically go through the long process of rewriting, etc. When the final, finished project is done (probably with a cover picture that I think is stupid, yet I am powerless to change) it is placed on the shelf in the fiction section between Brand, Max, and Brautigan, Richard.
Lost in a sea of thousands no different than it.
If you never say your name out loud to anyone they can never, ever call you by it
I am cheating a bit, though. I am going to try to knock out my story that I have been sculpting for 3 years now. It has gone from being "the untitled dream story" (some know it as the Twilight Zone story) to (tentatively) "We Own Your Dreams." Hopefully, by Nov. 30th, it will be We Own Your Dreams. I have maybe 6-8 pages written, and at this rate I'll finish sometime near my death and will certainly have wasted my notebook full of other story ideas and leads. Hopefully this will give me the push I need toward regular writing.
I do consider myself an aspiring novelist (currently I am also an unknown essayist) and others such as myself flock to bookstores such as Barnes and Nobles' or Border's to be amongst the things they love. True, I love reading as well, and these are generally the places I come when I slake that thirst, but I have a different viewpoint of such bookstores.
They are my ninth circle of hell.
Why is this? Because all I've ever wanted to do with my life is be an author. Just like everybody else in those stores. I pour hours and hours of toil and sweat into writing a work and leave a large piece of me within. Somehow, someday someone else picks it up and decides that it should be published. I am overjoyed with this idea and ecstatically go through the long process of rewriting, etc. When the final, finished project is done (probably with a cover picture that I think is stupid, yet I am powerless to change) it is placed on the shelf in the fiction section between Brand, Max, and Brautigan, Richard.
Lost in a sea of thousands no different than it.
If you never say your name out loud to anyone they can never, ever call you by it
10.09.2007
I Have Two Guns, One For the Each of Ya.
I have two types of posts. One type I come up with an idea and make out a rough outline of the things I want to say and how I want to say them. I save the draft and let it sit until just the right time. Like wine they age, drawing in influences and nuances from the passing of time. sometimes they ferment for months before I pull them out and finish the process. I have maybe ten of these right now, and the oldest ones date to last March.
The other type is more or less impromptu. Something big may have happened to me that I just have to get down in words, or maybe I'll just get the urge to write and won't have anything officially prepared. This second category, that's this post right here.
I'm thinking of changing emails again. I have my very professional aarontbratcher@yahoo.com, but my main email is brokeneyesglaring@yahoo.com . This one has two strikes against it: apparently I was feeling very emo at the time of its creation and it's embarrassing to give it as an answer to "what's your email?" (It's because I wear glasses, get it? broken eyes glaring. Apparently I'm mad about my myopia). Also, I've done something wrong on the internet somewhere and now I get a ridiculous amount of junk email. Tons. I'm thinking of fully embracing "Bratcher Lev" and go with bratcherlev@yahoo.com, but I'm going to have to sleep on it.
I've been working on the Harry Potter books for about 3 or 4 months now. I started them after seeing the first three movies, but after reading three books that were so similar to three movies I had already seen. . . I lost interest. I've finally passed the point I stopped last time around and am currently in the middle of Goblet of Fire. I'm tempted to say that I am halfway through it, but it's such a brick of a book that despite having read what seems to be the same amount of pages as the whole of the first book, I am only a third of the way through it.
I facebook. Yes. Since Facebook decided money was much more awesome than catering to only collegiates, they have opened a floodgate of third party applications that you can load onto your own page. Most of these are dreadful, and every time I pull up my own page I wade through a sea of applications for Superpokes and Top Friends Lists and Zombie Wars. One such application I did let in was the "sorting hat" application. Just as you could probably guess, you answer several questions, and someone somewhere wrote some code that interprets your answers as a guide to one Hogwarts house. I took the test and it wanted to stick me in Gryffindor. Honestly, I didn't want to be. Not that the house with the most stage time isn't fan tabby tabulous, I'm just not one of those types that immediately go for the main characters. I wasn't Cyclops when we played Xmen, I was Gambit. I was never Ryu when we played Street Fighter, I was Blanka. And I'm not Gryffindor.
So I cheated and put myself in Ravenclaw, the house with which I can honestly relate the most. My thought, though, was "at least I'm not in Hufflepuff."
In fact, I think I'd rather live in the real world where there are no Hogwarts Houses than live in Rowling's world and be in Hufflepuff.
your's is the first face that I saw, think I was blind before I met you
The other type is more or less impromptu. Something big may have happened to me that I just have to get down in words, or maybe I'll just get the urge to write and won't have anything officially prepared. This second category, that's this post right here.
I'm thinking of changing emails again. I have my very professional aarontbratcher@yahoo.com, but my main email is brokeneyesglaring@yahoo.com . This one has two strikes against it: apparently I was feeling very emo at the time of its creation and it's embarrassing to give it as an answer to "what's your email?" (It's because I wear glasses, get it? broken eyes glaring. Apparently I'm mad about my myopia). Also, I've done something wrong on the internet somewhere and now I get a ridiculous amount of junk email. Tons. I'm thinking of fully embracing "Bratcher Lev" and go with bratcherlev@yahoo.com, but I'm going to have to sleep on it.
I've been working on the Harry Potter books for about 3 or 4 months now. I started them after seeing the first three movies, but after reading three books that were so similar to three movies I had already seen. . . I lost interest. I've finally passed the point I stopped last time around and am currently in the middle of Goblet of Fire. I'm tempted to say that I am halfway through it, but it's such a brick of a book that despite having read what seems to be the same amount of pages as the whole of the first book, I am only a third of the way through it.
I facebook. Yes. Since Facebook decided money was much more awesome than catering to only collegiates, they have opened a floodgate of third party applications that you can load onto your own page. Most of these are dreadful, and every time I pull up my own page I wade through a sea of applications for Superpokes and Top Friends Lists and Zombie Wars. One such application I did let in was the "sorting hat" application. Just as you could probably guess, you answer several questions, and someone somewhere wrote some code that interprets your answers as a guide to one Hogwarts house. I took the test and it wanted to stick me in Gryffindor. Honestly, I didn't want to be. Not that the house with the most stage time isn't fan tabby tabulous, I'm just not one of those types that immediately go for the main characters. I wasn't Cyclops when we played Xmen, I was Gambit. I was never Ryu when we played Street Fighter, I was Blanka. And I'm not Gryffindor.
So I cheated and put myself in Ravenclaw, the house with which I can honestly relate the most. My thought, though, was "at least I'm not in Hufflepuff."
In fact, I think I'd rather live in the real world where there are no Hogwarts Houses than live in Rowling's world and be in Hufflepuff.
your's is the first face that I saw, think I was blind before I met you
10.08.2007
You. It's You.
I've always liked to draw. I used to doodle ninja turtles in all of my notebooks. They were frozen in a perpetual fight against nameless lopsided villains. I was never one of those kids ,though, whose drawings made you think "wow, this kid's actually pretty good".
I finally stopped doodling and didn't draw for the longest times. I never took an art class in school because I was always in band or some other elective. When community college rolled around, I decided to put myself in BASIC DRAWING 101, because, well, because I could. Maybe I could feel that child with the crooked Ninja Turtles within me, desperately wanting to get out.
I really liked it. It almost came easy to me. I did, however, have to keep erasing and erasing until I finally got it just right. Charcoal became an amazing thing to me, and shading was this mystery of science that had eluded me for so long.
After I finished with the class, I kept drawing in my free time. I'd buy crayons and draw brightly colored faces, deeply lined with many colors for shading effects. It's really similar to my photography philosophy (another hobby that I'm spread too thin to properly pursue). All of our family pictures growing up lacked the same single element: our family. There were nice pictures of mountains, and hot rod cars, and birds, but who were we at the time? How old were we and what fashion trends had we succumbed to at the time? Who knows. People are the most important thing to document.
Tangent over.
So I'd always draw people. Mostly faces. And without fail, every single time, someone will come up to me and ask "Who is that?" "Who are you drawing?" as if I had someone posing in front of me, or maybe I knew someone who had a green tinted face. Why does every drawing have to be of somebody? Why can't it just be a face? Start with the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the ears, the eyebrows, hairline, and the chin, and how it turns out is how it turns out.
Depending on how crass I felt, I'd sometimes respond with "I'm drawing you."
At some point I moved on to painting. This was a big scary world that I've yet to conquer, or even do more than dip my toes into. I got a portaits books and found a recipe for flesh toned paint and went crazy. I couldn't quite get the mix right, though.
I made purple people.
After a while, I figured out my problem.
Too much blue. Way too much blue.
I only have one of my paintings left. The rest I've given away. My favorite one, though, I still kinda wish I had kept. I didn't paint it for myself, though, so it wouldn't be right for me to keep it. It was painted over Christmas break for a friend. We agreed to bring something back to each other. My problem was this: what could I possibly bring back from Kansas City? I painted her a picture instead.
At least I have a couple of fuzzy cameraphone pictures of it.
Honey, I'm a prize and you're a catch and we're a perfect match
Like two bitter strangers
I finally stopped doodling and didn't draw for the longest times. I never took an art class in school because I was always in band or some other elective. When community college rolled around, I decided to put myself in BASIC DRAWING 101, because, well, because I could. Maybe I could feel that child with the crooked Ninja Turtles within me, desperately wanting to get out.
I really liked it. It almost came easy to me. I did, however, have to keep erasing and erasing until I finally got it just right. Charcoal became an amazing thing to me, and shading was this mystery of science that had eluded me for so long.
After I finished with the class, I kept drawing in my free time. I'd buy crayons and draw brightly colored faces, deeply lined with many colors for shading effects. It's really similar to my photography philosophy (another hobby that I'm spread too thin to properly pursue). All of our family pictures growing up lacked the same single element: our family. There were nice pictures of mountains, and hot rod cars, and birds, but who were we at the time? How old were we and what fashion trends had we succumbed to at the time? Who knows. People are the most important thing to document.
Tangent over.
So I'd always draw people. Mostly faces. And without fail, every single time, someone will come up to me and ask "Who is that?" "Who are you drawing?" as if I had someone posing in front of me, or maybe I knew someone who had a green tinted face. Why does every drawing have to be of somebody? Why can't it just be a face? Start with the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the ears, the eyebrows, hairline, and the chin, and how it turns out is how it turns out.
Depending on how crass I felt, I'd sometimes respond with "I'm drawing you."
At some point I moved on to painting. This was a big scary world that I've yet to conquer, or even do more than dip my toes into. I got a portaits books and found a recipe for flesh toned paint and went crazy. I couldn't quite get the mix right, though.
I made purple people.
After a while, I figured out my problem.
Too much blue. Way too much blue.
I only have one of my paintings left. The rest I've given away. My favorite one, though, I still kinda wish I had kept. I didn't paint it for myself, though, so it wouldn't be right for me to keep it. It was painted over Christmas break for a friend. We agreed to bring something back to each other. My problem was this: what could I possibly bring back from Kansas City? I painted her a picture instead.
At least I have a couple of fuzzy cameraphone pictures of it.
Honey, I'm a prize and you're a catch and we're a perfect matchLike two bitter strangers
Springfield Cards
The middle section of my month long (or longer) trip extravaganza took me to the far reaches of man's settlement. I dared the very edges of civilized society so that I may say that I have done so. And later blog about it. Was it the Great Alaskan North? No. Siberia? No again. Antarctica? Not even close. The frozen tundra of wasteland that I visited was none other than Springfield, Missouri (Hyperbole and exaggeration, I know, yadda yadda yadda [no soup for you] ).
Most of our time was spent playing video games, seeing movies, and eating at the restaurants that we had been dreaming about for the past year. I've had several conversations with the boys about how much we all were jonesing for sesame chicken from Hong Kong Inn. Basically, we were living the dream.
One of the final evenings there was spent in a little big stadium hidden in the middle of the city. This is where the Springfield Cardinals played. You may be familiar with the St. Louis Cardinals, and you'd probably assume that there is some sort of association between the two. You would be right. Or wrong. I don't really know. They do have similar emblems (do teams have emblems? Are they logos?) and it seems that half of the inhabitants of St. Louis seem to make their way down to Springfield at some point in their lives.
We were three rows from the dugout and it felt like if I really, really wanted to, I could throw my Pepsi at the first baseman and hit him. This would probably only work once, though. It was all fairly surreal as to how close to the action we were (being a minor league stadium, it is much, much smaller than, say, Kauffman stadium, but just as professional looking). Then I happened to think:
"You know, I've seen on TV where the batter tips the ball just right so that it zings straight to the right. Right, uh, right here where I'm sitting. Oh, crap. I'm going to die."
