Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Yes. Absolutely. Completely. Totally. Why would I sleep on the other side of the bed when the right side is so comfortable and I'm so damned used to it???? Why???
If you're thinking I over-reacted to his suggestion that I might try sleeping on the other side of my bed as a pattern-changing New Thing, then you're right. I did over-react. But, I mean, come on--some routines are ingrained into us.
(Am I using that phrase correctly? "Ingrained into us." You know how sometimes you'll say something and then it will sound so completely wrong? Or you'll type a word too many times and then it will start to look like it's sanskrit or something. Well, I just wrote that phrase "ingrained into us" and now it looks so completely wrong.)
I sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. I never even thought about it until my friend David brought it up, but I have always slept on the side of the bed closest to the door. I think, subconsciously, I sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door so that, if I have a heart attack in the middle of the night, then the paramedics will be able to get to me more quickly because, hello, I'm near the door.
I don't worry about having heart attacks in the middle of the night as much as I used to worry about having heart attacks in the middle of the night, but I still sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door because it's ingrained into me. (Even if that phrase isn't really a phrase--and it very well might be a phrase--I'm going to keep using it until, wait, hold on, I'm gonna just go ahead and google it) (okay, it is a phrase) (why was I so paranoid that it wasn't a phrase?) (what is wrong with me?)
So last night I slept on the other side of the bed, voila: New Thing #37.
And it. Felt. So. Fucking. Weird. Like I was floating in space or something.
But I did it. I made it through the night. On the other side of the bed. As weird as it fucking felt. And I didn't have a heart attack! So I got that New Thing out of the way and now I can go back to sleeping on the correct side of the bed, i.e. the side closest to the door, and if I have a heart attack tonight, then the paramedics will know where to find me.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
I have to start with a New Thing I did today. Actually, it's not a New Thing I did today, but rather a new attitude I've adopted. (In Lindsay's comment, she also commented that she "would love to hear about new outlooks, ideas, and feelings" and I'm happy to oblige, here, now, with this New Thing.)
But first (or second):
Are you (a) one of the people who loved Twin Peaks, or are you (b) one of the people who never watched Twin Peaks, or are you (c) one of the people who thought Twin Peaks was overrated crap, or are you (d) one of the people who loved the first season of Twin Peaks and then thought that the second season was off its rocker?
If you're "a," then you're my best friend; if you're "b," then we need to hang out for 36 hours in front of my TV and then you'll be my best friend; if you're "c," then you never really gave it a shot and you should refer to "b"; and if you're "d," then you're wrong, wrong, wrong (except for that storyline when James left Twin Peaks and had the affair with the blonde woman. That storyline was off its rocker).
The reason I bring this up is that in the Pilot episode of Twin Peaks, Dale Cooper mentions that Twin Peaks is the kind of town "where a yellow light still means slow down and not speed up," and it's a great line because those twelve words tell you so much about that little town. And they make you think about how you don't live in a town like that, and about how often you speed by things, and about how infrequently you slow down and breathe.
I've been thinking a lot about that line today--hearing Dale Cooper say it in my head--and wishing I lived in the kind of town "where a yellow light still means slow down and not speed up" because that's not how I drive at all. When I see a yellow light, I hit the gas. I'm probably late to wherever I'm going because I've probably slept in or spent too much time fucking around online, so I usually really have to get and I've gotta get there soon so I'm not even more late.
But then, this morning, I was sitting at a red light, behind a couple of other cars, when someone else saw a yellow light and started speeding up instead of slowing down. My red light turned green just as his yellow light turned red. But he was still speeding forward, not even in the intersection yet...
The rest of us, we were totally oblivious. We saw our green light and we started to go. And then, suddenly, like I was in a movie, the man who was speeding for his yellow light entered our intersection and cars started hitting each other. The yellow-light-speeding guy hit the car that was two cars in front of me. Then the car in front of me hit the car two cars in front of me. Then the car next to me hit the car in front of her. Then...well, it all happened so quick--within seconds--that I couldn't really keep track of it all.
I had my foot on the breaks, pushing as hard as I could, thanking my lucky stars that I'd just gotten my brakes fixed at the shop yesterday. But cars were still hitting each other, so I didn't have time to be too thankful. Pieces of glass were raining down on my windshield. The car in front of me started spinning. He spun three times, then ran into the car who had originally started it all, the yellow-light-speeding guy, who still appeared to be accelerating, and they both smashed into the center divider, sideways, traveling about twenty feet before they came to a stop.
It was all so loud.
And then it was silent.
Smashed up cars were everywhere. All around me. But me and my car were both unscathed. (Well, actually, my car is a wreck in and of itself, so it looked like my car had been part of this current pile-up, but none of my car's dents were created today.)
Thankfully, no one was hurt. As awful as all of the wrecked cars around me were, no one was hurt.
After I was finally able to get back on the road and on my way, I heard Dale Cooper saying that thing about how Twin Peaks is a town "where a yellow light still means slow down and not speed up" and I decided that's where I want to live. If not literally, then metaphorically at least. From now on, when I see a yellow light, I'm gonna decide it's not worth it to start accelerating. From now on, I'm gonna slow down.
And the funny thing is, ever since I made that decision, every light I approach has been yellow. I've stuck to my guns. It's been a mellow yellow day. And, shockingly, I haven't been late anywhere. And, also...
I've grown tired of this blog entry.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
That's basically what the blog entry said except it was longer and about one percent more elegant.
Anyway, it's been two weeks since that post, and as I'm an avid googler, I've googled quite a bit since then. So I thought I'd share the current list of my most recent google searches. 'Cuz I like sharing. And 'cuz even though I haven't done anything "new" in a while, at least this is a new list you can scan through and wonder "why in the hell would Erik want to google that?" And maybe while you're busy wondering about my google habits, you'll forget that I haven't done a New Thing in, like, forever.
It's not a trick, people--it's an illusion.
"arrested development" season 2 gags
"awesome cover version"
"Be Somebody, or Be Somebody's Fool"
"beatles cover" because
"best kids books"
"Boston legal" rachel
"breathe 2am" where have i heard
"for the longest time" lyrics
"gale harrold" deadwood
"Imogen heap" "Hide and Seek"
"Imogen heap" soundtrack
"La weekly theatre awards"
"mr. t" "just say no"
"mr. t" lyrics
"mr. t" lyrics 1984
"mr. t" lyrics stay in school
"mr. t's album"
"obsession with google"
"Ralph feinnes" hooker
"Scissor sisters" "bass player"
"She wants to move" "Six feet under" claire
"The odd couple" closing "june 4" playbill
80s cover songs
bone marrow donations
bridge to terebithia
bruce shark jaws
calories stay young
ca mega million
cider house rules jillian armenente
fried green tomatoes
get rich quick scheme
headphones illegal california
imdb "the flash"
Kevin van der Perren
life is like a toaster angela
little lando toy
project runway olympia
rufus wainwright beatles "american beauty"
santino "making fun of tim" red robin
virtual memory minimum too low
what are boquerones
wynn "Las vegas" "opened in"
It's like a random snapshot of my brain, or something.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
2. This is not a list of anything in particular.
3. Why am I even still awake making lists of nothing in particular? I am so tired my eyeballs can barely, like, stay open.
