You think you're okay until you realize you're not. A former classmate of mine died in a car crash one month before his high school graduation. The night prior to prom. How much could you possibly experience? He will never move a tassel from the left side of the cap to the right. He will never vote. He will never live that first terrible night away from home. He will always be seventeen.
There are so many individuals in this world that would have benefitted if someone like, say, Franco, Musselini, Columbus, or Hitler passed away at seventeen. Spaniards would be alive, Italians, the people of Espanola, the Jews... well, basically, the non-Aryans.
My classmate never discriminated or spoke a bad word against anyone. You don't realize how truly great someone is until it's far too late. A foggy night on the road might forever be the end. What canyou say about someone who dies at seventeen? Many will argue with me when I say that it wasn't his time. I know I'm no deity, before that argument is thrown back in my face, but who could say that seventeen is the appropriate expiration date? I mean, my aunt ... she was four when she died. Is four appropriate? Who decides the cut-off point?
Myra Hindley killed five children with her lover in the sixties. John Wayne Gacy raped and murdered 33 boys in the seventies, dressed as a "Pogo the Clown". Why the hell did they live?
Why does it take death or loss or some kind of tragedy to see clearly? Can chaos only end if it hits rock bottom? Does it have to be this terrible?
All questions I'll have to find my own answers to... or come to realize that there are none.
So, if you love someone, say so. If you want to do something, don't hesitate. Cut your hair. Skydive. Eat oysters. Don't think; just do. You never know when the brakes will stop working until it's too late to do a damn thing.
Anyway, I'm not going to dwell on this. Or try not to. As Steinbeck said, if you have to make the choice, "we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure on the world".
And so, I feel I should mention that I'm graduating. Mini-round of applause for me. Sometimes, the littlest things make you happy; and I guess that's kind of beautiful, in a way, that it doesn't take too much. (Yes, that's right, I don't consider graduation a big deal, but I'm very Type A, so that should answer your questions there.)
So, I was just wondering, if anyone reads this, what are some of the little things that you find beautiful and heart-warming and just ... happy.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
You're wise beyond your years, but I don't care. ...You won't be seventeen forever and we can get away with this tonight.
I just read a book. My friend let me borrow. My friends are awesome, and, apparently, literate.
The book was called "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low-Culture Manifesto".
It's written by an essayist named Chuck Klosterman, and it's a book of essays (which is probably the kind of writing you'd expect 'an essayist named Chuck Klosterman' to do.)
Anyway, here is an excerpt from his book. It is "the twenty-three questions I ask everybody I meet in order to decide if I can really love them".
Oh, and after each question, I answer them. In case you're wondering what the mindless babble in between is. I mean, it's safe to guess me. I understand. It's okay; we can't all be Mark Twain. Because then there would be no women and then humans would become extinct. And if all writing was good writing, we'd be reading all day long. And we can't have that, can we?
So, as Chuck Klosterman was saying ...
1. Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks - he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks with real magic. It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence.
Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?
There's two answers. If you know anything at all about physics, no. If you saw that movie with Meg Ryan and Walter Matthau, yes. If you fall into neither category, it is time to make a major life decision, so I shall leave you to it.
2. Let us assume a fully grown, completely healthy Clydesdale horse has his hooves shackled to the ground while his head is held in place with thick rope. He is concious and standing upright, but completely immobile. And let us assume that - for some reason - every political prisoner on earth (as cited by Amnesty International) will be released from captivity if you can kick this horse to death in less than twenty minutes. You are allowed to wear steel-toed boots.
Would you attempt to do this?
I would attempt to negotiate for ALL political prisoners, including those not cited by Amnesty International. Then, I'd step back from this moral dilemma and realize that I'm allergic to horses.
3. Let us assume there are two boxes on a table. In one box, there is a relatively normal turtle; in the other, Adolf Hitler's skull. You have to select one of these for your home. If you select the turtle, you can't give it away and you have to keep it alive for two years; if either of these parameters are not met, you will be fined $999 by the state. If you select Hitler's skull, you are required to display it in a semi-prominent location in your living room for the same amount of time, although you will be paid a stipend of $120 per month for doing so. Display of the skull must be apolitical.
Which option do you select?
This one's easy. Hitler's skull. Hear me out. Two reasons. One, how many people are going in my living room, and secondly, of those that do, how many are going to ask about a skull? People are surprisingly silent about stuff like that. Two, I'm getting a stipend. So now I can use that money to go buy a baby turtle.
4. Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have developed a so- called "super gorilla". Though the animal cannot speak, it has a sign language lexicon of over twelve thousand words, an I.Q. of almost 85, and - most notably - a vague sense of self-awareness. Oddly, the creature (who weights seven hundred pounds) becomes fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that this gorilla would be "borderline unblockable" and would likely average six sacks a game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to counters and misdirection plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it clear he would never intentionally injure an opponent.
You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Rangers?
Absolutely! Again, my logic. It consists of three parts: One, I'm a girl, and thus my opinion on sports will always be wrong in the eyes of the sports Gods. Two, I am fascinated by this gorilla. I named him Phil. Phil Sexington. Three, Oakland Rangers are two words that, when combined, could nor mean less to me. Oh, and secret logic part four, if I were commissioner of the NFL, things would likely be very different. And then they'd fire me. Meh. At least, I'd be remembered.
5. You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate's collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one way you can stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear - for the rest of your life - sound as if it's being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival, it will sound (to your ears) like it's being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it's being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Staley performing a capella (but it will only sound this way to you).
Would you swallow the pill?