Sure enough I got hit and needed major reconstructive surgery. Well, not really, but I knew this would be a certainty. Right on cue, a foul ball shot straight at an old man maybe fifteen seats to my left. He jumped to the side as the ball took out his beer in a yellow shower of terror. The man got up, wiped off the beer, and raised up the demolished paper cup, demanding a new one.
I tried my best to pay attention to the game, but most of my energy was spent in preparation for a sudden move. Maybe to the left, maybe the right, but it would certainly have to be one of those things where you act out of instinct and not "Oh hey, I'm about to get laid out by a baseball. I should move, yes?"
Something changed though. The paradigm shifter was named Nick (I think maybe it's spelled Nic) and he's three or four years old. He's Matt's nephew and it wasn't that long ago that he would run screaming, utterly terrified out of the room whenever he saw me. He's warmed up to me and now he decided that he wanted to sit between me and Nick (big Nick, one of the guys that came to Springfield). Being that I enjoy my space, there's an empty seat to my left, and I gave him the go ahead to sit there.
Right where the ball would inevitably fly.
The first half of the game I was perpetually ready to duck out of the way, and the second half, I found myself always ready to throw myself in front of Nic(k) when the ball does come.
Kids. They always change things.
and the stars look very different today
Most of our time was spent playing video games, seeing movies, and eating at the restaurants that we had been dreaming about for the past year. I've had several conversations with the boys about how much we all were jonesing for sesame chicken from Hong Kong Inn. Basically, we were living the dream.
One of the final evenings there was spent in a little big stadium hidden in the middle of the city. This is where the Springfield Cardinals played. You may be familiar with the St. Louis Cardinals, and you'd probably assume that there is some sort of association between the two. You would be right. Or wrong. I don't really know. They do have similar emblems (do teams have emblems? Are they logos?) and it seems that half of the inhabitants of St. Louis seem to make their way down to Springfield at some point in their lives.
We were three rows from the dugout and it felt like if I really, really wanted to, I could throw my Pepsi at the first baseman and hit him. This would probably only work once, though. It was all fairly surreal as to how close to the action we were (being a minor league stadium, it is much, much smaller than, say, Kauffman stadium, but just as professional looking). Then I happened to think:
"You know, I've seen on TV where the batter tips the ball just right so that it zings straight to the right. Right, uh, right here where I'm sitting. Oh, crap. I'm going to die."
Sure enough I got hit and needed major reconstructive surgery. Well, not really, but I knew this would be a certainty. Right on cue, a foul ball shot straight at an old man maybe fifteen seats to my left. He jumped to the side as the ball took out his beer in a yellow shower of terror. The man got up, wiped off the beer, and raised up the demolished paper cup, demanding a new one.
I tried my best to pay attention to the game, but most of my energy was spent in preparation for a sudden move. Maybe to the left, maybe the right, but it would certainly have to be one of those things where you act out of instinct and not "Oh hey, I'm about to get laid out by a baseball. I should move, yes?"
Something changed though. The paradigm shifter was named Nick (I think maybe it's spelled Nic) and he's three or four years old. He's Matt's nephew and it wasn't that long ago that he would run screaming, utterly terrified out of the room whenever he saw me. He's warmed up to me and now he decided that he wanted to sit between me and Nick (big Nick, one of the guys that came to Springfield). Being that I enjoy my space, there's an empty seat to my left, and I gave him the go ahead to sit there.
Right where the ball would inevitably fly.
The first half of the game I was perpetually ready to duck out of the way, and the second half, I found myself always ready to throw myself in front of Nic(k) when the ball does come.
Kids. They always change things.
and the stars look very different today
10.03.2007
My Name Is Greg
Where have I been?
Not here, that's right.
I've been at Target. Working. Those of you familiar with my Sunfresh employment are probably shaking your collective heads at the notion that I haven't come very far. And to be honest, you're right.
But a job's a job, and I'm happy to have one.
The pay is a little depressing, and every beep of the register is a note in a song whose lyrics go something like this: "I have a Bachelor's Degree. I have a Bachelor's Degree. I have a Bachelor's Degree, and yet I'm doing this." I realized just today that I'd be doing the same thing and being paid the same wage if I were 16 years old. That's eight years ago.
It's not all bad, really. I've got a nice name tag. It's for somebody named Greg, though. I've learned to answer to the name "Greg" and I don't really mind. You can't blame them for thinking my name is Greg, it is on my name tag, after all. And only an idiot would wear a name tag with the wrong name on it.
If I do get an "Aaron" name tag (mental note: see about getting a "Bratch" tag) I may keep Greg and swap them in and out as I see fit ("well, self, is this a Greg day or and Aaron day?" [Maybe a Bratch day?]). I may even work out a system; I'm Aaron if I'm doing something good, and Greg if I screw up.
squeaky swings and tall grass
Not here, that's right.
I've been at Target. Working. Those of you familiar with my Sunfresh employment are probably shaking your collective heads at the notion that I haven't come very far. And to be honest, you're right.
But a job's a job, and I'm happy to have one.
The pay is a little depressing, and every beep of the register is a note in a song whose lyrics go something like this: "I have a Bachelor's Degree. I have a Bachelor's Degree. I have a Bachelor's Degree, and yet I'm doing this." I realized just today that I'd be doing the same thing and being paid the same wage if I were 16 years old. That's eight years ago.
It's not all bad, really. I've got a nice name tag. It's for somebody named Greg, though. I've learned to answer to the name "Greg" and I don't really mind. You can't blame them for thinking my name is Greg, it is on my name tag, after all. And only an idiot would wear a name tag with the wrong name on it.
If I do get an "Aaron" name tag (mental note: see about getting a "Bratch" tag) I may keep Greg and swap them in and out as I see fit ("well, self, is this a Greg day or and Aaron day?" [Maybe a Bratch day?]). I may even work out a system; I'm Aaron if I'm doing something good, and Greg if I screw up.
squeaky swings and tall grass
9.11.2007
Ode to a Razor (An Exercise in Narcissism)
After leaving my last position, I decided that I would take some time to myself and not pursue a job. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to let my razor have a holiday as well. Everything I've done in my life is based out of "I'll try anything (legal) once." I had never highlighted my hair, so I tried it. I had never completely bleached it out, so I tried it. I had never dyed my hair black, so I tried it. I had never let my beard grow out before, so I tried it. To top it off, I decided to let my hair grow out, as well. This changed when I saw the guy at the theater.
The guy taking the tickets wore glasses like mine and had my same build. His hair was brownish and both his beard and hair were ridiculously long.
He looked retarded.
Seriously, he looked terrible. That moment I decided to renege on one half of my commitment.
I have had longer hair in the past, but it was due to the wish-I-could-forget-about-it bowl cut with the part in the middle and shaved up underneath. You know, the haircut that everyone had back then. I was no exception. I wish someone had told us how stupid we looked.
But I digress. Since I've been looking for a job (and have recently acquired one [today is my first day] ) I decided it was time to dust off the old razor.
I think my mom's proud of me.
BEFORE
AFTER
FUN FACT: Since I didn't do it at home, all I had to work with was a safety razor and a pair of scissors.
The guy taking the tickets wore glasses like mine and had my same build. His hair was brownish and both his beard and hair were ridiculously long.
He looked retarded.
Seriously, he looked terrible. That moment I decided to renege on one half of my commitment.
I have had longer hair in the past, but it was due to the wish-I-could-forget-about-it bowl cut with the part in the middle and shaved up underneath. You know, the haircut that everyone had back then. I was no exception. I wish someone had told us how stupid we looked.
But I digress. Since I've been looking for a job (and have recently acquired one [today is my first day] ) I decided it was time to dust off the old razor.
I think my mom's proud of me.
BEFORE
AFTER
FUN FACT: Since I didn't do it at home, all I had to work with was a safety razor and a pair of scissors.
9.10.2007
Buttworms and Automatic Sinks
I'd like to think that most people wash their hands after using the restroom. I'd like to think this, but honestly, I know better. I see them walk right past the sinks. Perhaps they give it a look as if to make a mental note of "no, not this time," or perhaps they keep straight ahead, the thought of cleaning off whatever genetic material that may be on their hands nowhere near their line of thought.
Not that I'm a sink saint. I'm not OCD about it or anything. I am, however terrified of parasites, and not washing your hands is a good way to get a big family of pinworms in your butt.
Biology class was a lot of fun for me. But when we got to the part about parasites, I couldn't handle it. I mean, c'mon, I diced up a huge fetal pig (fun story, our pig was big and black, twice the size of everyone else's tiny pink piggies), and several other formerly living creatures. But parasites, just the thought of it gives me chills. Whatever the "fear of parasites" is is probably the closest thing I have to a true phobia.
I tried to face my fears once and watch one of those TLC Discovery type shows, you know, the kind with titles like "James, the half ton man" or "the boy who had no face" or "the lose who never went on dates." I've always like these medical mystery shows, and when one that was named something along the line of "Eaten from the inside out" came on, I made myself watch it. I made it through, but it was tough. There was no losing of lunches or tossing of proverbial cookies, but I still hated every moment of it.
Biting my nails was a bad habit I had as a kid. I more or less kicked it, but every once in a while I would notice that my fingernails needed cutting, and instead of waiting until I came home to cut them I would bite them off. I figured ragged nails looked better than grungy long nails. A good friend of mine named Jonathan told me this is the very method by which he was host to his own special friends living in his colon. Apparently the eggs can live in the dirt that's underneath your nails and once you put that junk in your mouth, yeah, it's in your system.
Needless to say, I stopped immediately.
Being afraid of parasites and being a bit of a hypochondriac is a mostly bad combination. When my Biology professor listed the symptoms of pinworm infestation, my mind started going. The main symptom: itchy butt. Yeah, that's happened before. Crap. What do I do? The prof told us the only way to test if you do have pinworms is to have someone else wait until you are asleep, and stick a bit of scotch tape to your pooper to see if you have any. This is because they wait until you are asleep (smart little buggers, they're inside you and yet they know what kind of wicked schedule you keep) and then "come outside" and do a little dance, make a little love, and generally get down tonight.
Neither KC nor the sunshine band would be able to convince me that I'd be comfortable with someone performing the scotch tape test.
No, I am not a sink saint. I try, but sometimes I just don't wash my hands.
But a lot of the times I couldn't do it to save my life.
What is it with those automatic sinks? You know, the ones that are in every bathroom built since 1994 and have some sort magic voodoo sensor that knows when your hands are waiting patiently, soaped up and ready for a vigorous rinsing.
I just can't work these things.
It happens every time. Without fail. I squirt a little soap into my hands and rub it around, generally bubbling over my whole hand region. I put my hands down there and start the washing hands motions. But nothing. Not a drop of water comes out. I apparently haven't tripped the sensor. Either this, or it is mad at me for the last time I came in because I let myself get out of hand and it knows that this time will be no different. When no water comes, I start shaking my hands, trying to find the sweet spot. Somewhere, somewhere in this basin is the magic spot that gloriously unlocks the treasures of a thousands springs. But I have to find it first. Without fail I start to shake wilder, harder, and faster. Eventually I am angry and punching the air under the spout, muttering under my breath that if the bloody sink had a real faucet I'd be done by now instead of flailing wildly like a small child after a refined sugar eating contest.
At some distant point in the future, I find the spot that the sink has greedily hidden and wash the crusty soap from my hands. I always walk away wondering if I can develop some sort of bathroom going technique that is totally, 100% hands-free. Afterwards I'd be able to walk past the hexed sink and smile, knowing that I have no need of its cruel services.
Until then, I'll walk by, hoping to God that I see a handle on the sink.
If so, hopefully it's not one of those that you have to hold the handle down to make the water flow.
I mean, seriously, how are you supposed to use those?
Left, right, left, right, left, right, dry
Not that I'm a sink saint. I'm not OCD about it or anything. I am, however terrified of parasites, and not washing your hands is a good way to get a big family of pinworms in your butt.
Biology class was a lot of fun for me. But when we got to the part about parasites, I couldn't handle it. I mean, c'mon, I diced up a huge fetal pig (fun story, our pig was big and black, twice the size of everyone else's tiny pink piggies), and several other formerly living creatures. But parasites, just the thought of it gives me chills. Whatever the "fear of parasites" is is probably the closest thing I have to a true phobia.
I tried to face my fears once and watch one of those TLC Discovery type shows, you know, the kind with titles like "James, the half ton man" or "the boy who had no face" or "the lose who never went on dates." I've always like these medical mystery shows, and when one that was named something along the line of "Eaten from the inside out" came on, I made myself watch it. I made it through, but it was tough. There was no losing of lunches or tossing of proverbial cookies, but I still hated every moment of it.