4. I mean, seriously.
5. When I was a kid, my mom, PAM, used to read me bedtime stories, and sometimes, as she was reading, she would start to fall asleep, but she would fight the sleep, and even as her eyes were closing she would try to keep reading, but since her eyes were closing she wouldn't be able to see the words on the page, and so random, non-sensical things would start pouring out of her mouth, and then she'd realize that she wasn't making any sense, and then she would stop reading the bedtime story, but I would urge her to keep reading because the bedtime stories always started to get really good when she stopped making sense.
6. Sometimes I think I overuse the comma.
7. When I was in college, I used to keep a journal, and I would write in it before I went to bed, and I used to fall asleep as I was writing, but I would keep writing, and then the next morning I would wake up and look at my journal and have no recollection of what I had written and it would be really stream-of-conscious and rambly and weird and I felt like I was reading transcriptions of my dreams.
8. My eyeball itches right now.
10. I was looking at my statcounter, which tells me where my blog readers come from, and someone read my blog in London tonight.
11. And that made me miss London.
15. I've been having major pangs for London lately.
17. If you, like, have lots of frequent flyer miles, or if you recently won that big Powerball Jackpot in Nebraska, and you read my blog, and you want to take me to London, but you haven't asked me yet because you're afraid that I might say no, you can stop worrying, I will totally say yes.
18. And then I'll take you to Wagamama's, which is only the best Japanese noodle house in the fucking world.
19. My eyeball still itches. I'm trying not to think about it.
20. It's the left eyeball.
21. Now I'm hungry. Why am I hungry?
22. Is this insomnia? Does insomnia make you hungry?
23. Like, if I googled "insomnia" and "hunger," would I get a million hits?
24. There's this guy who is trying to turn a paper clip into a house, and I think he's really cool. I wish I thought of it.
25. There was this girl in college, I can't remember her name, I didn't know her very well, but I'm sure some of the people who read my blog knew her, in fact this girl was in my Faulker/Morrison class and I think that, Lindsay, you were in that class, weren't you, I think you were, anyway, you're not the girl I'm talking about, and wow, I feel like I've started this story off poorly, like super poorly, which reminds me of this girl, a different girl, not the first girl from the Faulker/Morrison class, I'll get back to her in a moment, there was this other girl, this girl who I was evesdropping on at a coffeeshop the other day, she was British, and she was talking to her friend, another girl, a third girl, who was also British, and she told her friend that she was "feeling quite poorly," and then she paused and she said, "I think that's wrong," and her friend said, "what's wrong?" and she said, "if you say, 'I'm feeling quite poorly,' wouldn't that mean that you're bad at feeling?" and her friend said, "I suppose so--you should have said that you're not feeling well," and then the girl who was feeling quite poorly said, "that's right, I'm not feeling well, I'm not feeling well at all," and this was actually a conversation these two girls had, word for word, I'm not making any of it up, and I love these girls, and you should too, and if you're having trouble loving them then you have to imagine them speaking with British accents, and you have to fall in love with them just like I did, because I totally fell in love with them, they were British after all, and what's not to fall in love with British girls, even though they have girl parts rather than man parts, they still have British accents, and I think that a British accent might trump something like sexuality, but I'm rambling, which is because I'm tired, but I'm not so tired that I'm nearly as incoherent as my mother used to be when she would read me bedtime stories when I was a kid, and I haven't fallen asleep yet, so I don't think we're in the territory of my subconscious, or anything like that, but what I was trying to say, before I went off on my British girl tangent, which, as you already know, was perfectly reasonable, because I've been missing London so much lately, and oh man, if I could have some soba noodles from Wagamama's right now, then I think I would die and go to heaven, they're that good, but whatever, I have to stop thinking about soba noodles from Wagamama's because I'm going to obsess and then I really won't be able to go to sleep, but what I was trying to say was that there was this girl in my Faulker/Morrison class who I didn't know very well, but then, one day, someone mentioned to me, offhand, that this girl was "a total nympho," and then, from that day forward, I remember sitting in that class, like, every day, thinking "that girl is a total nympho," I mean, I would just sit there in class wondering if she'd just had sex before class, or if she was going to have sex right after class, or if, god forbid, she missed a class, then I would wonder if she missed the class because she was having sex, and Professor Newhall, if you ever read this blog entry, god forbid, then please accept my apologies for thinking about sex in your class more often than I thought about either William Faulkner or Toni Morrison, but it's the truth, and I know it's weird that I would obsess over this girl's potential nympho status because it's not like I wanted to sleep with her, but now I think I might be getting super close to writing-in-my-sleep territory, so I'm just gonna stop, while I'm ahead, now.
26. Oh my god.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Bold statement, I know. And not a very original one either—I’m sure the Apple marketing department is all over it. In fact, I’ve seen that commercial—the one that promises that the ipod will revolutionize your life. But as corny and as hokey (as corkey?) as the statement is, it’s so fucking true.
I was never a Walk-man boy. I’m sure I had one—I’m sure I had several—but the Walk-man always seemed clunky and awkward (clawkward?) to me. You know, I’d inevitably break that clip that you used to attach the Walk-man to your jeans, and I never wanted to lug around a bunch of tape cassettes (or cds, when I upgraded to the Disc-man) for variety, so I would use my Walk-man (or Disc-man) a couple of times and then I’d break the clip and throw it underneath my bed (because I never actually throw anything away).
But my ipod…well, first of all, it has 3,154 songs in it (8.3 days of consecutive listening!) and it has room for 5,000 songs (!), and it’s compact (it fits in my pocket—no clip!), and all of that, etc., etc., blah blah blah.
But that’s not why it’s so great. That’s not why I like it. That’s not why it has revolutionized my life. (Wouldn’t it be cool if ipod had employees whose job it was to sit at their computers all day and google the phrase “the ipod has revolutionized my life,” and every time they found someone who made that claim, they sent them another ipod?) (That would be cool.)
Anyway, the reason that my ipod has revolutionized my life is because it has, like, literally changed the way I look at the world.
When you listen to music on the stereo, or on your cd player, or whatever—you can have a groovy time, sure. But when I listen to music through those little white ipod earpieces that I shove into my ears…it’s like the music is inside me. (I can’t believe I just typed that sentence—I am so corkey.) (But, dude—it’s true: the music is inside me.)
I bet there are, like, scientific studies that prove that, if you shove those little white ipod earpieces into your ears just right, they’ll deliver the music into your brain—into, like, some specific cerebral cortex—and then the music will get pumped directly into your soul, or something. (Now that I started being corkey, I can’t stop.)