This one was tricky. My automatic answer was that I'd swallow that baby down. It seems obvious. This person's your soul mate, you love them, ya da ya da ya da. In my mind, nothing else really matters. Then, I thought about Alice in Chains. Then I thought about my iPod. My iPod is something like a child. I take it everywhere with me. I dress it up. It wakes me up in the middle of the night - which is another story, entirely, kids. I'd be abandoning my child pretty much. Then, I realized my boyfriend is pretty much a metalhead, so there's no problem. Or there's a massive problem and you can only hope it's just a phase. Which goes to show you, the automatic answer is automatically right. Always.
6.At long last, someone invents "the dream VCR". This machine allows you to tape an entire evening's worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the inventor of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch you dreams, you must do so with your family and your closest friends in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don't agree to this, you can't use the dream VCR.
Would you still do this?
No. Because even though I can fairly assume that most of the stuff in my dreams will be absolutely ridiculous, I can also fairly assume that most people will not assume the same things as me. In other words, no, Mr. Dream VCR Inventor, you can keep your little toy.
7. Defying all expectation, a group of Scottish marine biologists capture a live Loch Ness Monster. In an almost unbelievable coincidence, a bear hunter in the Pacific Northwest shoots a Sasquatch in the thigh, thereby allowing zoologists to take the furry monster into captivity. These events happen on the same afternoon. That evening, the president announces he may have thyroid cancer and will undergo a biopsy later that week.
You are the front-page editor of The New York Times: What do you play as the biggest story?
The Loch Ness Monster. Everyone will print the president story and the Sasquatch story will provoke too much controversy, due to the fact that bear hunters shot him. I'm totally kidding about the reasoning. It's just because I watch too much How I Met Your Mother.
8. You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal: You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Henson's gothic puppet fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation with Dark Crystal references, uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk deeply about the film's "deeper philosophy".
Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?
A lack of proposal from them would be the only thing stopping from me. The whole Dark Crystal thing doesn't bother me. Who am I to judge? I STILL love Fraggle Rock.
9. A novel titled Interior Mirror is released to mammoth commercial success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend emerges: Though no one can prove a direct scientific link, it appears that almost 30 percent of the people who read the book immediately become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite the fact that Interior Mirror is ostensibly a crime novel with no homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man).
Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likelihood of you reading this book?
I would definitely feel some intrigue and definitely the fear of this occurring, especially considering I'm in a happy relationship, but it would probably do nothing to the probability of me actually reading the book. First of all, it's a crime novel. And I don't like crime novels too much. Next, there's no scientific link. People can believe whatever they want if they manipulate the facts hard enough. And lastly, let's AGAIN look at the facts. 30 percent. That's not that much. There is a chance that these people were already gay and found this as a means for coming out -- a coincidental link. The book was read by a lot of people. The other 70 percent are what they are still. Yeah, that's like saying the DaVinci Code will turn you female.
10. This is the opening line of Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City: "You are not the kind of guy who would be in a place like this at this time of the morning." Think about that line in the context of the novel (assuming you've read it). Now go to your CD collection and find Heart's Little Queen album (assuming you own it). Listen to the opening riff to "Barracuda".
Which of these two introductions is a higher form of art?
Heart's "Barracuda". Because the other is just really not a morning person. In other words, the other is just me. And as much as I'd like to think I'm a higher form of art, I'm sure the academic community is raring to put my spirit in a non-eco-friendly shredder.
11. You are watching a movie in a crowded movie theatre. Though the plot is mediocre, you find yourself dazzled by the special effects. But with twenty minutes left in the film, you are struck with an undeniable feeling of doom: You are suddenly certain your mother has just died. There is no logical reason for this to be true, but you are certain of it. You are overtaken with the irrational metaphysical sense that - somewhere - your mom has just perished. But this is only an intuitive, amorphous feeling; there is no evidence for this, and your mother has not been ill.
Would you immediately exit the theatre, or would you finish watching the movie?
There is no question -- I would leave. You can always watch buy another ticket for Harry Potter.
12. You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, "I will now make you a dollar more attractive." Her waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But - somehow - this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can't deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though - you can only pay him once. You can't keep giving him money until you're satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front.
How much cash do you give the wizard?
5 bucks. Considering that a dollar made a difference, 5 is neither greedy and superficial nor wasteful and counterproductive with inadequate results. Besides, any more than 5 and I would feel as if I was throwing my money to the wind and trying to be someone I'm not. Even though nothing changes, I still feel as if me, as I am, should be attractive enough. But just in case my future hangs in the balance, might as well invest.
14.For reasons that cannot be explained, cats can suddenly read at a twelfth-grade level. They can't talk and they can't write, but they can read silently and understand the text. Many cats love this new skill, because they now have something to do all day while they lay around the house; however, a few cats become depressed, because reading forces them to realize the limitations of their existence (not to mention the utter frustration of being unable to express themselves).
This being the case, do you think the average cat would enjoy Garfield, or would cats find this cartoon to be an insulting caricature?
I am going to bring this around to How I Met Your Mother. I like the show. Or, if I were Ted*, I'd say I think I'm in love with it. Anyway, one of the characters on the show, Robin, is played by a Canadian actress -- Colbie something or other... Smulders, I think it is. Anyway, she plays Robin, who is happens to be written in as Canadian. The funny thing about this is, lots of Canadian jokes are made, as it is an American show, yet I am still amused by some of them. So, no, the cats should -- and better, or else -- like Garfield. Garfield is my Vishnu.
