Daytime hours now, and in my first week my supervisor an I have already laid out a plan for the summer. It's important to start now because somehow it's true that if you let the first couple weeks slip by, you'll lose the whole summer. Which you know, doesn't sound all bad.
Remember that project I'd been working on at work? The one that ate April and most of March? There was drama because I "took too long", which in fact is true. I however wasn't given much guidance or any deadlines. This happened to be part of our area supervisor's friend's pet project, so during my supervisor's meeting with our area supervisor, words were spoken about my disappointing performance. My supervisor, though she may stress me out, has got my back and I should never forget that. She did her best to remind her (and I) that there were things that could have happened better on both sides, and that we can all learn from this. Disgustingly wholesome, I know, but it helped me get past being pissed.
A little bit, anyway.
I have eleven vacation days to take before June 30th. Hot cha! I took the day off today because Dark Mistress, Stankfoot, Spanky, Zanzibar, and myself are going to Philly to see the Kids in the Hall. We're going to check out South Street, eat a cheese steak, and take in the (hopefully still) funny boys of Canadian sketch comedy.
Tomorrow Stankfoot, Spanky, and I are going to be shirk responsibility for the day to hang out and play video games. Then I've got work Friday, then the weekend. How the hell can you complain about that?
Good times.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Neighbors: Can't Live With Them, Can't Hate Who You Live Next To Without Them
Oh, doddering Mrs. Fussnpuss, how life has brought you here I dare not know. Were you always ornery, easily irritated by each passing fellow, judging safely from the slit you pry in your mini blinds? Or has years of taking shit made you who you are? Toughened you beyond an empathetic point of view. Is this what I have in store: a world that tasks me more as years slip by, no one to listen to my complaints, my perspective, my existence less valued than treated as a nuisance?
Trash gets picked up Monday morning, but because I usually stay at Dark Mistress Hawthorne's Sunday night, my empty can will set on the curb. Usually, by the time I get home, it's already been dragged to my back porch. The first few weeks this happened I was somewhat irked. I could only imagine that it bothered Fussnpuss so much that she was compelled to drag this huge can, which just about comes to her chin, all the way around my house. She'd do this, but she wouldn't leave a note, or knock, and this in turn bothered me. For crying out, I'm talking about the can setting there no later than noon after the trash was picked up.
One day I came home and saw her waddling her way backwards down my walk, plastic bin hidden in front of her. She said something like "Oh hi there. I see your can sitting there and I always figure I'd bring it back for you, I hope you don't mind." "Not at all" I said, smiling, lying. Well, half lying. I did mind, when I thought she did it because she was bothered to. Now, though, it seemed she was just being neighborly. Looking out for the nice young man next door.
Our trash day changed this week from Sunday to Thursday. This excited me because I'd finally be around to pick my can up. (Plus, I'm usually home Wednesday nights, making it more likely I'd remember to take the trash out after work.) Seriously, ask D.M.H. I don't think I ever told her why, but I know I mentioned New Trash Day day to her numerous excited times.
Thursday morning, on my way to (the final) class (of the semester!) the trash wasn't picked up. Wasn't picked up on my way back at 11 either. I didn't hear the truck come before I went to work at 2, so I left it. Apparently they did come. Apparently Mrs. Fussnpuss moved my can to the back yard again. And, apparently one of the college students that lives in the other house next to mine helped her move my can to my back yard, all the while listening to her complain about "the college kid who lives here and never bothers to take his can in."
How life has brought us here I dare not know.
Trash gets picked up Monday morning, but because I usually stay at Dark Mistress Hawthorne's Sunday night, my empty can will set on the curb. Usually, by the time I get home, it's already been dragged to my back porch. The first few weeks this happened I was somewhat irked. I could only imagine that it bothered Fussnpuss so much that she was compelled to drag this huge can, which just about comes to her chin, all the way around my house. She'd do this, but she wouldn't leave a note, or knock, and this in turn bothered me. For crying out, I'm talking about the can setting there no later than noon after the trash was picked up.