Anyway, the music is inside me, right? So then I walk around with my ipod blaring music into my soul and it starts to feel like it’s my own personal soundtrack. Like I’m in a movie. And this is where I get into the “how” part of the ipod revolutionizing my life. Living your life like it’s a movie…that’s a good way to live. Because in a good movie, there isn’t a single moment that’s not important—there isn’t a single moment that isn’t necessary to telling the story. Each moment is full. And life is like that too—or, it should be like that. But it isn’t like that because we spend so much time forgetting about how full life is. Like, we drive around in our cars and we get annoyed by the traffic and we worry about the bills and we fret about that important meeting we have at work tomorrow, but we forget to just breathe and enjoy simple things. At least, I do.
But I put my ipod on, and Bjork starts whispering “It’s Oh So Quiet” into my ears, and the music swells, and then suddenly the clouds in the sky, like, pop, and I look at them like I'm a little kid and I want to point and yell “cloud!” Or, like, I’ll be walking down the street and suddenly “Audrey’s theme” from Twin Peaks will start to ooze its way into me, and I’ll start feeling really sinister and sexy. Or I’ll be on the freeway, stuck in traffic, annoyed, and then all of the Muppets from The Great Muppet Caper will start manically singing “Happiness Hotel” and how could I possibly be annoyed by anything in the world after rocking out to “Happiness Hotel”?
Or, like, for instance, right now, if I didn’t have those little white ipod earpieces jammed into my ears, it would feel like I was just writing a blog entry. But since I do have the little white ipod earpieces jammed into my ear—since Joe Esposito is singing “You’re the Best” (the theme song to the original Karate Kid movie) directly to me—it feels like I’m writing a manifesto for, like, my life. Like, this is something that I’ll write up feverishly and then I’ll distribute it to everyone in the office—in my case, the coffeeshop—and people will read it, aghast, shocked that someone actually had the balls to say it—“live your life like it’s a movie”—oh my god, they’ll be so in awe of the brilliance of that concept and they’ll all read it and whisper to each other about it and then when I come into the office the next morning—in my case, the coffeeshop—they’ll all stand up and clap for me—well, some of them won’t stand, some of them won’t clap, some of them will think I’m just a corkey asshole—and, well, of course I’ll get fired for letting my beliefs be known--but, still, in the end I’ll get the girl, or the guy, as the case may be. And my life will be especially exciting and hip because the movie that is my life not only has Cameron Crowe's music supervisor, but it also has the music supervisor for Grey's Anatomy. So, you know, the music on my soundtrack is hecka good.
And, of course, none of that made much sense, and I should probably scrap this blog entry, but I can’t because I’ve been listening to Joe Esposito tell me:
"Try to be best,
‘cuz you’re only a man,
and a man’s got to learn to take it.
"Try to believe—
though the going gets rough—
that you gotta hang tough to make it.
"History repeats itself—try and you succeed.
Never doubt that you’re the one and you can have your dreams.
"You’re the best around, nothing’s ever gonna keep you down.
You’re the best around, nothing’s ever gonna keep you down.
The way he sings it—to me, he’s seriously singing directly to me!—I totally believe him. I totally won’t let anything get me down. When the going gets rough, I’m absolutely gonna hang tough to make it. And the thing is, I’m a naturally optimistic person, but now that I have my ipod and I have a soundtrack and my life feels like a movie, well, I understand even more clearly that some moments in life are just establishing shots, and I realize that some moments in life are just planting other moments to pay off later, but each moment is important, and rich, and full of possibility.
That's why I love my ipod. Fuckin’ corkey, right?
Friday, February 17, 2006
(I can't believe I decided to waste a blog entry by urging people to go and shell out some of their hard earned cash on the lotto, but whatever. Wouldn't it be cool if one of us won?) (The odds of winning are, like, one in 5-thousand-billion.) (But still.) (I just had the most satisfying poop in a really long time.) (I know that a lot of you are thinking "why does Erik insist on sharing poop updates?" but when you have a poop as satisfying as the one I just had, then you have to share. Like, you feel bad if you don't share. Like, you feel so refreshed and free, you know? And you want the world to know WHY you feel so refreshed and free, and you hope that everyone you know can have a poop as satisfying as the one you just had, and you hope that they can all have that poop soon.) (Anyway, one of the reasons I'm telling you I just had a really satisfying poop is to let you know that I've already had a pretty decent day. I mean, the day is going really well, evidenced by my awesome poop--and, yes, I just upgraded it from being "satisfying" to being "awesome"--and so, I don't need to win the lottery for today to be a really good day--today is already an awesome, yes awesome, day. Winning the lottery would be, like, gravy at this point.) (Which, if you're reading my blog, oh ye lottery gods, is a good thing--yes, gravy is definitely a good thing.) (But winning the lottery is not an essential requirement for making this day satisfying and awesome.) (But a good poop is.)
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Okay, so the Brokeback to the Future mock trailer is, in my opinion, better than this new mock Brokeback trailer I found, but Romance of the Jedi is still pretty damn funny. (And, since I know a lot of my blog readers are geeks, I think a lot of you will like it.) Update: For another Star Wars themed Brokeback trailer, very different, also very funny, clink. (People really are getting a lot of mileage out of this new mock trailer phenomenon. It's gonna get old any day now, so before that happens, clink, you know?)
Speaking of Brokeback, Jill Sobule (of I Kissed a Girl fame) wrote a funny song about about Dick Cheney and the dude he shot. (CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT THE VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES--he's not my Vice President--SHOT ONE OF HIS HUNTING BUDDIES???) Clink to listen to the sweet, sweet song. (via towleroad)
Also, if you love Tom Cruise and Oprah, you MUST clink (via The Sheila Variations) and clink.
And if you want to waste years of your life playing a dumb game that is disarmingly addictive, then clink. If you want to play the same game, but bloodier, then you should clink. (Thanks, Dad.)
Oh, and clink to read a fascinating article about hikikomori "shut-in" kids in Japan, a phenomenon that my friend Stephanie brought to my attention.
Oh, and did I mention that I've defined a second word in the Urban Dictionary, but this time I came up with the word too? (Clink.)
And while we're wasting time on the internet, is anyone else watching The Gauntlet 2 online-only "After the Show" interviews? Good stuff. Hours of entertainment.
Geez. I thought I was done with this post, but I keep finding new ways to waste time on the internet, and then I have to update this post. Damn the internet. Seriously. Damn it. I discovered the "word cloud" on Bonnie's blog, and you should go make your own. (Clink.) Here's mine:
Okay, so the word cloud is created out of words commonly found in your blog. The more common the word, the bigger it appears in the word cloud. I think it's really funny that "google" is the focal point of my word cloud. I really am obsessed with google. Like, way too obsessed. Like, what's wrong with me obsessed. Like, I should probably get help obsessed. And if my obsession wasn't apparent before, then now it's staring me in the face, via my word cloud. People are always like, "I don't remember how I got by before cell phones," or "I don't know how people got by before electricity," but I'm always like, "I don't know how people got by before google." Oh my god am I still talking about google? SOMEBODY STOP ME.
