When your workweek doesn't end on when the whistle blows with everyone else on Friday, there's something odd. I mean, why is there a whistle? What self-respecting business today that isn't a coal mine or lumber mill has a whistle? Anyway, that not being the point of this blog, it can throw off your clock to get up on a Saturday morning, stumble through coffee, bagel, clothes, and doorway, and then arrive at your job for the drudgery of an eight hour day.
Eight hours. Do you all hear me? EIGHT HOURS. Ha! Take that, all those who say I'm slacking off.
So, if you have a workweek that consists of a work weekend, it gets a bit odd to you.
I like saying "odd". Noticed that?
Let's all be honest. The weekends were invented for vegitating, lounging, and relaxing. Blow the proverbial whistle and put your feet up. If you're a college student, you're supposed to study and investigate that thing known as knowledge - but let's all face it. You're a college student. The last thing you're actually going ot do on a weekend (unless you're me, and me is weird) is to sit down and hit the books.
You are a college person. You must now sit down and pretend that you give a care about things that have nothing to do with you, such as education, and write it all down, peruse it carefully, commit it to memory- NOOOOOOOOOOO!
Get up! Run! Throw open the window and frolic in the fields! Okay, that might be a bit strange, but for our sakes, do it anyway.
As for those of you, like me, who are in the middle of that workweek, get up and run for it. You do not have to be a slave to the work whistle which never rings.
Unless, of course, you have bills to pay, you have work to do, and you want to buy things for yourself which are frivilous and useless. Like food, clothing, shelter - who needs these?
Oh, wait, that's right . . . you.
Get back to work.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Smelly Smell That Smells Smelly
There's something you need to get used to if you ever plan on moving to Cape Cod. That particular thing, which you have to get used to, is the smell.
An apology, then, goes out to everyone who lives on Cape Cod. I think your place smells, and you'll know this too if you ever leave for about ten minutes, but since you all live here, you don't get it and you don't know what I'm talking about, so I'll just get on with this at any rate.
Cape Cod smells. I said it.
There is something in the air. Actually, there are somethings in the water, but those somethings in the water actually move up to the air and it becomes something in the air, and it stinks. Perhaps it doesn't exactly stink, but it actually causes a smell and you smell it.
I don't even know if I'm making this clear. I should be blunt:
CAPE COD SMELLS VERY MUCH OF FISH.
Every tree, every road, every house, every person who stops through. You all smell of fish, and I don't mind pointing this out to you as it will likely happen to me within a month or so. Perhaps I even smell of it right now, just don't even notice it. That would be tragic.
Maybe it is that big ocean-thing. Full of fish, right? And there's a lot of ocean around Cape Cod, so there are a lot of fish. Take a look at the place, you'll see that there is nothing worse than an ocean that smells of fish. Well, an ocean that smells of seaweed, but let us not be particular.
However - the ocean DOES smell of fish. So, get used to it.
I love Cape Cod, I really do. I love the place. I love my internship, I love my apartment. But the fish smell is something that we're drawing lines in the sand over. Sorry, Cape Cod.
And now that you mention it . . . I smell a bit strange myself now. Like . . . flouder.
An apology, then, goes out to everyone who lives on Cape Cod. I think your place smells, and you'll know this too if you ever leave for about ten minutes, but since you all live here, you don't get it and you don't know what I'm talking about, so I'll just get on with this at any rate.
Cape Cod smells. I said it.
There is something in the air. Actually, there are somethings in the water, but those somethings in the water actually move up to the air and it becomes something in the air, and it stinks. Perhaps it doesn't exactly stink, but it actually causes a smell and you smell it.
I don't even know if I'm making this clear. I should be blunt:
CAPE COD SMELLS VERY MUCH OF FISH.
Every tree, every road, every house, every person who stops through. You all smell of fish, and I don't mind pointing this out to you as it will likely happen to me within a month or so. Perhaps I even smell of it right now, just don't even notice it. That would be tragic.
Maybe it is that big ocean-thing. Full of fish, right? And there's a lot of ocean around Cape Cod, so there are a lot of fish. Take a look at the place, you'll see that there is nothing worse than an ocean that smells of fish. Well, an ocean that smells of seaweed, but let us not be particular.
However - the ocean DOES smell of fish. So, get used to it.
I love Cape Cod, I really do. I love the place. I love my internship, I love my apartment. But the fish smell is something that we're drawing lines in the sand over. Sorry, Cape Cod.
And now that you mention it . . . I smell a bit strange myself now. Like . . . flouder.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A State of Soredom
When you exercise, something happens to your body. Namely, you suffer in unimaginable ways for the sake of being slender and slim, buff and brawny, or trim and tiny. You give up your food, you give up your need to down an entire place of cheese fries within ten minutes . . . make that five . . . and you also assign a time every day in which you perform the following:
- PAINFUL exercises
- HEARTRENDING exercises
- BONEJARRING exercises
- Water break
- AGONIZING exercises
Alright, it isn't all that bad, but here is the problem we all face. While the workout may be promising and lovely and there's that prize at the end of the tunnel (far end, mind you), there is always the next morning in which you open your eyes, smile at the sunshine, and suddenly realize - after you've tried to leap from the bed like Tom Cavanaugh in his short lived 2006 tv series - that you are so sore and pained that you won't be moving.
Not today, buster. Or sister.
What the heck is a buster? Is that some form of brother? Or is that someone who actually busts things and is called that. Shouldn't they be called a wrecker then? Or a smasher?
No, not the point here.
I am in pain. I am happy for it, as it means I'm working hard, but the muscles I forgot have come back to haunt me. They protest, they scream.
I therefore douse them in this little bottle of alcohol-stuff that you dab on sore muscles. The results is that the pain alleviates, but the body stinks like you've dived head-first into a vat of turpentine. Now, that's a pretty image.
Think of it: have you ever had an amazing workout one day, felt new and affirmed on life and on yourself, and then woken up the next morning in a state that guaranteed you would feel those glutes for the rest of the day?
I'm in that. Care to join me? After all, while misery may love company, so, decidedly, do those of us that still need to work out.
- PAINFUL exercises
- HEARTRENDING exercises
- BONEJARRING exercises
- Water break
- AGONIZING exercises
Alright, it isn't all that bad, but here is the problem we all face. While the workout may be promising and lovely and there's that prize at the end of the tunnel (far end, mind you), there is always the next morning in which you open your eyes, smile at the sunshine, and suddenly realize - after you've tried to leap from the bed like Tom Cavanaugh in his short lived 2006 tv series - that you are so sore and pained that you won't be moving.
Not today, buster. Or sister.
What the heck is a buster? Is that some form of brother? Or is that someone who actually busts things and is called that. Shouldn't they be called a wrecker then? Or a smasher?
No, not the point here.
I am in pain. I am happy for it, as it means I'm working hard, but the muscles I forgot have come back to haunt me. They protest, they scream.
I therefore douse them in this little bottle of alcohol-stuff that you dab on sore muscles. The results is that the pain alleviates, but the body stinks like you've dived head-first into a vat of turpentine. Now, that's a pretty image.
Think of it: have you ever had an amazing workout one day, felt new and affirmed on life and on yourself, and then woken up the next morning in a state that guaranteed you would feel those glutes for the rest of the day?
I'm in that. Care to join me? After all, while misery may love company, so, decidedly, do those of us that still need to work out.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
My Own Personal Cell . . . Phone
I don't like cell phones. I loathe them, to be quite frank. As opposed to being Larry or Bob, I'll be Frank.
That was a joke. Laugh. Or don't, just get it.
A cell phone is a piece of technological hoo-hah (and I have no idea what hoo-hah is, but it sounds full of contempt so it sounds perfect) that allows people to contact you at any moment of the day, at any place, in any situation. If you are falling off a mountain, the GPS chip will track you across the globe, whereas if you even attempt to listen to a song on the radio, your cell phone will suddenly get jealous and burst forth in song.
Because, yeah, it can play music too.
It can also take pictures. Record video. Email people. Surf the web. Fire a proton laser beam.
And I want it to do none of these things.
When I had to trade in my old phone as it had finally expired on the plan, I was told that I was to get something new and fresh. The smiling men, clasping their fingers together and chuckling, insisted that I choose something expensive and unnecessary.
My criteria:
- thin
- good price
- makes phone calls
- that's it
Their criteria, which they informed me of the moment I said all this and after they stopped laughing hysterically:
- covered in a sold-separately leather case
- has the ability to download music
- carries all the film equipment of a major Hollywood film production studio
- will ring incessantly and loudly
- did I mention expensive?
So, I have a phone. I have a ball and chain, and it costs more than my monthly rent. It costs and it costs me arms, legs, ribs, and my health.
I have with me a phone with several features I do not use. For instance, I don't take pictures with it, listen to music on it, and I don't use the email. Which defeats the purpose of this phone as all I wanted it for was to make phone calls, but I guess I lost.
I have a cell phone. And it does practically everything but what it should do: make calls.
That was a joke. Laugh. Or don't, just get it.
A cell phone is a piece of technological hoo-hah (and I have no idea what hoo-hah is, but it sounds full of contempt so it sounds perfect) that allows people to contact you at any moment of the day, at any place, in any situation. If you are falling off a mountain, the GPS chip will track you across the globe, whereas if you even attempt to listen to a song on the radio, your cell phone will suddenly get jealous and burst forth in song.
Because, yeah, it can play music too.
It can also take pictures. Record video. Email people. Surf the web. Fire a proton laser beam.
And I want it to do none of these things.
When I had to trade in my old phone as it had finally expired on the plan, I was told that I was to get something new and fresh. The smiling men, clasping their fingers together and chuckling, insisted that I choose something expensive and unnecessary.
My criteria:
- thin
- good price
- makes phone calls
- that's it
Their criteria, which they informed me of the moment I said all this and after they stopped laughing hysterically:
- covered in a sold-separately leather case
- has the ability to download music
- carries all the film equipment of a major Hollywood film production studio
- will ring incessantly and loudly
- did I mention expensive?
So, I have a phone. I have a ball and chain, and it costs more than my monthly rent. It costs and it costs me arms, legs, ribs, and my health.
I have with me a phone with several features I do not use. For instance, I don't take pictures with it, listen to music on it, and I don't use the email. Which defeats the purpose of this phone as all I wanted it for was to make phone calls, but I guess I lost.
I have a cell phone. And it does practically everything but what it should do: make calls.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Virus-Like-Thingy
At school, I was safe. Whenever my computer was near, I was connected to the world. And then, when that computer got struck down by some unexpected virus-like-thing, I was covered. I merely had to get up, walk across the campus in whatever weather Mother Nature had provided for me on that day, and say the following to the geniuses at the laptop central office:
HELP ME! HELP ME! DON'T YOU REALIZE HOW HELPLESS I AM NOW? CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE HOW UTTERLY POWERLESS I'VE BECOME??? DO SOMETHING!
And they would, in a flash, fix the problem.
Really, there would be a flash. I'd blink because of this bright light and then my laptop woul dbe as good as new. The internet would be repaired and everything would be perfectly fine.
No longer.
Here, in my summer house, I have no laptop central nearby. I also have no convenient flashing light to repair things. And at the moment, I have a problem.
I have a virus.
Or something like a virus.
Or a thing that is like a virus.
I can't access some sites, and the moment I try, I am logged out. I am frustrated and upset and I work hard to find any possibly clues to the source, but cannot prevail. And the harder I try, the more the virus seems pleased with me and is content to laugh at my futile attempts.
I mean this too. I heard it chuckling not moments ago.
HELP ME! HELP ME! DON'T YOU REALIZE HOW HELPLESS I AM NOW? CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE HOW UTTERLY POWERLESS I'VE BECOME??? DO SOMETHING!
And they would, in a flash, fix the problem.
Really, there would be a flash. I'd blink because of this bright light and then my laptop woul dbe as good as new. The internet would be repaired and everything would be perfectly fine.
No longer.
Here, in my summer house, I have no laptop central nearby. I also have no convenient flashing light to repair things. And at the moment, I have a problem.
I have a virus.
Or something like a virus.
Or a thing that is like a virus.
I can't access some sites, and the moment I try, I am logged out. I am frustrated and upset and I work hard to find any possibly clues to the source, but cannot prevail. And the harder I try, the more the virus seems pleased with me and is content to laugh at my futile attempts.
I mean this too. I heard it chuckling not moments ago.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Summer On Mars...er, The Ocean
Spending my summer away from the rest of my family in an alien territory which could be possibly dangerous seems like a rather drastic thing to do, and completely foolhardy. Well, damn the man and throw logic to the wind, I'm doing it anyway.
For the summer, I will be working an internship on the Cape, and for the summer I will be in my own apartment, away from my mom and dad and away from everything that is remotely familiar. Which is not to say that I've never been to the Cape, and I'm really quite familiar with the place.
The problem is that when you've been here as a tourist or a guest, you eat at nice restaurants, see pretty lighthouses, and find the task of avoiding shellfish as easy to do as dance naked in front of a pack of starving lions while doused in meat sauce.
Paints an image, doesn't it?
I can tell you how to get to the Chatham Lights. Sort of. I can name some delicious breakfast places by the Sagamore and Bourne Bridges. I can recommend the best place to go if you want to lie on the beach and catch a tan (who coined this phrase? Are you literally in camoflauge in the grass, watching the elusive tan as it eats at the watering hole nearby, unaware that you are about to jump out and nab it?). I can even name a joke shop or two.
But . . . supermarket? Home supply store? Post office? Please, ask someone else.
The Cape is an amazing place, I'll give you that. However, I wish that I had done one thing before I had set out for the Cape, which was carefully plot on a map exactly where everything is, and furthermore install a GPS chip in my brain so the police can track me when I accidentally wander into the sea.
Take some time, I dare you. You'll do this to. You can move to a new home somewhere, you can say it is perfect, but then step out that door and I DARE you to walk straight to the laundromat without asking for directions or consulting the map.
I'll wait.
Couldn't do it, could you? Ha. Well, we're in the same boat, all of us who move to a new place, even for a short time. The world may be pretty, but in between, you still have an alien world to live in and navigate.
The things that are necessary, you never consider that important until you're wandering the streets with a compass, trying to find them.
For the summer, I will be working an internship on the Cape, and for the summer I will be in my own apartment, away from my mom and dad and away from everything that is remotely familiar. Which is not to say that I've never been to the Cape, and I'm really quite familiar with the place.
The problem is that when you've been here as a tourist or a guest, you eat at nice restaurants, see pretty lighthouses, and find the task of avoiding shellfish as easy to do as dance naked in front of a pack of starving lions while doused in meat sauce.
Paints an image, doesn't it?
I can tell you how to get to the Chatham Lights. Sort of. I can name some delicious breakfast places by the Sagamore and Bourne Bridges. I can recommend the best place to go if you want to lie on the beach and catch a tan (who coined this phrase? Are you literally in camoflauge in the grass, watching the elusive tan as it eats at the watering hole nearby, unaware that you are about to jump out and nab it?). I can even name a joke shop or two.
But . . . supermarket? Home supply store? Post office? Please, ask someone else.
The Cape is an amazing place, I'll give you that. However, I wish that I had done one thing before I had set out for the Cape, which was carefully plot on a map exactly where everything is, and furthermore install a GPS chip in my brain so the police can track me when I accidentally wander into the sea.
Take some time, I dare you. You'll do this to. You can move to a new home somewhere, you can say it is perfect, but then step out that door and I DARE you to walk straight to the laundromat without asking for directions or consulting the map.
I'll wait.
Couldn't do it, could you? Ha. Well, we're in the same boat, all of us who move to a new place, even for a short time. The world may be pretty, but in between, you still have an alien world to live in and navigate.
The things that are necessary, you never consider that important until you're wandering the streets with a compass, trying to find them.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Go Ahead, Laugh
I laugh at you. I laugh in the face of every last one of you, and you know who you are, and I laugh and laugh and laugh until I'm blue in the face, which is not good considering it would clash horribly with my eyes.
You have exams. I have nothing. I have freedom. FREEDOM.
So . . . this is my way of saying "nyah nyah nyah" to everyone who isn't me.
The school year has come to a close, and with that close, I have seen the end of the world that was filled with desperation and misery in the form of fill-in-the-blanks and multiple-choice. For three months, at any rate, but that's all I have to worry about. Now, I move onwards to a job.
No, let's not talk about the job. I want to talk about the boundless mirth I have, stemming from the misfortune of everyone else and the fortune of me.
So . . . that's my way of saying, "nyah nyah nyah" but with more eloquence.
The library here is filled with priceless novels and computers on which you can completely ignore the novels and simply upload the Sparknotes version. At the moment, every computer terminal is occupied and every book that could be of concievable use (and right now, concievable use goes as far as being a flat surface for someone to write on top of while they hold a study sheet in their lap) has been checked out. The atmosphere of the library is one of panic and fear and hypertension.
Walking through it, I am allowed to snicker at everyone else, because I do not have any.
Everyone is eating. Every table in the dining hall is full, every table in the rec center is taken, and everyone is craming in as much food and caffience-pumped food as they can. Everyone is insane here, and I get to calmly eat an ice cream for the purpose of enjoyment, rather than to benefit off the sugar for study purposes.
Cake Batter flavor. Trust me, it is good.
And the grass? Don't get me started on how little of it I can actually see. If a plane flew overhead and looked down, there would be a sort of carpet of blankets and books on every inch of the ground available, what with the library being filled with crazies and the dining hall bursting at the seams. We are all trying to study and cram every last bit of knowledge into our tiny little brains because we know that one extra second might be all the difference between failure and brilliancy.
"We" excluding me, of course.
So . . . nyah nyah nyah.
You have exams. I have nothing. I have freedom. FREEDOM.
So . . . this is my way of saying "nyah nyah nyah" to everyone who isn't me.
The school year has come to a close, and with that close, I have seen the end of the world that was filled with desperation and misery in the form of fill-in-the-blanks and multiple-choice. For three months, at any rate, but that's all I have to worry about. Now, I move onwards to a job.
No, let's not talk about the job. I want to talk about the boundless mirth I have, stemming from the misfortune of everyone else and the fortune of me.
So . . . that's my way of saying, "nyah nyah nyah" but with more eloquence.
