I'm a fighter, not a lover.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Sargent Camp, etc.

Within the last six months or so, I sold my iBook, the computer that pushed me through college. It made it's way to SLC with me and saw some occasional use up until I bought my PC last spring. Before shipping it to its new home, I printed all the documents on it (transferring files electronically is so passe!) and was going through them tonight: I found this, which I am not sure when I wrote, but deals with a Middle School (some sort of recurring theme these days) memory at this camp. I liked this night a lot.

Sargeant Camp
One night with our peers and some sort of Australian councilor-type, we took to the woods to learn that wintergreen-flavored Life Savers really do spark in the black when biting into one, just like that old television commercial assured us they would.

We were provided with worry rocks; smoothed along the edges, allowing us to grip tight and squeeze our worries and "I'm afraid of"s from our neurotic little minds, past triceps and elbows, through fingers and finally into the New Hampshire granite. Even then, I remember thinking that this was horse shit. How could something so small not only suck all of my concerns away, but do so willingly, expecting nothing as barter but the chance to be within my hands?

You, foolishly, haphazardly, triumphantly, lost your rock along the path, and after the Life Savers had been extinguished, sweetly admitted a fear of the dark. Instead of telling you to screw, hiding my rock deeper between the lines of life and love in hopes that it would console me in the black (because I had a very similar fear), I offered you mine, just to touch your hand for a moment. It was smooth, palm-side down, grippy near your knuckles, fingers long, calcium polka-dot nails: alive, electric, real.

Then you grew too tall and I of course, didn't, and your goddamned rich parents sent you to Catholic school.

God: Merry prankster

I trimmed my beard and cut my hair this afternoon. I do this roughly every seven or so days with a lovely Norelco device provided to me by my uncle via the Christmas gift-giving season.

One thing that never fails to amaze me -- and I am talking true, flat-out bewilderment and wonder -- is how much my beard grows each week. The clippings pile up. Even more captivating is the amount of clippings that come from my head each time and the rapidity with which these hairs grow from my scalp. Why is this all so interesting? Because I have a bad case of the balding, and while it is not terminal (I shall live, I am told), it is completely disheartening to know that by this time next week, I will look sloppy and overgrown once more -- except of course, where it no longer grows. I'm serious; this is a lot of hair I am removing from an otherwise shiny head. For a small price, I would be willing to send you the clippings as proof. I assure you that each clipping would be consistent with its siblings in both color and length.

Although I am not sure exactly what I did to warrant this weekly dose of irony, I've clearly angered someone/something. It's safe to assume that in the last life I was a cow tipper.

Friday, March 25, 2005

The Teddy Bear Dance

Really, I’ve only encountered two teachers who out-and-out, openly disliked me. One, of course, was a math teacher; this only makes sense as I was a terrible math student, both in terms of any natural ability or desire for mathematical thinking. The other, however, was my eighth grade English teacher, Mr. Andrews.

This evening, at the coffee shop, I saw someone that looked just like him, only in a younger version than my eighth grade memory issues, and I began thinking about the man.

He was ancient looking in that Hollywood way, even then, with a face full of carefully placed wrinkles, all aligned in symmetry. His wavy hair was gray, to match his skin and often his clothing and outlook, shirt tucked tightly into his pants, which sat entirely above his waist. It's funny though; beneath it all, there was a bit of a boyish look to him, particularly when he smiled, pushing his wrinkles high to his eyes. I wonder if he is still alive.

Eighth grade brought with it an attitude; I pierced my ear, listened to loud, poorly composed pop music and hip hop (think Onyx, Warren G, and the occasional pop punk band) and truly began to appreciate a girl's form -- and in particular, made the important discovery that classmates' chests were expanding outwardly. I had an open disrespect for Mr. Andrews, one that in retrospect, I regret to a small degree. At least his contempt for me was more subtle.

He was so antiquated in appearance and mannerisms, it seemed that he was always moments away from retiring and when he discussed turn-of-the-century American literature, I envisioned him first enjoying the titles as new releases. He was a graduate of Harvard and I would often try to imagine him in college. While I could flatten the wrinkles in my mind, I could never find another color for his wavy hair other than gray and it was awkward to think of him at Harvard mixers, mingling with the ladies of Radcliff or Wellesley, old before his time.

I used to think of his career choice as a waste of his Harvard diploma. Ironically, with half the degree of his, I've come to consider a career in teaching English, or at least, it remains in the back of my mind.

As a sort of reward for good behavior, he often promised to do the "Teddy Bear Dance." It was a mythical entity that, despite our aloofness to both Mr. Andrews and life at the time, we all desperately hoped to see. We never did. We were a terrible class. In fact, we once had a field trip cancelled that all of the other eighth grade teams (essentially, three sections) attended because we were such rude anuses. I remember our history teacher telling us that "We didn't deserve to go on a field trip around the rotary," referring to the traffic circle that sat in front of the school. (Incidentally, we called him "Mr. LeQueer," instead of Mr. LeClair and he looked just like that British television dude, Mr. Bean.)