Okay, moving on, (I mean, seriously, Erik, move on), the other thing I love about my word cloud is that the words "peeing," "like," and "gonna" are so big, which means that those are three of the most used words on my blog. Peeing, like, and gonna.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Pick up the slack, Erik--pick up the slack.
Well, there's a New Thing that I haven't done yet, but which I'm planning on doing this week--and I urge you to do it as well.
I'm registering my bone marrow with the National Marrow Donor Program.
Last week, my friend Erica was diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL). She is currently undergoing aggressive treatments (chemotherapy, etc.) at an excellent hospital. Erica is a fucking awesome person. She's a fighter and she's brave and I believe she's going to get through this, but it's gonna be a long ordeal, and she's gonna need some help.
Her doctors have asked for friends and family to go to their local hospital or Red Cross to see if they might be a match for bone marrow donations. Now, when I heard this, my first thought was that I wanted to do whatever I could to help Erica, and then my second thought was that donating bone marrow sounds kinda scary. I mean, we all know I'm a wussy when it comes to medical things.
But the thing is, after doing some googling (how much do I love google?) I've discovered that becoming a donor isn't very scary at all--actually, it's really simple and painless and easy (and if you don't believe me, well, I've already done your googling for you--just clink on these links)--and there are lots of people in need of your healthy bone marrow (which, after you've donated, replenishes itself in your healthy body fairly quickly). The problem is, even though there are lots of people who need bone marrow, there aren't nearly enough people donating bone marrow.
Let's work on that. For Erica, and for the many many others who need your donations so badly.
Here's how you can become a bone marrow donor:
1. Contact your local National Marrow Donor Program (NMDP) here.
2. Join the registry, which is as easy as filling out some paperwork and providing a small blood sample so that they can determine your tissue type.
3. After you've joined the registry, they will contact you when and if there is a match for your particular "type" and that's when you go in and donate.
You can read all about the donating process here--it really ain't bad at all.
Rock out with your cock out and become a donor.
You could save lives.
(P.S. I just noticed that I wrote "clink on these links" instead of "click on these links." How stupid am I? Anyway, since the new me is all about embracing typos rather than editing them, I think that, from now on, instead of saying things like "click on this link" or "click on these links," we should just abbreviate those phrases and say "clink." Which, from now on, will be recognized, on My Year Of New Things, at least, as a directive to check out a hyperlink. Got it? Cool.)
Monday, February 13, 2006
"Y’ know, every now and then I think you might like to hear something from my blog nice and easy. But there’s just one thing: You see, we never ever do nothing nice and easy. We always do it nice and rough. So we’re gonna take the beginning of this blog entry and do it easy. Then we’re gonna do the finish rough. This is the way we do blog entries about cats."
I read that and I was like, dude, I need to quote that shit, because I'm about to write a blog entry about cats and I don't want people to think I've run out of things to talk about and that I've succumbed to blog entries about cats. That’s seriously what I thought. But stick with this blog entry. Because this blog entry is gonna start out nice, with me talking about cats, and then it’s gonna finish rough, with me explaining why I’m a terrible person.
Because that’s how I do blog entries about cats.
I like cats. Cats are great.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’m sorry to all of the cat people out there—and I know you are plentiful—but I kinda hate cats. Actually, scratch the “kinda.” As long as I’m in full-on confession mode here, I’ll go the full monty: I fucking hate cats. All cats.
Okay, that’s a lie, too. I like some cats. But the kind of cats I like I don’t really consider to be cats. I consider them to be, well…dogs.
You know the cats I’m talking about. The ones who sit in your lap and wag their tails every time you move and who look at you in constant awe rather than the default cat attitude (cattitude?) of derision. The ones who bark at the mailman. The ones who, if there were such a thing as “species reassignment surgery,” would save up all of their money and hightail it over to Sweden to get their cat parts chopped off and replaced with dog parts. Because, deep down, these cats are really dogs, and they know it, and we know it, and we should respect that they were born in the wrong bodies and just call these special cats what they want to be called. We should refer to these special cats as “dogs.”
Now, the reason I’m thinking about cats at all right now, (I know, weird, huh?), is that we were talking about house-sitting gigs at my writing group tonight and I started thinking about all of my experience as a house sitter, and a dog sitter, and a cat sitter. Now, I am a ricken’ house and dog sitter. I’m also a rockin’ one. I meant to say I was a rockin’ one in the first place, but I accidentally typed “ricken’” and I decided to leave the typo there, as I’m wont to do (lately, at least), because I think that ricken’ is a cool fucking word. It’s like the word “fricken’” but even cooler than the word “fricken’,” if that’s possible. Anyway, I am a rockin’ and ricken’ house and dog sitter. But am I rockin’ and ricken’ cat sitter? Not so much.
It’s probably because, like I said before, I don’t like cats.
A few years ago, I was cat sitting for some friends of mine. They had two cats. I think one of them was white and one of them was black, but I’m not really sure because I don’t like cats and I didn’t pay very much attention to the cats during the week that I was living with them. For the purposes of this story, let’s just agree to assume that one of the cats was white and one of the cats was black. I don’t remember what the cats names were, so for the purposes of this story, since I’m going to have to refer to them as something, let’s call them Tristan and Isolde. And we’ll say that Tristan was the white one (if there was a white one) and Isolde was the black one (if there was a black one).
Oh my god, that reminds me of this story that my friend Jennifer used to tell about the first elementary school she taught at, after she got her teaching credentials, in a small Northern California town, where there was only one black student in the whole school, and he was in her class, and on the first day of classes he told Jennifer to call him “the black one” because that’s what everyone else called him and “look around, I’m the black one!”
Anyway, Tristan and Isolde’s owners had told me that the cats were allowed to hang out on the patio, but only if I was around, because if I left them alone on the patio, they might leave the patio, which would be bad because they were “house” cats, not “outside” cats, and if they left the patio they might go out into the neighborhood and then god knows where they might go. If they left the patio, they would no doubt be lost forever.
Of course, my friends warned me all about this, and then I spent the whole week hanging out on the patio with Tristan and Isolde and neither one of the cats ever showed any desire to leave that damned patio. They were content. They were motionless. They were boring.
So one day we were all sitting on the patio—because that’s all we did, me and Tristan and Isolde—and I had to go to the bathroom. Now, I could have herded that cats back into the house with me, but they seemed so content and motionless and boring—and they had never shown any signs of wanting to leave—that I figured they’d be fine alone on the patio for a few minutes. After all, I wasn’t going inside for #2—this was strictly a #1 venture. I’d be back in a jiffy.
So I went to the bathroom, I did my thing, and then I came back to the patio (literally, like, 47 seconds later) to discover that ISOLDE WAS GONE. She had left the patio while I was in the bathroom. She had gone out into the neighborhood. And, dear God, who knew where she might have gotten to by now?
Shit. I’ve lost the cat. It’s time to move. I’ve gotta find her. Pronto. Now.