One day I came home and saw her waddling her way backwards down my walk, plastic bin hidden in front of her. She said something like "Oh hi there. I see your can sitting there and I always figure I'd bring it back for you, I hope you don't mind." "Not at all" I said, smiling, lying. Well, half lying. I did mind, when I thought she did it because she was bothered to. Now, though, it seemed she was just being neighborly. Looking out for the nice young man next door.
Our trash day changed this week from Sunday to Thursday. This excited me because I'd finally be around to pick my can up. (Plus, I'm usually home Wednesday nights, making it more likely I'd remember to take the trash out after work.) Seriously, ask D.M.H. I don't think I ever told her why, but I know I mentioned New Trash Day day to her numerous excited times.
Thursday morning, on my way to (the final) class (of the semester!) the trash wasn't picked up. Wasn't picked up on my way back at 11 either. I didn't hear the truck come before I went to work at 2, so I left it. Apparently they did come. Apparently Mrs. Fussnpuss moved my can to the back yard again. And, apparently one of the college students that lives in the other house next to mine helped her move my can to my back yard, all the while listening to her complain about "the college kid who lives here and never bothers to take his can in."
How life has brought us here I dare not know.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
In Which I (Maybe) Get to the Point
In reading back over my posts, this month I have twice now compared favorably myself against Cylons, indicating that I have a plan. This makes me sad in two ways. One in that I have not yet finished what I started, which is explaining that plan, and two in that, c'mon, am I really that big of a nerd?
It's safe to say that, for the most part, the past two weeks were miserable. I'd been volunteered to work on someone's project at work and, being a perfectionist, I think I worked too hard on it. I took it to Atlanta with me, working on it every night in the hotel room. I've been stressing about it since mid March, but crunch time was these past two weeks. Between this project, an event I was working on, and my regular duties, I regularly came in early and left very, very late. Staying three and a half hours late after work is one thing. It's another when you usually get out at 11pm.
This weekend, even though I had to go in twice Sunday to take care of some events, felt like a vacation. No homework, no workwork to bring home. Saturday the Mistress and I went out to dinner in high fashion, treating ourselves to pricey Italian. Then we met up with some friends at another restaurant where we had dessert. For the first time in a long time I was able to indulge myself for a day, driving up to visit Stankfoot on Monday. We played video games, we hit Taco Bell, I held the ladder while he took down his Christmas lights. It was fantastic.
The following will only be funny to those following Galactica:
On our drive to Taco Bell, he turned to me and said in a mock school teacher tone: "So, what did you learn from this week's episode?"
"Um," I searched, "don't piss off Tory."
And then, with his hands cupped closed, he said "Very good. I want you to remember that as you take command..." He moved his hands toward me, opening them to reveal this:
For those not familiar with the show, he was mimicking a very touching scene from the series where father promoted son. He couldn't have done it better. Now that I think about it, that'd be a good way for two B*G nerds to propose to each other. It would have to be a private and serious moment:
"So, what do you think makes us work so well together?" A conversation of any length, as long as it's serious, introspective, and dramatically lit, should follow. Finally, the one who started should stand up, pull a jewelry box from a nearby dresser, desk, or table, and move to kneel, saying with as much throaty gravel as they can add to their voice, "good. I want you to remember that as you take command... of my heart."
Back on topic, though I'm sure reality will set in once I'm back behind my desk, it's fitting that I feel a reprieve from work at about this time when I'm thinking of how I would like to move on from it.
Class, though it's been frustrating, has done wonders for my poetry writing. In 2004, Mr. Templeton opened my eyes to the potential of verse. By 2005 I was writing like crazy, but by the end of spring I'd burnt out. I lost confidence in my ability, and distractions like "I'm unemployed and living at home all the sudden" didn't help me gain any perspective. Three years later, I'm feeling confident again. My writing has improved, though I was not notably active. I think it's because of a gain in perspective. My problem in 2005 was, looking back, I felt I'd run out of things to say. As prolific as I was in that short period of time, I'm not surprised. Though it doesn't feel like it some times, I've learned quite a bit these three years. Somehow, I've found a thing or two to right about.