Biting my nails was a bad habit I had as a kid. I more or less kicked it, but every once in a while I would notice that my fingernails needed cutting, and instead of waiting until I came home to cut them I would bite them off. I figured ragged nails looked better than grungy long nails. A good friend of mine named Jonathan told me this is the very method by which he was host to his own special friends living in his colon. Apparently the eggs can live in the dirt that's underneath your nails and once you put that junk in your mouth, yeah, it's in your system.
Needless to say, I stopped immediately.
Being afraid of parasites and being a bit of a hypochondriac is a mostly bad combination. When my Biology professor listed the symptoms of pinworm infestation, my mind started going. The main symptom: itchy butt. Yeah, that's happened before. Crap. What do I do? The prof told us the only way to test if you do have pinworms is to have someone else wait until you are asleep, and stick a bit of scotch tape to your pooper to see if you have any. This is because they wait until you are asleep (smart little buggers, they're inside you and yet they know what kind of wicked schedule you keep) and then "come outside" and do a little dance, make a little love, and generally get down tonight.
Neither KC nor the sunshine band would be able to convince me that I'd be comfortable with someone performing the scotch tape test.
No, I am not a sink saint. I try, but sometimes I just don't wash my hands.
But a lot of the times I couldn't do it to save my life.
What is it with those automatic sinks? You know, the ones that are in every bathroom built since 1994 and have some sort magic voodoo sensor that knows when your hands are waiting patiently, soaped up and ready for a vigorous rinsing.
I just can't work these things.
It happens every time. Without fail. I squirt a little soap into my hands and rub it around, generally bubbling over my whole hand region. I put my hands down there and start the washing hands motions. But nothing. Not a drop of water comes out. I apparently haven't tripped the sensor. Either this, or it is mad at me for the last time I came in because I let myself get out of hand and it knows that this time will be no different. When no water comes, I start shaking my hands, trying to find the sweet spot. Somewhere, somewhere in this basin is the magic spot that gloriously unlocks the treasures of a thousands springs. But I have to find it first. Without fail I start to shake wilder, harder, and faster. Eventually I am angry and punching the air under the spout, muttering under my breath that if the bloody sink had a real faucet I'd be done by now instead of flailing wildly like a small child after a refined sugar eating contest.
At some distant point in the future, I find the spot that the sink has greedily hidden and wash the crusty soap from my hands. I always walk away wondering if I can develop some sort of bathroom going technique that is totally, 100% hands-free. Afterwards I'd be able to walk past the hexed sink and smile, knowing that I have no need of its cruel services.
Until then, I'll walk by, hoping to God that I see a handle on the sink.
If so, hopefully it's not one of those that you have to hold the handle down to make the water flow.
I mean, seriously, how are you supposed to use those?
Left, right, left, right, left, right, dry
9.08.2007
9.06.2007
A Quick Rant. . .
. . .Hopefully followed by a longer, more involved rant sometime soon.
After seeing a trailer for the upcoming "Mr. Woodcock" movie, I can't help but think. . . "Hasn't Billy Bob Thorton played the EXACT SAME person in every movie since Bad Santa?"
After seeing a trailer for the upcoming "Mr. Woodcock" movie, I can't help but think. . . "Hasn't Billy Bob Thorton played the EXACT SAME person in every movie since Bad Santa?"
9.04.2007
Things I've Learned On My Recent Travels
1. Always bring one more Harry Potter book than you think you will need.
2. Don't assume your Conservative Christian grandmother threw your Harry Potter book away because it's evil. Check under the car seat one more time.
2. Don't assume your Conservative Christian grandmother threw your Harry Potter book away because it's evil. Check under the car seat one more time.
8.25.2007
They Say It's Your Birthday, Well It's My Birthday Too, Yeah.
Here's a fun idea: go to Wikipedia (one of the seven wonders of the world, in my opinion) and punch in your birthday (the month and day, not the year). In my case: March 17. There you will find a long list of things that happened on your birthday. World events, birthdays, and deaths, that sort of thing. Me? I share my birthday with Shemp Howard, the inferior "Three Stooges" stooge, Nat King Cole, John Wayne Gacy, Patrick Duffy, Kurt Russell, Gary Sinise, Rob Lowe, Billy Corgan, Mia Hamm, and the girl that played Veruca Salt on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Funny thing, apparently Saint Patrick died on Saint Patrick's day. Bummer.
8.15.2007
12 months of the Bratch
I always feel the need to preface surveys with a statement that leads you to believe that I do not do these ad nauseam. This one is so different than the others that I'll suspend my disbelief that no one will read this.
! JANUARY !
1. Who kissed you on new years?
no one.
2. Did you have a new year's resolution this year?
I always thought these were trite, no one keeps them.
3. Does it snow where you live?
Yes. Well, it did a lot when I was a kid. Now it's not that often. All that time spent on my patio spraying 80's-era hair spray cans into the sky finally paid off.
4. Do you like hot chocolate?
Only when it's made with three to five time the normal chocolate, otherwise it tastes like hot chocolate water, which at that point it might as well be hot ham water.
5. Have you ever been to Times Square to watch the ball drop?
I've been to Times Square, and I've seen the ball drop, but never at the same time.
♥ FEBRUARY ♥
1. Who was your Valentine?
I had one in ninth grade. . . that was my last one.
2. When you were little did you buy Valentine's for the whole class?
I had to. Those were the rules (implemented so kids like me didn't feel bad that all the cool kids got all the cards and I only got one from the teacher and the weird girl that sat in the corner eating glue [how is it that there were cool kids in elementary school? We were barely out of diapers, none of us deserved to be top of any social caste] ).
3. Do you care if the groundhog sees its shadow or not?
Only if it's in the context of the movie Groundhog Day, which is on the list of "movies that I do not own but wish I did, but don't remember when I do finally decide to buy a DVD."
! MARCH !
1. Are you Irish?
Yes. 1/4, along with 1/4 Norwegian, 1/2 German, and 1/8 Native American (wait a second...)
2. Do you wear green every year on St.Patrick's day?
I tried to get out of it as a kid because I assumed there were specials rules if it was your birthday, but I always got pinched anyway.
3. What did you do for St. Patty's Day in 2007?
returned to KC for my birthday.
4. Are you happy when winter is pretty much over?
Yes, it is the best thing ever ( reference ).
! APRIL !
1. Do you like the rain?
When sitting outside, reading a book: yes
When driving: no
2. Did you play an April fool's joke on anyone this year?
No. I did pull a "Surprise! I'm quitting!" about the same time.
3. Do you get tons of candy on Easter?
I've gotten an Easter basket mostly every year. This year I bought my own (to the tune of a pack of kitkats and a pack of reese's with a cadbury egg for good measure).
4. Do you celebrate 4/20?
no.
5. Do you love the month of april?
Not really. Am I supposed to?
! MAY !
1. What is your favorite flower?
Pansies, because the yellow ones look like nuclear warning signs (this was my answer as I child, and I've never really seen fit to change it)
2. Do you celebrate cinco de mayo?
no
3. Finish the phrase "April showers..."
Bring may flowers, may flowers bring pilgrims. Perhaps the first joke I ever remembered
4. Do you celebrate May 16th: National Piercing Day?
Not aware of this
5. Is May anything special to you?
No more than any other given month.
! JUNE !
1. What year did/will you graduate from high school?
2001
2. Did you do anything fun during this month?
Not really, I bummed around the house all months (which, I suppose, was fun)
3. Have a favorite baseball team?
being from KC, my default team is the Royals, though they don't really warrant fandom.
! JULY !
1. What did you do on the Fourth of July?
Shot off all of the fireworks I've amassed over the past three years with my dad and brother.
2. Did you go on any vacations during this month?
Phoenix, AZ; Springfield, MO; Knoxville, TN
! AUGUST !
1. Are you doing anything special at the end of your summer?
Arranging the move to TN
3. Did you have a sunburn?
No. I'm the proverbial geek with no tan. When I do tan, I get pretty dark.
4. Did you go to the pool a lot?
No.
! SEPTEMBER !
1. Will you be attending college/school?
Maybe. If I'm down there by then, I'll start Real Estate school, if I don't, I'll just be working and helping take care of my grandma
2. Who was/is your favorite teacher?
teachers are all a blur.
3. Do you like fall better than summer?
I think so.
! OCTOBER !
1. What was your last Halloween costume?
Broke Bible College Student (worn during a Halloween party a few years ago)
2. What is your favorite candy?
reese's peanut butter cups. This answer has stayed constant my whole life.
3. Who's birthday is this Month?
Matt Maddux.
4. What was your favorite thing about this month?
The smell.
! NOVEMBER !
1. Whose house do you go to for Thanksgiving?
Usually a grandparent, whether it's mom's side or dad's.
2. Whats best about this month?
The start of Christmas Season.
3. What are you thankful for?
A lot. (what a cookie cutter answer).
4. Do you love stuffing?
Definitely. It's my favorite Thanksgiving-only foodstuff. My mom doesn't like it so when I came came from college she'd never make it, though I asked if she would. Over the course of the year she'd forget and I'd forget to remind her.
! DECEMBER !
1. Do you celebrate Christmas?
Sure do.
2. What is December 1st, 2007?
Is there a specific answer to this?
3. Have you ever been kissed under the mistletoe?
No
4. Get anything special last year?
It was mostly a no-nonsense cash Christmas.
5. What do you want this year?
Not sure. Haven't thought about it.
6. Do you like cold weather?
Yes. But I don't like driving in snow or ice, so it's a little bittersweet.
7. HAVE YOU EVER LICKED A FROSTED POLE AND GOT STUCK???
There are things that I've been warned not to do and I took heed. This is one of them.
! JANUARY !
1. Who kissed you on new years?
no one.
2. Did you have a new year's resolution this year?
I always thought these were trite, no one keeps them.
3. Does it snow where you live?
Yes. Well, it did a lot when I was a kid. Now it's not that often. All that time spent on my patio spraying 80's-era hair spray cans into the sky finally paid off.
4. Do you like hot chocolate?
Only when it's made with three to five time the normal chocolate, otherwise it tastes like hot chocolate water, which at that point it might as well be hot ham water.
5. Have you ever been to Times Square to watch the ball drop?
I've been to Times Square, and I've seen the ball drop, but never at the same time.
♥ FEBRUARY ♥
1. Who was your Valentine?
I had one in ninth grade. . . that was my last one.
2. When you were little did you buy Valentine's for the whole class?
I had to. Those were the rules (implemented so kids like me didn't feel bad that all the cool kids got all the cards and I only got one from the teacher and the weird girl that sat in the corner eating glue [how is it that there were cool kids in elementary school? We were barely out of diapers, none of us deserved to be top of any social caste] ).
3. Do you care if the groundhog sees its shadow or not?
Only if it's in the context of the movie Groundhog Day, which is on the list of "movies that I do not own but wish I did, but don't remember when I do finally decide to buy a DVD."
! MARCH !
1. Are you Irish?
Yes. 1/4, along with 1/4 Norwegian, 1/2 German, and 1/8 Native American (wait a second...)
2. Do you wear green every year on St.Patrick's day?
I tried to get out of it as a kid because I assumed there were specials rules if it was your birthday, but I always got pinched anyway.
3. What did you do for St. Patty's Day in 2007?
returned to KC for my birthday.
4. Are you happy when winter is pretty much over?
Yes, it is the best thing ever ( reference ).
! APRIL !
1. Do you like the rain?
When sitting outside, reading a book: yes
When driving: no
2. Did you play an April fool's joke on anyone this year?
No. I did pull a "Surprise! I'm quitting!" about the same time.
3. Do you get tons of candy on Easter?
I've gotten an Easter basket mostly every year. This year I bought my own (to the tune of a pack of kitkats and a pack of reese's with a cadbury egg for good measure).
4. Do you celebrate 4/20?
no.
5. Do you love the month of april?
Not really. Am I supposed to?
! MAY !
1. What is your favorite flower?
Pansies, because the yellow ones look like nuclear warning signs (this was my answer as I child, and I've never really seen fit to change it)
2. Do you celebrate cinco de mayo?
no
3. Finish the phrase "April showers..."
Bring may flowers, may flowers bring pilgrims. Perhaps the first joke I ever remembered
4. Do you celebrate May 16th: National Piercing Day?
Not aware of this
5. Is May anything special to you?
No more than any other given month.
! JUNE !
1. What year did/will you graduate from high school?
2001
2. Did you do anything fun during this month?
Not really, I bummed around the house all months (which, I suppose, was fun)
3. Have a favorite baseball team?
being from KC, my default team is the Royals, though they don't really warrant fandom.
