Yesterday I totally forgot a post title and realize now that there are a lot of funky spacing issues going on with that post. Apologies. Of all things, my internet was not working so I copied and pasted from word processing, and some formatting went haywire as a result. But it is nice that "my internet not working" now qualifies as a through line! Though not one of my favorite things (anyone notice that's not really been upheld as a theme? anyone notice I take one day off a week? I do!)
Anyway.
Today I've been looking out my work window a lot. Even more than I regularly do, which I regularly do a lot. Despite just stating that I stare outside from time to time rather than working, I staunchly maintain the position that having a window view is a boost for work time productivity. I don't know if it's the promise of the outside world after work is done? Or an opportunity to observe the world and feel mildly engaged in it just by way of observation? Or, well, natural light and a view of the sky (yes, it's gotta be that)? Could be a combination. But whatever it is, I cherish my window. Today's rain had me checking the puddles for action, the sky itself, and the umbrella-usage levels of passerby before heading outside. It also made me feel even worse than I usual do for those poor bastards whose shopping carts magically stop working, because they were getting wet.
My window overlooks the exit of a grocery store in a shopping center that was probably designed and built in 1981 or '82. The grocery store is unintentionally ironically named "Superior." Really, there is nothing superior about the store. Sometimes the checkout lines are superiorly long, but there's nothing that makes you say "Yeah, let's not have mediocre grocery shopping ruin our day. Let's go to Superior." What usually sends me to Superior? Hunger. Trolling for snacks mid-workday. But I am in a minority among Superior shoppers. Most are families who are buying a week's worth (or more) of groceries in one go. Most carts exit the store loaded for bear. And that's where my birds-eye view makes my sympathy muscle strain time and time again.
There is a magnetic stripe underground a few feet from the exit of the grocery store that activates when carts roll on top of it, stopping the wheels full-tilt. There is no signage indicating that a cart full of your week's-worth of groceries will magically stop rolling, just about the time you're in sight of your car and thinking about the next part of your day. And the magnets are embedded far enough away from the door that you would not think it's a manmade defense mechanism to keep the carts from being stolen, you would think your cart magically stopped working.
Sure, every now and then you pick a shopping cart with a bum wheel. The one that makes hellacious noise all over the store as you roll it. Or sure, you might have one that stops a bit and proves to have a kink. But these carts come to an immediate surprise halt, jilting patrons pushing with some force time and time again.
I have seen little old ladies with canes do battle. I have seen mothers make their children get out of the carts and walk while they try to force the cart forward. I have seen old men reposition themselves at the rear of the cart, pulling on the basket portion rather than pushing from the handles. Human beings are stubborn in the face of completely baffling grocery cart malfunction. No one, really, no one thinks, "Wow, that was sudden and inexplicable. Must be beyond my power to fix." Everyone tries. And tries. And tries. And looks exasperated. And tries some more from a new angle. Even the little old ladies. Probably mostly the little old ladies, now that I think of it.
Watching this same cart/human tragedy over and over again would be hilarious if I were the producer of Jackass, or looking to make a gag reel for America's Funniest Home Videos, but lacking both of those vocations, I end up having to look away from being unable to prevent or fix the struggle that I totally understand the cause of. I want to yell "GIVE UP! TURN BACK! IT'S MAGNETS! The damned magnets always win. They always win."
The window does not open. And people always work it out. Necessity is the mother of invention. Or an improvised plan B. Often times that involves precariously juggling 17 grocery bags in a Herculean dash toward one's car. But never are food bags abandoned. And, as of yet, never have I seen anyone beat the cart and overcome the magnets. Or beat the cart by way of destruction. Things can get dicey though, so maybe one of these times humans will in fact prove to be Superior.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
It has been raining since I woke up this afternoon, and yes, I say afternoon in the most literal of ways as I made a concerted effort to sleep in. Let’s just say my effort did not fail. The rain moved in and made just enough noise to be a perfect rhythmic accompaniment for sleeping. A little bit of cold in the air made blankets all the more comfortable and warm. Raindrops plunked against the giant leaf of the plant that grows outside my window like some prehistoric super brontosaurus snack. The light was fuzzy. My hibernation impulse took over, as strong as if I were half-bear.
I might be, actually. I’ll eat almost anything, can be quite grouchy, and enjoy naps. It’s possible.
I felt very bad for those who ran the L.A. marathon today, as at no time has the rain dwindled to qualify as “sprinkling.” These are showers for sure and have been all day. And running 26.2 miles in them does not sound like the best plan to me. But then again, neither does running 26.2 miles. (Bears don’t do that, do they?)
I did venture out into the rain a bit – not for any activities involving endurance, mind you – to indulge in the warmth of a latte and, of all things, to buy a bra using a discount coupon for Victoria’s Secret that was sent to me by my mom with a note explaining the lack of likelihood that she would use it. Not just before it expired, ever. Sure, she will collect the free panties when they send a coupon by mail (though she will never use the word “panties” to refer to them, bless her, as we have never used that word to describe underpants ever in life. The word grosses me out. That’s definitely another essay for another time). But she’s not ponying up that much cash for a bra anytime soon (she would use the words “in this lifetime” to describe the time period involved).
Hilariously empty due to the rain (I guess you don’t think to acquire sexy, frilly, lingerie when it’s solid sweatpants weather), it was like being in Victoria’s Secret if the store were actually a secret. Typically, Victoria’s Secret is a store that makes me nervous to be inside it. Not just because I’m usually wearing a t-shirt that is not a t-shirt requiring a special t-shirt bra they sell, but more likely one that is a men’s large and was acquired in 1999, but because part of the sales approach of the Vicky’s team is STRONG AND CONTINUOUS APPROACH. You might just want to discreetly zig-zag past what’s hot and sexy now (that you have no use for and certainly not the discretionary funds for and you wouldn’t spend it on that if you did) and scurry to a bra drawer and pick out a plain bra in your size and complete your transaction with the cashier as fast as possible, without opening a Victoria Secret credit card account, thanks anyway, but chances are you’ll be dive-bombed by sales associates as you bob and weave your way through circular table displays that have underwear fanned in the most aesthetically pleasant way possible, like paint chips on a designer’s color wheel.