It is clear to me that, though I don't know of any dream job, any path through life free of struggle, I would like to at least struggle for something that I enjoy, something that resonates with me. I've also learned that regardless of the method or the medium, I need to be creating to be happy. It's like a pressure valve. No, it's more than that. When I struggle for hours only to, in a flash, find the right word, the perfect turn of phrase, I'm filled with immense satisfaction. I am rarely more proud of myself, more accepting and forgiving of myself, then after I have made, and made well.
So, instead of crossing my fingers and hoping that through some convoluted series of miraculous and absurd events that I end up the as the new bassist for R.E.M., (sorry Mike, I'd have to), I decided I'm going to apply for creative writing programs with a focus on Poetry. This, of course, means a lot of work. I have to:
There you have it. My plan. I have about a year to make it happen.
It's safe to say that, for the most part, the past two weeks were miserable. I'd been volunteered to work on someone's project at work and, being a perfectionist, I think I worked too hard on it. I took it to Atlanta with me, working on it every night in the hotel room. I've been stressing about it since mid March, but crunch time was these past two weeks. Between this project, an event I was working on, and my regular duties, I regularly came in early and left very, very late. Staying three and a half hours late after work is one thing. It's another when you usually get out at 11pm.
This weekend, even though I had to go in twice Sunday to take care of some events, felt like a vacation. No homework, no workwork to bring home. Saturday the Mistress and I went out to dinner in high fashion, treating ourselves to pricey Italian. Then we met up with some friends at another restaurant where we had dessert. For the first time in a long time I was able to indulge myself for a day, driving up to visit Stankfoot on Monday. We played video games, we hit Taco Bell, I held the ladder while he took down his Christmas lights. It was fantastic.
The following will only be funny to those following Galactica:
On our drive to Taco Bell, he turned to me and said in a mock school teacher tone: "So, what did you learn from this week's episode?"
"Um," I searched, "don't piss off Tory."
And then, with his hands cupped closed, he said "Very good. I want you to remember that as you take command..." He moved his hands toward me, opening them to reveal this:
For those not familiar with the show, he was mimicking a very touching scene from the series where father promoted son. He couldn't have done it better. Now that I think about it, that'd be a good way for two B*G nerds to propose to each other. It would have to be a private and serious moment:
"So, what do you think makes us work so well together?" A conversation of any length, as long as it's serious, introspective, and dramatically lit, should follow. Finally, the one who started should stand up, pull a jewelry box from a nearby dresser, desk, or table, and move to kneel, saying with as much throaty gravel as they can add to their voice, "good. I want you to remember that as you take command... of my heart."
Back on topic, though I'm sure reality will set in once I'm back behind my desk, it's fitting that I feel a reprieve from work at about this time when I'm thinking of how I would like to move on from it.
Class, though it's been frustrating, has done wonders for my poetry writing. In 2004, Mr. Templeton opened my eyes to the potential of verse. By 2005 I was writing like crazy, but by the end of spring I'd burnt out. I lost confidence in my ability, and distractions like "I'm unemployed and living at home all the sudden" didn't help me gain any perspective. Three years later, I'm feeling confident again. My writing has improved, though I was not notably active. I think it's because of a gain in perspective. My problem in 2005 was, looking back, I felt I'd run out of things to say. As prolific as I was in that short period of time, I'm not surprised. Though it doesn't feel like it some times, I've learned quite a bit these three years. Somehow, I've found a thing or two to right about.
It is clear to me that, though I don't know of any dream job, any path through life free of struggle, I would like to at least struggle for something that I enjoy, something that resonates with me. I've also learned that regardless of the method or the medium, I need to be creating to be happy. It's like a pressure valve. No, it's more than that. When I struggle for hours only to, in a flash, find the right word, the perfect turn of phrase, I'm filled with immense satisfaction. I am rarely more proud of myself, more accepting and forgiving of myself, then after I have made, and made well.