The library here is filled with priceless novels and computers on which you can completely ignore the novels and simply upload the Sparknotes version. At the moment, every computer terminal is occupied and every book that could be of concievable use (and right now, concievable use goes as far as being a flat surface for someone to write on top of while they hold a study sheet in their lap) has been checked out. The atmosphere of the library is one of panic and fear and hypertension.
Walking through it, I am allowed to snicker at everyone else, because I do not have any.
Everyone is eating. Every table in the dining hall is full, every table in the rec center is taken, and everyone is craming in as much food and caffience-pumped food as they can. Everyone is insane here, and I get to calmly eat an ice cream for the purpose of enjoyment, rather than to benefit off the sugar for study purposes.
Cake Batter flavor. Trust me, it is good.
And the grass? Don't get me started on how little of it I can actually see. If a plane flew overhead and looked down, there would be a sort of carpet of blankets and books on every inch of the ground available, what with the library being filled with crazies and the dining hall bursting at the seams. We are all trying to study and cram every last bit of knowledge into our tiny little brains because we know that one extra second might be all the difference between failure and brilliancy.
"We" excluding me, of course.
So . . . nyah nyah nyah.
Friday, May 4, 2007
I Like The Way You "Move"
To begin with, this blog entry is about the fact that I'm moving out of my college dorm room next week, and I decided in light of the fact that I've been busily packing all week and putting things away that possibly the blog title should reflect this in some sort of humorous way.
Do you have any idea how many songs have "Move" in the title? I swear, I spent about twenty minutes trying to figure out just which one to use.
Movin' Out - Billy Joel
Move Your Body - Nina Sky
I Like To Move It - . . . . the name will come to me
Movin' On - Good Charlotte, Default
Dare You To Move - Switchfoot
I Like The Way You Move - Bodyrockers
And there are others. There are many others, but for the sake of this blog being a reasonable song, I mean size, I will not list them.
So! Moving! Moving Out! Of College! Next Week!
That's the gist of it.
I am to leave this place of education and love in about a week, and to leave this place of education and love means that I have to get rid of all of the crap that has somehow accumulated in my dorm room over the year. And if you ever saw it, you'd wonder how I lived there.
No, I'm not a slob. What I am is one person who believes that everything has a place, and therefore should be in one, and this includes every draw being filled to maximum capacity until they threaten to burst from the hinges. Also, if the hanger rod in the closet isn't hanging halfway to the floor, it isn't carrying enough things, and the same goes for the pile of books, the desk drawers with all the papers and writing supplies, the weird little knick-knacks that are everywhere, the microfridge leaning onto the floor under the weight of a hundred magnets . . .
So I'm a hopeless packrat. I get that. But the time is MOVING OUT time, so I have to get rid of my carefully organized mess.
The food in the fridge and under my bed in the containers? It all has to go. As of this minute, it is all sitting out, with the open invitation to anyone passing by to take what they want and take it far away.
My desk drawers are empty. That was a struggle, half the crud inside them was determined to escape. I swear, my stapler tried to bite me as I took it out of the drawer.
My clothes? I won't get started on those, but I will say this:
WHOEVER YOU ARE, STOP SENDING ME CLOTHES!
I leave home every year with only what I need, and then it snowballs.
An aunt sends me a shirt.
My parents by me something they saw in the mall.
My best friend can't resist a wordshirt he saw for me.
Every organization I'm a part of decides to renew their club t-shirts for the year.
I suddenly realize that I can my toes through the shoe I am wearing and rush to replace them.
My socks mysteriously disappear and I must get new ones.
Someone stopping at my room leaves a shirt and it winds up in my laundry bag.
It never stops, so I leave college with more clothes than I came here with.
In the end, you see my point: moving out of college is harder, much harder, than moving in.
And don't even get me started on unplugging my computer wires. Not yet.
Do you have any idea how many songs have "Move" in the title? I swear, I spent about twenty minutes trying to figure out just which one to use.
Movin' Out - Billy Joel
Move Your Body - Nina Sky
I Like To Move It - . . . . the name will come to me
Movin' On - Good Charlotte, Default
Dare You To Move - Switchfoot
I Like The Way You Move - Bodyrockers
And there are others. There are many others, but for the sake of this blog being a reasonable song, I mean size, I will not list them.
So! Moving! Moving Out! Of College! Next Week!
That's the gist of it.
I am to leave this place of education and love in about a week, and to leave this place of education and love means that I have to get rid of all of the crap that has somehow accumulated in my dorm room over the year. And if you ever saw it, you'd wonder how I lived there.
No, I'm not a slob. What I am is one person who believes that everything has a place, and therefore should be in one, and this includes every draw being filled to maximum capacity until they threaten to burst from the hinges. Also, if the hanger rod in the closet isn't hanging halfway to the floor, it isn't carrying enough things, and the same goes for the pile of books, the desk drawers with all the papers and writing supplies, the weird little knick-knacks that are everywhere, the microfridge leaning onto the floor under the weight of a hundred magnets . . .
So I'm a hopeless packrat. I get that. But the time is MOVING OUT time, so I have to get rid of my carefully organized mess.
The food in the fridge and under my bed in the containers? It all has to go. As of this minute, it is all sitting out, with the open invitation to anyone passing by to take what they want and take it far away.
My desk drawers are empty. That was a struggle, half the crud inside them was determined to escape. I swear, my stapler tried to bite me as I took it out of the drawer.
My clothes? I won't get started on those, but I will say this:
WHOEVER YOU ARE, STOP SENDING ME CLOTHES!
I leave home every year with only what I need, and then it snowballs.
An aunt sends me a shirt.
My parents by me something they saw in the mall.
My best friend can't resist a wordshirt he saw for me.
Every organization I'm a part of decides to renew their club t-shirts for the year.
I suddenly realize that I can my toes through the shoe I am wearing and rush to replace them.
My socks mysteriously disappear and I must get new ones.
Someone stopping at my room leaves a shirt and it winds up in my laundry bag.
It never stops, so I leave college with more clothes than I came here with.
In the end, you see my point: moving out of college is harder, much harder, than moving in.
And don't even get me started on unplugging my computer wires. Not yet.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
That's The Spirit!
Schools have these things they refer to as "Spirit Week." Obviously a misguided attempt by officials somewhere to promote school unity and school spirit through random acts of wackiness, Spirit Weeks are often the bane of my existence.
The bane, because I find myself playing along anyway.
The details of the Spirit Week are as follows: a school decides that the feeling of community is lacking and therefore everyone must wear silly hats and costumes and pretend that by doing this, we're all moving closer together as one big family which will graduate in a few months and lose half of the branches of this family tree, which needed trimming anyway.
Get it? Good.
You think it is weird. Me too.
Somehow, I think that making everyone do something strange on scheduled days of a given week out of a year does not constitute unity. I think it constitutes the masses being beaten by a shadow-lurking leadership figure who is intent on making us act like nutballs.
For instance:
Monday was Case of the Mondays. For those of you not into the whole "Office Space"/"must work and then collapse after a week" mentality, we all hate Mondays. We hate them as they make it necessary for the workloads to reload. The week has started again - so we were all instructed to come into school in our pajamas. The number of bunny slippers and tank tops I saw got to me after a while and I left early.
Tuesday was Organization Day. I could barely contain my joy. If you are part of one of the five-hundred-thousand organizations on this campus, including the Harry Potter is Immoral Club, or the Harry Potter Is So Not Immoral Club, or even the No One Cares If Harry Potter Is Immoral, So Why Don't The Two Of You Just Lay Down And Be Quiet For A Change? Club, then you wear the shirt to school. There were a lot of organizations represented on that fine day.
Wednesday is Beach Day. I'll also point out that it is pouring rain outside at the moment on this Wednesday, so everyone is wet, miserable, cold, and definitely not wearing beach clothes. Wait, no, I take that back - all those who are in charge are still cold and miserable, but have decided to wear beach clothes to uphold the tradition anyway.
Thursday will be Class Day. Go online, look up your class colors! Freshmen in white! Sophomores in green! Juniors in fuschia! Seniors in tangerine! Graduates in apricot! Faculty members in teal! Not that any of these are real, but the idea is that if the color is mandated, then it will be worn. Trust me.
Friday will be School Colors Day. So, in a last-ditch effort to preserve the feeling of togetherness that the previous four days of this week have not inspired in every man, woman, and domesticated animal being hidden behind the pipes of the boiler room in the dorm, we will all proudly march about wearing colors of our school and feel proud. Proud to all be wearing face paint, similarly tinted shirts, and generally reminding ourselves that Spirit Week is finally over.
Saturday will be the day of rest. Because there will be at least twelve months until the next Spirit Week, and you have all that time to prepare yourself for the next round.
The bane, because I find myself playing along anyway.
The details of the Spirit Week are as follows: a school decides that the feeling of community is lacking and therefore everyone must wear silly hats and costumes and pretend that by doing this, we're all moving closer together as one big family which will graduate in a few months and lose half of the branches of this family tree, which needed trimming anyway.
Get it? Good.
You think it is weird. Me too.
Somehow, I think that making everyone do something strange on scheduled days of a given week out of a year does not constitute unity. I think it constitutes the masses being beaten by a shadow-lurking leadership figure who is intent on making us act like nutballs.
For instance:
Monday was Case of the Mondays. For those of you not into the whole "Office Space"/"must work and then collapse after a week" mentality, we all hate Mondays. We hate them as they make it necessary for the workloads to reload. The week has started again - so we were all instructed to come into school in our pajamas. The number of bunny slippers and tank tops I saw got to me after a while and I left early.
Tuesday was Organization Day. I could barely contain my joy. If you are part of one of the five-hundred-thousand organizations on this campus, including the Harry Potter is Immoral Club, or the Harry Potter Is So Not Immoral Club, or even the No One Cares If Harry Potter Is Immoral, So Why Don't The Two Of You Just Lay Down And Be Quiet For A Change? Club, then you wear the shirt to school. There were a lot of organizations represented on that fine day.
Wednesday is Beach Day. I'll also point out that it is pouring rain outside at the moment on this Wednesday, so everyone is wet, miserable, cold, and definitely not wearing beach clothes. Wait, no, I take that back - all those who are in charge are still cold and miserable, but have decided to wear beach clothes to uphold the tradition anyway.
Thursday will be Class Day. Go online, look up your class colors! Freshmen in white! Sophomores in green! Juniors in fuschia! Seniors in tangerine! Graduates in apricot! Faculty members in teal! Not that any of these are real, but the idea is that if the color is mandated, then it will be worn. Trust me.
Friday will be School Colors Day. So, in a last-ditch effort to preserve the feeling of togetherness that the previous four days of this week have not inspired in every man, woman, and domesticated animal being hidden behind the pipes of the boiler room in the dorm, we will all proudly march about wearing colors of our school and feel proud. Proud to all be wearing face paint, similarly tinted shirts, and generally reminding ourselves that Spirit Week is finally over.
Saturday will be the day of rest. Because there will be at least twelve months until the next Spirit Week, and you have all that time to prepare yourself for the next round.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Going Out With A Whimper
And so, the school year draws to a dramatic close.
Really. This weekend was Spring Weekend and when I stepped out of my dorm room, the hallway was littered with broken glass, someone was trying to set things on fire, the furniture was overturned, and I won't even begin to tell you what it looked like outside the dorm building.
So now, with the fun done and the merriment over, we, the college students, have one thing and one thing only to look forward to.
Or dread.
Or fear.
Okay, dread and fear.
The time has finally come upon us, and we are all wondering how, year after year, it arrives so stealthily and then strikes, sinking poisonous claws into our flesh and making us flop about pathetically and I'll get to the point right now, we have final exams now.
Finals. FINALS. Cue the organ music. FINALS.
Our educational value culminates in a series of two-hour long exams which are held at the end of the year. We are told when they are and at least three months in advance we go into long-term depression. We also study, yes, but the depression is more important. Anyone looking forward to them is ostracized and we drive them away with pitchforks and torches.
That explains, I guess, why someone was trying to burn something in my suite. We must have had a supporter in there . . .
Projects are due, also. That term paper? You didn't start it yet? Oh dear, you appear to be ABSOLUTELY SCREWED!!!! YOU'RE DOOMED! NOTHING CAN SAVE YOU NOW!
Also, if you are taking a lab, then eyour final thesis and your last experiment must be performed soon, and your final story is due in literature class, and your last photo project is due in your communication class, and your astronomy journal is due for your astronomy class, and your media critique is due for your newspaper analysis class, and everything is due, due, due, so you will suffer from due-depression.
Nope, not funny. Let's move on.
In a few days, we will establish quiet hours. This means that everyone who didn't study now has the time to, and they are done for anyway, but let us let them dream by forcing everyone in every dorm to be absolutely quiet and still and not play loud music, therefore enabling them to study in peace.
I dare you to press your ear against the wall when this happens. You will hear crying, sobbing, and the downing of Red Bull energy drinks like there is no tomorrow.
For some of us, that just may be the case.
Really. This weekend was Spring Weekend and when I stepped out of my dorm room, the hallway was littered with broken glass, someone was trying to set things on fire, the furniture was overturned, and I won't even begin to tell you what it looked like outside the dorm building.
So now, with the fun done and the merriment over, we, the college students, have one thing and one thing only to look forward to.
Or dread.
Or fear.
Okay, dread and fear.
The time has finally come upon us, and we are all wondering how, year after year, it arrives so stealthily and then strikes, sinking poisonous claws into our flesh and making us flop about pathetically and I'll get to the point right now, we have final exams now.
Finals. FINALS. Cue the organ music. FINALS.
Our educational value culminates in a series of two-hour long exams which are held at the end of the year. We are told when they are and at least three months in advance we go into long-term depression. We also study, yes, but the depression is more important. Anyone looking forward to them is ostracized and we drive them away with pitchforks and torches.
That explains, I guess, why someone was trying to burn something in my suite. We must have had a supporter in there . . .
Projects are due, also. That term paper? You didn't start it yet? Oh dear, you appear to be ABSOLUTELY SCREWED!!!! YOU'RE DOOMED! NOTHING CAN SAVE YOU NOW!
Also, if you are taking a lab, then eyour final thesis and your last experiment must be performed soon, and your final story is due in literature class, and your last photo project is due in your communication class, and your astronomy journal is due for your astronomy class, and your media critique is due for your newspaper analysis class, and everything is due, due, due, so you will suffer from due-depression.
Nope, not funny. Let's move on.
In a few days, we will establish quiet hours. This means that everyone who didn't study now has the time to, and they are done for anyway, but let us let them dream by forcing everyone in every dorm to be absolutely quiet and still and not play loud music, therefore enabling them to study in peace.
I dare you to press your ear against the wall when this happens. You will hear crying, sobbing, and the downing of Red Bull energy drinks like there is no tomorrow.
For some of us, that just may be the case.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
I Scream, You Scream, No Ice Cream Involved
So, I've learned something. Apparently, today is National Stressed Out Day. As opposed to the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days we suffer through in a year, this day is special because we are ALL supposed to be
1) Stressed
2) Proud of it
3) Likely drunk
We can be happy today. We can stand tall and proud and say to those idiots who have patience and resolve and work ethics "We are completely stressed out and teetering on the very edge of critical mental meltdown, but we are PROUD OF OURSELVES!"
And what do you have to show for yourself, you calm, patient people? Huh? What good are you? We're stressed! We're out of it! And YOU, you quiet, efficient, successful lot - you are all LOSERS.
Nope. Doesn't make any more sense when you put it in writing.
So we're supposed to all be stressed today? Well, it being the closing of the school year, college students everywhere are likely in the death-grip of exams and realizing halfway through their algebra exams that the batteries in their calculators are about to run out and they've neglected to bring spares. Also, the IRS has probably rounded up all those people that have tried to bury the red envelopes in the backyard. Lastly, everyone graduating is probably in tears that their dress . . . sorry, graduation gowns aren't even the right size.
Mine made me look like some sort of tent. I was half expecting clowns and elephants to rush out from under my feet during my high school graduation. Would have certainly made the ceremony interesting.
So we're stressed. I'm stressed, you're stressed, he's stressed, she's stressed, everybody within range and out of range and in between is stressed.
I think this day has been successful so far, don't you? And look only, 8:24 in the morning.
But! What of those of us who are not stressed enough? That patient, quiet lot who think themselves better than us? Obviously, something must be done at once.
I propose that we deal with them quickly.
- Jam them full of caffiene. We're talking coffee, coffee, coffee, and energy drinks. And coffee.
- Lace any food they eat with pills. I don't know which, take your pick.
- Assess their current workloads, then triple them.
- Act spiteful and nasty towards them at all moments of the day until they break.
- Muss up their hair and put eyeshadow under their eyes to give the appearance they're wild-eyed and half-awake like decent, normal people.
- Ask them repeatedly "Are you stressed?" Given time, this will make it so.
We have an agenda, people. This is NATIONAL STRESSED OUT DAY. Let's make the best of it, and let's raise hell. Now get out there, and fall down.
1) Stressed
2) Proud of it
3) Likely drunk
We can be happy today. We can stand tall and proud and say to those idiots who have patience and resolve and work ethics "We are completely stressed out and teetering on the very edge of critical mental meltdown, but we are PROUD OF OURSELVES!"
And what do you have to show for yourself, you calm, patient people? Huh? What good are you? We're stressed! We're out of it! And YOU, you quiet, efficient, successful lot - you are all LOSERS.
Nope. Doesn't make any more sense when you put it in writing.
So we're supposed to all be stressed today? Well, it being the closing of the school year, college students everywhere are likely in the death-grip of exams and realizing halfway through their algebra exams that the batteries in their calculators are about to run out and they've neglected to bring spares. Also, the IRS has probably rounded up all those people that have tried to bury the red envelopes in the backyard. Lastly, everyone graduating is probably in tears that their dress . . . sorry, graduation gowns aren't even the right size.
Mine made me look like some sort of tent. I was half expecting clowns and elephants to rush out from under my feet during my high school graduation. Would have certainly made the ceremony interesting.
So we're stressed. I'm stressed, you're stressed, he's stressed, she's stressed, everybody within range and out of range and in between is stressed.
I think this day has been successful so far, don't you? And look only, 8:24 in the morning.
But! What of those of us who are not stressed enough? That patient, quiet lot who think themselves better than us? Obviously, something must be done at once.
I propose that we deal with them quickly.
