Friday, December 31, 2010
I, however, am restless. There are preparations I have put off far too long. In a few hours, I will ready my body for an excursion deep into that one city: so nice / named twice. I have planned a day of exploration; not only of the sights, but of friendship. I will discover. I will see and read, taste and smell, I will spend.
But for now, I toil. Packing, stacking, and double-checking. Laundry, sundry, and Who-flecking.
And before you know it, belly full of coffee and stomach churning, I will resemble a cousin of mine in the hasty throws of refueling a body bereft of sleep.
My only resolution:
Thursday, December 30, 2010
The original website for the film Space Jam, in all it's 1996 glory!
I mean, I don't know what else to say. Explore it? The casting page is pretty thorough and well-written. The sheen of early, geocities-like page design is inescapable.
Go on and take an adventure into the years when the internet wasn't about porn and mythological slumber parties!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
No, no! I'm not going to prattle on about grocery shopping or scrotum, don't be ridiculous. There was a time for that, and it's gone now. Let us instead focus on what's really important;
The OED, our human bible, defines reliability as follows: the ability of a person or system to perform and maintain its functions in routine circumstances, as well as hostile or unexpected circumstances.
Oh my. Nails, heads...everything is being hit right tonight! Far be it from me to compare myself with the level of "person," but I am doubtless one highly functioning son of a system. Routine!? You bet your squarely cushioned ass I am. Maintenance, however, that is our keyword. There has been a lull. I have been living in a swamp of my own excess. Neglect has corrupted the prime directive:
I thought the culmination of this life of sin was two days passed, but I am a fool. Even now, this Ghost of Summers' Past haunts me. The chains rattle against my bedpost, breaking a cold and dreamless sleep.
"WHERE WERE YOU, MAN?" it bellows. "WE NEEDED YOU MOST!"
Never again. Everybody hurts, but as an intelligent being, I know there is so much more potential inside me. I am the designer of these systems within which I function. I am the machine divining machines. I am the sum of my parts, and under the circumstances, hostile or unexpected, I must work.
Have trouble sleeping? NOT NOW, SON!
You see this hot mess? That's Alizarin Fuckin' Crimson, man. That shit is on fire.
Wait, Bob, keep that Prussian blue away from the fire.
YOU RUINED IT! YOU RUINED IT! YOU RUINED IT!
HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GONNA MAKE ANYTHING DECENT OUT OF PURPLE!?
Oh shit! He's done it again!
- Change in appetite
- Abdominal cramps and bloating
- Breast tenderness or enlargement
- Irregular vaginal bleeding or spotting
- Changes in menstrual cycle
- Temporary infertility after treatment
- Fluid retention (edema)
- Spotty darkening of the skin, particularly on the face
- Weight changes
- Intolerance to contact lenses
- Loss of scalp hair
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
'The word "pollyanna" may also denote a holiday gift exchange more typically known as Secret Santa. This term is used in Philadelphia and the surrounding areas of Pennsylvania. It can instead mean a gift exchange rotation in which several families each give gifts to one other family in the "pollyanna" each year. This is often done when siblings in a large family begin to have children of their own.'
After having said "Pollyanna" for years in college, and then later in New York, I never realized that no one outside my family and high school friends knew what hell I was talking about. This finally explained why I was always interrupted with "Oh! You mean secret sant-aaa!". Uh, yes, of course, POLLYANNA IS SECRET SANTA AND MY LIFE IS A LIE. Approximately one year ago today I found out that Pollyanna, like Tastykake, is a regional term for something the whole world should recognize. Secret Santa? SS? ARE WE SUPPOSED TO BE OKAY WITH THIS?!
Pollyanna it shall remain. Merry Christmas Eve...eve.
Two sticks of butter
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
A cup of coffee to start the day. An American tradition. THE OLE CUP OF JOE! Thanks, Maggie, just a HOTCUPPAJAVA for me today. Oh Earl, you make a great cup of coffee- black as night and twice as sweet! That's Earl coffee!
But there's the hideous underbelly of our morning coffee tradition. The part no one thinks about. The part no one talks about. The most SUV-loving thing we do when we order a coffee at a Starbucks. Okay, not all of us. But a lot of us.
Step 1.) Pay $2.19 for a cup of coffee - Okay, whatever, this is a choice you've made.
Step 2.) Tap foot to whatever Sting song is being piped into the shop.
Step 3.) Receive coffee and make way to milk/sugar/stirring area.
Step 4.) Proceed to FUCKING POUR OUT YOUR FUCKING COFFEE INTO THE TRASH TO MAKE ROOM FOR CREAM.