So, instead of crossing my fingers and hoping that through some convoluted series of miraculous and absurd events that I end up the as the new bassist for R.E.M., (sorry Mike, I'd have to), I decided I'm going to apply for creative writing programs with a focus on Poetry. This, of course, means a lot of work. I have to:
- Study for and take the GREs
- Read more poetry, become familiar with poets I'd like to study under
- Find programs that I like with poets I like who teach
- Weigh the benefits of an MA vs. an MFA,
- Consider where and if I'd pursue a PHD
- If applying for an MA, creating a sample of Critical Writing, something which I do not have strong experience in
- Revise my best poems for a portfolio
- Find journals I'd like to seek publication in
- Submit my best poems for publication in various journals
There you have it. My plan. I have about a year to make it happen.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Some Subtle Changes
I've had the hankering to make myself a blog title picture. I have tons of pictures I took with my digital camera, and I thought about playing with color and black and white, fading into color or away from it, etc. Just messing around. Well, there was some downtime the other day and I couldn't find the picture I was going to use (a macro shot of flowers), so I instead started messing around with the one you see above. I literally got frustrated and started randomly dragging the mouse around when I found an effect I liked.
Thus, the genesis of the pretentious image you see above. I changed the template colors to match, though I'm not sure how I feel about it. I worry about the readability. While the contrast is high, I find it's screwy sometimes to read a long time in white on black. If this ends up bothering anyone, let me know and I'll work something else out. Wuss.
Thus, the genesis of the pretentious image you see above. I changed the template colors to match, though I'm not sure how I feel about it. I worry about the readability. While the contrast is high, I find it's screwy sometimes to read a long time in white on black. If this ends up bothering anyone, let me know and I'll work something else out. Wuss.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I'm sorry March. I didn't mean it. I've just been under a lot of stress lately
Okay okay okay okay okay. I can finish what I started. For once. I swear.
End of March saw me off to Atlanta, GA, for a professional conference. It was a mediocre experience, which was disappointing to me. I enjoyed last year's conference a great deal, and I was looking forward to this one. A number of things factored into my rating this trip as blah.
First, I went alone. Technically, many people in my department were there, but I don't know them personally. We don't know much about each other, we don't hang out, and they don't have my cell phone number. By change, I ran into them at the keynote and I followed them to dinner. They're all super nice people, but I felt I didn't have much to talk about with them. The reason why is also one of th reasons why I didn't enjoy the conference: I'm not a Student Affairs person.
Just about everyone in my department is Student Affairs. My area is in with them, but technically, we're a service position. We're facilities people. I appreciate why we're brought into the fold, the spirit of inclusion, the sharing of information. It's a good practice. Being folded in though means we're expected to think, act, and preform like Student Affairs professionals. We end up doing programming, we end up working on strategic plans, we're expected to perform assessment. The problem is, none of us are specifically trained to think this way. It's assumed by members on staff that I have a MA in Student Affairs because that's the track, that's what everyone has.
Being between the service world and the professional world is personally frustrating, as in our professional group there is hierarchy, and there is occasional wrangling, but for the most part it is a respectful environment of peers. There is a power differential however in my service role. When I control access to limited resources my peers need, I am no longer their peer. I am in that airy half-world of service where I am in a position of power, a position to grant access, but also frequently forced to acquiesce, to bend rules, ignore policy, to be powered over in deference to those who feel entitled to the resources I keep.
In short, it stinks. I feel as if I would be, and have been, unable to form any meaningful, human, relation with folks in the department. In the times I've tried, I've been let down, disappointed, burned.
Not having the Student Affairs background also means I had nothing to talk about at dinner, I had little to talk about with strangers, and it was a constant uphill effort to relate the sessions to my particular position, and to contribute meaningfully to sessions that involved group activity.
The weather also stunk. Cold and wet. I was expecting a nice sneak peak at spring, but except for the ever-present mention of peaches, I could have just as well been here.