- Jam them full of caffiene. We're talking coffee, coffee, coffee, and energy drinks. And coffee.
- Lace any food they eat with pills. I don't know which, take your pick.
- Assess their current workloads, then triple them.
- Act spiteful and nasty towards them at all moments of the day until they break.
- Muss up their hair and put eyeshadow under their eyes to give the appearance they're wild-eyed and half-awake like decent, normal people.
- Ask them repeatedly "Are you stressed?" Given time, this will make it so.
We have an agenda, people. This is NATIONAL STRESSED OUT DAY. Let's make the best of it, and let's raise hell. Now get out there, and fall down.
Monday, April 23, 2007
We Have A Major Malfunction
We depend on our technology. It depends on us. See, we had to turn it on in the first place, and now that we have, it is hard to both turn off and keep from climbing into our brains at night and hardwiring itself into minds. But this is besides the point.
Technology. Technology. Tech-nolllll-oooooo-geeeeeee. Say it with me.
Okay, that's enough of that.
It has come to my attention that the average person leaves the house in the morning with several pieces of technological nonsense on their person. I, myself, usually leave my room with three.
- Cell phone
(enables people to reach me at all times, giving me no escape whatsoever, therefore I leave it off nine out of ten times and say, "Oh, darn, forgot to turn the little rascal on" when mother leaves five voice messages telling me the purpose of a phone is to let others call you)
- Mp3 player
(enables me to mouth out the words to any song I wish, and even create a little dance as I move gleefully about my day, convincing everyone who catches me lip-syncing and dancing that I, yes, have succumbed to the madness)
- Laptop computer
(enables me to connect to the internet, share my thoughts, download my files, finish my work, store my photos, and to generally allow myself to drop all self respect as I am that nerdy guy who has to carry his special computer everywhere or else he feels part-naked)
Others have more than me, I'm sure. Some carry those weird little personal computer pads you write your notes on, as paper is so yesterday. Then there are those with the cell phone earpiece always in, and appear to be talking to themselves.
Admit it. Those people are hysterical. They say the strangest things out loud and we get to laugh.
BUT (yes, there is a but) what happens when it all goes down?
Recently, my mp3 player has fallen on hard times. Possibly dropping it several times has something to do with it. And my laptop's wireless has also taken a hit. Possibly due to dropping this several times as well. And my phone . . . well, no, that's fine. Just greasy.
Don't ask.
There comes a time when our bag of cybernetic tricks and tools spills open and, oh dear, technology seems to have failed us.
Actually, we dropped it, left it in the rain, forgot to turn it off, or surged three thousand pure voltes of electricity through it, so the argument can be made that WE have failed TECHNOLOGY.
Are you not glad you're reading this? Have a paradoxical day.
What do you do, at any rate, when this happens? Not the three thousand volts thing, but when technology breaks?
There's a gap. You're nervous. Because your phone won't ring incessantly, you feel lonely, don't you? You may even have to use . . . a HOUSE PHONE! The agony! Or perhaps you will have to content yourself by humming your own music. Let's hope you have a sense of tune.
There's nothing I can do about the laptop. Get over it.
Point is: we are dependent on technology. It is an integral part of our days, but not because we use it. Technology is like that pesky thirteenth finger that your mother and father gave you when they made love in a puddle of toxic goo - it was unwelcome at first, but now that it has shriveled up and vanished, you miss it.
If your phone doesn't ring, if your laptop isn't weighing down your back, and if your ear isn't clamped with a clip-on ear phone, you realize there is something missing from your day, something physically missing from your ordinary appearance.
And that worries us.
Technology. Technology. Tech-nolllll-oooooo-geeeeeee. Say it with me.
Okay, that's enough of that.
It has come to my attention that the average person leaves the house in the morning with several pieces of technological nonsense on their person. I, myself, usually leave my room with three.
- Cell phone
(enables people to reach me at all times, giving me no escape whatsoever, therefore I leave it off nine out of ten times and say, "Oh, darn, forgot to turn the little rascal on" when mother leaves five voice messages telling me the purpose of a phone is to let others call you)
- Mp3 player
(enables me to mouth out the words to any song I wish, and even create a little dance as I move gleefully about my day, convincing everyone who catches me lip-syncing and dancing that I, yes, have succumbed to the madness)
- Laptop computer
(enables me to connect to the internet, share my thoughts, download my files, finish my work, store my photos, and to generally allow myself to drop all self respect as I am that nerdy guy who has to carry his special computer everywhere or else he feels part-naked)
Others have more than me, I'm sure. Some carry those weird little personal computer pads you write your notes on, as paper is so yesterday. Then there are those with the cell phone earpiece always in, and appear to be talking to themselves.
Admit it. Those people are hysterical. They say the strangest things out loud and we get to laugh.
BUT (yes, there is a but) what happens when it all goes down?
Recently, my mp3 player has fallen on hard times. Possibly dropping it several times has something to do with it. And my laptop's wireless has also taken a hit. Possibly due to dropping this several times as well. And my phone . . . well, no, that's fine. Just greasy.
Don't ask.
There comes a time when our bag of cybernetic tricks and tools spills open and, oh dear, technology seems to have failed us.
Actually, we dropped it, left it in the rain, forgot to turn it off, or surged three thousand pure voltes of electricity through it, so the argument can be made that WE have failed TECHNOLOGY.
Are you not glad you're reading this? Have a paradoxical day.
What do you do, at any rate, when this happens? Not the three thousand volts thing, but when technology breaks?
There's a gap. You're nervous. Because your phone won't ring incessantly, you feel lonely, don't you? You may even have to use . . . a HOUSE PHONE! The agony! Or perhaps you will have to content yourself by humming your own music. Let's hope you have a sense of tune.
There's nothing I can do about the laptop. Get over it.
Point is: we are dependent on technology. It is an integral part of our days, but not because we use it. Technology is like that pesky thirteenth finger that your mother and father gave you when they made love in a puddle of toxic goo - it was unwelcome at first, but now that it has shriveled up and vanished, you miss it.
If your phone doesn't ring, if your laptop isn't weighing down your back, and if your ear isn't clamped with a clip-on ear phone, you realize there is something missing from your day, something physically missing from your ordinary appearance.
And that worries us.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Red Tape Gag
I'll be honest with you - this world was made by God and then the people came and wrapped it up in red tape. It is there, the protective layer which shields us from the sun's ultraviolet rays, and gives us a nice comforting feeling (sort of like being suffocated, but slowly). And in time, we've all come to accept and even cherish it.
I say, the hell with it.
Red tape. Red tape? I don't even know where the phrase came from. Yes, I could actually sit down and do some legitimate research on the issue, but I don't care to. I'll remain ignorant so I can remain angry.
Nowadays, especially on this campus, things are done only with red tape attached. You can't send an email, you can't write a paper, and heaven help you if you sneeze without red tape. Policies, rules, regulations, and hidden meanings are on every last surface.
For instance: the theater group this year was told by an excited new member that his mother's friend was throwing out a sofa, and we should go get it because it might make a good prop or just another place to sit on backstage.
The fallout:
- The Elected Student Board sprang into action
- A committee was elected to discuss the benefits of getting the sofa
- A subcommittee was elected to discuss the faults of getting the sofa
- A debate was held over who would get a truck to get it and whether it was far away or not so the gas would make the couch unneccessary
- A debate was held over whether, since the couch was free, we should pay compensations to the previous owners or not
- A ballot was turned in on the issue
- Consideration was taken over what possible value the couch might play in our futures
- The president of the Elected Student Board made her final statement and created a committee to go and get the couch
I am not kidding. Not one bit, I swear it. We couldn't just go get the stupid couch, we had to vote on it and wear through a political debate. In high school, we would have said, "Yeah, sure, let's go get it!" No, not here.
Things that are simple are not, anymore. Meetings are held for the smallest thing, and what you think you can do yourself is illegal.
Now, my issue: I found an internship. Without the help of the college. Upon turning my paperwork into the school for a college signature, the place fell into panic and I was told
A) Since I did not find it through the school, it does not technically exist
B) I likely don't have a good enough GPA or credit amount because I'm a sophomore
NOTE: they found out I did and were stunned, and said that no sophomore my age ever does
C) Told me that the internship wasn't good enough, probably, so they had to send out papers to the job to prove it was good enough
D) Said that the situation was out of my hands now, they'd take care of everything
You get my point.
There is no simplicity. There is no ease.
Form A must be filed before Forms B through Z can be accessed. And meetings will be held, and juries will go out, and the government will shut down for the day.
Because we must respect, remember, and remain faithful to the freakin' red tape.
I say, the hell with it.
Red tape. Red tape? I don't even know where the phrase came from. Yes, I could actually sit down and do some legitimate research on the issue, but I don't care to. I'll remain ignorant so I can remain angry.
Nowadays, especially on this campus, things are done only with red tape attached. You can't send an email, you can't write a paper, and heaven help you if you sneeze without red tape. Policies, rules, regulations, and hidden meanings are on every last surface.
For instance: the theater group this year was told by an excited new member that his mother's friend was throwing out a sofa, and we should go get it because it might make a good prop or just another place to sit on backstage.
The fallout:
- The Elected Student Board sprang into action
- A committee was elected to discuss the benefits of getting the sofa
- A subcommittee was elected to discuss the faults of getting the sofa
- A debate was held over who would get a truck to get it and whether it was far away or not so the gas would make the couch unneccessary
- A debate was held over whether, since the couch was free, we should pay compensations to the previous owners or not
- A ballot was turned in on the issue
- Consideration was taken over what possible value the couch might play in our futures
- The president of the Elected Student Board made her final statement and created a committee to go and get the couch
I am not kidding. Not one bit, I swear it. We couldn't just go get the stupid couch, we had to vote on it and wear through a political debate. In high school, we would have said, "Yeah, sure, let's go get it!" No, not here.
Things that are simple are not, anymore. Meetings are held for the smallest thing, and what you think you can do yourself is illegal.
Now, my issue: I found an internship. Without the help of the college. Upon turning my paperwork into the school for a college signature, the place fell into panic and I was told
A) Since I did not find it through the school, it does not technically exist
B) I likely don't have a good enough GPA or credit amount because I'm a sophomore
NOTE: they found out I did and were stunned, and said that no sophomore my age ever does
C) Told me that the internship wasn't good enough, probably, so they had to send out papers to the job to prove it was good enough
D) Said that the situation was out of my hands now, they'd take care of everything
You get my point.
There is no simplicity. There is no ease.
Form A must be filed before Forms B through Z can be accessed. And meetings will be held, and juries will go out, and the government will shut down for the day.
Because we must respect, remember, and remain faithful to the freakin' red tape.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Muffin Man-Handled
I am a thief. I was one yesterday too, and I'm one again today. See, I stole a muffin.
Get your mind out of the gutter this instant.
It is that time of year when those bright-eyed and eager little children I refer to as the vermin that descend upon this campus like a swarm of locusts upon Egypt or Hilary Swank, the pestilence that threatens to consume us all like crops and leave nothing but the barest remains drifting in the wind, finally arrive.
I'm talking about the incoming freshmen.
They come this time of year. They roam in groups, with their parents, all about the campus, running here and there and looking into everything. They buy everything in the bookstore from sweatshirts to shot glasses, so long as it has the name of the college on it. They poke their heads into the gym, into the laundry room, and into the dorm rooms. For crying out loud, they even bring cameras.
Vermin. Pestilence. A PLAGUE!
BAH! I spit on them. And shake my fist at them. Ever since a group walked in on me in my pajamas while I was doing laundry on a Sunday during my freshmen year, I have never had much love for the tourists.
In the spirit of honoring their arrival, the faculty and the administrators have decided to put up fresh flowers, to throw clean tablecloths over the tables, to smile extra broadly when they walk past. This is to give a good image.
And now, we come to my theft.
When these guests come, the front Admissions Hall is decked out in lively colours. It is also the place where a table is placed, sagging under the weight of a large plate of the most delicious food the campus can offer:
- Fresh fruit
- Fresh breads
- Fresh muffins
The last was my undoing.
When this happens, they put out the giant muffins. The put out the muffins that are so large they are made in a bigger pan than the normal ones in the dining hall, all to foster the image that we are looked after here with giant muffins. Well, that isn't true! It is all a lie! There are no giant muffins for us students, just you vermin! VARMITS!
So, yesterday, hungry as a bear and miserable as a porcupine who realized that, yes, the duckies and bunnies are just so much more cuddly, I stormed into the Admissions Hall before anyone entered. I crossed straight to the table and snatched a giant corn muffin, then made my getaway.
It was good. Oh, heaven help me, it was good. It was SO GOOD . . .
I had to have more. When you steal something meant for prospective clients/freshmen, it just tastes so much better. Unless it is stationary you're stealing, in which case it isn't quite as succulent.
But it was GOOD. So I had to have more. So, today, even after a big breakfast, I snuck back into the Admissions Hall and stole another. It is here, right next to me, wrapped in napkins and begging me to eat it.
They're that good. And now, I'm a thief, a fiend, a miscreant. I am a muffin thief, enslaved by my lust and desire for larger-than-average-sized corn muffins, yellow like corn and shaped like muffins and soo delicious they are sinful.
I must have more.
Get your mind out of the gutter this instant.
It is that time of year when those bright-eyed and eager little children I refer to as the vermin that descend upon this campus like a swarm of locusts upon Egypt or Hilary Swank, the pestilence that threatens to consume us all like crops and leave nothing but the barest remains drifting in the wind, finally arrive.
I'm talking about the incoming freshmen.
They come this time of year. They roam in groups, with their parents, all about the campus, running here and there and looking into everything. They buy everything in the bookstore from sweatshirts to shot glasses, so long as it has the name of the college on it. They poke their heads into the gym, into the laundry room, and into the dorm rooms. For crying out loud, they even bring cameras.
Vermin. Pestilence. A PLAGUE!
BAH! I spit on them. And shake my fist at them. Ever since a group walked in on me in my pajamas while I was doing laundry on a Sunday during my freshmen year, I have never had much love for the tourists.
In the spirit of honoring their arrival, the faculty and the administrators have decided to put up fresh flowers, to throw clean tablecloths over the tables, to smile extra broadly when they walk past. This is to give a good image.
And now, we come to my theft.
When these guests come, the front Admissions Hall is decked out in lively colours. It is also the place where a table is placed, sagging under the weight of a large plate of the most delicious food the campus can offer:
- Fresh fruit
- Fresh breads
- Fresh muffins
The last was my undoing.
When this happens, they put out the giant muffins. The put out the muffins that are so large they are made in a bigger pan than the normal ones in the dining hall, all to foster the image that we are looked after here with giant muffins. Well, that isn't true! It is all a lie! There are no giant muffins for us students, just you vermin! VARMITS!
So, yesterday, hungry as a bear and miserable as a porcupine who realized that, yes, the duckies and bunnies are just so much more cuddly, I stormed into the Admissions Hall before anyone entered. I crossed straight to the table and snatched a giant corn muffin, then made my getaway.
It was good. Oh, heaven help me, it was good. It was SO GOOD . . .
I had to have more. When you steal something meant for prospective clients/freshmen, it just tastes so much better. Unless it is stationary you're stealing, in which case it isn't quite as succulent.
But it was GOOD. So I had to have more. So, today, even after a big breakfast, I snuck back into the Admissions Hall and stole another. It is here, right next to me, wrapped in napkins and begging me to eat it.
They're that good. And now, I'm a thief, a fiend, a miscreant. I am a muffin thief, enslaved by my lust and desire for larger-than-average-sized corn muffins, yellow like corn and shaped like muffins and soo delicious they are sinful.
I must have more.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Stormy See
It doesn't matter what the weather channel says. It doesn't, so turn off the television already and save yourself at least half an hour of television commericals with a smiling weather girl slipped in between the time slots for dog chow and soft drinks.
If it looks like it is going to rain, just ask that deep feeling within yourself: your soul.
If you don't have one, purify it first and try again. I reccommend holy water.
Look at the sky. Is it cloudy, is it overcast, doth bolts of angry lightning split the horizon in two? These are pretty good indications that there is going to be some rain. Also, if little balls of ice begin to fall from the sky and hit you on the head, that's another good indication that there's a storm coming.
I am actually embittered towards the weather channel, thank you very much. I have my reasons, I have my grudges to hold.
A few days ago, I had an internship interview in Cape Cod. Those few days ago, there was a storm which lasted for many days and many nights. Rain poured upon the world and Cape Cod was nearly washed out to sea as I sat in an office. However, there wasn't a single mention of it on the television as, hey, it is JUST RAIN, nothing to worry about.
Of course, with this upcoming "Noreaster" that was supposed to blow in this weekend, the weather channel was up in arms. Concerned looks and furrowed brows greeted you on every channel, everyone was running for their rain parkas. And when I rushed home from the Cape , just to beat this supposed storm, it did not come after me.
No floods. No hail. No lightning. Just a whistling wind and a downward rain.
That was it.
I sat in my car, feeling miffed about being mislead by the weather service. When I arrived back at the campus, I lay in bed that night and the wind beat so hard against the windows that I even dreamed I was somewhere back on the Cape, just a foot away from the ocean.
Nope.
The storm did not come. Sure, it rained. Sure, it is windy. But this storm I was PROMISED did not crush the world into pieces and bury us all in the snow that was advertised, and therefore I shake a fist at the media for their falsified weather report.
The next time they report bad weather, I'm not budging. If they report a tornado, I'll wait until my house gets blown clear athrough the stratosphere before I say to myself, "You know, maybe I should get moving."
If it looks like it is going to rain, just ask that deep feeling within yourself: your soul.
If you don't have one, purify it first and try again. I reccommend holy water.
Look at the sky. Is it cloudy, is it overcast, doth bolts of angry lightning split the horizon in two? These are pretty good indications that there is going to be some rain. Also, if little balls of ice begin to fall from the sky and hit you on the head, that's another good indication that there's a storm coming.
I am actually embittered towards the weather channel, thank you very much. I have my reasons, I have my grudges to hold.
A few days ago, I had an internship interview in Cape Cod. Those few days ago, there was a storm which lasted for many days and many nights. Rain poured upon the world and Cape Cod was nearly washed out to sea as I sat in an office. However, there wasn't a single mention of it on the television as, hey, it is JUST RAIN, nothing to worry about.