I watch step 4 happen every time I go to a Starbucks. People give me giftcards to Starbucks, and I enjoy them. Otherwise I'm more of a 7/11 man. It reminds me more of WaWa, even though it never will be, never could be. Step 4. People pouring steaming hot coffee into the GARBAGE can to free up that inch of space they want for their milk or cream. It is insane. Whoever changes the trash bags at Starbucks must feel like Sisyphus. New bag. New day. End of shift- filthy bladder of lukewarm coffee. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Watching people throw their not-inexpensive coffee away literally seconds after ordering it reminds me again of why we will immediately lose World War III if a draft goes into effect.
God save the Bean.
No? Oh, I suppose I'm the only one who completed Super Mario Bros. 2 for the Nintendo Entertainment System.
For those devoid of youthful memories wasted in front of a television, allow me to introduce you to Mouser; don't be fooled, he's a real prick.
Those shades, that trolling grin: he knew the score.
"Wait, so you don't want me to pelt you with explosives? That's funny, because I thought this was a game...you know, I throw the bombs and you catch them and fail to throw them back at me. What's that? You've been dodging them this whole time because the game has trained you to avoid bombs at all costs? No one told you that they can be caught and relayed without blowing up in your face? Pardon while I laugh even harder."
The first time you encounter this master bastard, his tricks are a mere nuisance. But by his third appearance, Mouser has learned to catch the bombs you throw back at him. The entire scene plays out like some Nazi's idea of hot-potato, complete with a building, curious dislike of rodents.
I've taken the initiative to commission a new, more accurate representation of this loathesome vermin:
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
AFTER TEN-THOUSAND YEARS, I'M FREE!
IT'S TIME TO CONQUER EARTH!
APLHA, Rita's escaped!
Recruit a team of
TEENAGERS WITH ATTITUDE!
Monday, December 20, 2010
What to bring to the holiday party...what to bring to the holiday party...what to bring to the holiday party. The question cycled through my brain all day on Saturday. A party of 50 people or so that would be starting at 10 PM...surely there would be no need to bring more booze. And yet, that's what I had planned on doing. Two sixpacks of nicer beer? Ahh, but then who gets them? The hosts? The guest? A party platter, maybe...but so much work. Chopping and slicing and arranging and then "hey, can I get that tray back?" at the end of a drunken night.
11.) IKEA Swedish Meatballs with Lingonberry Sauce
10.) Asiago Cheese
9.) Buffalo Wings
8.) Braised Lamb Shanks with Garlic, Bay and Clove
7.) Pagano's Mortadella Special (#2)
2.) Old Lace
1.) DFH 120
Snapped this last week on route to visiting the grandparents. Who is this mysterious traveler? Is she a young author with a passion for fiction? Does she spend her days writing short, dream-inspired tales of alien freighters and besieged spaceports?
Is she single?
I imagine a desperate search spanning years, questing for a mate who shares a similar fascination with exploring the human condition through the infinite lens of our imagined futures beyond the solar system, culminating in the last ditch effort of advertising her love wherever the road takes her. Those soft blues eyes penetrate the long, wavy hair that she interrupts with a finger driven carefully behind her left ear. Those gently parted lips release a silent sigh as she exits her chariot and marches up the tall hallway to her lonely one-bedroom apartment. She turns on a desk lamp that ignites a nearby stack of 70's Whofleck-porn, setting herself to another nightly grind; pen, paper, and heart, working against sorrow in the hopes that a stranger will read and wonder.
One day, she thinks in her dark chest of abandoned hope, my other may see this and know.
I know, beloved soul-kin...I know.
"YOU'RE SCI-FI, TOO!?"
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
The children marched single-file through dense brush, plodding along behind their teacher. She listened to their awkward stomps in the deep moss and wondered. This was a moment for listening, she said earlier, and urged them to appreciate a serenity so rarely afforded. If they had not learned yet, they will soon enough. The green path dove into a stream ahead. It was thin, not much of a beach, but clear. This glassy, shimmering escape was an ideal resting space. With a nod, the group lined up along the bank. They mimed her when she sat, though some more slowly for fear of dirtying their shorts.
The light reflecting from the stream illuminated the toes her boots and she smiled. They had nothing of the pristine youth that the children seemed to covet. They cared mercilessly for their matching class of footwear, maintaining every inch of glossy leather to achieve some immortality; and by lives so barely lived. “Remove them.” No upkeep for these old things, she thought, as she deftly unmade knots learned long ago. She knew every scar of darker tan. She remembered every tear and dent and sun-worn blemish. No upkeep, but love. And setting her heavy pair of memory carefully beside her, she dipped her feet into the cool stream. The children trusted and obeyed.
“No worry, children.” she said, “Yonder sleeps an abyssal lake whose mouth is too swift for the dust to settle.”