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Need help finding anything?”
“Finding everything ok?”
No. No. Yes, thanks.
“Well, let me know if you need anything.”
Thanks. Yes. I get it. You’re here to help.
“Did you know are lotions are buy one get one half off?”
No.
“Did you want to look at those?”
No.
Today, while I was shown directly to the drawer I was already zig-zagging toward when asked if I was looking for anything, the “I’ll be back to check on you in a minute” promise made to me by the woman in black was definitely broken.
Bra in hand, ready to check out, it was like I was behind the scenes and wearing a cloak of invisibility. I could see arms hanging and folding things, hear conversations shouted from one side of the store to the next. This was definitely a backstage pass. I was seeing Victoria’s Secret in her underwear. After a few moments of milling about the register area, I actually had to roam the store to get someone’s attention.
“Did you need help?”
Yes.
“Yes, I wanted to buy this.”
You know, like folks do in retail stores selling products.
“Ok, let me get someone to help you. Rita, can you ring her up?”
Hilariously I was passed along to another customer service associate. She was kind enough to let me know I’d been given a free secret discount card that I could use in April for anywhere from $10 to $500 of value.
I took a moment to imagine myself with $500 of Victoria’s Secret store credit. Mentally, the neon green underwear was in my hand, yes.
“Great. April.”
“Yep.”
Leaving the store, I noticed a possible cause of the Vicky’s ladies’ absentmindedness in the face of customer presence: a leak. Two workers were positioning a garbage can under a hole in the roof right near the front window of the store. As I left, a piece of plastic from the exit sign hit me in the head. Both an employee and I looked up at the sky, puzzled. It was funny. The weather was on the attack now.
I recommended they hold things up with bras.
Then I really enjoyed the elaborate image my imagination created of bras strung together and tied to the ceiling, bra cups overflowing with water like some modern sculpture with a message about support. It cracked me up to imagine the Vicky’s team going Macgyver with their own bras, forsaking the entire image they’d probably spent countless hours being trained to uphold. The glamour the fabulousness the hint of allure – gone! It was raining. D cups runnething over.
Oh well. It’s almost time to get back in bed and listen to the rain!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Overtime!
Right now, San Diego State and Temple are in their second overtime, grinding forward to one or the other being eliminated from the tournament. It's just a wonderful time of the year for anyone who is remotely interested in sports. Or humanity. But, as I've said before, I do have a biased opinion that everyone should enjoy sports at least a bit. But it's probably because I enjoy them a lot.
Earlier this afternoon, I went to a swim workout and was sharing a lane with a gentleman whose comment at the wall to his lanemates was, "I always end up in a lane with all girls." Which was followed nearly immediately by "Don't take it that way, though." Though I did not bother to ask "Which way?," I assumed he intended it as it sounded, as a nine-year-old boy might, to indicate he was grossed out by girls and disappointed to be stuck performing an activity with them. I didn't say that a lot of men might consider his predicament a lucky position to repeatedly find themselves in. And I didn't suggest that he should build a treehouse at one end of the pool allowing him the benefit of a "no girls allowed" sign. I actually moved up a lane, so inspiring was his comment at the time to my own performance ambitions. Thanks, that guy. You had me workin' overtime.
San Diego State won, by the way.
In another moment of "Wow, I never knew that could be so pleasant! Maybe I shouldn't be such a raging cynic and pessimist," this week, I had an incredibly delightful experience receiving assistance from an IT guy by phone. My internet access was missing, and I actually wanted to stay on the phone with the gentleman who was helping me. He was so nice. And it made me think of the anonymity of the whole process. So, I decided I would like to write a fictional scene based on the help desk. And you, my beloved guinea pigs, are my audience.
The Help Desk
It was as pleasant and sunny a day as any Thursday could be when my internet connectivity went away on my laptop. My coffee was delicious, traffic had been light, and now the email checking and world updating that would complete my ease into my work day, and eventual march toward productivity, stalled. The little thingy at the top of my computer screen that looked both like a signal being sent to the world and the seating chart for the Hollywood Bowl would make its best attempts to turn all bands to darkness. But the stripes flashed futilely before they rested in grey and were interrupted in their center by an exclamation point, notifying me no internet connection was available. Exclaiming it, as a matter of fact.
It was too early for exclamations and this kind of excitement. I was trying to have a Thursday be as easy as Sunday morning, Lionel Richie-style. Hello? I've just got to let you know, I wonder where you are...internet.
Was there a nuclear meltdown in Japan? Was Libya still a country? Who had picked whom in the NCAA tournament pool? No way to know with the exclamation point spanning from orchestra seating to row ZZ.
And my boss called. I actually needed to be able to do work that involved my email inbox.
I restarted my computer.
I changed a few settings.
I had no idea what I was doing. It was time to call the help desk.
I navigated the phone tree until a real live person answered.
"Hello, may I have your user i.d.?"
"Bartholomew."
"Can you spell that please?"
"B-a-r-t-h-o-l-o-m-e-w."
"Ok, thank you, please let me repeat that back to you, B as in boy, a as in apple, r as in railroad, t as in toy truck, h as in hat, o as in octopus, l as in love, o as in octopus, m as in mammal, e as in exoskeleton, w as in windshield wiper. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Yes, please do."
"It might be several, actually."
"It is the primary job duty of my position to answer questions. Please proceed with comfort in your inquisitive nature."
"Ok, thanks. Is that a standard list of letter distinction words? Or do you get to make them up as you go? And do you ever change things up? And would you have said toy car for t?"
"No no, car starts with c."
"Yes."
"That would be confusing for the person in need of help."
"I guess."
"But no, the example words I used were not the words issued to us in our training manual. Well, some were."
"A as in apple?"
"Yes, and b as in boy."