Of course, with this upcoming "Noreaster" that was supposed to blow in this weekend, the weather channel was up in arms. Concerned looks and furrowed brows greeted you on every channel, everyone was running for their rain parkas. And when I rushed home from the Cape , just to beat this supposed storm, it did not come after me.
No floods. No hail. No lightning. Just a whistling wind and a downward rain.
That was it.
I sat in my car, feeling miffed about being mislead by the weather service. When I arrived back at the campus, I lay in bed that night and the wind beat so hard against the windows that I even dreamed I was somewhere back on the Cape, just a foot away from the ocean.
Nope.
The storm did not come. Sure, it rained. Sure, it is windy. But this storm I was PROMISED did not crush the world into pieces and bury us all in the snow that was advertised, and therefore I shake a fist at the media for their falsified weather report.
The next time they report bad weather, I'm not budging. If they report a tornado, I'll wait until my house gets blown clear athrough the stratosphere before I say to myself, "You know, maybe I should get moving."
Friday, April 13, 2007
Hard-Hitting Journalism
You do not have to agree with everyone in this nation. This nation is America, by the way, just to explicitly clarify that I'm in America and not Australia or France or anywhere else. At any rate, you don't have to agree with everyone.
Free speech. Freedom of press. Freedom to wave a semi-automatic with a license. This is a miraculous land of magic and beauty.
I will kill him. I will kill him, I will kill him.
People have points of view. You are allowed to express them. I have certain ones of my own - I won't go into them here, but they concern every now and then a lot of issues today and I don't mind expressing them but for the sake of my point, I won't - and I can say them and be happy with them. True, Joe Schmoe down the block may think contrary, but so what? He's allowed to. I'm allowed to, as well.
We can all say that everyone can agree to disagree.
I will kill him. I will kill him slowly.
Defend the right to say what you want. And accept one thing: you don't have to agree with everyone else. If you are pro-abortion, then no one can roar at you that you MUST be anti-abortion. If you are for the war in Iraq, no one should be allowed to scream in your face that you CAN'T support the war in Iraq.
You have viewpoints. You are allowed to have them. So is everyone else, even those who just go around expecting everyone to conform.
I will kill him quickly, instead.
Now, for my issue, there are also those who you know that have a view contrary to your own. Suppose, however, they are a friend. Or were a friend, in this case. So you say that Situation A is right, while he one day decides to unveil his thoughts that Situation B is better whereas Situation A is immoral or stupid or just plain weird.
For all you know, I'm talking about the whole You-Can't-Wear-Sock-With-Sandals topic.
In this case, I opened the newspaper on campus and looked at the editorial section and came across my "friend" with his column and his viewpoint which was definitely contrary to mine, but in such a hurtful way that I decided at once to
Kill him. I am going to obliterate him.
and furthermore decided that I would think of him as an idiot.
See, that's what I can do.
I intend to do the following when I see him today. I intend to go up to him and whack him off the back of the head with a rolled up newspaper and snarl loudly in his face. I intend to tell him that he is a jerk (maybe not that word, but you get the drift) and to tell him that his viewpoint hurt me.
Of course, you know what might happen. He'll claim I'm trying to squelch his freedom of speech. I will remedy this by saying the following:
"You are allowed to pick any view you want, that's your right. You have free speech and free this and that and everything, it's all your right. I still have the right to say that your viewpoint clashes with mine, and I respect your viewpiont completely, but I think you are a right jerk. You are a jerk, and you are insensitive, and you are no friend of mine, and you are a jerk. Jerk, jerk, jerk."
And I'll hit him with the newspaper again and storm away, vindicated by the law and my spirit.
I might not kill him after all. This would be enough.
Because, this is America. And you have the right to believe that anyone, anywhere can be an honest to goodness jerk.
Amen.
Free speech. Freedom of press. Freedom to wave a semi-automatic with a license. This is a miraculous land of magic and beauty.
I will kill him. I will kill him, I will kill him.
People have points of view. You are allowed to express them. I have certain ones of my own - I won't go into them here, but they concern every now and then a lot of issues today and I don't mind expressing them but for the sake of my point, I won't - and I can say them and be happy with them. True, Joe Schmoe down the block may think contrary, but so what? He's allowed to. I'm allowed to, as well.
We can all say that everyone can agree to disagree.
I will kill him. I will kill him slowly.
Defend the right to say what you want. And accept one thing: you don't have to agree with everyone else. If you are pro-abortion, then no one can roar at you that you MUST be anti-abortion. If you are for the war in Iraq, no one should be allowed to scream in your face that you CAN'T support the war in Iraq.
You have viewpoints. You are allowed to have them. So is everyone else, even those who just go around expecting everyone to conform.
I will kill him quickly, instead.
Now, for my issue, there are also those who you know that have a view contrary to your own. Suppose, however, they are a friend. Or were a friend, in this case. So you say that Situation A is right, while he one day decides to unveil his thoughts that Situation B is better whereas Situation A is immoral or stupid or just plain weird.
For all you know, I'm talking about the whole You-Can't-Wear-Sock-With-Sandals topic.
In this case, I opened the newspaper on campus and looked at the editorial section and came across my "friend" with his column and his viewpoint which was definitely contrary to mine, but in such a hurtful way that I decided at once to
Kill him. I am going to obliterate him.
and furthermore decided that I would think of him as an idiot.
See, that's what I can do.
I intend to do the following when I see him today. I intend to go up to him and whack him off the back of the head with a rolled up newspaper and snarl loudly in his face. I intend to tell him that he is a jerk (maybe not that word, but you get the drift) and to tell him that his viewpoint hurt me.
Of course, you know what might happen. He'll claim I'm trying to squelch his freedom of speech. I will remedy this by saying the following:
"You are allowed to pick any view you want, that's your right. You have free speech and free this and that and everything, it's all your right. I still have the right to say that your viewpoint clashes with mine, and I respect your viewpiont completely, but I think you are a right jerk. You are a jerk, and you are insensitive, and you are no friend of mine, and you are a jerk. Jerk, jerk, jerk."
And I'll hit him with the newspaper again and storm away, vindicated by the law and my spirit.
I might not kill him after all. This would be enough.
Because, this is America. And you have the right to believe that anyone, anywhere can be an honest to goodness jerk.
Amen.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Well, This Just Sox . . .
I am neutral. I'll say that now, I am neutral. I do not take part in the gigantic orgy of screaming and writhing that we associate with the opening day of the Red Sox. I prefer to stand on the side and watch.
At any rate, there is no way to avoid this sort of thing here at my school. From sunup to sundown, if you are in New England then you will be dragged into the madness we have come to associate with opening day.
In my case, it got worse.
- First of all, I went without dinner. This is possibly due to the fact that there was a line from here to next Tuesday just to get into the dining hall for the special all-hot dog meal. We're talking everything from your everyday Fenway Frank to good old brautwurst.
- Next, the campus was literally buried in decorations. Well, at last the dining residences, but it will spread, I know it. I right now have a baseball-shaped hat sitting next to me at this computer . . . and I'm in the library.
- At night, someone set off fireworks over by the townhouses. I don't know where they came from, and I didn't even know that we had fireworks salesmen in this state, but we do, and they did, and there we are.
Fireworks, hot dogs, decorations, lines. This will escalate.
How do I know this? Because, for instance, the nearby lake tends to get littered with things this time of year. New York Yankees fans, for instance. Also, two of my teachers are devout Red Sox fans and tend to work their hatred for the Yankees into their lessons.
"So, let's pretend that the Yankees owed about fifty-thousand dollars to the Red Sox because they suck and we hate them. We'd call this interest, and this account gets closed at the end of the accounting year."
"Alright, as we all know, anyone in this room who is a Yankees fan doesn't get a full grade. Just kidding. No, seriously, is anyone in this room a Yankees fan?"
The season has begun, I will get no sleep.
Hurrah. Go Sox.
At any rate, there is no way to avoid this sort of thing here at my school. From sunup to sundown, if you are in New England then you will be dragged into the madness we have come to associate with opening day.
In my case, it got worse.
- First of all, I went without dinner. This is possibly due to the fact that there was a line from here to next Tuesday just to get into the dining hall for the special all-hot dog meal. We're talking everything from your everyday Fenway Frank to good old brautwurst.
- Next, the campus was literally buried in decorations. Well, at last the dining residences, but it will spread, I know it. I right now have a baseball-shaped hat sitting next to me at this computer . . . and I'm in the library.
- At night, someone set off fireworks over by the townhouses. I don't know where they came from, and I didn't even know that we had fireworks salesmen in this state, but we do, and they did, and there we are.
Fireworks, hot dogs, decorations, lines. This will escalate.
How do I know this? Because, for instance, the nearby lake tends to get littered with things this time of year. New York Yankees fans, for instance. Also, two of my teachers are devout Red Sox fans and tend to work their hatred for the Yankees into their lessons.
"So, let's pretend that the Yankees owed about fifty-thousand dollars to the Red Sox because they suck and we hate them. We'd call this interest, and this account gets closed at the end of the accounting year."
"Alright, as we all know, anyone in this room who is a Yankees fan doesn't get a full grade. Just kidding. No, seriously, is anyone in this room a Yankees fan?"
The season has begun, I will get no sleep.
Hurrah. Go Sox.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Blame The Name Game
A phrase you have to learn and exercise during any sort of social event is "Hey, you."
No, I am not kidding.
I know a lot of people. Wait, check that - I have many aquaintances. At some point or another, I have come in contact with more than three million people during my college career. Students, teachers, honored guests, and esteemed faculty members. I have met the President of the school and his wife, the wife of the Dean and her husband, the Dean, and many many others.
There's always a problem with this sort of thing: after meeting at least a million people, you will remember at least a thousand. And out of that thousand, you will remember the name of half of them.
This isn't to say that you're a bad person. No, this just says you're human. Unfortunately, so am I, so therefore I forget them too.
There's no problem, though, right? We just don't have to care because we won't have to see these people again for the rest of our lives. I mean, what are the chances of seeing them again anyway? Higher than you think.
An awkward moment always comes to haunt you when you are calmly wandering through your life, minding your own business, and out of the blue -
"Oh, hello John Smith."
A voice! From a person!
"Oh . . . hi. Nice to see you again."
And on the inside, what are you saying?
Who are you? And how do you know my name? And when did we meet? And do I owe you anything, such as money or organs?
The social faux pas (did I say that right? I'm not sure, but you get my meaning) comes and smacks you in the face.
Speaking of face, you must save it at once. You must not let on at once that you've forgotten who this person is. They could be of the utmost importance. They could even be carrying a torch for you, in which case you will be dooming yourself to a life of misery.
So, "Hey, you! How've you been?"
"Oh, fine, thanks. So, John, how is that project coming?"
Oh crud. They know about the project. Apparently they know more about me than I thought.
"Oh, the project. Well, it's coming along just project-ly. Yessiree, that's a good project."
"Well I'm glad John. I hope we see each other again."
"Sure thing!"
And you can skillfully get away without letting on that you haven't the slightest idea who you've just spoken with.
In the long run, this is not pleasant, but there is no way to avoid it. I mean, you aren't expected to whip out a Polaroid and snap a picture of everyone that talks to you, and then paste it on a board so you can instantly look at them and recall the names at once. This would be just ludicrous.
Try a scrapbook, that's easier.
At any rate, you will forget names. It is inevitable. You will come up against those who you don't know and you will be at a loss of words. But you have to deal.
So, "Hey, you! How are you?"
Trust me on this.
No, I am not kidding.
I know a lot of people. Wait, check that - I have many aquaintances. At some point or another, I have come in contact with more than three million people during my college career. Students, teachers, honored guests, and esteemed faculty members. I have met the President of the school and his wife, the wife of the Dean and her husband, the Dean, and many many others.
There's always a problem with this sort of thing: after meeting at least a million people, you will remember at least a thousand. And out of that thousand, you will remember the name of half of them.
This isn't to say that you're a bad person. No, this just says you're human. Unfortunately, so am I, so therefore I forget them too.
There's no problem, though, right? We just don't have to care because we won't have to see these people again for the rest of our lives. I mean, what are the chances of seeing them again anyway? Higher than you think.
An awkward moment always comes to haunt you when you are calmly wandering through your life, minding your own business, and out of the blue -
"Oh, hello John Smith."
A voice! From a person!
"Oh . . . hi. Nice to see you again."
And on the inside, what are you saying?
Who are you? And how do you know my name? And when did we meet? And do I owe you anything, such as money or organs?
The social faux pas (did I say that right? I'm not sure, but you get my meaning) comes and smacks you in the face.
Speaking of face, you must save it at once. You must not let on at once that you've forgotten who this person is. They could be of the utmost importance. They could even be carrying a torch for you, in which case you will be dooming yourself to a life of misery.
So, "Hey, you! How've you been?"
"Oh, fine, thanks. So, John, how is that project coming?"
Oh crud. They know about the project. Apparently they know more about me than I thought.
"Oh, the project. Well, it's coming along just project-ly. Yessiree, that's a good project."
"Well I'm glad John. I hope we see each other again."
"Sure thing!"
And you can skillfully get away without letting on that you haven't the slightest idea who you've just spoken with.
In the long run, this is not pleasant, but there is no way to avoid it. I mean, you aren't expected to whip out a Polaroid and snap a picture of everyone that talks to you, and then paste it on a board so you can instantly look at them and recall the names at once. This would be just ludicrous.
Try a scrapbook, that's easier.
At any rate, you will forget names. It is inevitable. You will come up against those who you don't know and you will be at a loss of words. But you have to deal.
So, "Hey, you! How are you?"
Trust me on this.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Write Away, Right Away
There is no more post. I repeat, we killed it, and there is no more post. It is dead, it is murdered, it is gone.
The American postal system is dead and buried.
Alright, perhaps not. We do still get credit card applications and other horrible things sent to us, and that is hour our mail-order pharmaceuticals reach us, and that is how we procure letter bombs, but aside from that we have little use for it.
Okay, fine, we still do - there is that one-out-of-ten person that likes to send letters for the sake of simplicity and tradition, but we're going to disregard him and focus completely on my point. Why? Because I said so. And because I can. So I will. And have.
Continuing: I was remembering the great amount of magazines that I used to have as a kid. I used to read Disney Adventures and Nintendo Power and Boys Life and so many other innocent magazines. What enthralled me during those times of joy and fun were the places throughout the magazine in which you were asked to send in something by mail.
There was a contest for best drawing of a supervillian, so send in your best drawing by SAID DATE and it will be in the SAID DATE issue. Also, if you have any questions for the editor of SAID MAGAZINE, just send a letter to SAID MAGAZINE OFFICE and SAID MAGAZINE EDITOR will be write a nasty comment in the SAID DATE issue, mocking you.
I liked that. I also liked seeing on television that there was always a contest, or some time or place your letters could reach the world and everyone would love to get them. As a kid, learning to write letters was boring, but sending them and seeing results were so much better.
And now?
Simply fax or email to the magazine and we'll get back to you.
Huh, sorta lost all the glamor and glitz there, haven't we?
I see on television that there are no more contests for children who don't have the internet, because instead of a P.O. box and address, we have an email address for you to "check out." You can't send drawings without a fax machine, you can't mail a letter without the email, and you can't even subscribe without the internet.
My complaint, then, is that the mail system no longer has any great mystique or magic to it. There is no reasonable need for it, because if you are, you are slow and old and obviously don't have a computer. What was once quaint and fun is now . . . obsolete.
Obsolete. The mail system is obsolete. Now, that is sad.
The American postal system is dead and buried.
Alright, perhaps not. We do still get credit card applications and other horrible things sent to us, and that is hour our mail-order pharmaceuticals reach us, and that is how we procure letter bombs, but aside from that we have little use for it.
Okay, fine, we still do - there is that one-out-of-ten person that likes to send letters for the sake of simplicity and tradition, but we're going to disregard him and focus completely on my point. Why? Because I said so. And because I can. So I will. And have.
Continuing: I was remembering the great amount of magazines that I used to have as a kid. I used to read Disney Adventures and Nintendo Power and Boys Life and so many other innocent magazines. What enthralled me during those times of joy and fun were the places throughout the magazine in which you were asked to send in something by mail.
There was a contest for best drawing of a supervillian, so send in your best drawing by SAID DATE and it will be in the SAID DATE issue. Also, if you have any questions for the editor of SAID MAGAZINE, just send a letter to SAID MAGAZINE OFFICE and SAID MAGAZINE EDITOR will be write a nasty comment in the SAID DATE issue, mocking you.
I liked that. I also liked seeing on television that there was always a contest, or some time or place your letters could reach the world and everyone would love to get them. As a kid, learning to write letters was boring, but sending them and seeing results were so much better.
And now?
Simply fax or email to the magazine and we'll get back to you.
Huh, sorta lost all the glamor and glitz there, haven't we?
I see on television that there are no more contests for children who don't have the internet, because instead of a P.O. box and address, we have an email address for you to "check out." You can't send drawings without a fax machine, you can't mail a letter without the email, and you can't even subscribe without the internet.
My complaint, then, is that the mail system no longer has any great mystique or magic to it. There is no reasonable need for it, because if you are, you are slow and old and obviously don't have a computer. What was once quaint and fun is now . . . obsolete.
Obsolete. The mail system is obsolete. Now, that is sad.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
And They Won't Stop Talking
There can always be a problem with people. For instance, they talk. And they tell you things. And they tell each other things. And they demand you to hear them.
That is the problem.
The big problem comes when they all get together and start swearing. The conversation diminishes in intellectual content at once, the words dissolve, adn all you can hear are long lists of swear words everywhere.
You know what I am talking about.
They talk, then swear, mention the kids, then swear, talk about the service of the food, then swear, and then they just stand up and swear at once another for no reason other than they can.
You think you have it bad? I go to college, and here it is just ridiculous.
I sit alone, at most times, in my room, and let my suitemates carry on outside. We have a mutual understanding: they can be as rude as they want and I will be in my room, so therefore I won't be involved. However, when they increase their volume and continue shouting through the door, it gets harder to ignore.
Then, my roommate suddenly joined in.
He has taken to playing online games, which everyone can hear over his computer. Voices from players around the globe begin to scream and yell and hollar, and, yes, swear.
It is weird, though - you'll hear things like, "Oh BLEEP, my BLEEPING gnome mage is BLEEPING under BLEEPING attack by a BLEEPING dark wizard!"