I'd never been to Atlanta, and I wanted to go out and explore. Unfortunately, I've got a project I was volunteered for that's sucking up all my free time at work, and a bit of my free time at home. I spent every evening in the hotel room, plugging away. I also wanted to go to a record store, to buy the new R.E.M. and B-52's cds while I was in their home state! Unfortunately, the nearest shopping center was two miles away, and the mall was six, and I didn't have the time to sacrifice.
It was also difficult to be at this conference, knowing I don't want to be in the field anymore. Somehow, that takes the wind out of your sails.
Unlike the Cylons, I have a plan for what's beyond. This is major for me. News on this, however, will have to come at a later date. I simply must eat some fajitas now.
Om nom nom. Nom.
End of March saw me off to Atlanta, GA, for a professional conference. It was a mediocre experience, which was disappointing to me. I enjoyed last year's conference a great deal, and I was looking forward to this one. A number of things factored into my rating this trip as blah.
First, I went alone. Technically, many people in my department were there, but I don't know them personally. We don't know much about each other, we don't hang out, and they don't have my cell phone number. By change, I ran into them at the keynote and I followed them to dinner. They're all super nice people, but I felt I didn't have much to talk about with them. The reason why is also one of th reasons why I didn't enjoy the conference: I'm not a Student Affairs person.
Just about everyone in my department is Student Affairs. My area is in with them, but technically, we're a service position. We're facilities people. I appreciate why we're brought into the fold, the spirit of inclusion, the sharing of information. It's a good practice. Being folded in though means we're expected to think, act, and preform like Student Affairs professionals. We end up doing programming, we end up working on strategic plans, we're expected to perform assessment. The problem is, none of us are specifically trained to think this way. It's assumed by members on staff that I have a MA in Student Affairs because that's the track, that's what everyone has.
Being between the service world and the professional world is personally frustrating, as in our professional group there is hierarchy, and there is occasional wrangling, but for the most part it is a respectful environment of peers. There is a power differential however in my service role. When I control access to limited resources my peers need, I am no longer their peer. I am in that airy half-world of service where I am in a position of power, a position to grant access, but also frequently forced to acquiesce, to bend rules, ignore policy, to be powered over in deference to those who feel entitled to the resources I keep.
In short, it stinks. I feel as if I would be, and have been, unable to form any meaningful, human, relation with folks in the department. In the times I've tried, I've been let down, disappointed, burned.
Not having the Student Affairs background also means I had nothing to talk about at dinner, I had little to talk about with strangers, and it was a constant uphill effort to relate the sessions to my particular position, and to contribute meaningfully to sessions that involved group activity.
The weather also stunk. Cold and wet. I was expecting a nice sneak peak at spring, but except for the ever-present mention of peaches, I could have just as well been here.
I'd never been to Atlanta, and I wanted to go out and explore. Unfortunately, I've got a project I was volunteered for that's sucking up all my free time at work, and a bit of my free time at home. I spent every evening in the hotel room, plugging away. I also wanted to go to a record store, to buy the new R.E.M. and B-52's cds while I was in their home state! Unfortunately, the nearest shopping center was two miles away, and the mall was six, and I didn't have the time to sacrifice.
It was also difficult to be at this conference, knowing I don't want to be in the field anymore. Somehow, that takes the wind out of your sails.
Unlike the Cylons, I have a plan for what's beyond. This is major for me. News on this, however, will have to come at a later date. I simply must eat some fajitas now.
Om nom nom. Nom.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Runts, Battlestar
I'm at work. It's quite here. I can't believe that in just an hour and a half I'll be able to watch the best television show I've ever seen. I'm anxious, I'm giddy, I think I might have to poo a little but I'm not sure, and I just can't stands it!
Something of substance:
I like Runts, (the Willy Wonka candy, not the smallest animal of a litter. Well hell, I like those runts too. I mean, c'mon, who doesn't like rooting for the underdog?), and I recently noticed that all Runts are not priced equal. WalMart sells Runts cheaper than Best Buy, for example. This past weekend, D.M.H. and I were at Wegmans, where they sell Runts by the pound. Curious, I found the following:
Wegmans Price
$1.99/lb = $0.124/oz
Amazon.com Price
7oz @ $3.00 = $0.429/oz
Candy Crate.com Price
7oz @ $2.00 = $0.286/oz
Best Buy Price
7oz @ $1.49 = $0.213/oz
WalMart Price?