15.You have a brain tumour. Although there is no discomfort at the moment, this tumour would unquestionably kill you in six months. However, you life can (and will) be saved by an operation; the only downside is that there will be a brutal incision to your frontal lobe. After the surgery, you will be significantly less intelligent. You will still be a fully functioning adult, but you will be less logical, you will have a terrible memory, and you will have little ability to understand complex concepts or difficult ideas. The surgery is in two weeks.
How do you spend the next fourteen days?
What, do you want the itinerary? I'd pretty much do all sorts. Live like I was dying (even though it is the exact opposite), and I'd write down a lot of stuff, try to get published, talk and talk and talk and have it all recorded in some shape or form, and I'd be with my boyfriend and my family and his family and just yammer on and on. I'd do anything that required cleverness. I'd do Mensa puzzles. I love Mensa puzzles. This just in, Garfield has been demoted. Mensa puzzles are now my Vishnu.
16. Someone builds an optical portal that allows you to see a vision of your own life in the future (it's essentially a crystal ball that shows a randomly selected image of what your life will be like in twenty years). You can only see into this portal for thirty seconds. When you finally peer into the crystal, you see yourself in a living room, two decades older than you are today. You are watching a Canadian football game, and you are extremely happy. You are wearing a CFL jersey. Your chair is surrounded by books and magazines that promote the Canadian football league, and there are CFL pennants covering your walls. You are alone in the room, but you are gleefully muttering about historical moments in Canadian football history. It becomes clear that -- for some unknown reason -- you have become obsessed with Canadian football. And this future is static and absolute; no matter what you do, this future will happen. The optical portal is never wrong. This destiny cannot be changed. The next day, you are flipping through television channels and randomly come across a pre- season CFL game between the Toronto Argonauts and the Saskatchewan Roughriders.
Knowing your inevitable future, do you now watch it?
Who says it's inevitable, huh? I would possibly be amused by the coincink-i-dink, but I wouldn't watch it. If it was so fated, I would want to try to avoid it to see if it would happen anyway. Because I don't believe in fate and I'm a stubborn little toddler when it all comes down to it. Free will, Billy Bill. Damn, I hope I don't fall into some Oedipus Rex kind of trap. Not pretty, no, no, no.
You may have noticed that question 13 was not included on this list. The reason is: one, I don't have an answer, considering the banquet would be so small. And two, you really should read the book, so I'm leaving an air of mystery. And I bet now you really want to know what banquet I'm talking about. Oh, and numbers 17 to 23 are not included. Because I'm lazy and my back hurts. Wah.
So, all I have to say is: Do you love me Mr. Klosterman? Do ya, Chuck? Do ya? (Well, does he?) Oh, and by the way, to avoid being sued by the Internet donut-gobblers (and, by that I mean, cops -- and doughnut, because spelling things wrong is bad), I admit openly that some of the stuff up there is property of Mr. Chuck Klosterman, who may or may not love me, and who may or may not ever tell me/read this. And so, since Chuck decided to publish his property, it came from that book I was telling you about, which was published by Scribner Publishers, sometime after the Renaissance. And Scribner has four different publishing branches. They're in New York, London, Toronto, and Sydney. I've been to two of those places, want to go to one of them, and don't really care about the other one either way, although it would be nice to see its opera house.
And, for the record, Chuck Klosterman is a good writer, but if half the stuff he says is true, I don't think I'd like him as a person. And that's okay. (God, I sure hope he doesn't love me.)
The book was called "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low-Culture Manifesto".
It's written by an essayist named Chuck Klosterman, and it's a book of essays (which is probably the kind of writing you'd expect 'an essayist named Chuck Klosterman' to do.)
Anyway, here is an excerpt from his book. It is "the twenty-three questions I ask everybody I meet in order to decide if I can really love them".
Oh, and after each question, I answer them. In case you're wondering what the mindless babble in between is. I mean, it's safe to guess me. I understand. It's okay; we can't all be Mark Twain. Because then there would be no women and then humans would become extinct. And if all writing was good writing, we'd be reading all day long. And we can't have that, can we?
So, as Chuck Klosterman was saying ...
1. Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks - he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks with real magic. It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence.
Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?
There's two answers. If you know anything at all about physics, no. If you saw that movie with Meg Ryan and Walter Matthau, yes. If you fall into neither category, it is time to make a major life decision, so I shall leave you to it.
2. Let us assume a fully grown, completely healthy Clydesdale horse has his hooves shackled to the ground while his head is held in place with thick rope. He is concious and standing upright, but completely immobile. And let us assume that - for some reason - every political prisoner on earth (as cited by Amnesty International) will be released from captivity if you can kick this horse to death in less than twenty minutes. You are allowed to wear steel-toed boots.
Would you attempt to do this?
I would attempt to negotiate for ALL political prisoners, including those not cited by Amnesty International. Then, I'd step back from this moral dilemma and realize that I'm allergic to horses.
3. Let us assume there are two boxes on a table. In one box, there is a relatively normal turtle; in the other, Adolf Hitler's skull. You have to select one of these for your home. If you select the turtle, you can't give it away and you have to keep it alive for two years; if either of these parameters are not met, you will be fined $999 by the state. If you select Hitler's skull, you are required to display it in a semi-prominent location in your living room for the same amount of time, although you will be paid a stipend of $120 per month for doing so. Display of the skull must be apolitical.
Which option do you select?
This one's easy. Hitler's skull. Hear me out. Two reasons. One, how many people are going in my living room, and secondly, of those that do, how many are going to ask about a skull? People are surprisingly silent about stuff like that. Two, I'm getting a stipend. So now I can use that money to go buy a baby turtle.
4. Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have developed a so- called "super gorilla". Though the animal cannot speak, it has a sign language lexicon of over twelve thousand words, an I.Q. of almost 85, and - most notably - a vague sense of self-awareness. Oddly, the creature (who weights seven hundred pounds) becomes fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that this gorilla would be "borderline unblockable" and would likely average six sacks a game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to counters and misdirection plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it clear he would never intentionally injure an opponent.
You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Rangers?
Absolutely! Again, my logic. It consists of three parts: One, I'm a girl, and thus my opinion on sports will always be wrong in the eyes of the sports Gods. Two, I am fascinated by this gorilla. I named him Phil. Phil Sexington. Three, Oakland Rangers are two words that, when combined, could nor mean less to me. Oh, and secret logic part four, if I were commissioner of the NFL, things would likely be very different. And then they'd fire me. Meh. At least, I'd be remembered.
5. You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate's collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one way you can stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear - for the rest of your life - sound as if it's being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival, it will sound (to your ears) like it's being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it's being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Staley performing a capella (but it will only sound this way to you).
Would you swallow the pill?
This one was tricky. My automatic answer was that I'd swallow that baby down. It seems obvious. This person's your soul mate, you love them, ya da ya da ya da. In my mind, nothing else really matters. Then, I thought about Alice in Chains. Then I thought about my iPod. My iPod is something like a child. I take it everywhere with me. I dress it up. It wakes me up in the middle of the night - which is another story, entirely, kids. I'd be abandoning my child pretty much. Then, I realized my boyfriend is pretty much a metalhead, so there's no problem. Or there's a massive problem and you can only hope it's just a phase. Which goes to show you, the automatic answer is automatically right. Always.
6.At long last, someone invents "the dream VCR". This machine allows you to tape an entire evening's worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the inventor of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch you dreams, you must do so with your family and your closest friends in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don't agree to this, you can't use the dream VCR.
Would you still do this?
No. Because even though I can fairly assume that most of the stuff in my dreams will be absolutely ridiculous, I can also fairly assume that most people will not assume the same things as me. In other words, no, Mr. Dream VCR Inventor, you can keep your little toy.
7. Defying all expectation, a group of Scottish marine biologists capture a live Loch Ness Monster. In an almost unbelievable coincidence, a bear hunter in the Pacific Northwest shoots a Sasquatch in the thigh, thereby allowing zoologists to take the furry monster into captivity. These events happen on the same afternoon. That evening, the president announces he may have thyroid cancer and will undergo a biopsy later that week.
You are the front-page editor of The New York Times: What do you play as the biggest story?
The Loch Ness Monster. Everyone will print the president story and the Sasquatch story will provoke too much controversy, due to the fact that bear hunters shot him. I'm totally kidding about the reasoning. It's just because I watch too much How I Met Your Mother.
8. You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal: You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Henson's gothic puppet fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation with Dark Crystal references, uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk deeply about the film's "deeper philosophy".
Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?
A lack of proposal from them would be the only thing stopping from me. The whole Dark Crystal thing doesn't bother me. Who am I to judge? I STILL love Fraggle Rock.
9. A novel titled Interior Mirror is released to mammoth commercial success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend emerges: Though no one can prove a direct scientific link, it appears that almost 30 percent of the people who read the book immediately become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite the fact that Interior Mirror is ostensibly a crime novel with no homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man).
Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likelihood of you reading this book?
I would definitely feel some intrigue and definitely the fear of this occurring, especially considering I'm in a happy relationship, but it would probably do nothing to the probability of me actually reading the book. First of all, it's a crime novel. And I don't like crime novels too much. Next, there's no scientific link. People can believe whatever they want if they manipulate the facts hard enough. And lastly, let's AGAIN look at the facts. 30 percent. That's not that much. There is a chance that these people were already gay and found this as a means for coming out -- a coincidental link. The book was read by a lot of people. The other 70 percent are what they are still. Yeah, that's like saying the DaVinci Code will turn you female.
10. This is the opening line of Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City: "You are not the kind of guy who would be in a place like this at this time of the morning." Think about that line in the context of the novel (assuming you've read it). Now go to your CD collection and find Heart's Little Queen album (assuming you own it). Listen to the opening riff to "Barracuda".
Which of these two introductions is a higher form of art?
Heart's "Barracuda". Because the other is just really not a morning person. In other words, the other is just me. And as much as I'd like to think I'm a higher form of art, I'm sure the academic community is raring to put my spirit in a non-eco-friendly shredder.
11. You are watching a movie in a crowded movie theatre. Though the plot is mediocre, you find yourself dazzled by the special effects. But with twenty minutes left in the film, you are struck with an undeniable feeling of doom: You are suddenly certain your mother has just died. There is no logical reason for this to be true, but you are certain of it. You are overtaken with the irrational metaphysical sense that - somewhere - your mom has just perished. But this is only an intuitive, amorphous feeling; there is no evidence for this, and your mother has not been ill.
Would you immediately exit the theatre, or would you finish watching the movie?
There is no question -- I would leave. You can always watch buy another ticket for Harry Potter.
12. You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, "I will now make you a dollar more attractive." Her waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But - somehow - this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can't deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though - you can only pay him once. You can't keep giving him money until you're satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front.
How much cash do you give the wizard?
5 bucks. Considering that a dollar made a difference, 5 is neither greedy and superficial nor wasteful and counterproductive with inadequate results. Besides, any more than 5 and I would feel as if I was throwing my money to the wind and trying to be someone I'm not. Even though nothing changes, I still feel as if me, as I am, should be attractive enough. But just in case my future hangs in the balance, might as well invest.