"Pretty standard,"
"Yes. A while ago I realized my job afforded me the opportunity for creativity, which I missed. So many days I'm following process flowcharts in our manuals. If-then scenarios. It does not leave much room for new ideas. So the letters seemed like one place I could make my job less tedious. "
"Do you ever not repeat?"
"What do you mean?"
"O as in octopus. There were octopi for my name."
"Hm. I hadn't thought about it. But I don't think I do."
"Repeat?"
"Yes. You would always get more than one octopus. Never an octopus and an otter."
"Well I guess that's nice. Octopi need friends. Someone to swim with. But I guess an otter could swim too."
"Hmm. That's true. But maybe not in the same water as octopi? I don't know."
"Me either."
"How long has L been like that?"
"Love?"
"Yeah."
"I don't remember. It's been a while."
"Is L always love?"
"Yeah."
"That one made me smile."
"Love will do that."
"Yup."
"It just seems nice to share. Most times people call me feeling very unloved by their computers. So it's like a verbal hug. But still professional."
"I felt it."
"I think this is the first time anyone has confirmed something works without me."
"What do you mean?"
"You did my job. I usually have to give people information before they tell me something is working again. But you've told me L as in love works."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"No, please don't be. I've already helped you before even trying to understand your technical problem. And I never talk about love this much at work."
"Oh, are you in love?"
"Yes, yes I am. But she doesn't know it. It's a woman who lives in my building. She gives her mail such careful consideration every time she takes it from her mailbox. Even junk mail. It is such concentration, such care. I love to watch her get her mail."
"Mmm."
"I'm sorry, that must sound creepy."
"No, it sounds like you really like her."
"I do."
"Maybe you should talk to her."
"I can't! I can't."
"Why?"
"I just can't. I am so nervous in person. I can't talk."
"But you're great on the phone. You sound very nice. Very polite."
"Thank you. But it's different in person. I can't. I can't do it."
"Could you practice? Maybe start with 'Hi' and then build up to conversations?"
"No, I really can't talk in person. I sweat. I stutter. I look like a crazy person."
"That's not good."
"No, it's B as in bad."
"Hm. Well, have you thought about sending her a letter?"
"A letter?"
"If she loves her mail, maybe you could just mail her something. Introduce yourself. See if she responds."
"That's not creepy?"
"Well, it probably is a little bit."
"Yeah."
"I dunno. Maybe try it. If it doesn't work, follow the other line on the troubleshooting chart. And talk to her."
"I can't."
"Well..."
"I'll write. But what do I say?"
"Just introduce yourself. See if she writes back. Say you enjoy correspondence. And mail. I don't know."
"Ok."
"But don't tell her you watch her."
"No."
"No. Not that. Oh, my internet is back."
"Oh! Your problem has fixed itself."
"And maybe yours?"
"M as in maybe."
"M as in maybe. Hey, not to be creepy, but can I call you again for help?"
"Please do."
"I will. I want to know how the letter goes."
"Alright, give me a week."
"Ok. Well, have a good day."
"You too. Thank you for calling the help desk."
"Thank you."
Earlier this afternoon, I went to a swim workout and was sharing a lane with a gentleman whose comment at the wall to his lanemates was, "I always end up in a lane with all girls." Which was followed nearly immediately by "Don't take it that way, though." Though I did not bother to ask "Which way?," I assumed he intended it as it sounded, as a nine-year-old boy might, to indicate he was grossed out by girls and disappointed to be stuck performing an activity with them. I didn't say that a lot of men might consider his predicament a lucky position to repeatedly find themselves in. And I didn't suggest that he should build a treehouse at one end of the pool allowing him the benefit of a "no girls allowed" sign. I actually moved up a lane, so inspiring was his comment at the time to my own performance ambitions. Thanks, that guy. You had me workin' overtime.
San Diego State won, by the way.
In another moment of "Wow, I never knew that could be so pleasant! Maybe I shouldn't be such a raging cynic and pessimist," this week, I had an incredibly delightful experience receiving assistance from an IT guy by phone. My internet access was missing, and I actually wanted to stay on the phone with the gentleman who was helping me. He was so nice. And it made me think of the anonymity of the whole process. So, I decided I would like to write a fictional scene based on the help desk. And you, my beloved guinea pigs, are my audience.
The Help Desk
It was as pleasant and sunny a day as any Thursday could be when my internet connectivity went away on my laptop. My coffee was delicious, traffic had been light, and now the email checking and world updating that would complete my ease into my work day, and eventual march toward productivity, stalled. The little thingy at the top of my computer screen that looked both like a signal being sent to the world and the seating chart for the Hollywood Bowl would make its best attempts to turn all bands to darkness. But the stripes flashed futilely before they rested in grey and were interrupted in their center by an exclamation point, notifying me no internet connection was available. Exclaiming it, as a matter of fact.
It was too early for exclamations and this kind of excitement. I was trying to have a Thursday be as easy as Sunday morning, Lionel Richie-style. Hello? I've just got to let you know, I wonder where you are...internet.
Was there a nuclear meltdown in Japan? Was Libya still a country? Who had picked whom in the NCAA tournament pool? No way to know with the exclamation point spanning from orchestra seating to row ZZ.
And my boss called. I actually needed to be able to do work that involved my email inbox.
I restarted my computer.
I changed a few settings.
I had no idea what I was doing. It was time to call the help desk.
I navigated the phone tree until a real live person answered.
"Hello, may I have your user i.d.?"
"Bartholomew."
"Can you spell that please?"
"B-a-r-t-h-o-l-o-m-e-w."
"Ok, thank you, please let me repeat that back to you, B as in boy, a as in apple, r as in railroad, t as in toy truck, h as in hat, o as in octopus, l as in love, o as in octopus, m as in mammal, e as in exoskeleton, w as in windshield wiper. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Yes, please do."
"It might be several, actually."
"It is the primary job duty of my position to answer questions. Please proceed with comfort in your inquisitive nature."