7oz @ $0.89 = $0.127/oz
7oz @ $0.79 = $0.113/oz
I can't remember the WalMart and BestBuy prices exactly, and that's crucial. Damn.
Seriously though, who the hell is going to buy a three dollar box of candy on Amazon.com?
Maybe someone from a country where they're not sold.
Okay, back to waiting.
...
Something of substance:
I like Runts, (the Willy Wonka candy, not the smallest animal of a litter. Well hell, I like those runts too. I mean, c'mon, who doesn't like rooting for the underdog?), and I recently noticed that all Runts are not priced equal. WalMart sells Runts cheaper than Best Buy, for example. This past weekend, D.M.H. and I were at Wegmans, where they sell Runts by the pound. Curious, I found the following:
Wegmans Price
$1.99/lb = $0.124/oz
Amazon.com Price
7oz @ $3.00 = $0.429/oz
Candy Crate.com Price
7oz @ $2.00 = $0.286/oz
Best Buy Price
7oz @ $1.49 = $0.213/oz
WalMart Price?
7oz @ $0.89 = $0.127/oz
7oz @ $0.79 = $0.113/oz
I can't remember the WalMart and BestBuy prices exactly, and that's crucial. Damn.
Seriously though, who the hell is going to buy a three dollar box of candy on Amazon.com?
Maybe someone from a country where they're not sold.
Okay, back to waiting.
...
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Goodbye March, You Bastard of a Month
What I should be doing right now: I should be unpacking. I should be... frak it, I should be doing dozens of things. But right now writing feels better.
Every week in March, hell, almost every day in March, something came up to write about. Seriously, it was interesting times. I've just been too busy to get to them. The following is a quick ass summary.
Your Own Rules Are The Most Fun To Break
I'm a stubborn man. I once stopped eating beef because I stayed up late one night reading the tall tale of John Titor, self proclaimed time traveler. Of course, as the number of sleepless hours increases, so to does their susceptibility to wac ass stories and conspiracy theories. Mr. Titor was making quite a bit of sense at 3am. In Mr. Titor's future, America's been split by civil war, nuked by Russia (just the cities), and it's population decimated by Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, which was a result of years of people unknowingly eating Mad Cow infected beef for years, as it's possible for years to pass before symptoms appear.
I stayed up the rest of the night reading about the disease and was both creeped out and fascinated. It's not caused by a virus or a bacteria, but by a protein, a chemical. It is, in essence, a chemical reaction that slowly disables your brain.
So I stopped eating beef. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but at the time I was eating hamburgers like it was my job, and touring Taco Bell once a week. How long did I stop eating beef? Long after my irrational fear of Mad Cow, as it had been replaced by an irrational fear of Irony: I was subconsciously convinced that if I started eating beef, I'd get the disease for sure, just because, well, wouldn't that be funny?
Shit, I didn't want to ramble because I'm in a hurry. Looks like I failed that one already! Point is, I didn't eat beef for years, and more than the fear, it was really because I was curious how hard it would be, and how long I could do it. One day, on vacation, my aunt's family left half a "hamburger" pizza sitting cold on the stove. No one was around. I was hungry. I was curious. I was bored.
It was delicious.
In middle school and high school I watched an impressive amount of TV. Prime time had to be watched: 2 hours. Then there was reruns at and around dinner: 1-2hours. Of course, there's after school: 1.5 hours. Ooh! X-Files: 1hr. You get the picture. I remember a health class where we calculated our weekly TV viewing time, and I remember being one of the highest in the class with something close to 30 hours of TV per week. Maybe I was the only one being honest. I'd make that mistake again in shop class, when everyone was talking about the size of their penis.