14.For reasons that cannot be explained, cats can suddenly read at a twelfth-grade level. They can't talk and they can't write, but they can read silently and understand the text. Many cats love this new skill, because they now have something to do all day while they lay around the house; however, a few cats become depressed, because reading forces them to realize the limitations of their existence (not to mention the utter frustration of being unable to express themselves).
This being the case, do you think the average cat would enjoy Garfield, or would cats find this cartoon to be an insulting caricature?
I am going to bring this around to How I Met Your Mother. I like the show. Or, if I were Ted*, I'd say I think I'm in love with it. Anyway, one of the characters on the show, Robin, is played by a Canadian actress -- Colbie something or other... Smulders, I think it is. Anyway, she plays Robin, who is happens to be written in as Canadian. The funny thing about this is, lots of Canadian jokes are made, as it is an American show, yet I am still amused by some of them. So, no, the cats should -- and better, or else -- like Garfield. Garfield is my Vishnu.
15.You have a brain tumour. Although there is no discomfort at the moment, this tumour would unquestionably kill you in six months. However, you life can (and will) be saved by an operation; the only downside is that there will be a brutal incision to your frontal lobe. After the surgery, you will be significantly less intelligent. You will still be a fully functioning adult, but you will be less logical, you will have a terrible memory, and you will have little ability to understand complex concepts or difficult ideas. The surgery is in two weeks.
How do you spend the next fourteen days?
What, do you want the itinerary? I'd pretty much do all sorts. Live like I was dying (even though it is the exact opposite), and I'd write down a lot of stuff, try to get published, talk and talk and talk and have it all recorded in some shape or form, and I'd be with my boyfriend and my family and his family and just yammer on and on. I'd do anything that required cleverness. I'd do Mensa puzzles. I love Mensa puzzles. This just in, Garfield has been demoted. Mensa puzzles are now my Vishnu.
16. Someone builds an optical portal that allows you to see a vision of your own life in the future (it's essentially a crystal ball that shows a randomly selected image of what your life will be like in twenty years). You can only see into this portal for thirty seconds. When you finally peer into the crystal, you see yourself in a living room, two decades older than you are today. You are watching a Canadian football game, and you are extremely happy. You are wearing a CFL jersey. Your chair is surrounded by books and magazines that promote the Canadian football league, and there are CFL pennants covering your walls. You are alone in the room, but you are gleefully muttering about historical moments in Canadian football history. It becomes clear that -- for some unknown reason -- you have become obsessed with Canadian football. And this future is static and absolute; no matter what you do, this future will happen. The optical portal is never wrong. This destiny cannot be changed. The next day, you are flipping through television channels and randomly come across a pre- season CFL game between the Toronto Argonauts and the Saskatchewan Roughriders.
Knowing your inevitable future, do you now watch it?
Who says it's inevitable, huh? I would possibly be amused by the coincink-i-dink, but I wouldn't watch it. If it was so fated, I would want to try to avoid it to see if it would happen anyway. Because I don't believe in fate and I'm a stubborn little toddler when it all comes down to it. Free will, Billy Bill. Damn, I hope I don't fall into some Oedipus Rex kind of trap. Not pretty, no, no, no.
You may have noticed that question 13 was not included on this list. The reason is: one, I don't have an answer, considering the banquet would be so small. And two, you really should read the book, so I'm leaving an air of mystery. And I bet now you really want to know what banquet I'm talking about. Oh, and numbers 17 to 23 are not included. Because I'm lazy and my back hurts. Wah.
So, all I have to say is: Do you love me Mr. Klosterman? Do ya, Chuck? Do ya? (Well, does he?) Oh, and by the way, to avoid being sued by the Internet donut-gobblers (and, by that I mean, cops -- and doughnut, because spelling things wrong is bad), I admit openly that some of the stuff up there is property of Mr. Chuck Klosterman, who may or may not love me, and who may or may not ever tell me/read this. And so, since Chuck decided to publish his property, it came from that book I was telling you about, which was published by Scribner Publishers, sometime after the Renaissance. And Scribner has four different publishing branches. They're in New York, London, Toronto, and Sydney. I've been to two of those places, want to go to one of them, and don't really care about the other one either way, although it would be nice to see its opera house.
And, for the record, Chuck Klosterman is a good writer, but if half the stuff he says is true, I don't think I'd like him as a person. And that's okay. (God, I sure hope he doesn't love me.)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
You can't feel anything that your heart don't want to feel. I can't tell you something that ain't real.
As a rule, I tend to like holidays. As my boyfriend helped me realize, life is a cycle of sitting down, wanting to stand up, standing up, wanting to sit down, and so on. You're destined to get fed up and need to do something different. That is, if you're me. And he was really a shining orb of optimism about my restlessness as you can tell. (Only kidding. He's lovely.)
Anyway, like I was saying, holidays are awesome because they kind of break up the monotony. Even if it's something lame like Flag Day, it gives really ubercool superawesome people like me a chance to go and buy some interesting flags.
Or, if it's Gum-Chewing Day, you look a little longer at the stand beside the counter when picking out the same old Citrus Blast. (I really hate chewing gum... I really hope they don't make a Gum-Chewing Day. Think of the streets. People who are gross and disgusting will spit their gum out and everyone will be spending their time dodging the sticky mess on the pavement. It's not a good plan. Not at all. No, Mr. Holiday Picker, go get another slip out of the hat.)
So, it's that time of year again, boys and girls! It's....
Christmastime in May... time!
Yes, the holiday often ignored by everyone by me. It's Maymastime.
