So, in my sickly stupor yesterday I finished reading The Da Vinci Code. Holy mother of... seriously! Frankly, one of my more favorite books as of lately. Yes its trendy and yes its being turned into a film but it was a LOT of fun and who doesn't love a good conspiracy theory. If you haven't read it, read it. Here is a small list of other books that I highly recommend:
Wicked by Gregory Maguire
Harry Potter and the ... by J.K. Rowling (basically start with Year One and keep going)
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris
Anything by Sylvia Brown
The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice (see recommendation for HP)
Haunted America by Michael Norman and Beth Scott
It's pretty diverse so don't try to read them all at once or you're brian will spasm. I also still have a penchant for children's literature and comic books. Not crazy superhero stuff but Archie and the gang. Queer? Yes.
Which leads me to my next question:
Are you a Betty or a Veronica?
This simple question can lead people to profound philosophical understanding. Similar to the Betty or Wilma debate, but cuter.
Well, I've rambled a bit tonight. You may feel better if I let things slide here and crawl my rejuvinating health self back into bed. So would I... so... So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehn, good night.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
If I were a tree...
If I were a tree I imagine I would live forever, as long as no one cut me down and I wasn't a Dutch Elm with a penchant for disease. I'm still at home sick and as such I've been sucked into the zombie-like state of watching "Metropolis: Ancient Cities" on The Science Channel. It's a marathon. Yes, I'm a geek. I loved science films in school. I even volunteered to turn the filmstrip when the recorded voice said so. It was an art form. Too often, some doofy kid would throw his hand up because he thought it was cool to turn the filmstrip and he would end up on the wrong picture during the wrong dialogue and completely throw off the entire class. Stupid.
But back to Metropolis... they were just discussing the Agora, the marketplace at the foot of the Acropolis. It was here that people gathered to buy, sell, and trade; to discuss life, science, and politics. And it was here that democracy was born. (Pictures can be found here for those who learn best by visual stimulation: http://www.stoa.org/athens/sites/agorashortguide/index.html). But the part of this show that really struck me was that the trees lining the Agora have ALWAYS been there. How the HELL old do trees get? Do they live forever? I know they die when they're struck with disease or hollowed out to severely. I know that if you cut the roots in the right place they'll shrivel and die. But if left alone, if left COMPLETELY alone, can they live forever?
I've looked everywhere for an answer this morning. (Ok, so I'm not a gung-ho scientist who would spend eons searching for the answers... I gotta eat lunch at some point.) But I really wonder if they do live forever. You never hear someone say, "Yeah that old elm in the front yard, Julie, she's getting up there in age. Here branches are startin' to sag and she just ain't as active as she used to be." I guess if trees DID get old and start to suffer we would get out the old shotgun and pull an Old Yeller on it. "Well Johnnie, today's the day, old Julie ain't doing so well and I'm takin' her out." "No Pa, Julie's my tree... I'll do it."
"Old Yeller Pine" That would be the worst movie ever!
Until next time... I'm going back to bed.
But back to Metropolis... they were just discussing the Agora, the marketplace at the foot of the Acropolis. It was here that people gathered to buy, sell, and trade; to discuss life, science, and politics. And it was here that democracy was born. (Pictures can be found here for those who learn best by visual stimulation: http://www.stoa.org/athens/sites/agorashortguide/index.html). But the part of this show that really struck me was that the trees lining the Agora have ALWAYS been there. How the HELL old do trees get? Do they live forever? I know they die when they're struck with disease or hollowed out to severely. I know that if you cut the roots in the right place they'll shrivel and die. But if left alone, if left COMPLETELY alone, can they live forever?
I've looked everywhere for an answer this morning. (Ok, so I'm not a gung-ho scientist who would spend eons searching for the answers... I gotta eat lunch at some point.) But I really wonder if they do live forever. You never hear someone say, "Yeah that old elm in the front yard, Julie, she's getting up there in age. Here branches are startin' to sag and she just ain't as active as she used to be." I guess if trees DID get old and start to suffer we would get out the old shotgun and pull an Old Yeller on it. "Well Johnnie, today's the day, old Julie ain't doing so well and I'm takin' her out." "No Pa, Julie's my tree... I'll do it."