When I got to college I stopped watching TV, mostly because I didn't have a TV. I was amazed to find that I didn't miss it at all. I'd miss a show here or there, but mostly, I felt liberated. And, except for that stint of unemployment I spent on my parent's couch, I've been mostly TV free since. That is, until now.
It was thrilling to call the cable company. I felt as if I were doing something immoral, illegal I ordered extended basic, nothing fancy, but I'm also renting a DVR. Without it, cable wouldn't be worth it, as I'm never home during shows I want to watch. Right now I've got it hooked up to the projector, and I must say, it is nigh awesome.
What was the impetus for such a drastic break from principle for the sake of principle?
Battlestar Galactica is Better Than Life Itself
...and its FINAL season debuts TO FUCKING MORROW. I've waited over a gods damned year for this show to come back on the air. Seriously, if you're curious, don't watch it. Go, now, to the video store, to your Netflix Queue, and rent the Miniseries and first Season 1 discs. It is a glorious serial, and to carelessly see the final season's episodes before you're ready would be crime enough that, once you realized the gravity of your transgression, the promised land of plot you've spoiled, you would be unable to resist the compulsion to blind yourself with your mother's broach.
I couldn't pass the opportunity to see my favorite show of all time wrap itself up on the sheet hung on my wall.
While we're on the topic of sci-fi, I love Star Trek. I'm not going to go into specifics, I just do. (Battlestar Galactica is a far superior show, and I can admit that.) My friend Stankfoot, a Star Wars fan from childhood, sent me a link to a survey where folks can vote as to who'd win a fight: Han Solo, or Captain Jean-Luc Picard. The previous week, Solo defeated Kirk. Of course he's going to beat Picard. I'm not going to go into the details of what a fight between these two fictional characters would entail. I just know he's going to win, because when it comes down to it, Star Wars is the Wal-Mart of science fiction. There. I said it. Mediocre. Ubiquitous.
Another Reason March Was The Longest Month
R.E.M., my favorite band, released their latest CD two days ago. I haven't picked my copy up yet, but I have listened to it at least 40 times in the past week. I could write a thesis about why their latest albums began to misfire, but I'll just say this: I own every CD they put out, except their last. It was the first time I listened to a new R.E.M. CD all the way through, and was not captured or hooked even once.
Of course, the media are hyping this up as their "return". I won't go that far. I'm not 100% on every song, and there are issues. What is exciting though is there are songs here that I am in love with, 100%, and that's a magical thing no matter what the band. I'm thrilled that it's R.E.M.
I also made a pact with myself. No matter how much money I don't have, I'm buying concert tickets for their tour this summer. I've never seen my favorite band live, and it's something I want to do before I die (or they quit), why not do it while they're riding high?
There's more to write about, but I'm hungry and out of time. I've decided what I want to do in the next couple years. Unlike the Cylons, I have a plan. I just got in from Atlanta yesterday, where I attended a professional conference. That's a story too. Hopefully I'll get to it before May.
Every week in March, hell, almost every day in March, something came up to write about. Seriously, it was interesting times. I've just been too busy to get to them. The following is a quick ass summary.
Your Own Rules Are The Most Fun To Break
I'm a stubborn man. I once stopped eating beef because I stayed up late one night reading the tall tale of John Titor, self proclaimed time traveler. Of course, as the number of sleepless hours increases, so to does their susceptibility to wac ass stories and conspiracy theories. Mr. Titor was making quite a bit of sense at 3am. In Mr. Titor's future, America's been split by civil war, nuked by Russia (just the cities), and it's population decimated by Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, which was a result of years of people unknowingly eating Mad Cow infected beef for years, as it's possible for years to pass before symptoms appear.
I stayed up the rest of the night reading about the disease and was both creeped out and fascinated. It's not caused by a virus or a bacteria, but by a protein, a chemical. It is, in essence, a chemical reaction that slowly disables your brain.