"Ok, thanks. Is that a standard list of letter distinction words? Or do you get to make them up as you go? And do you ever change things up? And would you have said toy car for t?"
"No no, car starts with c."
"Yes."
"That would be confusing for the person in need of help."
"I guess."
"But no, the example words I used were not the words issued to us in our training manual. Well, some were."
"A as in apple?"
"Yes, and b as in boy."
"Pretty standard,"
"Yes. A while ago I realized my job afforded me the opportunity for creativity, which I missed. So many days I'm following process flowcharts in our manuals. If-then scenarios. It does not leave much room for new ideas. So the letters seemed like one place I could make my job less tedious. "
"Do you ever not repeat?"
"What do you mean?"
"O as in octopus. There were octopi for my name."
"Hm. I hadn't thought about it. But I don't think I do."
"Repeat?"
"Yes. You would always get more than one octopus. Never an octopus and an otter."
"Well I guess that's nice. Octopi need friends. Someone to swim with. But I guess an otter could swim too."
"Hmm. That's true. But maybe not in the same water as octopi? I don't know."
"Me either."
"How long has L been like that?"
"Love?"
"Yeah."
"I don't remember. It's been a while."
"Is L always love?"
"Yeah."
"That one made me smile."
"Love will do that."
"Yup."
"It just seems nice to share. Most times people call me feeling very unloved by their computers. So it's like a verbal hug. But still professional."
"I felt it."
"I think this is the first time anyone has confirmed something works without me."
"What do you mean?"
"You did my job. I usually have to give people information before they tell me something is working again. But you've told me L as in love works."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"No, please don't be. I've already helped you before even trying to understand your technical problem. And I never talk about love this much at work."
"Oh, are you in love?"
"Yes, yes I am. But she doesn't know it. It's a woman who lives in my building. She gives her mail such careful consideration every time she takes it from her mailbox. Even junk mail. It is such concentration, such care. I love to watch her get her mail."
"Mmm."
"I'm sorry, that must sound creepy."
"No, it sounds like you really like her."
"I do."
"Maybe you should talk to her."
"I can't! I can't."
"Why?"
"I just can't. I am so nervous in person. I can't talk."
"But you're great on the phone. You sound very nice. Very polite."
"Thank you. But it's different in person. I can't. I can't do it."
"Could you practice? Maybe start with 'Hi' and then build up to conversations?"
"No, I really can't talk in person. I sweat. I stutter. I look like a crazy person."
"That's not good."
"No, it's B as in bad."
"Hm. Well, have you thought about sending her a letter?"
"A letter?"
"If she loves her mail, maybe you could just mail her something. Introduce yourself. See if she responds."
"That's not creepy?"
"Well, it probably is a little bit."
"Yeah."
"I dunno. Maybe try it. If it doesn't work, follow the other line on the troubleshooting chart. And talk to her."
"I can't."
"Well..."
"I'll write. But what do I say?"
"Just introduce yourself. See if she writes back. Say you enjoy correspondence. And mail. I don't know."
"Ok."
"But don't tell her you watch her."
"No."
"No. Not that. Oh, my internet is back."
"Oh! Your problem has fixed itself."
"And maybe yours?"
"M as in maybe."
"M as in maybe. Hey, not to be creepy, but can I call you again for help?"
"Please do."
"I will. I want to know how the letter goes."
"Alright, give me a week."
"Ok. Well, have a good day."
"You too. Thank you for calling the help desk."
"Thank you."
Thursday, March 17, 2011
St. Patrick's Day is Fun!
That title seems simple, but it is true. St. Patrick's Day is kind of a nice excuse to be in a good mood. It's a day when it is easy being green, and encouraged, too.
I just deleted a few run-on sentences (read: blog entry) that followed the sentence "I had some pleasant experiences today." I did. But listing them would be boring to read. Trust me, that's why they were deleted.
It involved a banana, socks, the help desk, a burrito, and several drinking straws.
Not that newsworthy a read. I will try again.
In the past two days, more than one person has asked, Seinfeld style, "What is the deal with St. Patrick? Who was that guy?"
My answer has been that he was the guy who drove snakes out of Ireland and used a shamrock as an evangelical teaching tool.
Tonight, when someone asked, "What's a shamrock?" a friend brilliantly responded, "Didn't you eat Lucky Charms growing up?"
A fair and valid question. But a question that brings us to the dicey intersection of pop culture, holiday celebration, and religious iconography. (Is this a three-way street? Maybe it's a shamrock shaped exit ramp). When/why/how was there a plague of snakes in Ireland? And how did he drive them out? And does Ireland have snakes now? And was this literal snakes, or snakes like "the serpent" in Eden or the kind that would plague Israelites? I mean, those guys had it all. From athletes foot to angels intervening to save them from sacrificing their own children, Old Testament plaguery was its own opera. Big. Dramatic. Too long. (note: Biblical accuracy not assured).
But somehow I think of St. Patrick as more recent than all that, which makes me 1. want to run to wikipedia but I'm resisting the urge, and 2. think of St. Patrick's version of Snakes on a Plane and really want it to be made. Perhaps as a cartoon? And perhaps the "Plane" in question would be a plain, like those on the other side of some rolling hills in the lush emerald isle? And yes, of course Samuel L. Jackson lends his vocal talent. Of course. Maybe as the exact same character he was in the movie.
I also somehow, in this vision, cross St. Patrick with the pied piper, and see him playing bagpipes to draw the snakes forth, shimmying their way toward a cliff maybe? From which they hurl themselves? Or all of them crawling at once into a burlap bag used to hold potatoes? That also happens. Other characters who are definitely in this cartoon:
- The chick from The Cranberries, who actually at first tricks the snakes into thinking she is one with the song "Zombie" as it looks like she could unhinge her jaw on the refrain "zooombey-ey-ey-ey-ey0h-oh ay yay yayyyy" before pleasantly asking them if they have to linger, at which point
- The Edge plays some moody and repetitive guitar riff and they take to moving toward
- St. Patrick, who's beautifully moving in time and tempo with the guitar part and bumps into
- Jake the Snake from WWF, and they have a good laugh as he says, "Naw, I'm not jumping off a cliff"
- Then of course Samuel L. Jackson says "There are too many snakes in this m'f'in' country!" with a terrible fake accent before saying (direct to camera) "Hey, if it ain't brogue, don't fix it."