I still wonder what exactly that Teddy Bear Dance looks like. Regardless, I hope that Mr. Andrews is still performing it, for the right audience, anyway.


Matt is forcing me to do this. Not necessarily in a violent way, although that would be more believable; problem is that we're liberals, so we have no means to firearms. So let's just say he is holding me at bay with a stick. It has a very sharp, pointed end and I fret about the splinters it could offer.

Okay, that said, Matt is participating in one of those lovely Gratis Network schemes and is desperate to earn himself an iPod shuffle. Before you stop reading and you yourself say, "Ugh," know this:

I earned myself an iPod several months back by using this little scheme. I should point out that Matt was one of several friends who refused to participate in my attempt at it, however, he is now giving me an espresso maker, so I suppose I should better hide my memory of his wrongdoings. Besides, Matt is currently without an mp3 player at all -- his last one died -- and we all know that in terms of pure human survival in 2005, mp3 player ranks roughly between food and shelter.

So, from here on out, I will let Matt do the typing. Before I do that I will address the common concerns -- Yes, it really does work. Yes, it is annoying as shit. No, I have not been buried in spam, but I would suggest use of a spam-only email address, just in case. Copied below is a message of pure, evil solicitation from Matt, originally meant for the members of our soccer team:

Also, get your free iPod Shuffle here:
(answer "no" to all the initial survey questions, then complete one advertisement offer, it sounds shady but it's real, ask Dave who already got

Monday, March 21, 2005

Why I could never be on that raw vegetable diet.

I have never been a picky eater. Chances are, if you were to provide me with food, I would eat. And enjoy it. And, like a stray dog, be your best friend; at least until someone else feeds me.

I love fruits and vegetables as well, though I eat far less than that demanding pyramid tells me to. Here's why: I could eat a damned bag of baby carrots, a couple of jumbo granny smiths and arguably a bushel of broccoli and it only makes me hungrier.

I will never give up carbs.

silly threats

I told you I wasn't going to update this shit often from day one, so you have nothing to complain about. Unless of course, you are someone like the Sherbster, who always manages to find something. That said, he wouldn't help me with a font-related issue unless I updated this sucker. Well you know what, Sherb? I did it without you and I'm updating.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

So, given that it's been a while, I guess a re-cap is in order. Don't tell the employers, but last week may have been my most unproductive week in that job yet. Truly. I called in sick last Wednesday and I would argue that to be the most efficient move on my behalf. However, I did get some freelance projects out of the way, so if you're contemplating putting me on a writing contract job, no reason to fret. If, on the other hand, you were considering employing me in the traditional sense...

Wednesday was a sick day because I was violently ill. Rarely does the word "violently" seem appropriate to me along side of "ill," but in this case, it is justified. Tuesday night/Wednesday morning was hellish and Wednesday was no cup of tea either. Although, coincidentally, that was all I consumed: a cup of tea and 2/3 of a slice of wheat bread. Neither remained down.

Also, I saw Joseph Arthur this weekend in what turned out to be a pretty much incredible -- albeit poorly organized -- little show. If you get a chance to see him, please do. Drop everything. Honestly. Even if you are completely unsure of the latest record, Our Shadows will remain, as I am, run to the show.

And now, solely to spite Sherb:

Oh, and this:

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Proof that the economy still blows

Today, I received my first resume for words, inc. That is, Ned, of Brooklyn, wants me to employ him.

If you happen to see Ned, please don't tell him that I am struggling with and dangerously close to failing at simple things like basic math, time management and cooking. Or, in a word, life. Because I lack these life skills and many others, I don't have the girth to work for myself full-time, let alone hire someone else. Don't mention that either.

Instead, mention the killer dental plan that w-i offers.

Back to work Alan Greenspan! If people are asking me for jobs...

Thursday, March 03, 2005

The lil guy

Sherb just needed to have some photos of the lil guy. Well, here you go. I need to get some night shots and also a photo or two of it parked next to an Escalade or Excursion, or something similar. In the mean time, this is what you get.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Only in Vegas

Those of you that know me well enough are probably aware that I am a Craigslist junkie. I am on it nearly everyday and in the months leading up to the Salt Lake site launch would constantly bother the Craigslist admin people in hopes of getting it here sooner.

Anyway, I hadn't visited the site in several days and was doing some catching up this morning. I have found my second-favorite-ever CL posting and urge you to check it out, have a laugh and give this guy some business, damn it! Warning: adult content.

In the posting, the poor man writes: "please help save my marriage. my wife has demanded larger breast, or she will leave me." To pay for this boob job, which, apparently is only required for one breast, he has offered his web design services at a measly $900 (yikes) or is open to a private 45-day loan. In either case, he promises a photo of his wife's new chest as further collateral.

There is a before shot in the listing and judging by the fake yellow fingernails and the strange situation this man is in, she must be a real lovely woman. The kind I'd like to marry and bring home to Ma, no doubt.

Believe it or not, this couple is from Vegas.