I grabbed Tristan, put him back in the house, so I wouldn’t lose him too, and then I set out on my search for Isolde. And that’s when I started to realize what a terrible person I am. Because I had been cat sitting for a week, and suddenly, now that I had lost poor Isolde, I suddenly realized that I didn’t know what to look for because I had absolutely no idea what she looked like.
Did I mention I had been cat sitting for a week already? And not just dropping-by-to-feed-the-cats-and-clean-their-litter-box cat sitting. No, I was living there and hanging out with these cats 24/7.
So, I lost Isolde, and even though I had no idea what she looked like, I still had to find her for crying out loud, so I started to comb the neighborhood, calling out Isolde’s name and praying that maybe, just maybe, she would, like, grow a couple of dog balls and start wagging her tail when she heard her name and then she’d come running to me and this whole little mess would be resolved.
But Isolde didn’t run at the sound of her name because she wasn’t a dog, she was a cat, and cats don’t run at the sound of their name. They look at you in disdain and pity at the sound of their name.
Still, I continued to comb through the neighborhood, crying out “Isolde!”
“Please? Isolde? Can you hear me?”
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. This can’t be happening. I can’t lose my friends’ cat. I just can’t do that. That’s not me. That’s not who I am. I’m not a cat loser.
And that’s when I saw…a cat. A black cat. About a block away from my friends’ house, sitting underneath someone’s car. A random black cat.
Now there are two things I can say about this random black cat with absolute certainty:
(1.) It was definitely a cat.
(2.) I had no idea if it was Isolde or not.
(To make matters worse, neither Tristan or Isolde were wearing tags. Let this be a lesson to all pet owners: tags are good.)
Now, once again, let me state that I had no idea if this random black cat was Isolde or not. But I was missing a cat. And as I ran through “best case/worst case” scenarios in my head, I decided that it would be better for my friends to come home to the wrong cat than for them to come home to no cat. Because if it was the wrong cat, maybe they wouldn’t notice it was the wrong cat! It was worth a shot.
So I backed this random black cat into a corner, I scooped her (him?) into my arms, and I brought her (him?) home.
I also figured that I could figure out whether this was the right cat or not before my friends got home, which wouldn’t be for another few days, and it Isolde(?) wasn’t really Isolde, I could keep my eyes open for the real Isolde and maybe even do some praying on the matter.
So I brought Isolde(?) home and subjected her (him?) to a series of tests to determine whether or not Isolde(?) was Isolde.
First, I put Tristan and Isolde(?) together to determine if post-incident Tristan and Isolde(?) got along in the same manner as pre-incident Tristan and Isolde(?). After watching them ignore each other for a while, I decided that maybe this was how they related to each other pre-incident, but I couldn’t really be certain because I never paid any attention to them before the incident, and therefore I had no idea how they related to each other pre-incident. I deemed this test inconclusive.
Next, I decided to look through my friends’ closets for photo albums that might give me photographic proof that Isolde(?) was indeed Isolde. However, after looking at several hundred pictures of Isolde in several dozen photo albums, I decided that all cats looked alike and therefore this test was also inconclusive.
The next test I performed was…well, those were the only two tests I could think to perform.
Isolde(?) seemed a lot like Isolde to me, so I decided that the only thing I could do now was pray that I had the right cat and wait until my friends returned home for the moment of reckoning.
And you know what? When they came home, they were very happy to see their cats, but their cats weren’t very happy to see them. No, their cats just looked at them in disdain, and I decided that even if Isolde(?) wasn’t Isolde, my friends didn’t notice any differences between the two cats anyway, so I didn’t say anything about the incident and I just left it at that.
But I honestly don’t know whether they came home to the right cat or not. And that’s why I’m a bad person.
Full disclosure: I actually like some cats who aren’t dogs. Like, for instance, my friend Tracy’s cat Puss is an awesome cat who I have cat sat for several times. Some cats are exceptions to the rule, and Puss is definitely an exception to the rule.
And I'm sure there are other exceptions to the rule. Like YOUR cat, for instance.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Obviously I have an obsession with doing 365 particular things in one year, hence My Year of New Things and My Haiku Year.
(I keep accidentally typing "haiky" instead of "haiku." I understand that the "y" and the "u" are right next to each other on the keyboard, but I'm really annoyed that I keep typing "haiky" instead of "haiku" and now I want "haiky" to just be a motherfucking word so I can stop fixing it already.)
My mom and I used to swear at each other a lot, but not in a bad way, more because it was fun. Not that we were ever as bad as Swearengen from Deadwood or anything. (Not that I've ever even seen the show, but I know enough about it to reference it when I'm talking about people who swear; I mean, shit, I know Swearengen fucking uses the word "cocksucker" a lot.)
Not that I've ever heard my mother say the word "cocksucker," but still, we've been known to talk like foul-mouthed sailors around each other. You know, "fuck this" and "shit that." We say things like "fuck" and "shit" to each other because it's fun to say words like "fuck" and "shit," especially when you're saying them around your kid or your mother--no, not only around them, but "to" them.
My mom and I started swearing like sailors to each other when I was fifteen or so. Up until that point I don't think I had ever even whispered a curse word. (I was a very proper child.) But then one day I realized that words are words and words are supposed to be used. And not using a specific word just because it was "bad"? Well, "fuck that shit," is what I said to that. And that's when my mom and I started swearing like sailors.
But then, this one time, I think it was my senior year of high school, we were in the kitchen, and my mom called me a "motherfucker."
Think about it for a second.
My mom. Called me. A "motherfucker."
And then we both froze and the word hung in the air for what felt like five hundred years--because we both heard the implication of the word, and we were both like, "whoa, nelly--someone just took the joke too far." I think that was the first time I ever understood that, though words are words and words should be used, it's all about context.
So now my mom and I still swear around each other, but we know our limits.
I'm still annoyed that "haiky" isn't a real word. And I'm even more annoyed that I can't think of how to make it into a word, i.e. if it were a word, what would it mean?
Maybe "haiky" shoud be an adjective that describes someone who's in the mood for haikus. So you might say something like, "I'm feeling kind of haiky right now," and then you might abandon your blog entry and just write a bunch of random haikus, and no one could be annoyed with you because what are you gonna do? You're feeling haiky. Might as well write some damn haikus.
My brain makes up words.
I think I had a stroke once
while I was sleeping.
Oh man, I'm hungry.
Can't write any more haikus
when I'm this hungry.
I think I had a stroke once.
Not even kidding.
Is it wrong to have
a total huge crush on Sean
from Degrassi High?
I just googled him.
He's 21 in real life.
I don't feel so bad.
How awesome is this:
"Dick Cheney shoots hunting bud."
Fucking awesome, right?
Now that he's legal,
I'll admit: I love "The N."
Three words: "Sean. Is. Back."
Shit, I'm still starving.
The fridge is filled with cookies.
Awesome: cookie break!
(Ain't gonna lose weight
if you keep eating cookies
this late.) Whatever.
Man, cookies are good.
Choc'late chips get my rocks off.
So does Degrassi.
Please, any comments
on this particular post
should be in haiku.