"Old Yeller Pine" That would be the worst movie ever!
Until next time... I'm going back to bed.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Sick as a dog...
I'm sick as a dog. It's ridiculous. Out of nowhere. But my curiosity has been peaked by this simple phrase... "sick as a dog". I've had many dogs and none of them were ever "sick" all the time. Because of my funk and the copious spare time I have sitting here today, I've done a little research and as it turns out "Sick as a dog" means "extremely sick" and comes from the late 17th century. (Source: http://www.word-detective.com/061202.html#sickasadog)
"[It] is also not so much negative as it is simply descriptive. Anyone who knows dogs knows that while they can and often will eat absolutely anything, on those occasions when their diet disagrees with them the results can be quite dramatic. And while Americans may consider themselves "sick" when they have a bad cold, in Britain that would be called 'feeling ill.' 'Being sick' in Britain usually means 'to vomit.' So to really appreciate the original sense of 'sick as a dog,' imagine yourself seated in the parlor having tea with the Vicar on a lovely Sunday afternoon, when Fido staggers in from a meal of sun-dried woodchuck and expresses his unease all over your heirloom oriental carpet. It's actually rather amazing that goldfish aren't more popular."
Ok, so maybe I am not vomiting and therefore not techinically "sick as a dog" but I am very uncomfortable - i.e achy, viciously sore throat, fever, lethargy, and a very unpleasant demeanor. And you know, desicker you feel, demeanor you get. That's all for now folks.
"[It] is also not so much negative as it is simply descriptive. Anyone who knows dogs knows that while they can and often will eat absolutely anything, on those occasions when their diet disagrees with them the results can be quite dramatic. And while Americans may consider themselves "sick" when they have a bad cold, in Britain that would be called 'feeling ill.' 'Being sick' in Britain usually means 'to vomit.' So to really appreciate the original sense of 'sick as a dog,' imagine yourself seated in the parlor having tea with the Vicar on a lovely Sunday afternoon, when Fido staggers in from a meal of sun-dried woodchuck and expresses his unease all over your heirloom oriental carpet. It's actually rather amazing that goldfish aren't more popular."
Ok, so maybe I am not vomiting and therefore not techinically "sick as a dog" but I am very uncomfortable - i.e achy, viciously sore throat, fever, lethargy, and a very unpleasant demeanor. And you know, desicker you feel, demeanor you get. That's all for now folks.
Everything I Needed to Learn in Life I Learned from Lizzie Maguire
Heavenly father, forgive me for I have sinned. I am 29 and actually enjoy watching Lizzie Maguire. Who out there hasn't endured the heartache of living in that limbo that is "Not quite the popular kid" and "not the nerd"? Picture it, Monterey, California, 1989... in walks a scrappy young guy of 13 into a keyboarding class (by the way, just for reference, keyboarding is not piano... it's typing on a computer, who knew) and begins plunking away at his first assignment in this new school halfway through his 8th grade year. (Note to parents out there: there is no reason to EVER move your child in the middle of the 8th grade year. Do you KNOW what this does to children? EVERYONE at the new school is bonded by the fear of loosing each other in high school after four years of classes together. Suddenly, in walks Geeky McQueer and all holy hell breaks loose. Ugh, just stop moving your kids around!) Anyhow, here I am typing away in "keyboarding" class when the teacher comes over...
"How the hell are you?" says teacher.
"Tommy," says I, "I'm new."
"Apparently so new that you don't understand what a B day is," says teacher.
"B day," says I.
"B day," says he, "our schedules flip-flop here at Walter P Colton Junior High School. Today's a B day." At that he took out my dot matrix schedule printout and circles period 4, 5, and 6 and draws a thick, black arrow to the 8am slot. "These go here on B days," and then he moves periods 1, 2, and 3 to the end. "Got it?"