“But you don’t know that!” called a little boy.
“Hush now. Remember what I taught you. This is a time for listening…”
“Not Reading.” they hummed in harmony.
This unity set them at unconscious peace, and proud their teacher turned her attention across the stream. She buried her eyes in the mesh of colorful life beyond, allowing her mind to nestle amongst the quiet forest. All eyes were forward now, focused on nothing but attentive to the presence of empty mind-space. They explored it together and, finding nothing, were calmed. A vacation for the busy brains of New-Readers, her own teacher had called it; relaxation at last.
Suddenly, there was another. It had been moving silently within their circle without notice, but now there was no doubt. It avoided them all, every powerful mind indifferent. It was the shadow of a man hauling a net of debris across the wilderness. Before there was time to react, a tiny girl spoke up.
“It’s a Waster!” she said.
And with a moment’s hesitation, the man was gone. Behind him trailed an animal; a weasel, something gentle and obedient, alongside his satchel of refuse. The children whispered amongst themselves, finite experience and endless legend coalescing instantly into a lucid dream that would never be forgotten. The little girl turned to her teacher and spoke again.
“You knew him. Miss Graham…Miss Kie-Kiela? And he knew you. Also, you haven’t returned Dorn’s calls?”
“Nonsense, Fensa.” she muttered, wiping a secret tear. “Wasters are not known to us, and who are you to call him so!? Keep out of my mind. Or have you forgotten today’s lesson?”
The child listened again to the buzzing of her peers. Eventually, she gathered her boots and began the thorough task of inspecting them before lacing up for the long trek home.
Friday, December 17, 2010
A girl posting.
Said girl being Jaybro.
The implied ménage à trois.
You see, Jaybro was my friend. Now She is CT's friend.
I suppose it's all my fault anyway.
I don't know how I feel about this.
1 w1sh w3 had l0st h0p3.
Th3y sa1d th3y cam3 t0 r3scu3 us. N0 0n3 3v3n th0ught t0 ask th3m h0w th3y had f0und us. Th3y sa1d th3y had a h0st v3ss3l wa1t1ng 1n 0rb1t. W3 w3r3 0v3rj0y3d. W0m3n and ch1ldr3n f1rst th3y sa1d. My w1fe volunt33r3d to g0 1n the s3c0nd tr1p, but 1 1ns1sted sh3 go r1ght th3n. 1 sa1d 1 would s33 h3r 1n a f3w h0urs and to tak3 car3 of 0ur l1tt13 on3s.
N1n3 h0urs lat3r th3 patr0l sk1ff cam3. W3 swarm3d th3 tw0 cr3w m3mb3rs. W3 ask3d about the h0st v3ss3l 1n orb1t. Th3y d1dn't kn0w ab0ut a h0st v3ss3l. 0r a fr3ight3r. Th3y sa1d th3y w3r3 sc0ut1ng n3w w0rlds for m1n3ral str1pp1ng, and had d3t3ct3d us c0mpl3t3ly by chanc3.
Th3 distr3ss s1gnal un1t had was n0wh3r3 to b3 f0und.
1 d3c1d3d n0t t0 l3ave w1th th3 0th3r m3n. 1 th1nk 1'll stay r1ght h3r3 and wa1t for h3r. Th3y sa1d th3y'd b3 back in a f3w h0urs. Th3y cam3 to r3scu3 us.
Male escorts?!?! In State College??? I MUST KNOW MORE
So naturally, I started browsing the "gentlemen's" profiles.
That's when I found it.
I wonder who this could be....
He looks like an acquaintance.
Could it be???
Facebook can tell me!!!!
The necklace! The face shape! The blurry face!!!!!
A few minutes and phone calls later the site was removed.
Luckily I took a screen shot to remember the day I played detective with a male escort's identity.
also- he was using his best friend's name
Thursday, December 16, 2010
It's difficult to explain what makes a man a noodle. It was a Socratic experience, staring at this man and glimpsing the essence of noodle.
Physical description: tall, thin, effeminate;
Not just noodly or even noodlesque...Noodle.
He spoke, full lisp, on what it meant to attend a Poop State campus. He recalled for us his first years in Poop State. The noodle could feel! He said that he once despised the typical Poop State student's wild fanaticism and loyalty. He said he did not understand it...this noodle was speaking to me. I, too, had an indifferent disgust for my Poop State peers after high school. Something about them gave off the glow of brainwashing. I could almost see the Mind-worms moving beneath their extreme passion for what was, essentially, a financially crippling four-year distraction.
But the noodle had more to say. Later, he said, slowly evolving feelings of affection appeared. They changed him. Poop State changed him. His employment, he claimed, was testament to this.