So if you're feeling
all "haiky" and shit, please leave
Thursday, February 09, 2006
But after seven years of putting up with what can only be described as (at best) a satisfactory relationship...
After hearing from several friends that he refused to relay their messages to me, that he told them their messages were "undeliverable"...
After (get this!) reading an article (that's right--he didn't even tell me about it himself, I had to read an article about it) saying that he might start charging people to get in touch with me...
I finally had enough. I'm dumping AOL.
I would have done this a long time ago if it weren't for the fact that AOL was my first email server and so I felt some sort of nostalgic connection to him, and the thought of switching over to another server always felt like such a hassle.
Those worries are not going to stop me anymore. Hells, no. This is My Year of New Things. Therefore, New Thing #35: I gots me a new email address. In with the new, out with the old.
But first, I'd like to have a moment of silence while we all mourn the passing of my aol address.
Thank you. Now you can open your eyes and welcome into the world:
My new gmail.com address. It's the same address as my old address, except now it's @gmail.com instead of @aol.com.
Please update your address books. Of course, I'll probably send you an email with this info too ("probably"? who am I kidding?) in case you don't read this.
Update: I just read the above post and had several conflicting reactions that I thought I would share with you:
Part of me was like, "seriously? You just put your new email address on your blog for anyone to see? Seriously? What if you start getting crazy emails from strangers who want to know more about your thoughts about Derrick from The Real World/Road Rules Gauntlet 2 being like a pit bull?"
And then another part of me was like, "that would rock! I love email. Especially from strangers who want to talk about what a pit bull Derrick is."
And then another part of me was like, "are you REALLY that obsessed with reality TV, Erik? Is that REALLY all you can talk about? Stop talking about reality, TV, Erik. I mean, seriously. Come on."
And then another part of me was like, "oh my god, the new season of America's Next Top Model begins in less than a month."
And then another part of me was like, "American Idol totally sucked last night. I don't think I'm gonna watch it this season."
And then another part of me was like, "no you d'int. You d'int just bag on my girl Paula."
And then another part of me was like, "seriously. Stop talking about reality TV and stop watching it. It's taking jobs away from talented writers like yourself."
And then another part of me was like, "oh, shut up, now that cable exists, there's more opportunities for everyone everywhere."
And then another part of me was like, "I wonder if anyone in the Survivor casting office reads blogs? Wouldn't it be cool if, somehow, someone from thier office read my blog and they decided to make all of my dreams come true. I wish I knew how to upload video onto my blog because it would be really funny to upload my Survivor audition tape, which is three years old, but it just gets funnier with age."
And then another part of me was like, "learn how to spell the word 'their,' Erik."
And then another part of me was like, "what was I even talking about in the first place?"
And then another part of me was like, "that's right--Derrick from "Real World/Road Rules Gauntlet 2...he's dreamy. And he's a pit bull. And if you found my blog after searching the phrase 'Derrick is a pit bull,' you should totally start a conversation by leaving a comment because we're obviously on the same wavelength, if not soulmates."
And then another part of me was like, "stop pimping for comments, dude."
And then another part of me was like, "I can't believe you haven't blogged about the new season of Survivor yet. It's too good. Exile Island? Genius. And Jeff Probst? Hotter than ever. And all of the drama? Just getting started."
And then another part of me was like, "Shut. Up."
And then another part of me was like, "back to the actual post, when you mentioned that you had read an article about AOL proposing an email tax, you should have linked to the article. Well? Are you gonna go up there and fix it?"
And then another part of me was like, "what's for lunch?"
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Two of the recent searches that led people to my blog include "a league of their own long peeing scene" and "revenge of the nerds peeing scene," hence the title of this post.
First of all, I fully think that peeing is funny, but pooping is funnier, in the hierarchy of “things that are funny.”
However, I don’t think that the people who are Googling "a league of their own long peeing scene" and “revenge of the nerds peeing scene” are Googling these scenes because they think they’re funny. No, I think these people are Googling "a league of their own long peeing scene" and “revenge of the nerds peeing scene” in order to satisfy a different “f-word,” and no, it’s not that one either.
What I’m trying to say is, I think these people probably have a...(and imagine I’m whispering here)...fetish.
Okay, honestly, I don’t know why I whispered that last word. Maybe it’s because I live in a country where we still don’t really talk about things like sexuality in as free a manner as we should. A country that I love, but that is way too concerned with legislating things like “morality. ” A country that I love, but that is not nearly concerned enough with things like, oh, um, “gun control” and “civil liberties” and “justice for all.”
I don’t mean to get all political, but the way I see it, if you’re not hurting yourself or anyone else, and if it makes you happy, and you’re both consenting adults, (and like I said before, but I’ll say it again, just to make sure we’re clear) and you’re not hurting yourself or anyone else, then more power to you.
Which is to say, if you’ve got a pee fetish, and it makes you happy, then you are, like, totally welcome at my blog!
While you’re here, you can read my post about my epic long pee (the post that brought you here in the first place) and then, if you want, you could leave, or, better, you could stay, and then you could read more about My Year of New Things, or about the Difference Between Dorks and Nerds and Geeks, or about My Date with Dustin.
Just wash your hands at the door and we’re golden.
Now, I don’t know who you are. I just know how you came to my blog. Google, however...Google knows exactly who you are. Because according to recent reports, Google has records of everything you and I have ever Googled for at least the past three years, and probably even further back. This is scary because, well, (and I’m sorry I’m getting political again, but) George Bush, the schmuck, is trying to get this information out of Google.
I have no beef with Google. Google rocks. I love Google. They’re trying to safeguard our personal info. Keep fighting the good fight, Google.
However, George Bush, the schmuck—he says he wants our Google records so that he can protect us. Bull honkey. He really wants our records because he doesn’t believe in things like our personal freedom.
Bush’s regime is totally straight out of Orwell’s 1984. Instead of saying “freedom is slavery” and “ignorance is strength” and “war is peace,” George Bush’s mottos are “spying is personal freedom” and “lying is truth” and, of course, “war is peace”—yeah, he learned that one from Orwell’s book and he’s certainly doing a number with it.
Ug. I just…I just think that people should be able to Google without being afraid that their Googling is going to be misconstrued and get them in trouble. I think some things must remain sacred. I think that people who like pee should be able to like pee, and they should be able to like it anonymously, if that’s how they want to do it. Their searches for things like "a league of their own long peeing scene" and “revenge of the nerds peeing scene” should not be stored in a file along with their name and number and social security code and shopping habits and health history and god-knows-what-other-information can be found out about all of us online.
Since the government cannot steal information that I provide willingly, I am going to post a list of Google searches I have made in the last week. I’m taking a few things off of the list—this list would be too embarrassing if it included all of the people I have Googled—basically, if I met you in the last seven days, I’ve Googled you, because I Google everyone I meet (we all do, right?)—but I’m leaving other embarrassing things on the list because I’m not really ashamed of anything, and having just looked at the list, I think it’s a really funny list. If George Bush got a hold of this list of Google searches, I honestly don’t know what he’d make of it. He’d probably think I was gay and leave it at that.