So I stopped eating beef. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but at the time I was eating hamburgers like it was my job, and touring Taco Bell once a week. How long did I stop eating beef? Long after my irrational fear of Mad Cow, as it had been replaced by an irrational fear of Irony: I was subconsciously convinced that if I started eating beef, I'd get the disease for sure, just because, well, wouldn't that be funny?
Shit, I didn't want to ramble because I'm in a hurry. Looks like I failed that one already! Point is, I didn't eat beef for years, and more than the fear, it was really because I was curious how hard it would be, and how long I could do it. One day, on vacation, my aunt's family left half a "hamburger" pizza sitting cold on the stove. No one was around. I was hungry. I was curious. I was bored.
It was delicious.
In middle school and high school I watched an impressive amount of TV. Prime time had to be watched: 2 hours. Then there was reruns at and around dinner: 1-2hours. Of course, there's after school: 1.5 hours. Ooh! X-Files: 1hr. You get the picture. I remember a health class where we calculated our weekly TV viewing time, and I remember being one of the highest in the class with something close to 30 hours of TV per week. Maybe I was the only one being honest. I'd make that mistake again in shop class, when everyone was talking about the size of their penis.
When I got to college I stopped watching TV, mostly because I didn't have a TV. I was amazed to find that I didn't miss it at all. I'd miss a show here or there, but mostly, I felt liberated. And, except for that stint of unemployment I spent on my parent's couch, I've been mostly TV free since. That is, until now.
It was thrilling to call the cable company. I felt as if I were doing something immoral, illegal I ordered extended basic, nothing fancy, but I'm also renting a DVR. Without it, cable wouldn't be worth it, as I'm never home during shows I want to watch. Right now I've got it hooked up to the projector, and I must say, it is nigh awesome.
What was the impetus for such a drastic break from principle for the sake of principle?
Battlestar Galactica is Better Than Life Itself
...and its FINAL season debuts TO FUCKING MORROW. I've waited over a gods damned year for this show to come back on the air. Seriously, if you're curious, don't watch it. Go, now, to the video store, to your Netflix Queue, and rent the Miniseries and first Season 1 discs. It is a glorious serial, and to carelessly see the final season's episodes before you're ready would be crime enough that, once you realized the gravity of your transgression, the promised land of plot you've spoiled, you would be unable to resist the compulsion to blind yourself with your mother's broach.
I couldn't pass the opportunity to see my favorite show of all time wrap itself up on the sheet hung on my wall.
While we're on the topic of sci-fi, I love Star Trek. I'm not going to go into specifics, I just do. (Battlestar Galactica is a far superior show, and I can admit that.) My friend Stankfoot, a Star Wars fan from childhood, sent me a link to a survey where folks can vote as to who'd win a fight: Han Solo, or Captain Jean-Luc Picard. The previous week, Solo defeated Kirk. Of course he's going to beat Picard. I'm not going to go into the details of what a fight between these two fictional characters would entail. I just know he's going to win, because when it comes down to it, Star Wars is the Wal-Mart of science fiction. There. I said it. Mediocre. Ubiquitous.
Another Reason March Was The Longest Month
R.E.M., my favorite band, released their latest CD two days ago. I haven't picked my copy up yet, but I have listened to it at least 40 times in the past week. I could write a thesis about why their latest albums began to misfire, but I'll just say this: I own every CD they put out, except their last. It was the first time I listened to a new R.E.M. CD all the way through, and was not captured or hooked even once.
Of course, the media are hyping this up as their "return". I won't go that far. I'm not 100% on every song, and there are issues. What is exciting though is there are songs here that I am in love with, 100%, and that's a magical thing no matter what the band. I'm thrilled that it's R.E.M.
I also made a pact with myself. No matter how much money I don't have, I'm buying concert tickets for their tour this summer. I've never seen my favorite band live, and it's something I want to do before I die (or they quit), why not do it while they're riding high?
There's more to write about, but I'm hungry and out of time. I've decided what I want to do in the next couple years. Unlike the Cylons, I have a plan. I just got in from Atlanta yesterday, where I attended a professional conference. That's a story too. Hopefully I'll get to it before May.
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