Trust me, it sounds strange.
My point is this: I have no place to run to anymore. I can't just live with my headphones on, and my roommate can't just turn off his sound. And outside, the yelling will continue, and on the floors above, and outside my window.
They keep talking. And they won't stop.
That is the problem.
The big problem comes when they all get together and start swearing. The conversation diminishes in intellectual content at once, the words dissolve, adn all you can hear are long lists of swear words everywhere.
You know what I am talking about.
They talk, then swear, mention the kids, then swear, talk about the service of the food, then swear, and then they just stand up and swear at once another for no reason other than they can.
You think you have it bad? I go to college, and here it is just ridiculous.
I sit alone, at most times, in my room, and let my suitemates carry on outside. We have a mutual understanding: they can be as rude as they want and I will be in my room, so therefore I won't be involved. However, when they increase their volume and continue shouting through the door, it gets harder to ignore.
Then, my roommate suddenly joined in.
He has taken to playing online games, which everyone can hear over his computer. Voices from players around the globe begin to scream and yell and hollar, and, yes, swear.
It is weird, though - you'll hear things like, "Oh BLEEP, my BLEEPING gnome mage is BLEEPING under BLEEPING attack by a BLEEPING dark wizard!"
Trust me, it sounds strange.
My point is this: I have no place to run to anymore. I can't just live with my headphones on, and my roommate can't just turn off his sound. And outside, the yelling will continue, and on the floors above, and outside my window.
They keep talking. And they won't stop.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Hallelujah, Twenty Reps
I arrived at the campus gym yesterday, Sunday, to do a little working out. I have a firm routine. I keep to it. I do, so stop rolling your eyes.
Stretching, cardio, weight machines, finishing stretch. There, see? I have one, so there.
At any rate, I arrived at the gym at noon. I feel it is important to mention that I was wearing sweatpants, a bandanna on my head, a sleeveless shirt, and sneakers. Why do I find it necessary to point this out to you? Because upon entering the lobby of the gym, I realized at once that I was the only person dressed this way.
I was greeted by the sight of young girls in Sunday dresses and bows in their hair. Ushers, standing at the door in dress pants and button shirts. Old women wearing hats, men wearing ties, young boys looking very angry because they were wearing ties also, and likely against their own will.
And, oh, yes, I should also mention this one more detail:
There was a large sign post in the lobby, bearing the bright message: "Palm Sunday Worship Service."
Is it apparent now why I mentioned what I was wearing? If not, read it again and just add a look of abject humiliation to my face, and it will all make sense.
I had completely forgotten it was Palm Sunday. Not one to be perturbed (well, not entirely), I passed through the lobby and heard the main gym filled with jubilant worshipers, singing at the top of their lungs. I swear there was an organ somewhere in there, but I didn't dare go to the door to look. Not in this outfit.
I slipped upstairs to the weight room. Inside, I got into my workout clothes and settled about my stretching.
Now, picture this: you climb onto your cardio machine and prepare yourself for your run, when the floor below you bursts with the Hallelujah Chorus, or some hymn or another, sung entirely off key by at least a million Christians, but sung nonetheless.
Hey, you don't have to sing on key at this time. It helps, but you are rejoicing, not winning a talent competition. God will understand.
I was a bit thrown by this. For the rest of my workout, I tried to keep my earphones turned up, but every once in a while, during the change from one song to another, I could hear the sound of scripture being read, and thoughtful stories being told. Then, the organ would play and more singing would commence.
It is very hard to focus on trying to lift weights when all this is going on. In fact, it is almost impossible.
I couldn't get over it. Here I was, surrounded by smelly, sweating, grunting college students, working away at machines and jump ropes and treadmills, and below us stood at least a hundred families in Sunday clothes, going to church. It was very disconcerting.
How do you focus when something like this happens? Granted, it was a change from the ordinary music that is played over the gym speakers, but this was just weird.
And, let's be honest. I wasn't exactly dressed for church.
Stretching, cardio, weight machines, finishing stretch. There, see? I have one, so there.
At any rate, I arrived at the gym at noon. I feel it is important to mention that I was wearing sweatpants, a bandanna on my head, a sleeveless shirt, and sneakers. Why do I find it necessary to point this out to you? Because upon entering the lobby of the gym, I realized at once that I was the only person dressed this way.
I was greeted by the sight of young girls in Sunday dresses and bows in their hair. Ushers, standing at the door in dress pants and button shirts. Old women wearing hats, men wearing ties, young boys looking very angry because they were wearing ties also, and likely against their own will.
And, oh, yes, I should also mention this one more detail:
There was a large sign post in the lobby, bearing the bright message: "Palm Sunday Worship Service."
Is it apparent now why I mentioned what I was wearing? If not, read it again and just add a look of abject humiliation to my face, and it will all make sense.
I had completely forgotten it was Palm Sunday. Not one to be perturbed (well, not entirely), I passed through the lobby and heard the main gym filled with jubilant worshipers, singing at the top of their lungs. I swear there was an organ somewhere in there, but I didn't dare go to the door to look. Not in this outfit.
I slipped upstairs to the weight room. Inside, I got into my workout clothes and settled about my stretching.
Now, picture this: you climb onto your cardio machine and prepare yourself for your run, when the floor below you bursts with the Hallelujah Chorus, or some hymn or another, sung entirely off key by at least a million Christians, but sung nonetheless.
Hey, you don't have to sing on key at this time. It helps, but you are rejoicing, not winning a talent competition. God will understand.
I was a bit thrown by this. For the rest of my workout, I tried to keep my earphones turned up, but every once in a while, during the change from one song to another, I could hear the sound of scripture being read, and thoughtful stories being told. Then, the organ would play and more singing would commence.
It is very hard to focus on trying to lift weights when all this is going on. In fact, it is almost impossible.
I couldn't get over it. Here I was, surrounded by smelly, sweating, grunting college students, working away at machines and jump ropes and treadmills, and below us stood at least a hundred families in Sunday clothes, going to church. It was very disconcerting.
How do you focus when something like this happens? Granted, it was a change from the ordinary music that is played over the gym speakers, but this was just weird.
And, let's be honest. I wasn't exactly dressed for church.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Sing It, Kid
I heard on the radio the other day a mother talking to the hosts of a radio show. The topic had been about the recent disqualification of a contestant from American Idol, and then it had shifted towards singing in general, and out of nowhere a mother called the show with a story.
The gist of her story:
Her own young daughter had been entered in a town talent show and while the mother had been waiting for her daughter to perform on the stage for the town, she and the rest of the community were treated to a seven-year-old girl climbing up onto the platform and belting out Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats."
First few lines:
Right now,
He's probably slow-dancing with a bleach-blonde tramp,
And she's startin' to get frisky,
Right now,
He's probably buyin' her some fruity little drink,
Cuz she can't shoot whiskey,
Right now,
He's probably up behind her with a pool stick,
Showin' her how to shoot a combo,
And he don't know . . .
And now, the chorus, sung at the top of the lungs and with all the pride of a woman who has done what is about to be described in song:
I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four wheel drive,
Carved my name into his leather seats,
Took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,
Slashed a hole in all four tires,
Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats!
I want you to imagine a little girl, no older than ten years old, in a nice dress and shoes, hair up in a bow, wearing her mother's lipstick and blush, singing in a very high tinny voice these precise lines.
I want you to also try not to crack up when you do.
There are a lot of songs out there that should not be sung by children, in my opinion. I don't know where the girl's mother's head was at this point, letting her little girl get up there and extol hatred and rage for the opposite sex like this (IN SONG, nonetheless), but what is done is done.
It is a funny image, isn't it?
Talent competitions are fine. Singing songs for an audience is also fine, I just have this firm belief that the song that your little child is going to sing should be something which won't have the entire audience in a dead faint or in stitches.
There have to be others . . .
The gist of her story:
Her own young daughter had been entered in a town talent show and while the mother had been waiting for her daughter to perform on the stage for the town, she and the rest of the community were treated to a seven-year-old girl climbing up onto the platform and belting out Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats."
First few lines:
Right now,
He's probably slow-dancing with a bleach-blonde tramp,
And she's startin' to get frisky,
Right now,
He's probably buyin' her some fruity little drink,
Cuz she can't shoot whiskey,
Right now,
He's probably up behind her with a pool stick,
Showin' her how to shoot a combo,
And he don't know . . .
And now, the chorus, sung at the top of the lungs and with all the pride of a woman who has done what is about to be described in song:
I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four wheel drive,
Carved my name into his leather seats,
Took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,
Slashed a hole in all four tires,
Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats!
I want you to imagine a little girl, no older than ten years old, in a nice dress and shoes, hair up in a bow, wearing her mother's lipstick and blush, singing in a very high tinny voice these precise lines.
I want you to also try not to crack up when you do.
There are a lot of songs out there that should not be sung by children, in my opinion. I don't know where the girl's mother's head was at this point, letting her little girl get up there and extol hatred and rage for the opposite sex like this (IN SONG, nonetheless), but what is done is done.
It is a funny image, isn't it?
Talent competitions are fine. Singing songs for an audience is also fine, I just have this firm belief that the song that your little child is going to sing should be something which won't have the entire audience in a dead faint or in stitches.
There have to be others . . .
- Hit Me Baby, One More Time by Britney Spears
Depending on the age of the singer, and the gender (hopefully a girl), we could have a general uproar in the audience. Who is this person who is "hitting" this baby, one more time? And how many times did it happen before? - Invisible by Clay Aiken
The general idea of this song is that someone wishes he could be a ghost, watching the love of his life in her room without her noticing, and then he can "make you mine tonight" - lines which only Clay Aiken, the charming young American Idol runner up, could get away with. Certainly no one else, and especially not a little child. - Sexy Back by Justin Timberlake
If any little child below ten . . . no, make that below fifteen, knows exactly what this song is about, then there is a problem. Drag them kicking and screaming from the stage and straight into therapy. - Candy Man by Christina Aguilera
If any little girl can pull this one off, I'd be impressed. I'd also be petrified to hear her mention the phrases "Makes my cherry pop", "Makes my panties drop", and "With a real sweet c**k" in front of an audience. - Livin' La Vida Loca by Ricki Martin
First of all, the audience would leave at once. Second, if a young boy is singing about someone making him take off his clothes and go dancing in the rain, and getting him drunk and leaving him in the city, we have a problem about what television programs this child has been watching. - Yeah! by Usher
No child under ten should be able to be "in the club with my homies" or should be able to have a girl "all up on me" and certainly not be able to "make her booty go whack" and ultimately shouldn't be able to make her shout "yeah, yeah, yeah!" - The Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen
Hey, if the kid can get past the first few lines, which state "Mama, just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead", then I applaude the listeners. - Incomplete by the Backstreet Boys
A song about sadness, misery, rejection, and loss. If he's singing about this, the dosage of his medication is obviously too weak. - Tipsy by J-Kwon
I don't actually need to say anything about this one . . .
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Here Comes The Sun (Where'd The Snow Go?)
I woke up yesterday and stepped outside, heading for the gym like I usually do in the morning, when something hit me.
No, not a car. Not anything large and hard, and really nothing at all. It was more of a revelation, a realization, one of those moments that my Literature teachers so tactfully call "Ah-ha moments."
Who came up with that? I ask you, can we get any more ridiculous?
There was no snow. That was the point I was trying to make. I stepped outside, prepared myself to plunge into a snowbank on my way across the campus, and was startled to see signs of life once again.
Ducks out near the lake. Grass, standing tall and green. Skies without clouds. A bright and yellow shiny thing in the sky, bringing heat and light to the world below, and making a strange black thing on the ground just behind me which followed me no matter where I went.
After a while, I was informed that this was my shadow. Really, what will they think of next?
To use that phrase that someone decided to put on a needlepoint pillow some time ago, Spring has Sprung.
Beware, it leaps without warning.
Somehow, without me noticing, Spring snuck into the neighborhood and set up shop. The snow was gone and the clouds had moved away, the air was warm once again. I barely recognized the place.
This was SPRING. Not that period of days wherein the weather looks all nice but you know that the next day there would be snow crushing everything back down, but a beautiful time you just felt in your bones would last for at least a few months. It was Spring, Spring, Spring.
I felt anxious.
Suddenly, people were outside in shorts. Without jackets, even. They were hitting little white balls with wooden sticks, or throwing brown lemon-shaped pigs at one another. People were actually using the benches out on the quad. For once, no one was scraping their car of ice.
This, surely, had to be a dream.
There was one way for me to be sure. I went back inside and changed my clothes. I removed my heavy jacket and warmer pants and walked out in jeans and a t-shirt and lighter jacket.
And I felt the warmth spread through my body from that big shiny thing in the sky.
And I liked it.
Okay, fine, Spring is here.
No, not a car. Not anything large and hard, and really nothing at all. It was more of a revelation, a realization, one of those moments that my Literature teachers so tactfully call "Ah-ha moments."
Who came up with that? I ask you, can we get any more ridiculous?
There was no snow. That was the point I was trying to make. I stepped outside, prepared myself to plunge into a snowbank on my way across the campus, and was startled to see signs of life once again.
Ducks out near the lake. Grass, standing tall and green. Skies without clouds. A bright and yellow shiny thing in the sky, bringing heat and light to the world below, and making a strange black thing on the ground just behind me which followed me no matter where I went.
After a while, I was informed that this was my shadow. Really, what will they think of next?
To use that phrase that someone decided to put on a needlepoint pillow some time ago, Spring has Sprung.
Beware, it leaps without warning.
Somehow, without me noticing, Spring snuck into the neighborhood and set up shop. The snow was gone and the clouds had moved away, the air was warm once again. I barely recognized the place.
This was SPRING. Not that period of days wherein the weather looks all nice but you know that the next day there would be snow crushing everything back down, but a beautiful time you just felt in your bones would last for at least a few months. It was Spring, Spring, Spring.
I felt anxious.
Suddenly, people were outside in shorts. Without jackets, even. They were hitting little white balls with wooden sticks, or throwing brown lemon-shaped pigs at one another. People were actually using the benches out on the quad. For once, no one was scraping their car of ice.
This, surely, had to be a dream.
There was one way for me to be sure. I went back inside and changed my clothes. I removed my heavy jacket and warmer pants and walked out in jeans and a t-shirt and lighter jacket.
And I felt the warmth spread through my body from that big shiny thing in the sky.
And I liked it.
Okay, fine, Spring is here.
Monday, March 26, 2007
TV, Schmee-Vee
I used to watch a lot of television. I mean, a great deal. A big deal. An AMAZING deal. There are very few words to describe just how much television I used to watch.
Okay, fine, I'm exaggerating.
The point is, I used to watch a lot of television. Why "used to" and not any longer? Because I decided to go to college instead of spending the rest of my life watching my television shows. No, I'm not saying that I don't get to watch television anymore. I'm saying that I no longer get to watch television programs where I am.
College does something to you. For instance, it gives you a schedule you must, absolutely must, adhere to. And there shall be no argument about this - you go to college, you get a schedule, and you will follow it to the letter or else feel the wrath of the educational system.
Also known as failing.
College also inflicts the following:
- Appetite for anything easily cooked in a microwave
- Heavy dependence on quarters for washing machines, dryers, and vending machines
- Claustrophobia
Now that I have this schedule, I can't sit home all day and watch television. Granted, I never did, but you understand what I mean. Something has suddenly become more important than the television programs I would watch all the time, weekly, at home.
Hey, I'm not completely alone here. I used to watch Lost every Wednesday (no, wait, when was it on before? Tuesday?) until I realized that I had to fill that time doing homework and studying. I also cannot enjoy House or CIS or NCIS as I have things like night classes or exams always around the corner, taking up every moment I could sit on my butt and stare at the screen.
You'd also be alarmed at how this has cut into my time for playing video games. Sad.
We're all like this now, unfortunately. There are girls literally in tears because they have night classes during the O.C. There is even one teacher who spent the first semester in a rage what with ABC switching time slots around. She took it out on the class - let me say, it was a miracle I passed.
(Teacher, if you are reading this, I agree. I LOVED that show. I can't believe they moved it.)
Ultimately, we have nothing to do but try to form our lives around our new schedules. Clubs, meetings, classes, study time - all must be done first. It is a wonder that we, as college students, can still remember our favorite shows anymore.
I think.
But there are alternatives. For instance, there are those who, having missed entire seasons of Grey's Anatomy, organize viewing parties. They put up signs everywhere and people flock into the room, cramming it to capacity, just to see every moment from the season they missed.
We have had O.C. parties. Grey's Anatomy parties. We had a weekly American Idol session. No, I am really not making any of this up. I only wish I were . . .
In conclusion, we have television. We also have college. One of them must win.
So . . . any takers?
Okay, fine, I'm exaggerating.
The point is, I used to watch a lot of television. Why "used to" and not any longer? Because I decided to go to college instead of spending the rest of my life watching my television shows. No, I'm not saying that I don't get to watch television anymore. I'm saying that I no longer get to watch television programs where I am.
College does something to you. For instance, it gives you a schedule you must, absolutely must, adhere to. And there shall be no argument about this - you go to college, you get a schedule, and you will follow it to the letter or else feel the wrath of the educational system.
Also known as failing.
College also inflicts the following:
- Appetite for anything easily cooked in a microwave
- Heavy dependence on quarters for washing machines, dryers, and vending machines
- Claustrophobia
Now that I have this schedule, I can't sit home all day and watch television. Granted, I never did, but you understand what I mean. Something has suddenly become more important than the television programs I would watch all the time, weekly, at home.
Hey, I'm not completely alone here. I used to watch Lost every Wednesday (no, wait, when was it on before? Tuesday?) until I realized that I had to fill that time doing homework and studying. I also cannot enjoy House or CIS or NCIS as I have things like night classes or exams always around the corner, taking up every moment I could sit on my butt and stare at the screen.
You'd also be alarmed at how this has cut into my time for playing video games. Sad.
We're all like this now, unfortunately. There are girls literally in tears because they have night classes during the O.C. There is even one teacher who spent the first semester in a rage what with ABC switching time slots around. She took it out on the class - let me say, it was a miracle I passed.
(Teacher, if you are reading this, I agree. I LOVED that show. I can't believe they moved it.)