Learned obedience, spake my mind. The campus always dreams itself the master.
Oh well. I guess it can't be that bad.
Oh, Christ. IS THIS HOW IT STARTS?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
I stepped a few feet into my hallway to throw away a rotted head of lettuce, as any dog would do, and a gust of wind whipped through my apartment as a result of the hall door having been opened along with the kitchen window. The ensuing vacuum sucked warm air out of the living room and, borne on the winds of folly, the ajar door *snicked* shut behind me. I stared, incredulous and dog-like. Then I felt the cold lead of dread form a weighted pool in my stomach. No keys. No wallet. No phone. Only a t-shirt and jeans, admittedly un-dog-like things to be caught outside of my apartment with. Of course, none of my roommates were home. My roommates are either law school students or working in finance, which is code for "they get home pretty fucking late". It was 6:15 PM. I did that awesome, useless thing all locked out creatures do, trying the door knob just, you know, just in case it like, had somehow unlocked? No dice. I was screwed- I had been told we were going to the park, and I now found myself at the vet. With temperatures plunging into the teens a walk was not an option for my t-shirted self. I went downstairs and intercommed security. For $50 they would send someone to let me back into my apartment. And no, they would not contact one of my roommates for me to let them know I was at home and locked out. Thanks, but no thanks. $50 is a week's worth of kibble, and there's no better way to feel like a sucker than shelling out cash for a clumsy mistake. It was like a parking ticket I wouldn't have to pay if I just promised not to move my car for another four days. So I did what every dog does when its master strands them. I sat. And waited. And waited. Every time the elevator dinged, I lifted my head up expectantly. I would stand up and pace in circles, looking longingly at the door. People came and went, none of them the person who could let me in. With each rustle in the hallway there was brilliant, blazing hope, and with every unrecognizable face there was utter, miserable, defeat. I was a dog tied to a post, wondering what the hell could be taking so long in Target. At around 9:30 PM I had briefly considered paying the $50, my night wasted, cold groceries turning room temperature on the counter mere feet away from me through a locked door. I had examined every inch of the stairwell, hung from a hot water pipe, tried to think of creative ways to prop the fire door open (another miserable defeat), and grown accustomed to sitting on the cold hard floor. It was the equivalent of sniffing and pawing at the soil. Utter, shitty, boredom. Then, the elevator chimed, and my roommate stepped in front of the door, his back to me. My tail wagged incessantly, and I rose behind him like a terrifying spectre of death (unknowingly) and yelped with glee. I kissed him on the face. I actually did that. Because for three hours I was a dog, and I was happy someone had finally come home.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Not a light-bulb was glowing, not even the moon;
The mirrors were hung by the bureau with fear,
In hopes that self-pity would ne'er appear;
The puppy was nestled all snug in my bed,
While visions of murdered rabbits decompos'd in his head,
And Ego in her temple, and Id in my hovel,
Had just buried my sins with a short iron shovel —
When out on the lawn there arose such a scream,
I crawled from the fetal position to abandon my dream.
Away to the window I shuffled and hunched,
Tore open my robe, and threw up my lunch.
The moon (which wasn't out) on the breast of the new fallen whore,
Gave the lustre of voidless horror to the bloody black gore;
When, what to my tear-ridden eyes should dissolve,
But a monstrous sleigh, stuffed with resolve,
With a little old driver, so creepy and quick,
I knew in a moment he was grabbing his prick.
More rapid than eagles his ejaculate came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:
"Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer and Vixen,
"On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen;
"To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
"Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As aimless goals before the wild distractions fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, give up and die;
So up to my window that mad man flew,
With the sleigh full of hope — and dried semen too:
And then in a shattering, I heard in my mind
The twisting and breaking of each little bind.
As I drew in my head, and was turning to gloom,
Down the ceiling that monster came spouting doom:
He was dress'd not at all, from his head to his balls,
Save a bib round his neck where spilled crimson falls;
A bundle of promises was flung on his back,
And he look'd like a pedophile just fondling his sack:
His eyes — how they rolled! His sorrow: how divine,
His cheeks were like cave-ins, his breath like bad wine;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like the gallows,
And the beard of his chin poisoned his skin, made it sallow;
The stump of a foot he held tight in his teeth,
And the infection it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broadsword, and a little round slave
That shook when he slapped it, that pitiful knave:
He was scrawny and broken, a right miserable elf,
And I wondered when I saw him, a fragment of myself?
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had everything to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
And fill'd all my worries; put hope in my flask,
And laying his finger inside of his nose
And giving a fart, 'twas my closet he chose.
He torched his own sleigh, set fire to my prison,
And it all burned away, like some dying sun:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he dripped cross the dell —
Good luck in school, boy, I'll see you in hell.