! JULY !
1. What did you do on the Fourth of July?
Shot off all of the fireworks I've amassed over the past three years with my dad and brother.
2. Did you go on any vacations during this month?
Phoenix, AZ; Springfield, MO; Knoxville, TN
! AUGUST !
1. Are you doing anything special at the end of your summer?
Arranging the move to TN
3. Did you have a sunburn?
No. I'm the proverbial geek with no tan. When I do tan, I get pretty dark.
4. Did you go to the pool a lot?
No.
! SEPTEMBER !
1. Will you be attending college/school?
Maybe. If I'm down there by then, I'll start Real Estate school, if I don't, I'll just be working and helping take care of my grandma
2. Who was/is your favorite teacher?
teachers are all a blur.
3. Do you like fall better than summer?
I think so.
! OCTOBER !
1. What was your last Halloween costume?
Broke Bible College Student (worn during a Halloween party a few years ago)
2. What is your favorite candy?
reese's peanut butter cups. This answer has stayed constant my whole life.
3. Who's birthday is this Month?
Matt Maddux.
4. What was your favorite thing about this month?
The smell.
! NOVEMBER !
1. Whose house do you go to for Thanksgiving?
Usually a grandparent, whether it's mom's side or dad's.
2. Whats best about this month?
The start of Christmas Season.
3. What are you thankful for?
A lot. (what a cookie cutter answer).
4. Do you love stuffing?
Definitely. It's my favorite Thanksgiving-only foodstuff. My mom doesn't like it so when I came came from college she'd never make it, though I asked if she would. Over the course of the year she'd forget and I'd forget to remind her.
! DECEMBER !
1. Do you celebrate Christmas?
Sure do.
2. What is December 1st, 2007?
Is there a specific answer to this?
3. Have you ever been kissed under the mistletoe?
No
4. Get anything special last year?
It was mostly a no-nonsense cash Christmas.
5. What do you want this year?
Not sure. Haven't thought about it.
6. Do you like cold weather?
Yes. But I don't like driving in snow or ice, so it's a little bittersweet.
7. HAVE YOU EVER LICKED A FROSTED POLE AND GOT STUCK???
There are things that I've been warned not to do and I took heed. This is one of them.
Happy Birthday.
Happy Birthday, Bratcher Lev. A year ago I birthed you so that I may have an e-pr
esence beyond the myspaces and facebooks of the world. I had also started a youth pastor job and thought this a good way to keep up with my young sheepies. The address was printed on the bottom of my card, which I gave out liberally at the beginning of my career. If I were given a business card by my spiritual shepherd that had the ever-enigmatic "thebratch.blogspot.com" printed at the bottom I would have immediately visited as soon as I could. If it were as well written and dynamic as you are, I would have been a regular visitor. This never happened, however. Thanks to a google program, I know when and from where people visit my page (this I check almost never . . . as I know where the two hits may be from). It never read IL except for when I knew I was there (for some reason, it didn't tell the difference between me and everyone else).And so it goes.
I have left the occupation for which you were created, yet I continue nurturing you. What started as a professional venture quickly became a personal project.
Bratcher Lev, we salute you.
And yes, we know what your name is.
8.13.2007
It's About Time.
I just read that the world's oldest person, Yone Minagawa, just died. She was a spry 114 years old. This is a bit funny because she's no longer the world's oldest person. Now, she's dead, just like everybody else her age.
You can't really be sad at her passing. She lived a long, long life. A life, surely, filled with rice, fish heads, and manual labor. Her death is probably everything she's hoped and dreamed about for the past 20 years.
A part of me wants to think that there is some sort of system that balances out life on earth. For every death, a birth. For every birth, a death. If this is the case, Yone was a very selfish person.
C'mon lady, give somebody else a chance.
I only lied about being a thief.
There's a look that all kids get on their face when they're working up a tall tale. Usually it's in response to questions like "How did this get on the floor?" or "Why is my couch cut up into little pieces?". Sometimes the look happens when they decide that the current moment needs a little magic, so they tell a story that can't even remotely be possible. These usually start off with "This one time..." and proceed to tell a story about how they walked on the moon, or saw Bigfoot, or obtained world peace.
I did my fair share of lying as a kid. I was a bit of a pyromaniac, as well. My brother moved in with us for a while and he smoked. This meant that there were lighters laying around here and there. When my parents made a trip to the store (or some other mundane errand) I found the need to light toilet paper on fire in the sink. With a light sitting right next to me and the parents gone, what was I supposed to do? Do the dishes? So I crumpled a bit of toilet paper in the sink, lit it, and turned the sink on just as it was about to go out. For some reason, I had the divinely given knowledge that if it were to sit and go out, it would start to smoke. And smell. Maybe I got distracted by the awesomeness of the fire, but the last bit of paper I forgot to wet. It went out and began smoldering. Unfortunately, I was totally right about the smoking thing.
The whole house smelled like smoke.
My parents came home. They freaked out because they thought the house was on fire. Mom and Dad searched and searched for something that shorted out. The whole time I'm squawking "It's okay. I don't think anything's wrong. It's probably nothing. We should probably go. It's nothing to worry about." I let them search frantically for twenty minutes or so before conceding "I, uh, may have lit some toilet paper on fire."
This was the only time I've ever been slapped.
I guess I kinda deserved it.
I was pretty good at lying. I lied to a friend of mine about getting a drum set in the sixth grade. Why? I dunno, I guess I was bored. When I really did get a drum set, I had to explain to this same friend how my old drum set broke with the tom drum fell off and broke through the bass drum, which was apparently cracked the whole time. I don't think he bought it. I wouldn't have either.
The funny thing is, writers lie every day. It's their job. They're paid to make up grandiose stories. When a kid makes up a ridiculous story, I always think how good they'd probably be at writing.
This is a much better thing to say to their parents than "Your son is a dirty, dirty liar."
I did my fair share of lying as a kid. I was a bit of a pyromaniac, as well. My brother moved in with us for a while and he smoked. This meant that there were lighters laying around here and there. When my parents made a trip to the store (or some other mundane errand) I found the need to light toilet paper on fire in the sink. With a light sitting right next to me and the parents gone, what was I supposed to do? Do the dishes? So I crumpled a bit of toilet paper in the sink, lit it, and turned the sink on just as it was about to go out. For some reason, I had the divinely given knowledge that if it were to sit and go out, it would start to smoke. And smell. Maybe I got distracted by the awesomeness of the fire, but the last bit of paper I forgot to wet. It went out and began smoldering. Unfortunately, I was totally right about the smoking thing.
The whole house smelled like smoke.
My parents came home. They freaked out because they thought the house was on fire. Mom and Dad searched and searched for something that shorted out. The whole time I'm squawking "It's okay. I don't think anything's wrong. It's probably nothing. We should probably go. It's nothing to worry about." I let them search frantically for twenty minutes or so before conceding "I, uh, may have lit some toilet paper on fire."
This was the only time I've ever been slapped.
I guess I kinda deserved it.
I was pretty good at lying. I lied to a friend of mine about getting a drum set in the sixth grade. Why? I dunno, I guess I was bored. When I really did get a drum set, I had to explain to this same friend how my old drum set broke with the tom drum fell off and broke through the bass drum, which was apparently cracked the whole time. I don't think he bought it. I wouldn't have either.
The funny thing is, writers lie every day. It's their job. They're paid to make up grandiose stories. When a kid makes up a ridiculous story, I always think how good they'd probably be at writing.
This is a much better thing to say to their parents than "Your son is a dirty, dirty liar."
8.11.2007
Edit:
Just read through Adam's Song and fixed several errors: grammar, verb tense, muddy language, etc.
I have this strange habit of writing and throwing my work into the great abyss without first proofreading it. Maybe this is an attempt at keeping a fresh, existential feel to my work, but the truth is I need to stop it. It's more "lazy" than "stream of consciousness" and the truth is I'm lucky I haven't made any glaring Freudian slips and unknowingly cast them upon the eyes of the world.
I have this strange habit of writing and throwing my work into the great abyss without first proofreading it. Maybe this is an attempt at keeping a fresh, existential feel to my work, but the truth is I need to stop it. It's more "lazy" than "stream of consciousness" and the truth is I'm lucky I haven't made any glaring Freudian slips and unknowingly cast them upon the eyes of the world.
8.09.2007
Adam's Song
Let me tell you a story. Our hero's name is Adam. Adam went to a church camp year after year because he thought the girls were pretty. Oh, so very pretty. The camp he attended had separated the boys and girls (it was a church camp, after all) on two sides of a rather large lake and split them further up into separate cabins of a dozen or so kids, give or take a camper. Each cabin had two leaders to make sure the campers didn't dispose of each other in any brutal ways. One of these cabin leaders brought an item to the camp central to our story.
Mouth wash. It was named "Dr. Something or Other" and it was 70% alcohol. It appeared normal, but to this day Adam can't find the mouth wash in any store. It's almost as if it was deposited there from the very gates of Hell.
The other boys in his cabin took turns swishing said mouth wash. Most of them only endured a few moments of burning, searing pain before spitting. One boy, probably named Magnus, kept the concoction in his mouth a full minute before triumphantly spewing it. Since everyone succumbed so quickly (except Magnus, of course), Adam politely declined when offered the communal bottle. After all, he was trying his best to look cool in front of all his cabin mates, who were quite impressionable.
The next day, however, Adam did try a shot in the comfort of the solitary company of his cabin leader. He gathered his wits, gave the vile liquid a sniff, said a little prayer (something along the lines of "Dear God, don't let my mouth fall off"), and threw back a cap full of ginger colored fluid.
Adam would be lying if he said it didn't burn something fierce. He would also be lying if he said it didn't bring tears instantly to his eyes. But, honestly, it wasn't as bad as he had expected. In fact, he spit it out two minutes later out of boredom. His apparent natural tolerance for the effects of nearly pure alcohol gave him an idea.
This idea would be one he regretted for a long time (though he would relish any opportunity to tell the story). If he were so inclined, he probably would have stolen the mouth wash and taken advantage of its high content of alcohol. He wasn't inclined, though, so he did the next best thing: he challenged Magnus to a gargle-off.
The setup: the two contestants would face off in the downstairs area of the cabin. In one corner was Magnus, the champion whose mouth wash powers everyone had witnessed. In the other corner was Adam, the challenger and underdog, whom the gathered crowd may not have been able to name. A pile of loose change, a few stray dollar bills, and a warm coke soon appeared on the floor. This was the fight purse; everyone in the crowd threw in something. They were not old enough tp understand the basics of gambling, so they threw their money into the pot to go to the winner, not expecting any payout should their fighter win.
Without a bell or any official signal, the contest began. Both combatants threw back a full mouth load of the concentrated evil. The manic crowd heaved and threw themselves on every agonized tear that rolled down Magnus and Adam's cheek. After a few minutes the tears stopped forming and the faces locked in grimacing stares soon turned to looks of boredom. The audience quieted as the contestants encountered a factor they had not expected:
Numbness.
The pain seared and blew all the pain receptors in their mouths. This added a measure of danger that, in all honestly, the cabin leaders should have recognized, addressed, and used as the reason to shut down the competition ( though you could argue the leaders probably shouldn't have let it be held in the first place). After the pain left, the waiting game began. Everything shifted gears from judging who could withstand the pain the longest to deciding who could withstand the boredom of long minutes passing while a liquid festers in your mouth.
Adam previously held the record for mouthwash gargling at nearly three minutes (this was unofficial because the only available witness was the cabin leader). The stopwatch was pushing 25 minutes when they both conceded to spit at the same time, declaring the match a draw. The pot was split up (not more than 3 dollars each, though well-earned) and the warm coke was given to Adam as Magnus was more of a Pepsi man.
There were three immediate results of the face-off. One, all of the guys in his cabin could mostly remember his name (it was something like Adam). Two, the sheer amount of time spent with 140 proof alcohol in his mouth lead to a decent amount of alcohol seeping into his cheeks. Though certainly not drunk, this was as affected as he had ever been by alcohol (not counting NyQuil). Luckily, the face-off had been at night and Adam went straight to bed. If his genius plan had unraveled during the day, he would have risked walking tipsy around the Christian camp. This would have inevitably lead to a phone call to his parents saying "Come pick up your wino son."
The third immediate effect was his mouth looked funny when he looked in the mirror. The next morning Adam checked the mirror again and his gums were angry. It hurt to eat the cereal from the cafeteria and rubbing his tongue on the roof of his mouth uncovered large blisters there. They were roughly the shape of his tongue, which had been plastered against the roof the night before. By the end of the day all of the skin had turned white. His taste buds, normally only seen as small uniform bumps on his tongue, were raised and looked like white, fleshy half-opened umbrellas.