Ultimately, we have nothing to do but try to form our lives around our new schedules. Clubs, meetings, classes, study time - all must be done first. It is a wonder that we, as college students, can still remember our favorite shows anymore.
I think.
But there are alternatives. For instance, there are those who, having missed entire seasons of Grey's Anatomy, organize viewing parties. They put up signs everywhere and people flock into the room, cramming it to capacity, just to see every moment from the season they missed.
We have had O.C. parties. Grey's Anatomy parties. We had a weekly American Idol session. No, I am really not making any of this up. I only wish I were . . .
In conclusion, we have television. We also have college. One of them must win.
So . . . any takers?
Friday, March 23, 2007
Headlights, Deer, Boom!
The phrase "a deer caught in the headlights" has been a common one which haunts many a generation of young people learning to drive. It also, for that matter, haunts those of us who are writers, as it is such a nice phrase but also such a terrible cliche and we can't use it without people sneering at it.
At any rate.
The worst possible way to experience this is to symbolically become the deer, stare into the headlights, and wait for the impending crash.
This can be many things. No, you don't actually have to sit in the middle of the road with antlers on and wait for a truck to come at you. You simply have to find something to dread and realize that you're not waiting for it, you're staring into it as it comes barreling towards you.
Monday morning, you will be going to the dentist to have four teeth pulled. It is now Monday of the previous week, and you have exactly seven days to watch this approach.
The in-laws will be visiting.
The work evaluation papers are being passed out today.
Something horrible. Just fill it in, I'm not going to spell it all out for you.
In my case, it is the midterm.
You start the truck, I'll sit myself down on the pavement.
I should have studied more. Yes, I did study, don't give me that look, but I should have studied more. I could always study more. There could be a time I spent two weeks studying for one test alone, shirking every last assignment or life-necessity (showering, eating, deoderant) and I will still sit here and say to myself, "Why didn't I make it three weeks? And, geez, what reeks?"
Did I do all the terms? Do I remember all the essays? Who was that important guy?
The truck is now approaching.
As the truck approaches, you suddenly realize something. No matter what, that truck is going to hit you, so get comfortable and wait for it.
You will go to the dentist, the mother-in-law will make you loathe yourself, your peers will drive you into the ground, I will try my darndest and fail miserably. These are things we must accept and get used to.
Of course, I could always pass, but for the sake of the dark and dreary theme of this entry, I'll say that I'll fail.
You have to get used to this. You have to accept the fact that at the given time, you will stare into those headlights, and then it will be over.
They will pass. You're either flattened, or you've flattened yourself and let it pass over you without hitting you.
Get it over with. Stare deep into those headlights, you have no choice.
And wish me luck, while you're at it.
At any rate.
The worst possible way to experience this is to symbolically become the deer, stare into the headlights, and wait for the impending crash.
This can be many things. No, you don't actually have to sit in the middle of the road with antlers on and wait for a truck to come at you. You simply have to find something to dread and realize that you're not waiting for it, you're staring into it as it comes barreling towards you.
Monday morning, you will be going to the dentist to have four teeth pulled. It is now Monday of the previous week, and you have exactly seven days to watch this approach.
The in-laws will be visiting.
The work evaluation papers are being passed out today.
Something horrible. Just fill it in, I'm not going to spell it all out for you.
In my case, it is the midterm.
You start the truck, I'll sit myself down on the pavement.
I should have studied more. Yes, I did study, don't give me that look, but I should have studied more. I could always study more. There could be a time I spent two weeks studying for one test alone, shirking every last assignment or life-necessity (showering, eating, deoderant) and I will still sit here and say to myself, "Why didn't I make it three weeks? And, geez, what reeks?"
Did I do all the terms? Do I remember all the essays? Who was that important guy?
The truck is now approaching.
As the truck approaches, you suddenly realize something. No matter what, that truck is going to hit you, so get comfortable and wait for it.
You will go to the dentist, the mother-in-law will make you loathe yourself, your peers will drive you into the ground, I will try my darndest and fail miserably. These are things we must accept and get used to.
Of course, I could always pass, but for the sake of the dark and dreary theme of this entry, I'll say that I'll fail.
You have to get used to this. You have to accept the fact that at the given time, you will stare into those headlights, and then it will be over.
They will pass. You're either flattened, or you've flattened yourself and let it pass over you without hitting you.
Get it over with. Stare deep into those headlights, you have no choice.
And wish me luck, while you're at it.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Buried Alive
There is always that moment in popular cartoon strips or television sitcoms or even movies where an unfortunate character heads for a closet. They are warned to not open it, to keep away from it at all costs.
Examples:
- The little boy who has been told to clean his room begs his mother to not open that door.
- The roommate who has a hot date stopping by dives in front of it when his girlfriend plans to hang up her coat.
- The dopey father brags about how organized he is and heads to the closet.
No matter what the possible reason for going to that door (save a slasher film wherein there will be a masked man weilding a chainsaw or an axe or whatever it is that evildoers use to kill their victims nowadays), the outcome is the same.
There is an avalanche.
The door opens, the character looks up into the darkness, their face suddenly pales with fear and horror and they throw up their hands to protect their face, and all at once they are overtaken by a wave of debris.
Old clothes. Trash. Discarded food. Homework. Random cardboard boxes, for effect.
There are times that this happens in real life. You may not think it ever happens, but it does. Really. There are even times when there is not a closet involved, but just a space which fills randomly with stacks and stacks of heaven-knows-what, and the slightest tap will cause it to all come tumbling down.
Let us be honest with one another: you have one. There's no shame in that, I have one too. I call it my desk.
There can be shelves stuffed with everything imaginable. There can be piles in the corner of things precariously positioned. There can even be one of those weird hammocks people stick in their bedrooms to throw stuffed animals into.
These are timebombs waiting to happen.
The other day, I shut my desk drawer too hard. Truth be told, I slammed it. I had one second to cringe in fear, realizing what I had done, and then it all came crashing down. The flashlight balancing on the top shelf, the stuffed monkey that someone gave me for Valentine's Day, the hat resting on top of a box of stale cookies, the pencils and the papers and the pens and the things that I had shoved on top of one another just to get them out of my way.
It came down.
When something like this happens, what exactly are you supposed to do about it? Cry? Well, okay, that is entitled, but that solves nothing.
I offer you advice, then.
Cry, but make it short. Rend your clothes if that helps.
Next, if you have cried, make sure you change it into hysterical laughter quickly or anyone rushing to your aid, having heard the deafening impact, will start to dial 9-1-1.
Finally, grab a shovel. You'll need it. Take careful aim and start stacking again.
Because that is how you did this in the first place, isn't it? Admit it! You know that your giant pile will come down any day now, and you knew it when it was forming and you started walking on tiptoes whenever you came near it, but you did nothing about it. Instead, you AIDED IT.
You made it worse! You added more mess! You tossed another paper or sweater up there, and you knew it was a mistake!
You are as guilty as I am, then.
So, while you grab your shovel and put things back to the way they were, so will I, your friend, his neighbor, his mother, her sister, her children, their best friends, their greatest enemies, and their one-day-offspring.
Happy shoveling. Try not to get buried alive.
Examples:
- The little boy who has been told to clean his room begs his mother to not open that door.
- The roommate who has a hot date stopping by dives in front of it when his girlfriend plans to hang up her coat.
- The dopey father brags about how organized he is and heads to the closet.
No matter what the possible reason for going to that door (save a slasher film wherein there will be a masked man weilding a chainsaw or an axe or whatever it is that evildoers use to kill their victims nowadays), the outcome is the same.
There is an avalanche.
The door opens, the character looks up into the darkness, their face suddenly pales with fear and horror and they throw up their hands to protect their face, and all at once they are overtaken by a wave of debris.
Old clothes. Trash. Discarded food. Homework. Random cardboard boxes, for effect.
There are times that this happens in real life. You may not think it ever happens, but it does. Really. There are even times when there is not a closet involved, but just a space which fills randomly with stacks and stacks of heaven-knows-what, and the slightest tap will cause it to all come tumbling down.
Let us be honest with one another: you have one. There's no shame in that, I have one too. I call it my desk.
There can be shelves stuffed with everything imaginable. There can be piles in the corner of things precariously positioned. There can even be one of those weird hammocks people stick in their bedrooms to throw stuffed animals into.
These are timebombs waiting to happen.
The other day, I shut my desk drawer too hard. Truth be told, I slammed it. I had one second to cringe in fear, realizing what I had done, and then it all came crashing down. The flashlight balancing on the top shelf, the stuffed monkey that someone gave me for Valentine's Day, the hat resting on top of a box of stale cookies, the pencils and the papers and the pens and the things that I had shoved on top of one another just to get them out of my way.
It came down.
When something like this happens, what exactly are you supposed to do about it? Cry? Well, okay, that is entitled, but that solves nothing.
I offer you advice, then.
Cry, but make it short. Rend your clothes if that helps.
Next, if you have cried, make sure you change it into hysterical laughter quickly or anyone rushing to your aid, having heard the deafening impact, will start to dial 9-1-1.
Finally, grab a shovel. You'll need it. Take careful aim and start stacking again.
Because that is how you did this in the first place, isn't it? Admit it! You know that your giant pile will come down any day now, and you knew it when it was forming and you started walking on tiptoes whenever you came near it, but you did nothing about it. Instead, you AIDED IT.
You made it worse! You added more mess! You tossed another paper or sweater up there, and you knew it was a mistake!
You are as guilty as I am, then.
So, while you grab your shovel and put things back to the way they were, so will I, your friend, his neighbor, his mother, her sister, her children, their best friends, their greatest enemies, and their one-day-offspring.
Happy shoveling. Try not to get buried alive.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Fight! To the DEATH!
The war has begun. There will definitely be prisoners taken.
As, in the distance, summer begins to loom, we, the people, casually glance at our television sets or turn on the radio or even just open a webpage and all of a sudden, the war is upon us. There is no way to escape it, there is no way to turn a blind eye to it, and there is no way to run from it.
Disney World versus Universal Studios. Seaworld versus the beach. Carnivale versus Disney Cruise Line.
Oh, the lack of humanity.
Go ahead and laugh, you know full well what I'm talking about.
Today, we can look at the television and suddenly be bombarded by at least seven commercials during one commercial break concerning vacation spots all around Florida. Why? Because that time has arrived, the time to reserve now and prepare for the (hopefully) warm and sunny time that we plant between June and August. Sometimes also May and early Septermber.
The war to find that perfect vacation spot has come to us.
Reserve NOW.
Buy timeshare NOW.
Get your tickets NOW.
NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW.
Or all will be lost.
Today, as I sat at breakfast, the large television screen on the wall played a heartwarming commercial concerning the next magical Disney vacation that you might take. This was immediatly followed by one for Universal Studios. This was ultimately followed by one for the state of Florida itself.
NASA launched rockets. Dinosaurs attacked people in boats. Fireworks lit the sky. Women in bathing suits dived into the ocean.
Oh, the bloodshed.
This is a time that is very frightening. This is the time that we should just lay low and let the travel agencies duke it out and leave us be. But the war is impossible to ignore.
Disney. Universal. NASA. Seaworld. FLORIDA ITSELF.
You must choose, or all will be lost.
Peace be with you.
As, in the distance, summer begins to loom, we, the people, casually glance at our television sets or turn on the radio or even just open a webpage and all of a sudden, the war is upon us. There is no way to escape it, there is no way to turn a blind eye to it, and there is no way to run from it.
Disney World versus Universal Studios. Seaworld versus the beach. Carnivale versus Disney Cruise Line.
Oh, the lack of humanity.
Go ahead and laugh, you know full well what I'm talking about.
Today, we can look at the television and suddenly be bombarded by at least seven commercials during one commercial break concerning vacation spots all around Florida. Why? Because that time has arrived, the time to reserve now and prepare for the (hopefully) warm and sunny time that we plant between June and August. Sometimes also May and early Septermber.
The war to find that perfect vacation spot has come to us.
Reserve NOW.
Buy timeshare NOW.
Get your tickets NOW.
NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW.
Or all will be lost.
Today, as I sat at breakfast, the large television screen on the wall played a heartwarming commercial concerning the next magical Disney vacation that you might take. This was immediatly followed by one for Universal Studios. This was ultimately followed by one for the state of Florida itself.
NASA launched rockets. Dinosaurs attacked people in boats. Fireworks lit the sky. Women in bathing suits dived into the ocean.
Oh, the bloodshed.
This is a time that is very frightening. This is the time that we should just lay low and let the travel agencies duke it out and leave us be. But the war is impossible to ignore.
Disney. Universal. NASA. Seaworld. FLORIDA ITSELF.
You must choose, or all will be lost.
Peace be with you.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Man Over-Bored!
So, how's spring break going?
Let's ask a question that is more pleasant, then.
So, how's that hangnail?
Forget it. Spring break, this year, is a bust. I am that one person who has been sentenced to spend it at home with his parents underneath a great mountain of snow rather than somewhere expensive, amoral, and tropical.
As such, I am bored. I have little more to do than feed fat dogs, watch talk shows, and actually do the homework assigned. Pathetic.
However, I am not alone and I know it. There are those of you out there that are stuck in my position, and to you, I say this: Let us stand united.
Spring break, the summer, New Years Eve, and many other fantastic holidays are often times when the magazines say that you should get up and run out into the world to celebrate, to get a tan (well, not New Years Eve), and to have the time of your life. There are always these holidays which come around and there are always those of us, like me, who find ourselves that small percentage that has been forced to stay at home without anything to do.
New Years, you sit in front of the television and your parents snore loudly on the couch nearby.
Spring break, you catch up on Oprah (no quoting me on this).
Summer, you head for the tanning salon to convince others that you actually went to the beach.
There are those of us that will not go anywhere. But we can find our own fun, if we look hard enough.
What do we do? What should we do? Cook? Garden? Sleep?
Myself, actually, I am not a good cook. I have burned spaghetti. Really. And my father keeps me from gardening, what with his hatred for flowers and his everpresent lawn mower. And I mentioned two fat dogs, preventing any sleep.
Read? Yes, that seems good.
Write something? Perhaps the next great American novel?
See a movie! There's a winner.
Eat massive amounts of food. There's another. Come back and show those skinny, sunburned toothpicks that you are pale and fat and PROUD OF IT.
Listen to music. Play it loud. Very loud. Have the cops brought in by helicopter and tank with the pressure of the music.
The point is this: you may be alone, but you are never without options. You can always find something to do with your life. Just look hard. VERY hard, mind you, and eventually, something will happen.
Now go feed that dog.
Let's ask a question that is more pleasant, then.
So, how's that hangnail?
Forget it. Spring break, this year, is a bust. I am that one person who has been sentenced to spend it at home with his parents underneath a great mountain of snow rather than somewhere expensive, amoral, and tropical.
As such, I am bored. I have little more to do than feed fat dogs, watch talk shows, and actually do the homework assigned. Pathetic.
However, I am not alone and I know it. There are those of you out there that are stuck in my position, and to you, I say this: Let us stand united.
Spring break, the summer, New Years Eve, and many other fantastic holidays are often times when the magazines say that you should get up and run out into the world to celebrate, to get a tan (well, not New Years Eve), and to have the time of your life. There are always these holidays which come around and there are always those of us, like me, who find ourselves that small percentage that has been forced to stay at home without anything to do.
New Years, you sit in front of the television and your parents snore loudly on the couch nearby.
Spring break, you catch up on Oprah (no quoting me on this).
Summer, you head for the tanning salon to convince others that you actually went to the beach.
There are those of us that will not go anywhere. But we can find our own fun, if we look hard enough.
What do we do? What should we do? Cook? Garden? Sleep?
Myself, actually, I am not a good cook. I have burned spaghetti. Really. And my father keeps me from gardening, what with his hatred for flowers and his everpresent lawn mower. And I mentioned two fat dogs, preventing any sleep.
Read? Yes, that seems good.
Write something? Perhaps the next great American novel?
See a movie! There's a winner.
Eat massive amounts of food. There's another. Come back and show those skinny, sunburned toothpicks that you are pale and fat and PROUD OF IT.
Listen to music. Play it loud. Very loud. Have the cops brought in by helicopter and tank with the pressure of the music.
The point is this: you may be alone, but you are never without options. You can always find something to do with your life. Just look hard. VERY hard, mind you, and eventually, something will happen.
Now go feed that dog.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Well, When You Put It Like That . . .
Ever heard the phrase, "Your day could be worse"? I hate things like that. I'm sure we all do, but when taken apart and looked at point blank, we see the truth in a statement like this.
Let's discuss the hatred of the statement for a moment.
"Accidents happen." Okay, so WHY DID IT HAVE TO?
"Life's not fair." Yeah, but WHY NOT IN MY FAVOR?
"Your day could be worse." Sure, but IT COULD STAND TO BE A LOT BETTER!
Phrases like these are basically an eloquent way of adding insult to injury. So you've fallen from a high place, landed in a mess, and now you're broken and bleeding and a stinking pile of . . . something - someone walks up and says, "Well, I wouldn't have done that." Insult to injury, people. Not a pretty thing.
However, taken apart, like I said, and looked at, it can be seen that these are often true.
This morning I was reading a book which dealt with a young girl at the age of only ten. This particular girl had just buried both of her parents back in the 1700s in the family garden in Europe, both of them having died from the Black Plague. Soon after burying their decaying and disease-ridden corpses, she realizes that she has contracted the disease herself and crawls into her house to die.
Puts things in perspective, doesn't it?
It is a hard thing to consider, but no matter how hard your day is going, there is always a way it could get worse. That doesn't necessarily comfort you, but it should cushion the blow. I, for example, thought I was having a bad morning. There was something in the sole of my shoe that I couldn't get out, I didn't enjoy breakfast, and it was a chilly eight degrees outside.
Sitting down before class to read a few pages and discover how this poor girl's day was going, I decided I was alright.
We, as people in a mad and crazy world, rarely see this. I sure didn't until I compared myself to a peasant during the Black Plague.
So the toaster burns the toast. At least it didn't short-circuit and burn the house to the ground.
So you called the waiter, "Miss" by mistake. Thank goodness he didn't sue.
So you found out you have a broken leg. Fortunately it isn't a broken pelvis.
You catch my drift, I'm sure.
As bad as everything goes in your day, and as miserable as you think the world may be, there is likely someone, at this precise moment, having a worse one.
Stop feeling bad for yourself. Feel bad for him.