Here’s the list:
"Amy aquino" "Freaks and geeks"
"ark of the covenant"
"Ben franklin" "I need to lay off the sauce"
"big brother" "freedom is"
"boston legal" ABC
"brokeback to the future"
"Brooke burke" imdb
"Denver theatre center"
"Derek hughes" magic
"emily valentine" 90210
"Gold rush!" "mark burnett"
"Grey gardens" "hung up"
"grey's anatomy" "Missed episode"
"grey's anatomy" "repeat"
"grey's anatomy" reair
"grey's anatomy" superbowl "tivo problems"
"grey's anatomy" superbowl tivo problem
"grey's anatomy" tivo
"grey's anatomy" tivo didn't tape
"handlebar mustache" reaction
"hitting a penguin"
"los angeles angels" roster
"Mary Pat Gleason"
"Mythical item" water
"Sam weir" Freaks and geeks
"The contender" ESPN
"The descendants" milo
"Valentine victorious" review
"Will go platinum"
“I speak the only language I need to” “the language of love”
“it’s for my pussy” Wet hot american summer
“no one was home at rayanne’s house”
“sex and the city” “my motherboard, my self”
“take a page from”
“whatever happened to” “michael shoeffling”
73 freeway "newport coast drive"
adopt a pet games win
bay area playwrights
blair gauntlet 2 blog
bring it on imdb
butthole of America
California mega million lottery results
clark gregg is gay
crops in baker California
derrick from real world
derrick from real world is a pit bull
door to door storage
emmy nomination "best director"
firhouse theatre project
firehouse theatre project
garbage pail kids
garbage pail kids series one
gerard "the last holiday" latifah
ghostbusters proton pack
Gilmore girls episode guide
goodnight and goodluck imdb
gremlins rules bright light
heat up to
hottest tv actors
how to kill a crab
INXS Don’t Change lyrics
INXS Never Tear Us Apart lyrics
is clark gregg gay?
is jay harrington gay?
kids hate vegetables
occidental college transcript registrar
office depot spray paint
pictures of Daniel Cartier
pictures of Daniel Cartier naked
robin hood prince of thieves theme
Sandra oh speaks
the guy in the cow shake commercial
the kinds of friends who just show up "My motherboard, my self"
the real world boston
the smallest town in Arizona is
upn wb merge
White boy shuffle
who wrote Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day
world’s largest bar of soap
world’s largest carwash
yeti penguin game
I can’t believe I just put that list on my blog. It’s kinda like I just showed you the contents of my trash can. Now you know who I have a crush on and what television shows I’m obsessed with and, well, I’m not gonna psychoanalyze myself and try to figure out what else you might know about me from that list because I don’t want to know.
I certainly don’t remember why I Googled even half of these things. Like, um, hello: “hi”? Why on earth would anyone Google the word “hi”? It doesn’t make any sense to me and I’m the one who did it. And not to be stuck in the letter “h,” but why on earth did I Google the phrase “heat up to”? What’s that about? What could I have possibly been trying to find out? I have no freaking clue.
Anyway, George Bush, there you go—you don’t need to subpoena Google to find out what I searched for this week. I’ll tell ya myself.
And if you really want to know who googled "a league of their own long peeing scene" and “revenge of the nerds peeing scene” to find my blog, well then you can piss off.
P.S. Because I am fascinated by how people find my blog—and especially by the Google searches that lead them to my blog—I am going to keep a list of every Google search that brings someone here. My friend Colleen often writes very funny posts about the same topic, and I feel like this is one of her things, and I know that I couldn’t do it even remotely as well or as cleverly as she does it, so I’m not going to put this list into my blog as an entry. Instead, I’m going to hide it somewhere on the blog where I can constantly update it—someplace that’s sort of hidden, but easily findable if you’re industrious. You can look for it if you want; or you can forget about it. However, I am going to put it somewhere on the blog. I’m gonna hide it. Either way, I don’t give a cow. I just want to keep the list somewhere because I am a little bit OCD and I love me a list.
Did you watch Survivor: Panama, Exile Island this week? Remember when Jeff Probst was talking about the hidden immunity idol on exile island, and then he said “I’ve already given you your clue—now find the idol”?
Well, I’ve already given you your clue about where the hidden list is.
Good luck and happy hunting.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
And then she was like, "what's a punkass?"
And then I was like, "a punkass is someone who finds pleasure in stirring the proverbial pot."
And then my mother (Sherry) was like, "you're right, I am a punkass."
This was pretty much the conversation we had. Then I went to the online urban slang dictionary to see how they defined "punkass" and I was thoroughly annoyed by their definitions because I didn't think any of them were remotely right. I mean, I guess a couple of them were close, but my definition trumped them all, in my humble opinion.
So then, since all of the definitions in the online urban slang dictionary are provided by we, the people, I decided to submit my own definition. And I just went to the site to see if they were using my definition, and lo and behold, thar she is!
Therefore, New Thing #34: I defined a slang term in the online urban slang dictionary.
Monday, February 06, 2006
New Things #31 and #32 and #33: My budding gambling addiction, Mo Brainer, and Mo' Better Peach French Toast.
New Thing #31: I won 90 bucks in a Super Bowl pool today! I have never ever even made a single bet on the Super Bowl before and the first time I do, I win 90 bucks? What else can I bet on?!??? This rocks, this whole gambling thing. (1) It's easy money and (2) it's easy. Sign me up. I am ready to start my life of gambling.
I mean, come the frick on:
You throw down some money, watch a bunch of hot guys run around in tight pants for a couple of hours, and then walk away with 90 bucks? I wanna bet on the Super Bowl every day.
It's, like, totally a mo brainer.
[I meant to type "no brainer" but then I typed "mo brainer" and I left it because what a fucking awesome pairing of words, right? "Mo brainer." It's great, it's brilliant, we've gotta start using it to help it get into the universal lexicon. Arte you with me? ((Here's another typo, "arte," which I'm leaving in for obvious reasons: it's fun and dramatic and should be followed by a "thou"!))
I think "mo brainer" should be used to describe a situation where you're in over your head and you need someone's help. Like, for instance, in the world as we know it (i.e. the world without the phrase "mo brainer"), if you were trying to solve a problem--let's say it has to do with the furniture arrangement in your living room--and you needed help and then a friend of yours showed up and asked if you needed help...if all of that happened, you might smile and say something like "two heads are better than one," meaning you would love their help. Right? Right.
Well, in a world where we've got the phrase "mo brainer," if you found yourself in the same situation where you were trying to solve a problem and you needed help and then a friend of yours showed up and asked if you needed help...well, in this world, you might say something like, "Oh my god, thank you, yes, please help me, this is totally a mo brainer," meaning, literally, it needs more brains, i.e. "two" brains--your friend's and yours--because two heads are better than one, natch. (Which is "natch," yes, and true, but it doesn't need to be reiterated over and over again. No, the phrase "two heads are better than one" should be abolished and replaced by "mo brainer.")