The mere thought of eating food made his mouth hurt and he didn't dare put anything to his lips besides water. The white skin was the top layer of skin which Adam had managed to completely burn off thanks to a chemical burn from the mouth wash. Soon the white skin peeled away and revealed long strips of raw gum underneath.
Adam tried to make the best of nearly becoming the only 14 year old he knew with dentures. There was a girl named Patricia at the camp he had talked to all week and had developed a crush on. She didn't throw pine cones at his eyes when he approached her, so he assumed she felt the same way. Adam decided to turn his experience of pain into an experience of manliness. When the time was right, he told her this story. When our hero got to the part where the dead skin peels off in long white strips, he pulled open his lips to show her that it was no mere story. This act, which should have said, "This is how stupid I am." was meant to be interpreted as "This is how awesome I am." Undoubtedly, Patricia did her best to hide her horror at the gaping maw before her. They quickly went back to whatever it was they were doing and she no longer spent time with him after that.
One of the worst things about this ordeal was Adam's inability to eat. The show-down took place in the middle of the week and the parents didn't come to pick up their kids until the weekend. By the time Adam's dad picked him up on Saturday morning Adam hadn't eaten for days. As this wasn't his first year at camp, previous rides home had been spent excitedly talking about adventures had while inwardly pining for the girls he had crushed on and knew would never see again. This trip, however, was different. Answers to questions like "How was your week?" and "Did you have any fun?" were answered at best with monosyllabic grunts. The dad noticed something amiss and called Adam out on it. So far on the trip home, Adam could only think of the throbbing in his mouth and the gnawing in his stomach. When his dad keyed into something being wrong, Adam told him everything. Needless to say, his dad was irate. Furious, even. I won't go into details, but you can imagine the one-sided conversation that lasted the rest of the hour long car ride.
Adam's dad thought maybe soup would be good for him and made him a bowl if chicken noodle goodness, but one sip made Adam's raw meat mouth scream in every molecule. It was still too acidic to eat. After some other experiments they settled on strawberry flavored Ensure, which to Adam tastes like liquid awesomeness in a bottle. If this old people drink hadn't been developed, our hero may not be alive today (don't worry about IV's and all the other medical things that could have been done; after all, this is a story).
Adam was, despite everything, very lucky. First, his mom wasn't there to pick him up and receive his news firsthand. Being a nurse, she didn't think of self-inflicted chemical burns as something her son should do to himself. He was lucky, too, so much of his gums didn't die that his teeth became loose or even become independent of his mouth. Also, Adam had a genetically high gumline that made many of his teeth look shorter than they were. His parents had considered an operation that would rectify this, but it would not have been covered under their insurance. Turns out, Adam saved his parents a bunch of money, not by switching to Geico, but rather by burning off the top layer of his gums, with the same result as the operation.
Probably the biggest thing about this story, mind you, is that Adam's name wasn't Adam at all.
It was Aaron.
It was me.
Mouth wash. It was named "Dr. Something or Other" and it was 70% alcohol. It appeared normal, but to this day Adam can't find the mouth wash in any store. It's almost as if it was deposited there from the very gates of Hell.
The other boys in his cabin took turns swishing said mouth wash. Most of them only endured a few moments of burning, searing pain before spitting. One boy, probably named Magnus, kept the concoction in his mouth a full minute before triumphantly spewing it. Since everyone succumbed so quickly (except Magnus, of course), Adam politely declined when offered the communal bottle. After all, he was trying his best to look cool in front of all his cabin mates, who were quite impressionable.
The next day, however, Adam did try a shot in the comfort of the solitary company of his cabin leader. He gathered his wits, gave the vile liquid a sniff, said a little prayer (something along the lines of "Dear God, don't let my mouth fall off"), and threw back a cap full of ginger colored fluid.
Adam would be lying if he said it didn't burn something fierce. He would also be lying if he said it didn't bring tears instantly to his eyes. But, honestly, it wasn't as bad as he had expected. In fact, he spit it out two minutes later out of boredom. His apparent natural tolerance for the effects of nearly pure alcohol gave him an idea.
This idea would be one he regretted for a long time (though he would relish any opportunity to tell the story). If he were so inclined, he probably would have stolen the mouth wash and taken advantage of its high content of alcohol. He wasn't inclined, though, so he did the next best thing: he challenged Magnus to a gargle-off.
The setup: the two contestants would face off in the downstairs area of the cabin. In one corner was Magnus, the champion whose mouth wash powers everyone had witnessed. In the other corner was Adam, the challenger and underdog, whom the gathered crowd may not have been able to name. A pile of loose change, a few stray dollar bills, and a warm coke soon appeared on the floor. This was the fight purse; everyone in the crowd threw in something. They were not old enough tp understand the basics of gambling, so they threw their money into the pot to go to the winner, not expecting any payout should their fighter win.
Without a bell or any official signal, the contest began. Both combatants threw back a full mouth load of the concentrated evil. The manic crowd heaved and threw themselves on every agonized tear that rolled down Magnus and Adam's cheek. After a few minutes the tears stopped forming and the faces locked in grimacing stares soon turned to looks of boredom. The audience quieted as the contestants encountered a factor they had not expected:
Numbness.
The pain seared and blew all the pain receptors in their mouths. This added a measure of danger that, in all honestly, the cabin leaders should have recognized, addressed, and used as the reason to shut down the competition ( though you could argue the leaders probably shouldn't have let it be held in the first place). After the pain left, the waiting game began. Everything shifted gears from judging who could withstand the pain the longest to deciding who could withstand the boredom of long minutes passing while a liquid festers in your mouth.
Adam previously held the record for mouthwash gargling at nearly three minutes (this was unofficial because the only available witness was the cabin leader). The stopwatch was pushing 25 minutes when they both conceded to spit at the same time, declaring the match a draw. The pot was split up (not more than 3 dollars each, though well-earned) and the warm coke was given to Adam as Magnus was more of a Pepsi man.
There were three immediate results of the face-off. One, all of the guys in his cabin could mostly remember his name (it was something like Adam). Two, the sheer amount of time spent with 140 proof alcohol in his mouth lead to a decent amount of alcohol seeping into his cheeks. Though certainly not drunk, this was as affected as he had ever been by alcohol (not counting NyQuil). Luckily, the face-off had been at night and Adam went straight to bed. If his genius plan had unraveled during the day, he would have risked walking tipsy around the Christian camp. This would have inevitably lead to a phone call to his parents saying "Come pick up your wino son."
The third immediate effect was his mouth looked funny when he looked in the mirror. The next morning Adam checked the mirror again and his gums were angry. It hurt to eat the cereal from the cafeteria and rubbing his tongue on the roof of his mouth uncovered large blisters there. They were roughly the shape of his tongue, which had been plastered against the roof the night before. By the end of the day all of the skin had turned white. His taste buds, normally only seen as small uniform bumps on his tongue, were raised and looked like white, fleshy half-opened umbrellas.
The mere thought of eating food made his mouth hurt and he didn't dare put anything to his lips besides water. The white skin was the top layer of skin which Adam had managed to completely burn off thanks to a chemical burn from the mouth wash. Soon the white skin peeled away and revealed long strips of raw gum underneath.
Adam tried to make the best of nearly becoming the only 14 year old he knew with dentures. There was a girl named Patricia at the camp he had talked to all week and had developed a crush on. She didn't throw pine cones at his eyes when he approached her, so he assumed she felt the same way. Adam decided to turn his experience of pain into an experience of manliness. When the time was right, he told her this story. When our hero got to the part where the dead skin peels off in long white strips, he pulled open his lips to show her that it was no mere story. This act, which should have said, "This is how stupid I am." was meant to be interpreted as "This is how awesome I am." Undoubtedly, Patricia did her best to hide her horror at the gaping maw before her. They quickly went back to whatever it was they were doing and she no longer spent time with him after that.
One of the worst things about this ordeal was Adam's inability to eat. The show-down took place in the middle of the week and the parents didn't come to pick up their kids until the weekend. By the time Adam's dad picked him up on Saturday morning Adam hadn't eaten for days. As this wasn't his first year at camp, previous rides home had been spent excitedly talking about adventures had while inwardly pining for the girls he had crushed on and knew would never see again. This trip, however, was different. Answers to questions like "How was your week?" and "Did you have any fun?" were answered at best with monosyllabic grunts. The dad noticed something amiss and called Adam out on it. So far on the trip home, Adam could only think of the throbbing in his mouth and the gnawing in his stomach. When his dad keyed into something being wrong, Adam told him everything. Needless to say, his dad was irate. Furious, even. I won't go into details, but you can imagine the one-sided conversation that lasted the rest of the hour long car ride.
Adam's dad thought maybe soup would be good for him and made him a bowl if chicken noodle goodness, but one sip made Adam's raw meat mouth scream in every molecule. It was still too acidic to eat. After some other experiments they settled on strawberry flavored Ensure, which to Adam tastes like liquid awesomeness in a bottle. If this old people drink hadn't been developed, our hero may not be alive today (don't worry about IV's and all the other medical things that could have been done; after all, this is a story).
Adam was, despite everything, very lucky. First, his mom wasn't there to pick him up and receive his news firsthand. Being a nurse, she didn't think of self-inflicted chemical burns as something her son should do to himself. He was lucky, too, so much of his gums didn't die that his teeth became loose or even become independent of his mouth. Also, Adam had a genetically high gumline that made many of his teeth look shorter than they were. His parents had considered an operation that would rectify this, but it would not have been covered under their insurance. Turns out, Adam saved his parents a bunch of money, not by switching to Geico, but rather by burning off the top layer of his gums, with the same result as the operation.
Probably the biggest thing about this story, mind you, is that Adam's name wasn't Adam at all.
It was Aaron.
It was me.
8.07.2007
Thank You Puberty
It seems like everyone has a tale to tell about that moment. That moment when a younger version of yourself realizes for the first time that you are changing. You are well on your way to manhood/womanhood (please choose one only).
This is not that story.
Did you know that Mariah Carey used to not be astronaut diapers crazy? Believe it or not, there was a time when her music videos showed a rather normal Mariah, one without hair weaves or unnaturally curvy curves. She had crinkly curly hair and wore blue flannel and sang her songs in a field. This is the Mariah that I will be talking about.
The elementary school that I went to felt it necessary that every grade put on some form of musical program. Perhaps they thought this would be fun for the kids, or maybe they wanted to give all of the teachers a chance to open all the classroom windows and chain smoke for an hour a week. I'm not sure what the teachers did once we left because I had the misfortune of being one of the students.
In fifth grade, our pageant had something to do with heroes. I'm thinking that there was some sort of montage dedicated to firemen/police officers/soldiers/janitors/bag ladies/jurors/professional plasma sellers/ eagles/ mad scientists/ and maybe teachers, but only if there was time. Our big finale, though, is the central figure in our story.
Mr. Cook was our principal. After three long years at our school (the school was newly built) dealing with us holy terrors, he decided to throw in the towel occupationally. It was the year I was in fifth grade, so everyone was making a big to-do about how he was "graduating" with us. This was a funny term for this because neither one of us were doing this. He was retiring and we were getting ready to face the dark horrors of sixth grade and junior high.
The last song was dedicated to him. While we sang it, pictures of Mr. Cook were projected onto the back wall in some sort of "this makes it look like he died but he's only really retiring" fashion. The song, though, this is the important part.
For a few weeks previous, whatever we'd be working on would be stopped once or twice a week so that we could shuffle to the gym (and try to get away with yelling in the hall) to practice the fifth-graders program. We'd be told to sit on the floor and be quiet (we were only capable of one of these) and everyone would do so. Most people would sit with their friends and I would sit by myself, which was common. I wasn't the weirdo who talked to his self at recess while simultaneously picking stucco off the walls and boogers out of his nose. No, I just didn't have many friends.
There we'd be, sitting on the floor in a loose group of friends or not-friends, and whoever was in charge of the program would explain what we would do today. The thing that we did every time, though, was work on the last song. It was the finale, and it was about Mr. Cook, so it must be flawless. The song, you may be guessing, is Hero by Mariah Carey. It goes something like this "And then a hero comes along/With the strength to carry on/And you cast your fears aside/And you know you will survive." Apparently Mr. Cook was this type of hero, which was news to me. I though this type of reverence was reserved for the likes of firefighters/police officers/septic tank cleaners (see previous list), etc.
I didn't really care though, because it gave me a chance to sing.