Let's discuss the hatred of the statement for a moment.
"Accidents happen." Okay, so WHY DID IT HAVE TO?
"Life's not fair." Yeah, but WHY NOT IN MY FAVOR?
"Your day could be worse." Sure, but IT COULD STAND TO BE A LOT BETTER!
Phrases like these are basically an eloquent way of adding insult to injury. So you've fallen from a high place, landed in a mess, and now you're broken and bleeding and a stinking pile of . . . something - someone walks up and says, "Well, I wouldn't have done that." Insult to injury, people. Not a pretty thing.
However, taken apart, like I said, and looked at, it can be seen that these are often true.
This morning I was reading a book which dealt with a young girl at the age of only ten. This particular girl had just buried both of her parents back in the 1700s in the family garden in Europe, both of them having died from the Black Plague. Soon after burying their decaying and disease-ridden corpses, she realizes that she has contracted the disease herself and crawls into her house to die.
Puts things in perspective, doesn't it?
It is a hard thing to consider, but no matter how hard your day is going, there is always a way it could get worse. That doesn't necessarily comfort you, but it should cushion the blow. I, for example, thought I was having a bad morning. There was something in the sole of my shoe that I couldn't get out, I didn't enjoy breakfast, and it was a chilly eight degrees outside.
Sitting down before class to read a few pages and discover how this poor girl's day was going, I decided I was alright.
We, as people in a mad and crazy world, rarely see this. I sure didn't until I compared myself to a peasant during the Black Plague.
So the toaster burns the toast. At least it didn't short-circuit and burn the house to the ground.
So you called the waiter, "Miss" by mistake. Thank goodness he didn't sue.
So you found out you have a broken leg. Fortunately it isn't a broken pelvis.
You catch my drift, I'm sure.
As bad as everything goes in your day, and as miserable as you think the world may be, there is likely someone, at this precise moment, having a worse one.
Stop feeling bad for yourself. Feel bad for him.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Grow Up
Flowers are a peculiar thing. I know this because there is no longer the simple strategy for keeping them alive which consists of the following:
1) Pick them
2) Put them in a vase
3) Add water
No, apparently one can't just expect a flower to survive in water anymore - things must be done to keep them alive and well and therefore flowers are to be watched like bombs in case they go off in a shower of petals.
I had some flowers from Hawaii sitting in a vase on my windowsill in my room. I put them on the sill, kept the window open for sunlight, put nice water in them - they were dead within a week. It was sad to throw them out, I loved the scent.
After a brief stint in the theater, some friends brought me a bouquet of roses. I put them in the same vase and added this expensive powder they brought with them, supposedly for the purpose of prolonging the roses.
It worked. Then, I read the back of the package and found out that water had to be changed every couple of days, fresh cuts were required, the roses were to be rotated in the sun, etc.
Basically, I decided it was more trouble than it was worth and let them go after about a week and a half.
Nowadays, you can't expect a flower to live in a vase for more than a day. If you want results, you must do all sorts of things. Florists today will scream and yell until they are blue in the face to emphasize that water is not the answer.
Get bottled water. Add chemicals. Pray. Buy fifteen sun lamps. Dance around them waving a stick and chant ceremonially.
To me, this is becoming troublesome. I say, keep them in the garden, or buy fakes ones. But then again, the idea is to let life thrive on your windowsill.
Better have the chemicals ready.
1) Pick them
2) Put them in a vase
3) Add water
No, apparently one can't just expect a flower to survive in water anymore - things must be done to keep them alive and well and therefore flowers are to be watched like bombs in case they go off in a shower of petals.
I had some flowers from Hawaii sitting in a vase on my windowsill in my room. I put them on the sill, kept the window open for sunlight, put nice water in them - they were dead within a week. It was sad to throw them out, I loved the scent.
After a brief stint in the theater, some friends brought me a bouquet of roses. I put them in the same vase and added this expensive powder they brought with them, supposedly for the purpose of prolonging the roses.
It worked. Then, I read the back of the package and found out that water had to be changed every couple of days, fresh cuts were required, the roses were to be rotated in the sun, etc.
Basically, I decided it was more trouble than it was worth and let them go after about a week and a half.
Nowadays, you can't expect a flower to live in a vase for more than a day. If you want results, you must do all sorts of things. Florists today will scream and yell until they are blue in the face to emphasize that water is not the answer.
Get bottled water. Add chemicals. Pray. Buy fifteen sun lamps. Dance around them waving a stick and chant ceremonially.
To me, this is becoming troublesome. I say, keep them in the garden, or buy fakes ones. But then again, the idea is to let life thrive on your windowsill.
Better have the chemicals ready.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Rain, Rain, PLEASE Go Away
When the sky opens and you find yourself buried underneath a sea of cascading water, your inital reaction is "Oh dear, I appear to be wet."
If you're anyone who lives on a college campus, there are two possible ways you can interpret rain. I am, so I will tell you. And to be honest, it is nothing along the lines of "Oh dear, I appear to be wet."
1) You get depressed and miserable and slink about for the rest of the day as though you have just been informed that rather than a month left to live, you have a week, and the Superbowl is on the eighth day.
2) You laugh, as it is the funniest thing that could possibly happen.
To explain, let me say this: we, as college students, have different hardships than the rest of you. Really, we do.
If you are depressed and miserable, you have reasons. It is a common fact that even with the most state of the art buildings (hah) everyone living on the bottom floor will be subjected to a flood and everyone living on the top floor will find out the ceiling leaks. The place smells of mildew and decay and you are upset by this horrible turn of events. Also, when you walk out of doors, you find that you have nothing to wear that isn't completely rain resistant. All you brought to college are your good sneakers and your fashionable designer tops which no one should have shelled out for in the first place because we're broke college students fighting just to put meals in our stomachs but I'm rambling again. These clothes are now ruined. Your hair will frizz and everyone you know will mock you from class to class. Your bag, full of two-hundred dollar textbooks, will be soaked.
Rain will ruin your day.
Or, like me, you could be the other person.
You could accept the fact that you are soaked and look ridiculous, but you also have to take a moment and look around at the other students and teachers, stumbling about in the rain, and find a sort of humor in their misfortune and laugh at it.
This is cruel. But it is also true.
If you're anyone who lives on a college campus, there are two possible ways you can interpret rain. I am, so I will tell you. And to be honest, it is nothing along the lines of "Oh dear, I appear to be wet."
1) You get depressed and miserable and slink about for the rest of the day as though you have just been informed that rather than a month left to live, you have a week, and the Superbowl is on the eighth day.
2) You laugh, as it is the funniest thing that could possibly happen.
To explain, let me say this: we, as college students, have different hardships than the rest of you. Really, we do.
If you are depressed and miserable, you have reasons. It is a common fact that even with the most state of the art buildings (hah) everyone living on the bottom floor will be subjected to a flood and everyone living on the top floor will find out the ceiling leaks. The place smells of mildew and decay and you are upset by this horrible turn of events. Also, when you walk out of doors, you find that you have nothing to wear that isn't completely rain resistant. All you brought to college are your good sneakers and your fashionable designer tops which no one should have shelled out for in the first place because we're broke college students fighting just to put meals in our stomachs but I'm rambling again. These clothes are now ruined. Your hair will frizz and everyone you know will mock you from class to class. Your bag, full of two-hundred dollar textbooks, will be soaked.
Rain will ruin your day.
Or, like me, you could be the other person.
You could accept the fact that you are soaked and look ridiculous, but you also have to take a moment and look around at the other students and teachers, stumbling about in the rain, and find a sort of humor in their misfortune and laugh at it.
This is cruel. But it is also true.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The End Is Near (Yet So Far Away)
I love to read. You may or may not have noticed that, you may have guessed that, or you may have simply inferred that I was born with a dictionary near my head instead of a fluffy pink pillow, which served the purpose of making me both eloquent and long-winded.
Or perhaps you just glided over this, I'd understand.
At any rate, I love to read. It is rare when a good book comes along, one which hijacks the body and mind and must be read through and through once the first chapter has been read. When this good book comes along and you have the fortune (or misfortune) of happening upon it ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.
Pardon my loud and angry shouting.
Today, I have been reading such a book. I started it some time ago, found my way back into college for the last semester of my second year, and had to put it on hold.
Horrifying.
The book continued to call to me. I will not tell you the name of the book (but I will tell you that Wilbur Smith is quite possibly one of the greatest storytellers this world has ever seen), so there. I will tell you that it called to me on my cell phone, my room phone, my house phone, and the campus intercom system.
That's a problem.
Alcoholics have beer. I have good books.
(envision me crying, sobbingly confessing, a broken man)
I've started. . . sneaking it in . . . in between classes . . . oh I'm so ashamed! I hold off on sleep just to read one more chapter! I don't talk to people because I have to keep reading it! IT IS THAT GOOD!!! OH I DISGUST MYSELF!!!
All self-loathing apart, there is something magical about this. When you've found a story so enticing and so beautiful that it simply draws you completely into its world, you know that there are books worth reading.
There is also something problematic about this: the more you read on, the more you feel the need to finish the darn thing. What can be the greatest problem is that every page you turn feels as though it were turned the other way; every chapter you read has not gotten you any closer to the end. Something will always pop up and keep you from going any further.
For instance:
I am about thirty pages away from the end of my book. The final problem as appeared, people are rushing to and fro, desperate to resolve the situation. Good and evil are clashing, love is at stake, lives could be lost, and the world is holding its breath.
Of course, a teacher tells us all to pay attention so I am forced to put the book away. Such a pity.
The drive to know what will happen next, and will everyone live happily ever after (excluding the villian), can be all-consuming. You must know, you have to know - but the end of the book may not be more than thirty pages away to you and seems like a thousand pages. This is distressing.
You have to know.
You must know.
There is only one way.
Somehow . . . someway . . . you must finish that book.
I suggest we both hop to it.
Or perhaps you just glided over this, I'd understand.
At any rate, I love to read. It is rare when a good book comes along, one which hijacks the body and mind and must be read through and through once the first chapter has been read. When this good book comes along and you have the fortune (or misfortune) of happening upon it ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.
Pardon my loud and angry shouting.
Today, I have been reading such a book. I started it some time ago, found my way back into college for the last semester of my second year, and had to put it on hold.
Horrifying.
The book continued to call to me. I will not tell you the name of the book (but I will tell you that Wilbur Smith is quite possibly one of the greatest storytellers this world has ever seen), so there. I will tell you that it called to me on my cell phone, my room phone, my house phone, and the campus intercom system.
That's a problem.
Alcoholics have beer. I have good books.
(envision me crying, sobbingly confessing, a broken man)
I've started. . . sneaking it in . . . in between classes . . . oh I'm so ashamed! I hold off on sleep just to read one more chapter! I don't talk to people because I have to keep reading it! IT IS THAT GOOD!!! OH I DISGUST MYSELF!!!
All self-loathing apart, there is something magical about this. When you've found a story so enticing and so beautiful that it simply draws you completely into its world, you know that there are books worth reading.
There is also something problematic about this: the more you read on, the more you feel the need to finish the darn thing. What can be the greatest problem is that every page you turn feels as though it were turned the other way; every chapter you read has not gotten you any closer to the end. Something will always pop up and keep you from going any further.
For instance:
I am about thirty pages away from the end of my book. The final problem as appeared, people are rushing to and fro, desperate to resolve the situation. Good and evil are clashing, love is at stake, lives could be lost, and the world is holding its breath.
Of course, a teacher tells us all to pay attention so I am forced to put the book away. Such a pity.
The drive to know what will happen next, and will everyone live happily ever after (excluding the villian), can be all-consuming. You must know, you have to know - but the end of the book may not be more than thirty pages away to you and seems like a thousand pages. This is distressing.
You have to know.
You must know.
There is only one way.
Somehow . . . someway . . . you must finish that book.
I suggest we both hop to it.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Now You've Got It!
The common cold. The flu. The sniffles. The measles. Whatever it is, it has come your way and it is going to get you, whether you like it or not.
That dreadful sickness, that horrible disease . . . IT WILL GET YOU.
Or perhaps it already has.
As a college student, I am forced, every day, to sit in a classroom with other people. One sneezes, and suddenly it goes through the room like wildfire.
Or, consider those that ride a bus. Someone didn't wash their hands in the morning and has a cold, they put their hand on a railing, and the entire bus becomes an incubus of viral plague (thank you to Meryl Streep for this quote).
Or, someone sits down in a restaurant or cafeteria and coughs, but is kind enough to cover their mouth first. They then pick up a plate from the salad bar with this same hand and infect the rest of the plates in the stack, plus all the veggies, plus the tongs.
You are doomed. DOOMED. There is no way to escape it. There is no way to hide.
You don't have it?
Now you do.
But all is lost? NO, you MUST FIGHT BACK.
Let me explain.
You can try the ordinary things. Everyone conscious about the sick season does - wash the hands, carry a tissue, spray everything with disinfectant before you touch it, go to bed early - but these things can only take you so far. All the hand sanitizer in the world won't save you from an unclean surface. Tissues will eventually wear too thin and muck-covered to be used. Sometimes, we just can't help staying up late - so what do you do?
Well, this is where, as my literature teacher said last semester, the miracle of pharmaceutical science comes into play.
- I suggest Airborne if you are desperate. It tastes miserable, it looks like the creation of pondscum in a bottle, and it packs a punch that would knock an elepant over. However, the stuff works to keep others at bay.
- If you have to use tissues, switch often. The more you carry one filth-covered cloth with you, the more disgusting it becomes. In time, you'll just be dabbing your face with that Meryl-Streep-Incubus we talked about.
- Share not. I repeat, share not. If someone has taken a magical pill and they are fit as a fiddle, do not accept their offer if they want to lend you a pill. You are taking a pill from the jar of a person who, at one point, was coughing and sneezing and oozing and digging his gross fingers into that jar, likely touching every last pill on the way in. Do not accept pills, go buy your own, guard them jealously.
- If you can, get away. By this I mean, get the hell away from anyone who sits beneath a cloud of germs, dripping pools of feverish material onto the ground. The elevator door opens, a woman greets you by sneezing into a stained tissue - wait for the next one. You sit down in class and the guy next to you coughs harshly, move your desk over an inch or two. Cruel? Not really.
- Remember: fluid intake is an important thing. Drink, I say, and drink again. Drink at least one full bottle of water a day. Have a glass of orange juice with breakfast. Drink less highly carbonated things.
Why?
Fluid cleans you out. Fluids cleans out your system, keeps your system running, and keeps your metabolism cycling. It staves off the dehydration and allows your body to fight off disease better.
- Ultimately, you need the sleep. Get it, but get it on your own. You will be tempted by the dark side (actually, it is commonly a dark green) and try to swallow a sleeping pill to get through the night. There is a chance you are that one person who doesn't react well to sleeping pills and you will instead be up all night.
OR.
You will build up a dependency to the sleeping pills. When you run out, you'll lie awake and miserable at night, until someone on the fourth floor sneezes into an air duct and it carries down to your room.
Get the sleep, but get it on your own.
So, there we have it.
This is the season of the sick. The time of the self-preservation is upon us.
Grab the tissues. Snatch up the warm blankie. Heat up the tea or hot chocolate.
The time to protect yourself is now.
That dreadful sickness, that horrible disease . . . IT WILL GET YOU.
Or perhaps it already has.
As a college student, I am forced, every day, to sit in a classroom with other people. One sneezes, and suddenly it goes through the room like wildfire.
Or, consider those that ride a bus. Someone didn't wash their hands in the morning and has a cold, they put their hand on a railing, and the entire bus becomes an incubus of viral plague (thank you to Meryl Streep for this quote).
Or, someone sits down in a restaurant or cafeteria and coughs, but is kind enough to cover their mouth first. They then pick up a plate from the salad bar with this same hand and infect the rest of the plates in the stack, plus all the veggies, plus the tongs.
You are doomed. DOOMED. There is no way to escape it. There is no way to hide.
You don't have it?
Now you do.
But all is lost? NO, you MUST FIGHT BACK.
Let me explain.
You can try the ordinary things. Everyone conscious about the sick season does - wash the hands, carry a tissue, spray everything with disinfectant before you touch it, go to bed early - but these things can only take you so far. All the hand sanitizer in the world won't save you from an unclean surface. Tissues will eventually wear too thin and muck-covered to be used. Sometimes, we just can't help staying up late - so what do you do?
Well, this is where, as my literature teacher said last semester, the miracle of pharmaceutical science comes into play.
- I suggest Airborne if you are desperate. It tastes miserable, it looks like the creation of pondscum in a bottle, and it packs a punch that would knock an elepant over. However, the stuff works to keep others at bay.
- If you have to use tissues, switch often. The more you carry one filth-covered cloth with you, the more disgusting it becomes. In time, you'll just be dabbing your face with that Meryl-Streep-Incubus we talked about.
- Share not. I repeat, share not. If someone has taken a magical pill and they are fit as a fiddle, do not accept their offer if they want to lend you a pill. You are taking a pill from the jar of a person who, at one point, was coughing and sneezing and oozing and digging his gross fingers into that jar, likely touching every last pill on the way in. Do not accept pills, go buy your own, guard them jealously.
- If you can, get away. By this I mean, get the hell away from anyone who sits beneath a cloud of germs, dripping pools of feverish material onto the ground. The elevator door opens, a woman greets you by sneezing into a stained tissue - wait for the next one. You sit down in class and the guy next to you coughs harshly, move your desk over an inch or two. Cruel? Not really.
- Remember: fluid intake is an important thing. Drink, I say, and drink again. Drink at least one full bottle of water a day. Have a glass of orange juice with breakfast. Drink less highly carbonated things.
Why?
Fluid cleans you out. Fluids cleans out your system, keeps your system running, and keeps your metabolism cycling. It staves off the dehydration and allows your body to fight off disease better.
- Ultimately, you need the sleep. Get it, but get it on your own. You will be tempted by the dark side (actually, it is commonly a dark green) and try to swallow a sleeping pill to get through the night. There is a chance you are that one person who doesn't react well to sleeping pills and you will instead be up all night.
OR.
You will build up a dependency to the sleeping pills. When you run out, you'll lie awake and miserable at night, until someone on the fourth floor sneezes into an air duct and it carries down to your room.
Get the sleep, but get it on your own.
So, there we have it.