Then someone appears with a Guiness book of world records, but it's about the beer and random anecdotal folklore, and the math is done indicating St. Patrick could break a record if he drives out 3 more snakes than St. Seamus, who was still not officially beatified, had done 11 years earlier, and, in the time since, "Saint Shamey's Day" celebrations really failed to allow people the personal freedom to become very publicly intoxicated.
-So, then Jake the Snake shows up and says, "I heard you needed more snakes!" and rather than sacrificing himself, delivers Bernie Madoff, Spencer Pratt, and that PR guy who is supposedly Kim Kardashian's friend and had his own show for a minute on E!
-Then, cartoon deus-ex-machina style from Monty Python interjects and there's a "We heard you needed more snakes too," but then God interjects and says, "Hey, that's my gag. And besides, I'm afraid you guys might work blue, and this day is green."
-Then the guys from Green Day show up and say "Hey, we heard you needed a hand!"
-Then a giant explosion removes Green Day from the scene, and from the dust cloud, Colin Farrell emerges and says, "I borrowed some explosives from Michael Bay. I heard we had a snake problem."
-Then St. Patrick says, "Well, it was a good thought, but a little too much on the special effects," at which point Colin Farrell says, "F'in' tell me about it," and Samuel L. Jackson says, "There are too many m'fin' snakes in this m'fin' country!"
Then St. Patrick plays a bagpipe song that transitions into a delightful Irish Reel, and the snakes do throw themselves off a cliff.
That's just in my head, though.
I just deleted a few run-on sentences (read: blog entry) that followed the sentence "I had some pleasant experiences today." I did. But listing them would be boring to read. Trust me, that's why they were deleted.
It involved a banana, socks, the help desk, a burrito, and several drinking straws.
Not that newsworthy a read. I will try again.
In the past two days, more than one person has asked, Seinfeld style, "What is the deal with St. Patrick? Who was that guy?"
My answer has been that he was the guy who drove snakes out of Ireland and used a shamrock as an evangelical teaching tool.
Tonight, when someone asked, "What's a shamrock?" a friend brilliantly responded, "Didn't you eat Lucky Charms growing up?"
A fair and valid question. But a question that brings us to the dicey intersection of pop culture, holiday celebration, and religious iconography. (Is this a three-way street? Maybe it's a shamrock shaped exit ramp). When/why/how was there a plague of snakes in Ireland? And how did he drive them out? And does Ireland have snakes now? And was this literal snakes, or snakes like "the serpent" in Eden or the kind that would plague Israelites? I mean, those guys had it all. From athletes foot to angels intervening to save them from sacrificing their own children, Old Testament plaguery was its own opera. Big. Dramatic. Too long. (note: Biblical accuracy not assured).
But somehow I think of St. Patrick as more recent than all that, which makes me 1. want to run to wikipedia but I'm resisting the urge, and 2. think of St. Patrick's version of Snakes on a Plane and really want it to be made. Perhaps as a cartoon? And perhaps the "Plane" in question would be a plain, like those on the other side of some rolling hills in the lush emerald isle? And yes, of course Samuel L. Jackson lends his vocal talent. Of course. Maybe as the exact same character he was in the movie.
I also somehow, in this vision, cross St. Patrick with the pied piper, and see him playing bagpipes to draw the snakes forth, shimmying their way toward a cliff maybe? From which they hurl themselves? Or all of them crawling at once into a burlap bag used to hold potatoes? That also happens. Other characters who are definitely in this cartoon:
- The chick from The Cranberries, who actually at first tricks the snakes into thinking she is one with the song "Zombie" as it looks like she could unhinge her jaw on the refrain "zooombey-ey-ey-ey-ey0h-oh ay yay yayyyy" before pleasantly asking them if they have to linger, at which point
- The Edge plays some moody and repetitive guitar riff and they take to moving toward
- St. Patrick, who's beautifully moving in time and tempo with the guitar part and bumps into
- Jake the Snake from WWF, and they have a good laugh as he says, "Naw, I'm not jumping off a cliff"
- Then of course Samuel L. Jackson says "There are too many snakes in this m'f'in' country!" with a terrible fake accent before saying (direct to camera) "Hey, if it ain't brogue, don't fix it."
Then someone appears with a Guiness book of world records, but it's about the beer and random anecdotal folklore, and the math is done indicating St. Patrick could break a record if he drives out 3 more snakes than St. Seamus, who was still not officially beatified, had done 11 years earlier, and, in the time since, "Saint Shamey's Day" celebrations really failed to allow people the personal freedom to become very publicly intoxicated.
-So, then Jake the Snake shows up and says, "I heard you needed more snakes!" and rather than sacrificing himself, delivers Bernie Madoff, Spencer Pratt, and that PR guy who is supposedly Kim Kardashian's friend and had his own show for a minute on E!
-Then, cartoon deus-ex-machina style from Monty Python interjects and there's a "We heard you needed more snakes too," but then God interjects and says, "Hey, that's my gag. And besides, I'm afraid you guys might work blue, and this day is green."
-Then the guys from Green Day show up and say "Hey, we heard you needed a hand!"
-Then a giant explosion removes Green Day from the scene, and from the dust cloud, Colin Farrell emerges and says, "I borrowed some explosives from Michael Bay. I heard we had a snake problem."
-Then St. Patrick says, "Well, it was a good thought, but a little too much on the special effects," at which point Colin Farrell says, "F'in' tell me about it," and Samuel L. Jackson says, "There are too many m'fin' snakes in this m'fin' country!"