See, once upon a time, there was a child named Maymas. Boy, he was some kind of brat. He didn't do anything nice for anyone, but his parents loved him because they were reproductively challenged and kind of figured, "Let's play the cards we're dealt." However, that didn't work out too well because they just spoiled Maymas with gifts. All the flipping time. So, Maymas, thinking he would be able to get away with anything (since it worked with his parents), got his big monster truck and put all his things in the back of it and went around town screaming out the window at the townfolk how much stuff he had.
The townfolk, bewildered at the fact that a child of only ten or so was driving this gargantuan vehicle without a licence, immediately alerted the police. The police came in an even bigger monster truck and made Maymas pull over. Maymas proceeded to throw a big fit, so the police took all of Maymas's possessions and handed them out to the well-behaved children of the town. The gifts were awful snazzy and Maymas was disappointed and bellowed out several curse words. Then, he took all of his clothes off and ran around in the churchyard until the police arrested him for indecent exposure and locked up this crazy child for good. And Maymas's parents realized they were much happier childless and decided to buy a chameleon instead. Pretty colours.
So, yes, what are you asking for Maymastime this year..?
Oh, I hate to go off on a tangent like this....(Oh, who am I kidding? I love going off on a tangent. It's like being at a Sandals beach resort and, let's face it, being back to the point is like being back at work or school or ... some place like work or school.) ... but yes, Bob the Builder. Can he fix it? Apparently, yes, he can. See, this is where I took issue. Sometimes, no matter how many screwdrivers you have and no matter how big or how Big Bird yellow your construction hat is, things are just broken. (By the way, I would probably give a kidney to see good ol' Bobby boy repair something with duct tape. Instead, the bugger has managed to hide behind his old magical teamwork decoy plan up until now. One day, though, he'll want a quick fix and I'll be there. In the shrubs. With a camcorder.)
Okay, back to work... I mean, to the point ...
I've been thinking about my Maymas list and, other than books, I'm a pretty easy chick to buy for. Even then, buy me a journal and I'm set.
I mean, here's my list of gifts I'd like.
1. Gift card for the book shop. The bigger, the better. Don't be cheap; they'll put a thousand dollars on that little piece of plastic.
2. A journal with an elastic that holds it closed and has like a nice design or quotes on the bottom or something.
I freaking love quotes. And that elastic thing that keeps it closed is practically mandatory. (They give me one journal like that, and suddenly, the old school stuff just ain't good enough no more.
That's the kind of girl I am.)
3. A raspberry beret. No, not the kind you find at the second-hand store. Just a reddish one. One that matches my hair. This is a lot of trial and error. So, basically, unless you're gonna be the "I don't do surprises" gift giver and take me to a hat shop, it's best just to find a place with a lot of berets and gift card it.
5. Some DVD seasons. Basically, Gilmore Girls season 4-7 and.... all the How I Met Your Mother seasons except the first one. I love that show, but dear Robertson Davies, I'm behind episode-wise. Apparently, Barney's smitten. Barney can't get smitten! First of all, he's smitten with a woman, which isn't right, since he'll always be gay and high on drugs provided by Harold and Kumar. But yes... DVD seasons would be lovely.
6. That James Morrison and Nelly Furtado song, "Broken Strings". Perfectly awesome. I was talking to my guyfriend the other day. He's bisexual (which isn't really important, except for the fact that I had the sudden urge to nickname him, "Bi-Guy"; that's his superhero name, without a doubt, so now all I have to do is convince him to put his underwear on over the top of his jeans, which will only take a little gin). So, yeah, I told Bi Guy I loved this song and he said, "Yeah, it's awesome." He likes it because he relates (his girlfriend is a bit of an ice queen) and I like it because I have some weird attraction to break-up songs or heartbreak songs that don't go to snailish, boring, oh-so-typical-'slow-dance' music.
Anyway, yes, Bi Guy laughed at my commentary of James Morrison and John Mayer being the exact same... until Mayer went and started dating bimbos. (It just doesn't make sense to me why he would ruin his entire caree over a piece of ass. Just saying. Everyone knows his whole appeal was built around the sensitive, sweet, almost hippie-ish sentimentality of a deep and moving guitarist over a piece of ass. James Morrison swooped down and snatched that up damn quick. It's all about the timing, boys.)
So, yeah, that song would be an awesome Maymas gift.
7. A really good night's sleep. Education and work are a messy combination. And, yet, somehow, I'm not capable of sleeping. I'd like to just be tired and go to bed and wake up feeling refreshed and ready for the day. Not feeling like a weird mix of that residue left on lotion bottles if you don't wipe the top off before putting the lid back on and Sean Rogen's bare ass in the 'morning after' scene of Knocked Up.
So, hurry, little kiddies. Ask your parents to steal Maymas's crap for you today! You don't want to be Seth Rogen's bum.
Anyway, like I was saying, holidays are awesome because they kind of break up the monotony. Even if it's something lame like Flag Day, it gives really ubercool superawesome people like me a chance to go and buy some interesting flags.
Or, if it's Gum-Chewing Day, you look a little longer at the stand beside the counter when picking out the same old Citrus Blast. (I really hate chewing gum... I really hope they don't make a Gum-Chewing Day. Think of the streets. People who are gross and disgusting will spit their gum out and everyone will be spending their time dodging the sticky mess on the pavement. It's not a good plan. Not at all. No, Mr. Holiday Picker, go get another slip out of the hat.)
So, it's that time of year again, boys and girls! It's....
Christmastime in May... time!
Yes, the holiday often ignored by everyone by me. It's Maymastime.