I didn't wear pink, nothing in my life was "faaaaabulous", and none of the boys in my class made me feel funny, but I liked to sing. I liked to sing a lot.
I read somewhere that Mariah Carey has a vocal range of some 2 million octaves (or somewhere around there [just go with me on this] ). Her higher registers border on the silent dog whistles that you see in movies and TV shows but never encounter in real life (this is, at least, my experience). She hits all of these high notes in the song "Hero."
And so did I.
In hindsight, it was probably good that I was sitting alone in the gym. When Mariah would hit a note that peeled the paint from the gym walls, so would I. I matched her note for note. These days I have a smoky rich (ahem) baritone voice, but in 1995, well, my voice did not match the wispy mustache that had already started growing beneath my nose. The fact that I could hit these notes was very pleasing to my fifth-grade self, as I still entertained the idea of being a professional singer. The coming years would effectively lower my range, and I would no longer have the castrato tones.
It's not that big of a deal because I couldn't pull off the "man singing like a woman" music niche quite Freddy Mercury or Mika.
That's probably because I don't like boys.
This is not that story.
Did you know that Mariah Carey used to not be astronaut diapers crazy? Believe it or not, there was a time when her music videos showed a rather normal Mariah, one without hair weaves or unnaturally curvy curves. She had crinkly curly hair and wore blue flannel and sang her songs in a field. This is the Mariah that I will be talking about.
The elementary school that I went to felt it necessary that every grade put on some form of musical program. Perhaps they thought this would be fun for the kids, or maybe they wanted to give all of the teachers a chance to open all the classroom windows and chain smoke for an hour a week. I'm not sure what the teachers did once we left because I had the misfortune of being one of the students.
In fifth grade, our pageant had something to do with heroes. I'm thinking that there was some sort of montage dedicated to firemen/police officers/soldiers/janitors/bag ladies/jurors/professional plasma sellers/ eagles/ mad scientists/ and maybe teachers, but only if there was time. Our big finale, though, is the central figure in our story.
Mr. Cook was our principal. After three long years at our school (the school was newly built) dealing with us holy terrors, he decided to throw in the towel occupationally. It was the year I was in fifth grade, so everyone was making a big to-do about how he was "graduating" with us. This was a funny term for this because neither one of us were doing this. He was retiring and we were getting ready to face the dark horrors of sixth grade and junior high.
The last song was dedicated to him. While we sang it, pictures of Mr. Cook were projected onto the back wall in some sort of "this makes it look like he died but he's only really retiring" fashion. The song, though, this is the important part.
For a few weeks previous, whatever we'd be working on would be stopped once or twice a week so that we could shuffle to the gym (and try to get away with yelling in the hall) to practice the fifth-graders program. We'd be told to sit on the floor and be quiet (we were only capable of one of these) and everyone would do so. Most people would sit with their friends and I would sit by myself, which was common. I wasn't the weirdo who talked to his self at recess while simultaneously picking stucco off the walls and boogers out of his nose. No, I just didn't have many friends.
There we'd be, sitting on the floor in a loose group of friends or not-friends, and whoever was in charge of the program would explain what we would do today. The thing that we did every time, though, was work on the last song. It was the finale, and it was about Mr. Cook, so it must be flawless. The song, you may be guessing, is Hero by Mariah Carey. It goes something like this "And then a hero comes along/With the strength to carry on/And you cast your fears aside/And you know you will survive." Apparently Mr. Cook was this type of hero, which was news to me. I though this type of reverence was reserved for the likes of firefighters/police officers/septic tank cleaners (see previous list), etc.
I didn't really care though, because it gave me a chance to sing.
I didn't wear pink, nothing in my life was "faaaaabulous", and none of the boys in my class made me feel funny, but I liked to sing. I liked to sing a lot.
I read somewhere that Mariah Carey has a vocal range of some 2 million octaves (or somewhere around there [just go with me on this] ). Her higher registers border on the silent dog whistles that you see in movies and TV shows but never encounter in real life (this is, at least, my experience). She hits all of these high notes in the song "Hero."
And so did I.
In hindsight, it was probably good that I was sitting alone in the gym. When Mariah would hit a note that peeled the paint from the gym walls, so would I. I matched her note for note. These days I have a smoky rich (ahem) baritone voice, but in 1995, well, my voice did not match the wispy mustache that had already started growing beneath my nose. The fact that I could hit these notes was very pleasing to my fifth-grade self, as I still entertained the idea of being a professional singer. The coming years would effectively lower my range, and I would no longer have the castrato tones.
It's not that big of a deal because I couldn't pull off the "man singing like a woman" music niche quite Freddy Mercury or Mika.
That's probably because I don't like boys.
8.06.2007
Just checking in from Tempe, AZ
So, turns out I'm in the hometown of the band Jimmy Eat World. If you are not familiar, they are most well known for their song "the middle" which was more or less of constant rotation in radio stations across this great land in the years 01-02. In fact, I'm pretty sure it won some sort of award for its ability to be the song that no matter what is playing somewhere on the dial. Anyhoo, I did some research (because we passed a sign reading "Sky Harbor Airport" and I remember that the have a song called "Goodbye Sky Harbor," so I fired up wikipedia the next chance I got) and turns out I am in their home town. This is probably not nearly as exciting as it would seem, but these guys were my favorite band for many years (and still hold top billing for "favorite bands") and it's a nice thing for me.
I got another story idea this morning. I worte it down as quickly as I could before forgetting it. As I was writing down the details, I realized that it wasn't a new story, in fact, it was the hook to another story that I had thought up a coupla years ago. One that, though it had a nice basic premise, it had no real plot or conflict. But, ah yes, this is no longer the case. It is well on its way to being a fully excavated story project. I'm a bit excited.
Now all I have to do is take all these ideas and make them into actual stories.
I got another story idea this morning. I worte it down as quickly as I could before forgetting it. As I was writing down the details, I realized that it wasn't a new story, in fact, it was the hook to another story that I had thought up a coupla years ago. One that, though it had a nice basic premise, it had no real plot or conflict. But, ah yes, this is no longer the case. It is well on its way to being a fully excavated story project. I'm a bit excited.
Now all I have to do is take all these ideas and make them into actual stories.
7.27.2007
Reading List
I've revised my reading list. Whenever I go to the library or a bookstore I never remember any books that I've recently thought "yeah, I want to read that." I normally roam listlessly from shelf to shelf before dejectedly slipping into a booth with an overpriced coffee (or, if in the library, replace "overprice coffee" with "randomly chosen, yet inevitably grimy book").
But now, now, I can print this out and take it with me . . . and I will finally knock some of these out.
But now, now, I can print this out and take it with me . . . and I will finally knock some of these out.
- Finnegan’s Wake- James Joyce
- Flatland- Edwin Abbott Abbott
- The Man in the High Castle- Philip K Dick
- Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said- Philip K Dick
- The Sirens of Titan- Kurt Vonnegut
- Harry Potter series
- On the Road- Jack Kerouac
- Narnia series
- Brave New World- Aldous Huxley
- The Shadow at the Bottom of the World- Thomas Ligotti
- The Yellow Wallpaper- Charlotte Perkins Gilman
- The Man Who Folded Himself- David Gerrold
- All You Zombies- Robert A. Heinlein
- Polaroids From the Dead- Douglas Coupland
- The Once And Future King- T H White
- Turn of the Screw- Henry James
- Ender’s Game- Orson Scott Card
- Way of the Peaceful Warrior- Dan Millman
- The Beast That Shouted Love at the Heart of the World- Harlan Ellison
- Freakonomics- Steven Levitt
- Naked Lunch- William S. Burroughs
- Ella Minnow Pea- Mark Dunn
- I Am Legend- Richard Matheson
- Bad Wisdom- Bill Drummond
- Green Mansions- William Henry Hudson
- Blindness- Jose Saramago
- Viy- Nikolai Gogol
- Phantoms- Dean Koontz
- The Violent Bear it Away- Flannery O'Connor
- Catcher in the Rye- J D Salinger
- Nine Stories- J D Salinger
- The House Next Door- Anne Rivers Siddons
7.26.2007
Class of 2001
I'll play this game.
1. Who was your best friend? I guess it was the Me-Nate-Meg Triumvirate.
2. What sports did you play? "Impressin the ladies", "Sobbing quietly into my pillow"
3. What kind of car did you drive?Black 2001 Ford ZX2 (Yes... I remember the Red Focus)
4. It's Friday night, where were you? Probably at church... always at church.
5. Were you a party animal? I was pretty social with my youth group, and we hung out a lot, but the joke was that they were "get-togethers" rather than parties because of a definite lack of alcohol and sexing.
6. Were you a flirt? No. I don't think I knew how to. Not well, at least.
7. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? Choir, as a result of "well, I've never done this before. . . might as well give it a chance"
8. Were you a nerd? Probably.
9. Did you get suspended or expelled? No. The closest I got into trouble was drilling a hole into a math book in shop class.
10. Can you sing the fight song? "Go Oak Park, You're awesome, totally cool and everyone wants to hang out with you, Nobody hates you . . . except maybe your parents..." I think that's how it went
11. Who were your favorite teachers? Mr. Mayabb is the only one I can name, honestly.
12. Where did you sit during lunch? I was in the group of guys (Jacob Horowitz, Jamison Devine, Nathan Magers, Andy Cudzilo) that sat outside everyday, rain, shine, or snow. Usually it was in the senior courtyard, but when it was locked, we ate behind the theater.
13. What is your schools full name? Oak Park High School
14. School mascot? Norman The Northman
15. Did you go to Prom? No.
16. If you could go back and do it over, would you? Never. Why would I do that again?
17. What do you remember most about graduation? Thinking "This is it? this is the culmination of 13 years of public school. This sucks."
18. What was your favorite class to skip? I never skipped a class.
19. Did you have a job your senior year? I worked as a sales clerk/knowledgeless Bible salesman at Omega Christian bookstore
20. Where did you go most often for lunch? Senior Courtyard, see above.
21. Have you gained weight since then? Gained and lost, gained and lost, etc.
22. What did you do after graduation? I went to Mexico on a missions trip that summer, so I think that counts.
23. Did you go to your high school reunion? Our 5 year past a year ago, and apparently there were people who were upset that nothing was planned. As it is, I've more or less forgotten everyone in High School, so a Reunion would essentially be described as "go to the place and meet all these people again, people that you probably didn't like the first time around . . . that's why you blocked them out".
2. What sports did you play? "Impressin the ladies", "Sobbing quietly into my pillow"
3. What kind of car did you drive?Black 2001 Ford ZX2 (Yes... I remember the Red Focus)
4. It's Friday night, where were you? Probably at church... always at church.
5. Were you a party animal? I was pretty social with my youth group, and we hung out a lot, but the joke was that they were "get-togethers" rather than parties because of a definite lack of alcohol and sexing.
6. Were you a flirt? No. I don't think I knew how to. Not well, at least.
7. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? Choir, as a result of "well, I've never done this before. . . might as well give it a chance"
8. Were you a nerd? Probably.
9. Did you get suspended or expelled? No. The closest I got into trouble was drilling a hole into a math book in shop class.
10. Can you sing the fight song? "Go Oak Park, You're awesome, totally cool and everyone wants to hang out with you, Nobody hates you . . . except maybe your parents..." I think that's how it went
11. Who were your favorite teachers? Mr. Mayabb is the only one I can name, honestly.
12. Where did you sit during lunch? I was in the group of guys (Jacob Horowitz, Jamison Devine, Nathan Magers, Andy Cudzilo) that sat outside everyday, rain, shine, or snow. Usually it was in the senior courtyard, but when it was locked, we ate behind the theater.
13. What is your schools full name? Oak Park High School
14. School mascot? Norman The Northman
15. Did you go to Prom? No.
16. If you could go back and do it over, would you? Never. Why would I do that again?
17. What do you remember most about graduation? Thinking "This is it? this is the culmination of 13 years of public school. This sucks."
18. What was your favorite class to skip? I never skipped a class.
19. Did you have a job your senior year? I worked as a sales clerk/knowledgeless Bible salesman at Omega Christian bookstore
20. Where did you go most often for lunch? Senior Courtyard, see above.
21. Have you gained weight since then? Gained and lost, gained and lost, etc.
22. What did you do after graduation? I went to Mexico on a missions trip that summer, so I think that counts.
23. Did you go to your high school reunion? Our 5 year past a year ago, and apparently there were people who were upset that nothing was planned. As it is, I've more or less forgotten everyone in High School, so a Reunion would essentially be described as "go to the place and meet all these people again, people that you probably didn't like the first time around . . . that's why you blocked them out".