Then St. Patrick plays a bagpipe song that transitions into a delightful Irish Reel, and the snakes do throw themselves off a cliff.
That's just in my head, though.
The Deadline for Bracketology
For many of the more important things in life, I wait until I'm up against a deadline to get around to doing them, and filling out my NCAA bracket this year was certainly no exception. In fact, in the time it took me to do so online, my computer's battery indication went from black, to red, to little sliver of red making this post a time-sensitive situation as I am not about to sit at a table right now when the couch is already an inferior substitute for the bed I crave. This year's picks seem more in the dark than ever, probably because the very lousy performance of my alma mater's basketball team was SO BAD that it did not warrant a trip to the big dance. There was less reason to follow college basketball as there was less joy to be had in watching it, for me personally. As a result, I'm far more out of step with the realistic odds of my gut feelings being right than I usual am. My southwest and southeast brackets were re-worked several times, and now I'm not exactly positive how or where they happen, but I do know I threw some upsets in there. And I suppose that is what makes the tournament truly great - the potential for upsets from any team, any time, anywhere, any size school, any person, any shot - to change the fates of the expected, the oddsmakers, the statisticians, the broadcasters, everyone. Writing that sentence I realize I've written about my love of the tournament and its endless opportunities in crockpots of years past. This sounds familiar!
And in good news - it's never too late for an upset. Two of mine today -
1. The neighbors who drive me nuts on occasion know my name and specifically said that if they were too loud I should just let them know because sometimes it's hard for them to know what I can hear or what is too loud.
WHAT?!? This was shocking - SHOCKING - to me as it came from the neighbor I consistently believed hated me as there was not a whole lot of neighborly friendliness going on between us. Like, not even hellos were exchanged to the point that I stopped trying. I'd come to the live and let live place of peace with this situation (while sure, my selfish desire for neighborly pleasantries and mutually respected noise boundaries might have made me sometimes skew a bit live and let die, I'm not perfect), and out of nowhere, I not only got a hello, I got a confirmation of my name, and an offer to respect mutually agreed upon noise boundaries! I even got some friendly neighbor banter! I could not believe it. I have no idea what turned the tide on this. But it was like if suddenly the standoffish girl in the cool clique at school singled me out to tell me she loved my shoes and wanted a pair just like them. What? Me? Amazing.
Yes, of course I spent some time mired in paranoid thoughts that maybe I'd yelled at the walls or spoken really loudly while unlocking my door about how I wished they'd shut up but also say hello, or something that was actually awful that had given them a clue about my desires. But it all seemed so sincere, I'm not going to overthink it and will wait for the flaming bag of poo on my doorstep to float new theories about passive-aggressive neighborly love.
2. I publicly and intentionally watched a tournament game with others who were also interested in basketball and the outcome of a game with more than passing fancy!
Yes, when the initial alma mater fails, why not try grad school? Delightfully and surprisingly, an entire group of friends planned to watch tonight's play-in round together and hope that we would in fact have a dog in this fight (our dog has been taken on a drive to a farm where he'll be able to run around and play a lot more....). Much like I'd written off a friendly neighbor relationship, I'd kind of written off the experience of a group game watch for the NCAA tourney, at least until really late rounds when maybe it'd be an inescapable activity, given the lack of participation from a team I know some people care to watch. This surprise game spirit was a totally unexpected fun binge in the middle of the week, as well as extremely pleasing to those of us who enjoy sports.
And battery warning given, LET'S POST THIS ONE AT THE BUZZER!!!!!
And in good news - it's never too late for an upset. Two of mine today -
1. The neighbors who drive me nuts on occasion know my name and specifically said that if they were too loud I should just let them know because sometimes it's hard for them to know what I can hear or what is too loud.
WHAT?!? This was shocking - SHOCKING - to me as it came from the neighbor I consistently believed hated me as there was not a whole lot of neighborly friendliness going on between us. Like, not even hellos were exchanged to the point that I stopped trying. I'd come to the live and let live place of peace with this situation (while sure, my selfish desire for neighborly pleasantries and mutually respected noise boundaries might have made me sometimes skew a bit live and let die, I'm not perfect), and out of nowhere, I not only got a hello, I got a confirmation of my name, and an offer to respect mutually agreed upon noise boundaries! I even got some friendly neighbor banter! I could not believe it. I have no idea what turned the tide on this. But it was like if suddenly the standoffish girl in the cool clique at school singled me out to tell me she loved my shoes and wanted a pair just like them. What? Me? Amazing.
Yes, of course I spent some time mired in paranoid thoughts that maybe I'd yelled at the walls or spoken really loudly while unlocking my door about how I wished they'd shut up but also say hello, or something that was actually awful that had given them a clue about my desires. But it all seemed so sincere, I'm not going to overthink it and will wait for the flaming bag of poo on my doorstep to float new theories about passive-aggressive neighborly love.
2. I publicly and intentionally watched a tournament game with others who were also interested in basketball and the outcome of a game with more than passing fancy!
Yes, when the initial alma mater fails, why not try grad school? Delightfully and surprisingly, an entire group of friends planned to watch tonight's play-in round together and hope that we would in fact have a dog in this fight (our dog has been taken on a drive to a farm where he'll be able to run around and play a lot more....). Much like I'd written off a friendly neighbor relationship, I'd kind of written off the experience of a group game watch for the NCAA tourney, at least until really late rounds when maybe it'd be an inescapable activity, given the lack of participation from a team I know some people care to watch. This surprise game spirit was a totally unexpected fun binge in the middle of the week, as well as extremely pleasing to those of us who enjoy sports.
And battery warning given, LET'S POST THIS ONE AT THE BUZZER!!!!!
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
As it turns out....
Random thoughts ARE some of my favorite things!!! Yay! Sometimes, some days, they can still qualify as a blog entry about my favorite things! Today is one such day. I've spent the second half of today convinced it's Wednesday. I overshot the springing forward mechanism of daylight savings, apparently, as I was also convinced, until I looked at the clock moments ago, that it was 12:30 in the morning. It's not (yet)! Yay.