This is the season of the sick. The time of the self-preservation is upon us.
Grab the tissues. Snatch up the warm blankie. Heat up the tea or hot chocolate.
The time to protect yourself is now.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Lend Me Your Ears
I remember years ago laughing at my unfortunate sister when she had an ear infection. She was forced, twice a day, to lie down on her side and have some drops put into her ear. Furthermore, she was required to stay that way, silent and staring out at the world from her side, for about ten minutes.
Now, a hundred or so years later, I know that if she were present, it would be me she would laugh at and I would deserve it completely.
I have a small ear infection. There, I said it. I have a small cut in my ear and I have to, four times a day, lie down on my side, stare out at the world, and drop something into my ear. I am plunged into the sensation of being underwater as I can't hear out of one ear, pressed firmly to the ground, and my other is blocked by some medicinal liquid.
However, unlike my sister, I am forced to lie down four times, rather than two, and there is no mother nearby to put the drops in and to comfort me. I, a busy college student with much else on my mind, am forced to perform this whole unpleasant task all by myself.
Now, why is this a problem?
I am a college student, as stated. I should welcome the forty minutes daily of bliss and quiet.
I think not.
To begin with, there is no mother, as I have said. No one brings me a cookie, no one turns on the television for me, and no one pats my head and tells me in soothing tones that this will all be better. In reflection, my sister had it quite well off.
Next, there is the fact that every minute I lie here, every second that goes by, I have wasted another valuable moment as a college student doing . . . heaven knows what (studying, perhaps?), and to waste even a second means certain doom.
Finally, I have roommates. And the roommates are treated to the sight of me, lying on my side, plunging a dropper into my ear, and they get to laugh.
Laugh, much like the way I was able to snicker and cackle at my poor unfortunate sister all those years ago.
This must surely be karma.
This must surely be her way, from the years in the past, of wishing a swift and terrible revenge upon me.
Well . . . bravo. She wins.
One time done today. Only three more to go.
Now, a hundred or so years later, I know that if she were present, it would be me she would laugh at and I would deserve it completely.
I have a small ear infection. There, I said it. I have a small cut in my ear and I have to, four times a day, lie down on my side, stare out at the world, and drop something into my ear. I am plunged into the sensation of being underwater as I can't hear out of one ear, pressed firmly to the ground, and my other is blocked by some medicinal liquid.
However, unlike my sister, I am forced to lie down four times, rather than two, and there is no mother nearby to put the drops in and to comfort me. I, a busy college student with much else on my mind, am forced to perform this whole unpleasant task all by myself.
Now, why is this a problem?
I am a college student, as stated. I should welcome the forty minutes daily of bliss and quiet.
I think not.
To begin with, there is no mother, as I have said. No one brings me a cookie, no one turns on the television for me, and no one pats my head and tells me in soothing tones that this will all be better. In reflection, my sister had it quite well off.
Next, there is the fact that every minute I lie here, every second that goes by, I have wasted another valuable moment as a college student doing . . . heaven knows what (studying, perhaps?), and to waste even a second means certain doom.
Finally, I have roommates. And the roommates are treated to the sight of me, lying on my side, plunging a dropper into my ear, and they get to laugh.
Laugh, much like the way I was able to snicker and cackle at my poor unfortunate sister all those years ago.
This must surely be karma.
This must surely be her way, from the years in the past, of wishing a swift and terrible revenge upon me.
Well . . . bravo. She wins.
One time done today. Only three more to go.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Resume, Resume
I had a chance today to glance at my resume. I hadn't looked at that thing in years, let me tell you. The last time I was so much as in the same room with that thing, it was when I was about to stuff it into a series of envelopes and mail them off to several hundred colleges.
To me, it was plain and scanty. I was somewhat shocked upon hearing it praised, openly, in class, as being perfect and consisting of everything that I needed.
Let me back up.
I have not invented anything. I have no awards for curing diseases.
I was not the number one in my class. The top 40, at least.
I was not at any time a part of any major student organizations. I never was one for Amnesty International or Students Rights.
Somehow, looking at that list, it pleased the class and I hadn't an idea why.
There are several notable things. Boy Scout, black belt, playwrite, cleaned a small pox cemetery. But there are no outstanding notices about having competed in the math leagues or published major award-winning articles in the paper.
Actually, the major notable newspaper article I wrote covered the performance of "The Laramie Project" at my school and was the one article which generated a great deal of controversy when it was censored, landing me at the heart of a campus politics war.
So.
Yeah.
This goes to show you this: no matter what we see in ourselves, for a resume is merely a well-documented and articulate reflection of our person, someone is going to see it very differently.
Life . . . it is strange.
I wrote down Head of Relay For Life Team, 2004, and thought nothing of it. The college I was accepted to was thrilled to see this.
I wrote down that I competed in the Drama Fest in Boston, thinking it would be smirked at. Instead, it has identified me as a competitor.
I wrote down that I had worked at two retails, a factory, and mowed lawns, realizing these aren't the most sparkling internships one can have.
Can you say "work study?"
The resume, therefore, is tricky.
You can't see yourself through it. You can see yourself ON it.
To explain that: you can write every brilliant comment and shining moment of your life on it, you can record every time you rescued a kitty from a tree, you can stuff in every A+ that you've ever recieved - it doesn't matter how intelligent or wonderful you see yourself.
All that matters is that someone else will see your resume. And when they see it, they will see you.
So, ask yourself this: who will they see?
Can't tell? Neither could I.
To me, it was plain and scanty. I was somewhat shocked upon hearing it praised, openly, in class, as being perfect and consisting of everything that I needed.
Let me back up.
I have not invented anything. I have no awards for curing diseases.
I was not the number one in my class. The top 40, at least.
I was not at any time a part of any major student organizations. I never was one for Amnesty International or Students Rights.
Somehow, looking at that list, it pleased the class and I hadn't an idea why.
There are several notable things. Boy Scout, black belt, playwrite, cleaned a small pox cemetery. But there are no outstanding notices about having competed in the math leagues or published major award-winning articles in the paper.
Actually, the major notable newspaper article I wrote covered the performance of "The Laramie Project" at my school and was the one article which generated a great deal of controversy when it was censored, landing me at the heart of a campus politics war.
So.
Yeah.
This goes to show you this: no matter what we see in ourselves, for a resume is merely a well-documented and articulate reflection of our person, someone is going to see it very differently.
Life . . . it is strange.
I wrote down Head of Relay For Life Team, 2004, and thought nothing of it. The college I was accepted to was thrilled to see this.
I wrote down that I competed in the Drama Fest in Boston, thinking it would be smirked at. Instead, it has identified me as a competitor.
I wrote down that I had worked at two retails, a factory, and mowed lawns, realizing these aren't the most sparkling internships one can have.
Can you say "work study?"
The resume, therefore, is tricky.
You can't see yourself through it. You can see yourself ON it.
To explain that: you can write every brilliant comment and shining moment of your life on it, you can record every time you rescued a kitty from a tree, you can stuff in every A+ that you've ever recieved - it doesn't matter how intelligent or wonderful you see yourself.
All that matters is that someone else will see your resume. And when they see it, they will see you.
So, ask yourself this: who will they see?
Can't tell? Neither could I.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Wipe Your Feet!
There was a disaster today. Oddly enough, it happened because of the snow, however indirectly, and it caused a friend to be carried out in a hospital stretcher, right before my eyes.
She slipped on the stairs, her feet a little wet with snow, and had a concussion.
Now, I know this isn't positive. I know this isn't a great national crisis, I know that soldiers will not be flown in from overseas to protect her, I know that the president will not fly over the hospital with a sad look on his face.
But, so what?
To me, this is a problem. This is one of the greatest problems that can happen and no one ever sees it coming.
That nasty sign, the one which is sitting in front of a slightly wet bathroom floor or the one that appears on the flagstones outside a building the moment a bit of moisture appears in the air - it says CAUTION: SLIPPERY WHEN WET for a reason, people.
We move fast down those stairs and we suddenly have our feet leave the ground, shooting out from under us, moving too quickly to track, and we flail our arms, suddenly realizing that something is wrong. Fall back. Hit the head. See the world go white for a moment.
It says that for a reason. It does.
I remember that I slipped on the stairs once and fell down the flight holding a bag of laundry. I sprained my ankle badly and limped for a week. I was in a rush and I wasn't paying attention.
This girl, however, was completely innocent. She paid attention to the signs, she wiped her feet on the mat, and she calmly stepped onto the stairs.
She just failed to notice that no one had done the same and the stairs were a puddle of water.
To all.
To everyone.
To each and every person who may read this:
WIPE YOUR DAMN FEET, IT IS SLIPPERY OUT THERE!
She slipped on the stairs, her feet a little wet with snow, and had a concussion.
Now, I know this isn't positive. I know this isn't a great national crisis, I know that soldiers will not be flown in from overseas to protect her, I know that the president will not fly over the hospital with a sad look on his face.
But, so what?
To me, this is a problem. This is one of the greatest problems that can happen and no one ever sees it coming.
That nasty sign, the one which is sitting in front of a slightly wet bathroom floor or the one that appears on the flagstones outside a building the moment a bit of moisture appears in the air - it says CAUTION: SLIPPERY WHEN WET for a reason, people.
We move fast down those stairs and we suddenly have our feet leave the ground, shooting out from under us, moving too quickly to track, and we flail our arms, suddenly realizing that something is wrong. Fall back. Hit the head. See the world go white for a moment.
It says that for a reason. It does.
I remember that I slipped on the stairs once and fell down the flight holding a bag of laundry. I sprained my ankle badly and limped for a week. I was in a rush and I wasn't paying attention.
This girl, however, was completely innocent. She paid attention to the signs, she wiped her feet on the mat, and she calmly stepped onto the stairs.
She just failed to notice that no one had done the same and the stairs were a puddle of water.
To all.
To everyone.
To each and every person who may read this:
WIPE YOUR DAMN FEET, IT IS SLIPPERY OUT THERE!
Monday, February 12, 2007
Dream A Little Dream
Every now and then, the occasional strange dream will hit. You will be jolted from sleep by the sheer absurdity of it, or the sheer horror (depends on the dream), and you will lie in bed, shaking, blinking, and wondering just what the heck you saw.
The following are examples . . .
You were walking down the street wearing a green suit while drinking milk from an expired carton when you suddenly realized your house is on fire, but you live in a rainforest, so what is your house doing there?
Or:
You're drowning in the ocean when the city of Atlantis apears below you and singing mermaids and crabs usher you in, a la The Little Mermaid at which point you find out that you are slated to sing before this undersea audience and you've forgotten your clothes.
Something like that.
The dream is weird. You find it weird, and you know it is weird, and it is so weird within the dream that you tell yourself "This is TOO weird . . . this has to be a dream," and a voice in your head (also you) says, "Wait, it is!"
And you sit up.
I've done that.
The fancy if not elaborate dreams above notwithstanding, what else could possibly happen? Instead of one bad dream, there might just be the possibility of a triple feature bad dream matinee. Those are the ones you have to watch out for.
I, for example, just had one so strange that I woke up merely as self defense.
Dream One: A boy I know here at college, much smaller than me and with an odd temper, threw a chair at me during some sort of stage rehearsal and broke my foot, whereupon I chased him all over campus and would up completely shattering my foot.
Dream Two: My suitemate's hamster, dead over Christmas, came back to life and sat on my dining room table back at home in the middle of a party, at which point I fed it a carrot.
Dream Three: My mother informed me she'd rented out my room to an enemy I hadn't seen or even thought of since high school, and I predictably was angry.
I rest my case.
See, a dream is an odd thing. Who cares about it? You barely remember them anyway, at any rate. But when you do, they really sit with you.
I'm asking myself, what did I do to this boy that made him hit me with a chair? And why did I chase him on a broken foot? That's just crazy. For that matter, how does a dead hamster in Rhode Island crawl all the way to Boston and onto my dinner table? And do hamsters eat carrots?
Ultimately, why would my mother rent out my room to someone I hate?
The questions.
The hidden meanings.
The . . . something else to complete this small comedic triad.
Sound Effect: (rim shot)
We all have these dreams. No, not THESE but ones like them. People you don't know, things you don't care about, and memories you've generally forgotten. They're all fair game in a dream.
So, what am I suggesting you do to fight it?
All you can do when you wake up is take a shower, fast, and hope it all goes away.
The following are examples . . .
You were walking down the street wearing a green suit while drinking milk from an expired carton when you suddenly realized your house is on fire, but you live in a rainforest, so what is your house doing there?
Or:
You're drowning in the ocean when the city of Atlantis apears below you and singing mermaids and crabs usher you in, a la The Little Mermaid at which point you find out that you are slated to sing before this undersea audience and you've forgotten your clothes.
Something like that.
The dream is weird. You find it weird, and you know it is weird, and it is so weird within the dream that you tell yourself "This is TOO weird . . . this has to be a dream," and a voice in your head (also you) says, "Wait, it is!"
And you sit up.
I've done that.
The fancy if not elaborate dreams above notwithstanding, what else could possibly happen? Instead of one bad dream, there might just be the possibility of a triple feature bad dream matinee. Those are the ones you have to watch out for.
I, for example, just had one so strange that I woke up merely as self defense.
Dream One: A boy I know here at college, much smaller than me and with an odd temper, threw a chair at me during some sort of stage rehearsal and broke my foot, whereupon I chased him all over campus and would up completely shattering my foot.
Dream Two: My suitemate's hamster, dead over Christmas, came back to life and sat on my dining room table back at home in the middle of a party, at which point I fed it a carrot.
Dream Three: My mother informed me she'd rented out my room to an enemy I hadn't seen or even thought of since high school, and I predictably was angry.
I rest my case.
See, a dream is an odd thing. Who cares about it? You barely remember them anyway, at any rate. But when you do, they really sit with you.
I'm asking myself, what did I do to this boy that made him hit me with a chair? And why did I chase him on a broken foot? That's just crazy. For that matter, how does a dead hamster in Rhode Island crawl all the way to Boston and onto my dinner table? And do hamsters eat carrots?
Ultimately, why would my mother rent out my room to someone I hate?
The questions.
The hidden meanings.
The . . . something else to complete this small comedic triad.
Sound Effect: (rim shot)
We all have these dreams. No, not THESE but ones like them. People you don't know, things you don't care about, and memories you've generally forgotten. They're all fair game in a dream.
So, what am I suggesting you do to fight it?
All you can do when you wake up is take a shower, fast, and hope it all goes away.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Publish And Be Damned
Opportunity, we have been told, is not a lengthy visitor.
And right now, I'm trying to decide what to wear when he arrives and whether he'll take tea or coffee. I'll put stock on tea. I can't make tea myself, just flavoured water which is lukewarm, but I can pass that off as tea with the proper biscuits.
I have a few goals in life.
- Marry rich.
- Invent something.
- Abolish reality television.
et-bleeding-cetera.
My most prominent goal happens to be "Get published." However, with half my works unfinished and the other half unpublished, this has yet to happen yet. I am a writer, sure, but an unpublished one. This is the equivalent of a young girl saying she's a super star because she was booted off "American Idol" without even making it past preliminaries. This would then make me a hack incapable of singing and weighing in heavily on my dancing skills. I can't dance, so we'll leave this metaphor quickly.
The point is this: while I have nothing I can call (yet) a published work, there is always the dream and the chance that someday I will make it. So, I need to find a publisher, an agent, and a miracle.
I may have found just that.
Sparing the specific details, I have come across an opportunity to have one of my complete works passed before the eye of a publisher. By "pass" I mean that he may glance lazily at it as he puts his coffee mug down on top of it as an awkwardly shaped coaster, but he'll see it nonetheless.
Heaven help me, I want that shot.
So, what is stopping me? What is making me stay my hand and shuffle my feet (and if you could see me, I'm fidgeting too)? The possibility of FAILURE.
Yes, failure. The other "F" word. We hate that word, we hate it so much, and we all want it abolished. The problem is, we can't all succeed. We can't all be famous and important and get ahead - for us to get ahead, someone has to fall behind. I have just come upon my move to be one that gets ahead.
But what if I fail? What if I fall behind? Suppose I one day open my P.O. box and find a package inside, containing my manuscript with a rejection letter attached and a coffee ring on the top? This is, sadly enough, a probably reality. But against all that pounds in my chest and all that screams for me not to try, I have to.
So . . . yeah. I said it.
I will be published, or I won't. But that all depends on if I take my shot.
And right now, I'm trying to decide what to wear when he arrives and whether he'll take tea or coffee. I'll put stock on tea. I can't make tea myself, just flavoured water which is lukewarm, but I can pass that off as tea with the proper biscuits.
I have a few goals in life.
- Marry rich.
- Invent something.
- Abolish reality television.
et-bleeding-cetera.
My most prominent goal happens to be "Get published." However, with half my works unfinished and the other half unpublished, this has yet to happen yet. I am a writer, sure, but an unpublished one. This is the equivalent of a young girl saying she's a super star because she was booted off "American Idol" without even making it past preliminaries. This would then make me a hack incapable of singing and weighing in heavily on my dancing skills. I can't dance, so we'll leave this metaphor quickly.
The point is this: while I have nothing I can call (yet) a published work, there is always the dream and the chance that someday I will make it. So, I need to find a publisher, an agent, and a miracle.
I may have found just that.
Sparing the specific details, I have come across an opportunity to have one of my complete works passed before the eye of a publisher. By "pass" I mean that he may glance lazily at it as he puts his coffee mug down on top of it as an awkwardly shaped coaster, but he'll see it nonetheless.
Heaven help me, I want that shot.
So, what is stopping me? What is making me stay my hand and shuffle my feet (and if you could see me, I'm fidgeting too)? The possibility of FAILURE.
Yes, failure. The other "F" word. We hate that word, we hate it so much, and we all want it abolished. The problem is, we can't all succeed. We can't all be famous and important and get ahead - for us to get ahead, someone has to fall behind. I have just come upon my move to be one that gets ahead.
But what if I fail? What if I fall behind? Suppose I one day open my P.O. box and find a package inside, containing my manuscript with a rejection letter attached and a coffee ring on the top? This is, sadly enough, a probably reality. But against all that pounds in my chest and all that screams for me not to try, I have to.
So . . . yeah. I said it.
I will be published, or I won't. But that all depends on if I take my shot.
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