See, once upon a time, there was a child named Maymas. Boy, he was some kind of brat. He didn't do anything nice for anyone, but his parents loved him because they were reproductively challenged and kind of figured, "Let's play the cards we're dealt." However, that didn't work out too well because they just spoiled Maymas with gifts. All the flipping time. So, Maymas, thinking he would be able to get away with anything (since it worked with his parents), got his big monster truck and put all his things in the back of it and went around town screaming out the window at the townfolk how much stuff he had.
The townfolk, bewildered at the fact that a child of only ten or so was driving this gargantuan vehicle without a licence, immediately alerted the police. The police came in an even bigger monster truck and made Maymas pull over. Maymas proceeded to throw a big fit, so the police took all of Maymas's possessions and handed them out to the well-behaved children of the town. The gifts were awful snazzy and Maymas was disappointed and bellowed out several curse words. Then, he took all of his clothes off and ran around in the churchyard until the police arrested him for indecent exposure and locked up this crazy child for good. And Maymas's parents realized they were much happier childless and decided to buy a chameleon instead. Pretty colours.
So, yes, what are you asking for Maymastime this year..?
Oh, I hate to go off on a tangent like this....(Oh, who am I kidding? I love going off on a tangent. It's like being at a Sandals beach resort and, let's face it, being back to the point is like being back at work or school or ... some place like work or school.) ... but yes, Bob the Builder. Can he fix it? Apparently, yes, he can. See, this is where I took issue. Sometimes, no matter how many screwdrivers you have and no matter how big or how Big Bird yellow your construction hat is, things are just broken. (By the way, I would probably give a kidney to see good ol' Bobby boy repair something with duct tape. Instead, the bugger has managed to hide behind his old magical teamwork decoy plan up until now. One day, though, he'll want a quick fix and I'll be there. In the shrubs. With a camcorder.)
Okay, back to work... I mean, to the point ...
I've been thinking about my Maymas list and, other than books, I'm a pretty easy chick to buy for. Even then, buy me a journal and I'm set.
I mean, here's my list of gifts I'd like.
1. Gift card for the book shop. The bigger, the better. Don't be cheap; they'll put a thousand dollars on that little piece of plastic.
2. A journal with an elastic that holds it closed and has like a nice design or quotes on the bottom or something.
I freaking love quotes. And that elastic thing that keeps it closed is practically mandatory. (They give me one journal like that, and suddenly, the old school stuff just ain't good enough no more.
That's the kind of girl I am.)
3. A raspberry beret. No, not the kind you find at the second-hand store. Just a reddish one. One that matches my hair. This is a lot of trial and error. So, basically, unless you're gonna be the "I don't do surprises" gift giver and take me to a hat shop, it's best just to find a place with a lot of berets and gift card it.
5. Some DVD seasons. Basically, Gilmore Girls season 4-7 and.... all the How I Met Your Mother seasons except the first one. I love that show, but dear Robertson Davies, I'm behind episode-wise. Apparently, Barney's smitten. Barney can't get smitten! First of all, he's smitten with a woman, which isn't right, since he'll always be gay and high on drugs provided by Harold and Kumar. But yes... DVD seasons would be lovely.
6. That James Morrison and Nelly Furtado song, "Broken Strings". Perfectly awesome. I was talking to my guyfriend the other day. He's bisexual (which isn't really important, except for the fact that I had the sudden urge to nickname him, "Bi-Guy"; that's his superhero name, without a doubt, so now all I have to do is convince him to put his underwear on over the top of his jeans, which will only take a little gin). So, yeah, I told Bi Guy I loved this song and he said, "Yeah, it's awesome." He likes it because he relates (his girlfriend is a bit of an ice queen) and I like it because I have some weird attraction to break-up songs or heartbreak songs that don't go to snailish, boring, oh-so-typical-'slow-dance' music.
Anyway, yes, Bi Guy laughed at my commentary of James Morrison and John Mayer being the exact same... until Mayer went and started dating bimbos. (It just doesn't make sense to me why he would ruin his entire caree over a piece of ass. Just saying. Everyone knows his whole appeal was built around the sensitive, sweet, almost hippie-ish sentimentality of a deep and moving guitarist over a piece of ass. James Morrison swooped down and snatched that up damn quick. It's all about the timing, boys.)
So, yeah, that song would be an awesome Maymas gift.
7. A really good night's sleep. Education and work are a messy combination. And, yet, somehow, I'm not capable of sleeping. I'd like to just be tired and go to bed and wake up feeling refreshed and ready for the day. Not feeling like a weird mix of that residue left on lotion bottles if you don't wipe the top off before putting the lid back on and Sean Rogen's bare ass in the 'morning after' scene of Knocked Up.
So, hurry, little kiddies. Ask your parents to steal Maymas's crap for you today! You don't want to be Seth Rogen's bum.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
There's just the right amount of 'awkward' and today, you accidentally called me 'baby'.
Just a book update for you literary types. (You know who you are, Simon Chipmunk.)
Because I'm so cool that I'm taking a break from my busy day redecorating my invisible airplane. (...Yeah, I'm just writing an essay.)
I'm still reading Wicked. (It's a big book.)
It's absolutely amazing. I'm not far into it, only the first chapter and Galinda's just come into the story the last twenty or so pages, so maybe I shouldn't be Judgy McCritical just yet, but if it keeps on this path, I'll keep at it. I feel as if I can see the future when I read that book. I turn the page and I'm all, "Gasp! She's gonna be the wicked witch," and then, turn another, and I shriek, "She's the Good Witch! Galinda the Good Witch! Oh, it all makes sense now..."
Okay, so back to updating my Rory Book List. I've read the Portable Dorothy Parker (which was also a really big book). And all I can say is Dorothy Parker is both cynical and fantastic.