"I'm relatively sane for a girl." - Quinn, from "Glee" discussing reasons we might be surprised she's interested in being prom queen. Also reason number 347 "Glee" jumped the shark for me and am waiting for the finale so that it is the actually finale for my viewership. Sure, it jumped it, did a few dance moves, and there were a couple of runs by the soloist while back up singers harmonized, but have no doubt, there was a jump at the top of this number, and a shark somewhere below. Was it a Shark from West Side Story? If you want it to be, sure.
My note: Girl's aren't inherently insaneeeeee, writers from Gleeeeee, and your character wasn't saying it in a jokey I'm in high school waayyyyyyyyyyy.
But really. No reason to nitpick this one line. But I just did.
"Fill it up let's pump the jams and ride." - Part of opening, pre-chorus lyrics to the song "Stomp" by the Brothers Johnson. Also, a contender for what I might like my tombstone to say. Wait, serious question - just wrote "engraved on my tombstone" and thought wait, engrave like in a grave, ha! Wait is that where that word comes from? Does everyone know this but me? No. Maybe not. A trip on an aside of the interwebs indicate that relates to carving...
Anway-not really kidding there about the tombstone. It's such a great party directive. The notion that it's all about to get started is clear. And it is fabulous.
While one image is of gassing up a car before a night on the town, adding that to a gravestone would imply to all funeral goers that they should throw in a corpse then go play some party music - which sounds awesome. Like, hey, I'm dead! You guys get outta here and go live life!
I know this sounds especially morbid, but it's a great message, in life and beyond. Yes, I'd also like that to be my screensaver at work. And the meaningful quote automatically attached to the signature portion of my emails. And the info sections of my online profiles on any given web site. Yes. It's just a good set of directives with a good indication that fun is about to happen and should. The momentum boost you could always use.
There is a not so small part of me that wishes I'd been around for the disco/funk heyday. I don't know where I think I would have gone then that I don't go now, but somehow I feel like I at least should have. Like I might have just gone dancing a bit. And that maybe I could get a perm and have it be cool.
Do you ever think astronauts miss space meals once they get back to earth? Like the sometimes nostalgia you get for the best school lunch your cafeteria made or the best, actually-not-that-great meal from your childhood. Something low-brow but specific? That. Like, do astronauts ever get that twinge of flavor memory from something that was dehydrated and rehydrated?
I want Nate Dogg to be the voiceover for most things for me personally. My voicemail message. My book on tape. My computer-aided voice production device when my vocal chords are crushed in a freak disco food re-hydration accident. It would just be so good.
Do you think Eminem ever goes to 7-11 and buys m&ms just to see if the cashiers show any sign of recognition that it's funny? Or that they know him? Or that it is ok to try coconut m&ms? If I were Eminem, I would. Often.
If you were forced at gunpoint to be at tattoo gunpoint and you had to get a tattoo to save your life, would you get a tiny dot the size of a freckle to appease your captor but not actually get a tattoo, or would you get something either large, specific, or ridiculous, just because you'd have the story "But I had to" to back it up, allowing you total creative freedom? If you wanted to really get risky, you might ask for "BANG!" and then when your gunman asked if you thought you were funny, just tell him you're a hairdresser and it was more of a styling suggestion people would see and subconsciously process, then accept as a desired haircut. Say it's the only cut you're good at. Then if he still didn't believe you, ask for tweety bird too.
"Everybody take it to the top we're going to stomp! All night! Going to party.
Til the morning light."
Yep, even the Brothers Johnson sound better when Nate Dogg is involved. As he is in my imagination. As he will be tomorrow when my Nate Dogg alarm clock goes off.
"Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It's time to wake up." So smooth yet intimidating yet sexy, Nate Dogg.
Oh well, a girl can dream.
"I'm relatively sane for a girl." - Quinn, from "Glee" discussing reasons we might be surprised she's interested in being prom queen. Also reason number 347 "Glee" jumped the shark for me and am waiting for the finale so that it is the actually finale for my viewership. Sure, it jumped it, did a few dance moves, and there were a couple of runs by the soloist while back up singers harmonized, but have no doubt, there was a jump at the top of this number, and a shark somewhere below. Was it a Shark from West Side Story? If you want it to be, sure.
My note: Girl's aren't inherently insaneeeeee, writers from Gleeeeee, and your character wasn't saying it in a jokey I'm in high school waayyyyyyyyyyy.
But really. No reason to nitpick this one line. But I just did.
"Fill it up let's pump the jams and ride." - Part of opening, pre-chorus lyrics to the song "Stomp" by the Brothers Johnson. Also, a contender for what I might like my tombstone to say. Wait, serious question - just wrote "engraved on my tombstone" and thought wait, engrave like in a grave, ha! Wait is that where that word comes from? Does everyone know this but me? No. Maybe not. A trip on an aside of the interwebs indicate that relates to carving...
Anway-not really kidding there about the tombstone. It's such a great party directive. The notion that it's all about to get started is clear. And it is fabulous.
While one image is of gassing up a car before a night on the town, adding that to a gravestone would imply to all funeral goers that they should throw in a corpse then go play some party music - which sounds awesome. Like, hey, I'm dead! You guys get outta here and go live life!
I know this sounds especially morbid, but it's a great message, in life and beyond. Yes, I'd also like that to be my screensaver at work. And the meaningful quote automatically attached to the signature portion of my emails. And the info sections of my online profiles on any given web site. Yes. It's just a good set of directives with a good indication that fun is about to happen and should. The momentum boost you could always use.
There is a not so small part of me that wishes I'd been around for the disco/funk heyday. I don't know where I think I would have gone then that I don't go now, but somehow I feel like I at least should have. Like I might have just gone dancing a bit. And that maybe I could get a perm and have it be cool.