Check Inventory: One Pair Glow-in-the-Dark Harry Potter Glasses
I have two confessions:
1. I am back. Hopefully for good.
2. I only made it halfway through the third Harry Potter book before getting distracted and moving onto something else in my life.
I was hanging out with a certain Kelly McIntyre and a reputable Evan Ross last Friday evening when Evan stated that he had to leave in order to stand in line for a book. I have done this to see a movie but never once for a book. I agreed to tag along and experience the Potter Mania first hand. Since I was there and enduring the hysteria, I figured I'd pick one up myself. Evan got his armband and I got mine. Evan's was a glorious gold color and mine was a dreadful blue. Turns out, he had reserved the book, and I was in a pariah caste known as the "walk-ins". A plastic bag full of cheap Potter goodies and a schedule of the night's events was handed to us both.
The only things of note were a temporary tattoo of Harry's scar (though in a shape of a 7 as well) and a pair of plastic HP glasses. I have seen free HP glasses before, but these were different in two ways. First, they were not single-piece thin plastic like the others seen before, but rather they were thick with hinges held in place with little screws. If they had actual lenses in them, they could pass for actual glasses. Well, except for the second difference. Every pair of HP glasses I've had the pleasure of seeing were black, and these were not. They were whitish. Evan and I took turns giving reasons why they would not be able to afford to add the black ink. An epiphany hit when I realized they were glow-in-the-dark. I have yet to test this hypothesis, but I think it's the actual reason for the color variation. Maybe not 100% Harry Potter canon accurate, at least it gives the opportunity to play "nerd ghost" in the dark.
We arrived at about 9 PM. Obviously, many people were already treading the hallowed Barnes and Nobles grounds, but as time wore on the number grew exponentially. We walked out of the cafe with coffee when Evan made a passing comment about flashbacks from Renaissance Festival. A teen boy in a green tunic and a self carved staff interjected "What's wrong with the Renaissance Festival?!" Apparently the two crowds mix heavily.
Looking around, it was funny to see people with old left over Halloween costumes. Anyt
hing remotely witchy was apparently acceptable as Harry Potter Gear... as long as it accompanies a smudged lightning scar and an older brother's graduation robes. My normal, not-remotely-witchy appearance made me feel pretty out of place. Before I could let it get to my head, I realized that Evan and I were more or less the only ones there over the age of 16, at least the only ones without a child dressed as a 7 year old Gryffindor team member.
As it got closer to midnight, the number of people there were mesmerizing. If you've ever been to the Barne's and Noble's at Zona Rosa, you'd know that it has two level, both of which are the size of several third world countries. At midnight it was literally shoulder to shoulder with Potterites. My first thought was, when deciding the legal limit for occupants according to the fire code, I can't help but think they didn't allow for wall to wall people. I've never considered myself claustrophobic, but when I had to lean into the bookshelves to keep from brushing up against people in all directions, I decided to buy the book at a later time. Regardless, the way things were set up, if there were books left over, I wouldn't be able to get mine until maybe 3 or 4 AM because I was a Walk-in pariah.
Oh well, at least I can play "nerd ghost" with my glasses.
1. I am back. Hopefully for good.
2. I only made it halfway through the third Harry Potter book before getting distracted and moving onto something else in my life.
I was hanging out with a certain Kelly McIntyre and a reputable Evan Ross last Friday evening when Evan stated that he had to leave in order to stand in line for a book. I have done this to see a movie but never once for a book. I agreed to tag along and experience the Potter Mania first hand. Since I was there and enduring the hysteria, I figured I'd pick one up myself. Evan got his armband and I got mine. Evan's was a glorious gold color and mine was a dreadful blue. Turns out, he had reserved the book, and I was in a pariah caste known as the "walk-ins". A plastic bag full of cheap Potter goodies and a schedule of the night's events was handed to us both.
The only things of note were a temporary tattoo of Harry's scar (though in a shape of a 7 as well) and a pair of plastic HP glasses. I have seen free HP glasses before, but these were different in two ways. First, they were not single-piece thin plastic like the others seen before, but rather they were thick with hinges held in place with little screws. If they had actual lenses in them, they could pass for actual glasses. Well, except for the second difference. Every pair of HP glasses I've had the pleasure of seeing were black, and these were not. They were whitish. Evan and I took turns giving reasons why they would not be able to afford to add the black ink. An epiphany hit when I realized they were glow-in-the-dark. I have yet to test this hypothesis, but I think it's the actual reason for the color variation. Maybe not 100% Harry Potter canon accurate, at least it gives the opportunity to play "nerd ghost" in the dark.
We arrived at about 9 PM. Obviously, many people were already treading the hallowed Barnes and Nobles grounds, but as time wore on the number grew exponentially. We walked out of the cafe with coffee when Evan made a passing comment about flashbacks from Renaissance Festival. A teen boy in a green tunic and a self carved staff interjected "What's wrong with the Renaissance Festival?!" Apparently the two crowds mix heavily.
Looking around, it was funny to see people with old left over Halloween costumes. Anyt
hing remotely witchy was apparently acceptable as Harry Potter Gear... as long as it accompanies a smudged lightning scar and an older brother's graduation robes. My normal, not-remotely-witchy appearance made me feel pretty out of place. Before I could let it get to my head, I realized that Evan and I were more or less the only ones there over the age of 16, at least the only ones without a child dressed as a 7 year old Gryffindor team member.As it got closer to midnight, the number of people there were mesmerizing. If you've ever been to the Barne's and Noble's at Zona Rosa, you'd know that it has two level, both of which are the size of several third world countries. At midnight it was literally shoulder to shoulder with Potterites. My first thought was, when deciding the legal limit for occupants according to the fire code, I can't help but think they didn't allow for wall to wall people. I've never considered myself claustrophobic, but when I had to lean into the bookshelves to keep from brushing up against people in all directions, I decided to buy the book at a later time. Regardless, the way things were set up, if there were books left over, I wouldn't be able to get mine until maybe 3 or 4 AM because I was a Walk-in pariah.
Oh well, at least I can play "nerd ghost" with my glasses.
7.17.2007
To The Lady in the Radiator: a quick post.
When you do a lot of reading in your formative years, you tend to come across many more words than you or your friends use in every day conversation. Hopefully, you are smart enough to figure out these words' meanings from context clues. But pronunciation. . . this could be anybody's guess.
At least this is the way it is for me. I've always been good at spelling, but I apparently have a gift for mispronouncing words. I tend to pronouce words phonetically, especially when they are not supposed to be, apparently. A good example: I came across the word "posthumously". To me, it will forever be pronounced in a very wrong way because the sound that it made in my head when I first came across it was not what I would have heard if I had people around me who made use of the word regularly in their vocabulary. Or maybe even used it once. Either way, posthumously always rings to the sound of "POEST-hume-uss-lee" instead of the proper pronunciation "poss-CHEW-muss-lee".
I suppose I will next hit Mariah Carey, since I have been asked politely.
At least this is the way it is for me. I've always been good at spelling, but I apparently have a gift for mispronouncing words. I tend to pronouce words phonetically, especially when they are not supposed to be, apparently. A good example: I came across the word "posthumously". To me, it will forever be pronounced in a very wrong way because the sound that it made in my head when I first came across it was not what I would have heard if I had people around me who made use of the word regularly in their vocabulary. Or maybe even used it once. Either way, posthumously always rings to the sound of "POEST-hume-uss-lee" instead of the proper pronunciation "poss-CHEW-muss-lee".
I suppose I will next hit Mariah Carey, since I have been asked politely.
7.16.2007
Still here too.
Hello. My laptop gave me quite a scare when it decided it no longer wanted to charge the battery. I brought it begrduingly into Best Buy (where I had purchased it) and they told me I needed to get another charging cable. Luckily, I had purchased the extended warranty on the laptop, so it was covered (if you remember, this is the second time that I have bowed to the extra warranty gods and they smiled favorably upon me). So in a week I should be able to continue my life here. Once the cable arrives, that is.
Upcoming topics: Ventures into painting, camp mishaps, temporary art, long sleeves, and Mariah Carey.
Upcoming topics: Ventures into painting, camp mishaps, temporary art, long sleeves, and Mariah Carey.
7.01.2007
6.30.2007
6.29.2007
Dinosaur Meteors
There's something starkly beautiful to me about the last panel.
Also, an actual post, look for it soon!
6.28.2007
6.27.2007
6.26.2007
.tI er'ouY, gaT
Here we go:
4 Jobs I've had in the past:
* Christian Bookstore salesclerk
* North Kansas City School District After School Program Associate
* Youth Pastor
* Lawn Mower Salesman
4 Movies I could always watch:
* The Wedding Singer
* Moulin Rouge
* Braveheart
* Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
4 Places I've lived:
* Kansas City, MO
* Springfield, MO
* Lee's Summit, MO
* Salem, IL
4 TV shows I love:
* Attack of the Show
* Arrested Development
* Jericho
* Mystery Science Theater 3000
4 Foods I love:
* Anything Mexican (except enchiladas)
* Anything Italian
* Thai food (Nam Sod, Panang chicken... yum)
* Noodles
4 Websites I frequent:
Most of Meg's list plus:
* imdb.com
* Penny-Arcade.com
* Youtube.com
* Joystiq.com
4 Places I'd rather be:
* Tokyo
* The Grecian Isles
* New York
* Chicago
I'm Tagging:
* Anyone that sees this and hasn't done it yet (honestly, I have no idea who that may be)
4 Jobs I've had in the past:
* Christian Bookstore salesclerk
* North Kansas City School District After School Program Associate
* Youth Pastor
* Lawn Mower Salesman
4 Movies I could always watch:
* The Wedding Singer
* Moulin Rouge
* Braveheart
* Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
4 Places I've lived:
* Kansas City, MO
* Springfield, MO
* Lee's Summit, MO
* Salem, IL
4 TV shows I love:
* Attack of the Show
* Arrested Development
* Jericho
* Mystery Science Theater 3000
4 Foods I love:
* Anything Mexican (except enchiladas)
* Anything Italian
* Thai food (Nam Sod, Panang chicken... yum)
* Noodles
4 Websites I frequent:
Most of Meg's list plus:
* imdb.com
* Penny-Arcade.com
* Youtube.com
* Joystiq.com
4 Places I'd rather be:
* Tokyo
* The Grecian Isles
* New York
* Chicago
I'm Tagging:
* Anyone that sees this and hasn't done it yet (honestly, I have no idea who that may be)
6.17.2007
I Really AM Crazy
I have a funny nose.
No, it doesn't tell jokes ("A priest, a rabbi, and a nose walk into a bar..."). And yes it is a bit upturned and fruit bat-ish (this I've been told by small children) but that's not it either. It has a thing about smells.
I can usually remember how a person smells just as well as what they look like. Good smells are very pleasant to me and bad smells send me reeling. I can barely think when I smell a really nice perfume. When I cleaned out the forgotten hamburger out of the refrigerator, I could barely function. Needless to say, I am very affected by my sense of smell. There's one kinda weird thing, though.
I smell things that aren't there.
For years, whenever I've pushed on my nose, I smell something. Not a "you're smelling your finger" something. It's not anything I've smelled anywhere else. It's a completely other smell. A phantom smell. Sometimes when people lose their arm or leg, they can still feel the arm. They still sense their phantom limb. For some reason, I sense some mystical energy that has long ago been stripped from my being. Or maybe I just have sensitive olfactories that don't like being stimulated.
I had a friend whose house I used to spend the night at every once in a while. When I'd come home, everything would have the same smell. This mystery smell smelled kinda like pickles, but more bitter. It'd be on my clothes and everything that I took there. But when I let someone else smell my jacket (or something else I had on me) nobody could smell anything. Nobody.
Whenever I came home to visit from college I would freak out. Freak out. Every time. You see, after a while of being there., I'd always have the strange smell on my hands. It was a kinda brackish, crisp smell. I started investigating and realized that it only happened when I was at my mom's house. If you saw me, you probably would have been very concerned about me because I started sniffing everything to try to figure out what I touched that was causing the smell. The TV remote, my doorknob, the sink handle, the chairs, the table, everything. After a while I was completely out of hope. I had no idea what was causing this new, strange smell. Finally, my mom asks if I had tried the ice. Seriously? The ice? No, I hadn't tried the ice. But since I had tried everything else, I opened the freezer.
It was the ice.
But my mom couldn't smell it. Not on the ice, not on my hands, and not even on her hands. Nothing. Everybody that came over I gave them the ice test, and one by one they failed. No one else could smell it. I was a little concerned and my mom got scared and said "You're moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air." I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said "FRESH" and had a dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought "Naw forget it, yo home to Bel-Air." I pulled up to a house about seven or eight and I yelled to the cabby "Yo, home smell you later!" I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air.