The Other Hollywood (also a big book -- do I sense a pattern?) is about porn. I thought it was going to be like... "the smart man's take on porn", but, alas, nope. It's just about porn. But I must admit, coming from a chick who hates porn, it's a good book. It's like a 900 page interview with every blonde bimbo, not-so-blonde bimbo, and non-bimbo that does porn... and their pimps. Yes, at some point, they're called pimps. The best thing about all this in my opinion was Linda Lovelace. That was interesting as heck. (I'm not being sarcastic, no matter how often I am, and I know how hard it is to convey tone in typing, but I'm totally serious.) And her boyfriend Chuck. Who I'd like to slowly push into the ground with a sledgehammer.
By the way, my friend read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night by Mark Haddon for the second time this week and ridiculed me for being the slow reader that I am. And I said, "Damn, shush, I lost where I was, now I have to read this page again."
Ooh, ooh, blatant topic change!
I'm sure I've said it before, but I'll say it again, in case.
My boyfriend's mother calls me "Lucy", as in "I Love Lucy". Apparently, I'm like Lucille Ball. On the show, specifically. Well, after a year and a bit of this, I've come to the conclusion that I need to sit and watch some 'I Love Lucy' to fully appreciate the sentiment.
So, I have the second season (because watching the first one before the second was just too logical). Well, the first episode is that one where she stuffs the chocolates in her mouth on the assembly line. (It's a classic, only shadowed by the crushing grapes with her feet one.)
Oh, and the elusive Alan responded! Since he doesn't fully understand the mechanics of blogging, I appreciate the effort he put in to respond.
Anyway, to my dear beloved imaginary readers, I put forward a few questions... a little too short for me to dub it a questionnaire, so maybe it should be a questionna.
One, I love to write, which is probably crystal clear, consider I blog like a buffoon and comment like an addict. My question is, do I quote too much? I didn't think so. Babble too much, very likely, as much as a brook even, but quote..? I never caught that. Sometimes it takes the outside eyes to see these kinds of things.
Two, if you had the perfect job and was guaranteed to always have it and always have financial security and happiness and everything else you value in a career, what major would you have chosen for university? I mean, besides the one you chose. I think I would have been a drama kid. Theatre or whatever it's called. Performing arts...? Only no sing, no dance ... ('After all, miss, this is France, and dinner here is never second best'... Oh, Beauty and the Beast, how you affect my daily life!) ... just acting. Straightforward script memorization and go out and do your thing.
Because I'm so cool that I'm taking a break from my busy day redecorating my invisible airplane. (...Yeah, I'm just writing an essay.)
I'm still reading Wicked. (It's a big book.)
It's absolutely amazing. I'm not far into it, only the first chapter and Galinda's just come into the story the last twenty or so pages, so maybe I shouldn't be Judgy McCritical just yet, but if it keeps on this path, I'll keep at it. I feel as if I can see the future when I read that book. I turn the page and I'm all, "Gasp! She's gonna be the wicked witch," and then, turn another, and I shriek, "She's the Good Witch! Galinda the Good Witch! Oh, it all makes sense now..."
Okay, so back to updating my Rory Book List. I've read the Portable Dorothy Parker (which was also a really big book). And all I can say is Dorothy Parker is both cynical and fantastic.
The Other Hollywood (also a big book -- do I sense a pattern?) is about porn. I thought it was going to be like... "the smart man's take on porn", but, alas, nope. It's just about porn. But I must admit, coming from a chick who hates porn, it's a good book. It's like a 900 page interview with every blonde bimbo, not-so-blonde bimbo, and non-bimbo that does porn... and their pimps. Yes, at some point, they're called pimps. The best thing about all this in my opinion was Linda Lovelace. That was interesting as heck. (I'm not being sarcastic, no matter how often I am, and I know how hard it is to convey tone in typing, but I'm totally serious.) And her boyfriend Chuck. Who I'd like to slowly push into the ground with a sledgehammer.
By the way, my friend read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night by Mark Haddon for the second time this week and ridiculed me for being the slow reader that I am. And I said, "Damn, shush, I lost where I was, now I have to read this page again."
Ooh, ooh, blatant topic change!
I'm sure I've said it before, but I'll say it again, in case.
My boyfriend's mother calls me "Lucy", as in "I Love Lucy". Apparently, I'm like Lucille Ball. On the show, specifically. Well, after a year and a bit of this, I've come to the conclusion that I need to sit and watch some 'I Love Lucy' to fully appreciate the sentiment.
So, I have the second season (because watching the first one before the second was just too logical). Well, the first episode is that one where she stuffs the chocolates in her mouth on the assembly line. (It's a classic, only shadowed by the crushing grapes with her feet one.)
Oh, and the elusive Alan responded! Since he doesn't fully understand the mechanics of blogging, I appreciate the effort he put in to respond.
Anyway, to my dear beloved imaginary readers, I put forward a few questions... a little too short for me to dub it a questionnaire, so maybe it should be a questionna.
One, I love to write, which is probably crystal clear, consider I blog like a buffoon and comment like an addict. My question is, do I quote too much? I didn't think so. Babble too much, very likely, as much as a brook even, but quote..? I never caught that. Sometimes it takes the outside eyes to see these kinds of things.
Two, if you had the perfect job and was guaranteed to always have it and always have financial security and happiness and everything else you value in a career, what major would you have chosen for university? I mean, besides the one you chose. I think I would have been a drama kid. Theatre or whatever it's called. Performing arts...? Only no sing, no dance ... ('After all, miss, this is France, and dinner here is never second best'... Oh, Beauty and the Beast, how you affect my daily life!) ... just acting. Straightforward script memorization and go out and do your thing.
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