Do you ever think astronauts miss space meals once they get back to earth? Like the sometimes nostalgia you get for the best school lunch your cafeteria made or the best, actually-not-that-great meal from your childhood. Something low-brow but specific? That. Like, do astronauts ever get that twinge of flavor memory from something that was dehydrated and rehydrated?
I want Nate Dogg to be the voiceover for most things for me personally. My voicemail message. My book on tape. My computer-aided voice production device when my vocal chords are crushed in a freak disco food re-hydration accident. It would just be so good.
Do you think Eminem ever goes to 7-11 and buys m&ms just to see if the cashiers show any sign of recognition that it's funny? Or that they know him? Or that it is ok to try coconut m&ms? If I were Eminem, I would. Often.
If you were forced at gunpoint to be at tattoo gunpoint and you had to get a tattoo to save your life, would you get a tiny dot the size of a freckle to appease your captor but not actually get a tattoo, or would you get something either large, specific, or ridiculous, just because you'd have the story "But I had to" to back it up, allowing you total creative freedom? If you wanted to really get risky, you might ask for "BANG!" and then when your gunman asked if you thought you were funny, just tell him you're a hairdresser and it was more of a styling suggestion people would see and subconsciously process, then accept as a desired haircut. Say it's the only cut you're good at. Then if he still didn't believe you, ask for tweety bird too.
"Everybody take it to the top we're going to stomp! All night! Going to party.
Til the morning light."
Yep, even the Brothers Johnson sound better when Nate Dogg is involved. As he is in my imagination. As he will be tomorrow when my Nate Dogg alarm clock goes off.
"Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It's time to wake up." So smooth yet intimidating yet sexy, Nate Dogg.
Oh well, a girl can dream.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Big in Japan.
I definitely rely on the internet for all manner of both news and distraction from what could be perceived as more worthwhile endeavors, tasks, or ahem - job duties. The devastation in Japan following the earthquake, tsunami, earthquake, and nuclear site explosions with threat of meltdown pending are omni-present on the internet, often in mind-blowing visual form as people captured water destroying a city on camera. What I cannot seem to wrap my head around is the seeming lack of distinction made between horrific news in the wake of a natural disaster and the same old same old celebrity b.s. and mindless internet filler that is usually on the top of major homepages. I guess I'm also finding myself having trouble confronting the reality that people are finding corpses wash ashore in Japan. Others are living in school gyms with no access to heat and running water. Others have been wiped off the face of the earth like they were never there. I know that's terrible, and this is not a "favorite things" entry, thematically, but it is hard to reckon with the seeming inability to reckon with something just happening like that. Like, that is reality. That is fact. There is now a pre/post 2011 earthquake distinction for Japan. And I am still thinking about the Real Housewives of Orange County and the Sister Wives of Utah and Bethanny in New York City and how they all might fare in feminist critique - but still watching! Yes, still watching. This is after thinking about whether or not I should buy pretzels and whether or not I should take netflix up on their free trial and whether or not I should consider a shirt I've worn 4 times sufficiently dirty to qualify for washing yet.
And it's not just me, which should be comforting, but is not. I think it's the opposite. The fact that there isn't a "HOLY SHIT" section of every media outlet prior to the "Usual Piffle" section, with distinctions of a similar grade, makes a curious study in our ability to process terrible news and, because it's not directly impacting us in the next 10 minutes, move right along to the next thing. As an example, i give you real Yahoo!.com headlines:
1. Japan Faces Potential Nuclear Catastrophe
2. Ways to Stop Static Cling
3. The Unhealthiest Energy Drinks
4. Japanese Village Vanishes
These stories do not have the same weight. They are not of the same importance. Static cling is probably not going to contain nuclear fallout for a generation of citizens, except fashion fallout- am'i right ladies? But they have the same billing! Maybe it's because considering the powerlessness of others in the face of natural disaster - really giving it some thought and brain space - is too terrifying because it highlights our own helplessness and vulnerability? Or maybe it's the feeling we can't help or change things? But it somehow seems amazing to me that the Kardashian news cycle continues, along with Bieber, Lohan, Gaga, as if really not that much new happened. Maybe this calmed Charlie Sheen's spotlight for 3 minutes, but I think I would feel better if - ok, not if there were public panic, but maybe some sort of pop culturally accepted O.M.G. moment. Ok no, that would be terrible too, and invariably lead to pandering.
I dunno. Obviously this is not a situation with a feel good ending and an easy fix. It's just tricky to evaluate how media examines and reacts to Japan, and, in turn, how I do the same. And while I'm mad at media avoidance, I actually also avoid.
And it's not just me, which should be comforting, but is not. I think it's the opposite. The fact that there isn't a "HOLY SHIT" section of every media outlet prior to the "Usual Piffle" section, with distinctions of a similar grade, makes a curious study in our ability to process terrible news and, because it's not directly impacting us in the next 10 minutes, move right along to the next thing. As an example, i give you real Yahoo!.com headlines:
1. Japan Faces Potential Nuclear Catastrophe
2. Ways to Stop Static Cling
3. The Unhealthiest Energy Drinks
4. Japanese Village Vanishes
These stories do not have the same weight. They are not of the same importance. Static cling is probably not going to contain nuclear fallout for a generation of citizens, except fashion fallout- am'i right ladies? But they have the same billing! Maybe it's because considering the powerlessness of others in the face of natural disaster - really giving it some thought and brain space - is too terrifying because it highlights our own helplessness and vulnerability? Or maybe it's the feeling we can't help or change things? But it somehow seems amazing to me that the Kardashian news cycle continues, along with Bieber, Lohan, Gaga, as if really not that much new happened. Maybe this calmed Charlie Sheen's spotlight for 3 minutes, but I think I would feel better if - ok, not if there were public panic, but maybe some sort of pop culturally accepted O.M.G. moment. Ok no, that would be terrible too, and invariably lead to pandering.
I dunno. Obviously this is not a situation with a feel good ending and an easy fix. It's just tricky to evaluate how media examines and reacts to Japan, and, in turn, how I do the same. And while I'm mad at media avoidance, I actually also avoid.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)