"Sure," but not.
"Good, go to your fourth period class. I'll see you later in first period."
WTF? Who's brilliant idea was this? Let's really screw with the principles of time and space and see if we can add an OUNCE more misery to an already dreadful 8th grade year.
So back to Lizzie Maguire... granted she's got it made (personal stylist, kick ass parents, yada yada) but she still struggles through life's most torturous trials. Having a multi-year crush, discovering a zit on the night of the school's fall festival dance, and realizing that her she is the best person on the inside and out yet keeping a cool head about it all along.
So kudos to you Lizzie... you made A Day/B Day a thing of the past (which is was, but is now a distant fleck of pain that has no bearing on my present... seriously).
"How the hell are you?" says teacher.
"Tommy," says I, "I'm new."
"Apparently so new that you don't understand what a B day is," says teacher.
"B day," says I.
"B day," says he, "our schedules flip-flop here at Walter P Colton Junior High School. Today's a B day." At that he took out my dot matrix schedule printout and circles period 4, 5, and 6 and draws a thick, black arrow to the 8am slot. "These go here on B days," and then he moves periods 1, 2, and 3 to the end. "Got it?"
"Sure," but not.
"Good, go to your fourth period class. I'll see you later in first period."
WTF? Who's brilliant idea was this? Let's really screw with the principles of time and space and see if we can add an OUNCE more misery to an already dreadful 8th grade year.
So back to Lizzie Maguire... granted she's got it made (personal stylist, kick ass parents, yada yada) but she still struggles through life's most torturous trials. Having a multi-year crush, discovering a zit on the night of the school's fall festival dance, and realizing that her she is the best person on the inside and out yet keeping a cool head about it all along.
So kudos to you Lizzie... you made A Day/B Day a thing of the past (which is was, but is now a distant fleck of pain that has no bearing on my present... seriously).
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Saturday, February 12, 2005
The nuclear family
At some point in after World War II someone decided that the world would be much better if women put on Christian Dior flare dresses, pearls, vacuumed the house, and made dinner just before 5:30 when the Man of the House would come walking in the door from his enigmatic job (briefcase in hand). They called this the "nuclear family", apparently because this was an atomic aboration, a radioactive mutation of what the world was hoping to offer. Was this in reaction to the flappers of the 20s or the Rosie's of the 40s? Maybe... but regardless, the "nuclear family" was quietly ushered into rerun land on Nick@Night while the rest of us realized that one routine was not necessarily the best way for everyone.
So here I sit, me and the kids (my two cats). The epitomy of the non-nuclear family. Included is Maya, my 2 year old turtleshell calico who is so far none-to-thrilled with Pinter, the baby who joined us last week and has thus far brought love and kitty claws into our lives.
Hopefully, if all works according to plan, you'll see photos of each in THIS edition just above. Take a peak. Enjoy. Until tomorrow, same bat time, same bat channel.
So here I sit, me and the kids (my two cats). The epitomy of the non-nuclear family. Included is Maya, my 2 year old turtleshell calico who is so far none-to-thrilled with Pinter, the baby who joined us last week and has thus far brought love and kitty claws into our lives.
Hopefully, if all works according to plan, you'll see photos of each in THIS edition just above. Take a peak. Enjoy. Until tomorrow, same bat time, same bat channel.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Day One: The Test
Day One... the crucial moment of birth in this panoramic world known as the World Wide Web. I hear it is a powerful tool for discovering interesting facts about people in Nairobi, saltwater fishing in the Gulf of Mexico, and downloading of morally questionable pictures and videos from European distributors. But that is not my mission. Especially since I don't have an established mission yet. But if you've made it here, clearly you are interested in knowing more so I would advise that you stick around. Not a day goes by when I or the general population don't do something completely ridiculous that is well worth hearing about. You got that Meg? Yes, you too! Later skaters!
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