No, it doesn't tell jokes ("A priest, a rabbi, and a nose walk into a bar..."). And yes it is a bit upturned and fruit bat-ish (this I've been told by small children) but that's not it either. It has a thing about smells.
I can usually remember how a person smells just as well as what they look like. Good smells are very pleasant to me and bad smells send me reeling. I can barely think when I smell a really nice perfume. When I cleaned out the forgotten hamburger out of the refrigerator, I could barely function. Needless to say, I am very affected by my sense of smell. There's one kinda weird thing, though.
I smell things that aren't there.
For years, whenever I've pushed on my nose, I smell something. Not a "you're smelling your finger" something. It's not anything I've smelled anywhere else. It's a completely other smell. A phantom smell. Sometimes when people lose their arm or leg, they can still feel the arm. They still sense their phantom limb. For some reason, I sense some mystical energy that has long ago been stripped from my being. Or maybe I just have sensitive olfactories that don't like being stimulated.
I had a friend whose house I used to spend the night at every once in a while. When I'd come home, everything would have the same smell. This mystery smell smelled kinda like pickles, but more bitter. It'd be on my clothes and everything that I took there. But when I let someone else smell my jacket (or something else I had on me) nobody could smell anything. Nobody.
Whenever I came home to visit from college I would freak out. Freak out. Every time. You see, after a while of being there., I'd always have the strange smell on my hands. It was a kinda brackish, crisp smell. I started investigating and realized that it only happened when I was at my mom's house. If you saw me, you probably would have been very concerned about me because I started sniffing everything to try to figure out what I touched that was causing the smell. The TV remote, my doorknob, the sink handle, the chairs, the table, everything. After a while I was completely out of hope. I had no idea what was causing this new, strange smell. Finally, my mom asks if I had tried the ice. Seriously? The ice? No, I hadn't tried the ice. But since I had tried everything else, I opened the freezer.
It was the ice.
But my mom couldn't smell it. Not on the ice, not on my hands, and not even on her hands. Nothing. Everybody that came over I gave them the ice test, and one by one they failed. No one else could smell it. I was a little concerned and my mom got scared and said "You're moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air." I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said "FRESH" and had a dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought "Naw forget it, yo home to Bel-Air." I pulled up to a house about seven or eight and I yelled to the cabby "Yo, home smell you later!" I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air.
6.14.2007
Ow. My Head.
Have you ever stared at a light through a fan?
The flashing brights and pulsing darks.
Swinging in a never ending orbit.
That's what I see now.
Only there's no fan.
And there's no light.
Last year I started having migraines. The funny thing about that is, for the most part, I've never really had a headache before. Not really. So somehow I'm opened up to a whole new world.
The world of Bright, Throbbing Pain.
I had it off and on over the summer. Maybe I could blame my lackluster lawnmower sales on a long string of migraines. Maybe I can't. No, not really, I really wasn't a good salesman. I did what I could to take care of them, and when fall comes. . .
No migraines.
Fast forward almost a year. Actually, fast forward to 20 minutes ago. I'm talking (typing, whatever) to a friend when I notice that I can't really read the words well. Have you ever tried to read after staring in a bright light? It's the same kind of thing. Only problem with that is I didn't stare at a light. I didn't look out the window or anything. As the bright patch grows, I start to think to myself:
"Crap."
If you, oh reader, are not aware, one of the common beginning levels of a migraine is what's called an "aura", which is a flashing or glowing light sensation in the eyes. Does this sound familiar? Oh yeah, light through a fan.
Meg (both the person I was talking to and one half of my readership [hi Meg]) suggested that they may be allergy related since they apparently are confined to a general "summery time" schedule. It's probably true. I already have a normal allergy. In August, my eyes start to water and itch and I sneeze constantly.
This made for great first impressions at the beginning of every school year.
Perhaps I am well on my way to becoming one of those guys that are allergic to EVERYTHING. In due time, I will be allergic to bees, pollen, dogs, cats, grass, dirt, smoke, lemurs, Ninja Turtle bubble bath, regular bubble bath, vampires, TVs, the weather, girls, hockey pucks, and doorknobs.
As my head starts to pound, I have only this to say:
Here we go again.
The flashing brights and pulsing darks.
Swinging in a never ending orbit.
That's what I see now.
Only there's no fan.
And there's no light.
Last year I started having migraines. The funny thing about that is, for the most part, I've never really had a headache before. Not really. So somehow I'm opened up to a whole new world.
The world of Bright, Throbbing Pain.
I had it off and on over the summer. Maybe I could blame my lackluster lawnmower sales on a long string of migraines. Maybe I can't. No, not really, I really wasn't a good salesman. I did what I could to take care of them, and when fall comes. . .
No migraines.
Fast forward almost a year. Actually, fast forward to 20 minutes ago. I'm talking (typing, whatever) to a friend when I notice that I can't really read the words well. Have you ever tried to read after staring in a bright light? It's the same kind of thing. Only problem with that is I didn't stare at a light. I didn't look out the window or anything. As the bright patch grows, I start to think to myself:
"Crap."
If you, oh reader, are not aware, one of the common beginning levels of a migraine is what's called an "aura", which is a flashing or glowing light sensation in the eyes. Does this sound familiar? Oh yeah, light through a fan.
Meg (both the person I was talking to and one half of my readership [hi Meg]) suggested that they may be allergy related since they apparently are confined to a general "summery time" schedule. It's probably true. I already have a normal allergy. In August, my eyes start to water and itch and I sneeze constantly.
This made for great first impressions at the beginning of every school year.
Perhaps I am well on my way to becoming one of those guys that are allergic to EVERYTHING. In due time, I will be allergic to bees, pollen, dogs, cats, grass, dirt, smoke, lemurs, Ninja Turtle bubble bath, regular bubble bath, vampires, TVs, the weather, girls, hockey pucks, and doorknobs.
As my head starts to pound, I have only this to say:
Here we go again.
6.11.2007
Just a Quick Note (that was a musical pun, in case you missed it)
Okay.
I love music.
Always have.
Probably always will.
Although my tastes have changed and/or evolved (which would be an moderately interesting post in and of itself) I have had a few "favorite songs."
My first ever was "You Can Call Me Al" by Paul Simon.
I've done a lot of thinking and soul searching and I decided long ago that my favorite song of all time is "I Melt With You" by Modern English.
I now present it to you, oh reader.
Moving forward using all my breath
Making love to you was never second best
I saw the world crashing all around your face
Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace
I'll stop the world and melt with you
You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time
There's nothing you and I won't do
I'll stop the world and melt with you
(You should know better)
Dream of better lives the kind which never hates
(You should see why)
Trapped in the state of imaginary grace
(You should know better)
I made a pilgrimage to save this humans race
(You should see why)
Never comprehending the race has long gone bye
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world) You've seen the difference and it's getting better all
the time
(Let's stop the world) There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
The future's open wide
**The future's open wide
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world) I've seen some changes but it's getting better all the
time
(Let's stop the world) There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
The future's open wide
hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time (Let's stop the
world)
There's nothing you and I won't do (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I love music.
Always have.
Probably always will.
Although my tastes have changed and/or evolved (which would be an moderately interesting post in and of itself) I have had a few "favorite songs."
My first ever was "You Can Call Me Al" by Paul Simon.
I've done a lot of thinking and soul searching and I decided long ago that my favorite song of all time is "I Melt With You" by Modern English.
I now present it to you, oh reader.
Moving forward using all my breath
Making love to you was never second best
I saw the world crashing all around your face
Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace
I'll stop the world and melt with you
You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time
There's nothing you and I won't do
I'll stop the world and melt with you
(You should know better)
Dream of better lives the kind which never hates
(You should see why)
Trapped in the state of imaginary grace
(You should know better)
I made a pilgrimage to save this humans race
(You should see why)
Never comprehending the race has long gone bye
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world) You've seen the difference and it's getting better all
the time
(Let's stop the world) There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
The future's open wide
**The future's open wide
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world) I've seen some changes but it's getting better all the
time
(Let's stop the world) There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
The future's open wide
hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time (Let's stop the
world)
There's nothing you and I won't do (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
6.08.2007
And Now... A Post Just for Meg with Returning Guest: Mathieu Chedid
Presenting the most absurb music video/song.
Probably considered disco more than, rap, it has a very rappy feel.
And it's the closest I could come to annoying you/finding French rap.
6.07.2007
Happiness is Fluorescent Clothes and Fanny-Packs
I grew up watching Nickelodeon.
Like many other kids my age, I spent as much time watching a spasmodic offering of bright colors and yelling cartoon faces as I did, say, sleeping. I guess there was other things on other channels that I might have enjoyed watching. But Nickelodeon held a sickeningly tight grip on me. For nearly 10 years (ending vaguely mid 90's) I prayed many seemingly drug-induced hours to the Day-Glo gods.
Nearly every Nickelodeon program ended with a blurb stating that said program was recorded at their Mount Olympus:
Nickelodeon Studios.
A giant geyser of green water (slime, apparently) bubbled happily high above roaming droves of ecstatic children. The smiles on their faces were well warranted.
They had reached Mecca.
I have a friend who's family goes to Disney World (Land? The one in Florida, anyway) every year. Maybe I'm a poor abused child, but I never went to Disney world. The truth is, I never wanted to. Why go to Disney World when Nickelodeon studies is so close? The prospect of attending a taping of What Would You Do? and maybe even meeting Marc Summers held so much more appeal than having your picture taken with some dweeb in a Donald Duck costume.
Recently, I came across some news that killed my spirit.
Nickelodeon Studios is shut down. From the Wiki:
Like many other kids my age, I spent as much time watching a spasmodic offering of bright colors and yelling cartoon faces as I did, say, sleeping. I guess there was other things on other channels that I might have enjoyed watching. But Nickelodeon held a sickeningly tight grip on me. For nearly 10 years (ending vaguely mid 90's) I prayed many seemingly drug-induced hours to the Day-Glo gods.
Nearly every Nickelodeon program ended with a blurb stating that said program was recorded at their Mount Olympus:
Nickelodeon Studios.
A giant geyser of green water (slime, apparently) bubbled happily high above roaming droves of ecstatic children. The smiles on their faces were well warranted.
They had reached Mecca.
I have a friend who's family goes to Disney World (Land? The one in Florida, anyway) every year. Maybe I'm a poor abused child, but I never went to Disney world. The truth is, I never wanted to. Why go to Disney World when Nickelodeon studies is so close? The prospect of attending a taping of What Would You Do? and maybe even meeting Marc Summers held so much more appeal than having your picture taken with some dweeb in a Donald Duck costume.
Recently, I came across some news that killed my spirit.
Nickelodeon Studios is shut down. From the Wiki:
"The studio tour closed in 2001 after staffing cuts were made. The Game Lab portion of the tour would continue to run until Nickelodeon Studios closed in 2005.
I remember when they buried the time capsule. I think maybe my whole generation sighed collectively, though subconsciously, when it was desecrated. The things that were important to us aren't that important, I guess.
Then again, Nickelodeon today isn't the Nickelodeon of my youth. Just watch t
he drivel they show now.
Maybe it's for the best that the golden age of children's programming was ushered quickly into Eternity instead of letting it die a slow, horrible death. Images of creepy abandoned amusement parks flash in my mind.
No, I'm glad that they didn't let that happen.
The facility closed on April 30, 2005, after Nickelodeon had gradually moved its production facilities to Nickelodeon Animation Studios in Burbank, California, and New York. The final program taped at Nickelodeon Studios was Nickelodeon SPLAT! on August 17, 2004.
The Slime Geyser in front of Soundstage 18 was removed in May 2005.
The trademark "Nickelodeon" sign above the facility was removed in January 2006.
A time capsule buried by the network in 1992 in front of Sound stage 18 was removed in August 2006 and was replaced with concrete. The time capsule contained items deemed important to the children of 1992 as voted upon by Nickelodeon viewers, including a new Nintendo Game Boy, an issue of Nickelodeon Magazine and various other toys. The time capsule was scheduled to be opened on April 30, 2042, fifty years after its burial."I remember when they buried the time capsule. I think maybe my whole generation sighed collectively, though subconsciously, when it was desecrated. The things that were important to us aren't that important, I guess.
Then again, Nickelodeon today isn't the Nickelodeon of my youth. Just watch t
he drivel they show now.Maybe it's for the best that the golden age of children's programming was ushered quickly into Eternity instead of letting it die a slow, horrible death. Images of creepy abandoned amusement parks flash in my mind.
No, I'm glad that they didn't let that happen.