Or you might use the phrase in a situation where someone is doing something stupid and someone else needs to talk them out of it. Like, say you're a paramedic or a firefighter or police officer (or something cool like that) and you've responded to a call about a dude who's standing on the ledge of a building. You get there and you send your best gal or guy up to the roof to try to talk the dude down. But your best gal or guy isn't getting through to him. So you say, "dammit, this is a mo brainer," meaning you literally need another brain on the case, so you send someone else up to the roof to try to get the potential jumping dude off the ledge. And you were right. It was a mo brainer. And because of your snap judgement, and the extra brain you assigned to the case, you have safed a life.*
Or say someone is going to do something really stupid, like throw everything away and become a professional gambler, you might say they're pulling a mo brainer, which, in this scenario, would mean that you think the stupid person needs some mo' brains, foo.]
Anyway, I think I might give up my writing career and become a professional gambler, or if I decide I don't want to play the tables in Vegas, then I'll just become a professional Super Bowl better and horde as much cash as I can throughout the year until I've reached Super Bowl Sunday and it's time to make my bets.
Mo brainer, right?
Anyway, I think that inventing that phrase (did, I though? I mean, I googled the phrase and I only got what looks like unembraced typos ((unlike my typos which are practically made love to)) and since it is a new phrase I invented, then I think it should be a New Thing that I did this weekend too. It's my New Thing #32.
NEXT WEEK ON ERIK'S BLOG: Erik loses his "nest egg" and his friends trick him into going to GA (a.k.a. Gambler's Anonymous) by telling him there's gonna be another Super Bowl and the viewing party is in the rec room at the local church.
New Thing #33: I ate French Toast with peaches cooked directly into the bread at Denny's. I don't really recommend this to anyone. While I was eating the French Toast "with cooked-in fruit," I thought it tasted good, but now, hours later, my stomach is all, "fuck you, Erik."
*Jeez Louise, another fricken typo. "Safed a life"??? And why am I compelled to leave the typo in and tell you about it at the end of the post? What's that about?
Friday, February 03, 2006
It was a long day. Lots of writing. Lots of driving. Lots of talking.
Jessica (my writing partner and frequent muse) (who called me "baby" tonight, after mistaking me for her husband) and I were supposed to have a pitch today (which woulda been awesome), but the pitch got moved (which was a bummer) to next week (which is cool because we can still wow 'em next week) so our afternoon wasn't as packed as it was supposed to be (coolio), but we still had a dinner meeting (I had a spicy pasta dish), which went very well (the meeting, not the spicy pasta dish) (the spicy pasta dish was actually TOO spicy) (as if there's such a thing) (but OH YES there is such a thing) (this spicy pasta dish literally made me sweat) (and it made me kinda gassy too) (sorry if that was TMI) (TMI = Too Much Info) (I don't know why I felt the need to clarify the whole "TMI" thing) (but I was, like, "what if they don't know what that meant?") (and then I was like "OF COURSE they know what it meant") (and then, again, I was like, "but maybe, just in case, I should spell it out") (because I figured my mom wouldn't know what it meant, at the very least) (so then I just went ahead and defined the damn acronym) (I suppose if you didn't know what TMI meant and you REALLY wanted to know, you could have looked it up yourself) (but would you have looked it up?) (I mean, you say you would have, but would you REALLY have cracked open your Dictionary of Acronyms?) (I'm just asking) (I accidentally just wrote Dictionary of "Anachronyms" and I think I just accidentally invented a word, unless it's already a word, but if it's not already a word, then this is a new word that I love. I mean, hello: anacronyms? I suppose an anachromym would roughly be defined as an old, outdated acronym) (like, for example, PYSH might be an anacronym that means Park Your Spear Here) (wow, I'm really tired and after all of these asides I completely forget what I was talking about) (now I feel like I went from TMI to TNEI) (which means "Totally Not Enough Info") (I definitely felt like I had to clarify that acronym because I made that one up) (when I was typing "that one up" just now, I accidentally typed "that won up") (what a weird typo) (I mean, I guess it makes sense that if you're tired and typing the word "one" your brain might get lazy and type an equivalent sounding word like "won") (but sometimes I think I had a small, tiny little stroke a few years ago that makes me do stupid things) (it was not a big stroke, just a little one) (and it was such a minor stroke that it doesn't manifest itself often, but when it DOES manifest itself, it does so in weird wordy ways) (like making my brain type "won" instead of "one" or making me say "that'll it" to the nice woman at McDonald's instead of "that'll be it" or making me mistake character actors for people I used to date) (whenever I do something like that, I just blame it on the stroke) (do you remember that song "Blame It On The Rain" by Milli Vanilli?) (I used to LOVE that song) (I played the clarinet from third grade through ninth grade. i gave up the clarinet when I finally decided that playing the clarinet was not cool and I wanted to be cool, not realizing that, years later, as an adult, I would realize that playing the clarinet is actually supremely cool) (why am I still typing parenthetical thoughts?) (sorry, I'm sure this is annoying by now) (but it's four a.m. and I should be asleep) (I should not be blogging) (I'm tired) (which means I'm gonna go ahead and continue typing up all of these rambling parentheticl thoughts) (ha! parentheticl!) (maybe I'll come back and rearrange the words into more of a paragraphical post later) (focus, Erik, focus: you were talking about Milli Vanilli) (I used to be able to play "Blame It On The Rain" on my clarinet) (how fricking cool is that?) (it makes me sad that everyone totally shunned Milli Vanilli after it was revealed that they were big fat lip synchers. I mean, we all loved the music before we found out they were lip synchers and SOMEBODY SANG THE DAMN SONGS. What, as soon as we found out that the singers were actually two random non-brothers without dreads who couldn't dance, then suddenly we thought the songs were terrible? We're horrible people for abandoning Milli Vanilli's music like that. Milli killed himself because of us! I think we should all get over the James Frey thing too. He lied. Big whoop. If you got something out of his book before when you thought it was hardcore truth, don't you think you could still get something out of the book now that it's less hardcore?) (Matt Price read a great essay the other night at Show and Tell about how at least James Frey's lies haven't killed anyone, unlike GWB's lies) (Back to Frey's book, imagine it's a parable--we've been learning from parables for thousands of years) (I seriously forget what I started out talking about) (holy crap, okay, so) and then after our dinner meeting (which went late) we knew that our friend Larra was nearby and we met up with her for a drink at Dimples (because it was nearby).
Dimples is, according to lore, "the oldest karaoke establishment in Southern California." Now, it may very well be the oldest, but it certainly ain't the best. No, "the best karaoke establishment in Southern California" has got to be my friends' Todd and David's living room. I've blogged about Todd and David's karaoke parties before, here. The thing that's great about their parties is that everyone wants to karaoke and everyone wants to sing songs they love and everyone wants to hear everyone sing songs that they love. It's a lovefest and it's all about the singing.
At Dimples, the karaoke is undoubtedly all about the booze.
I have ordering-a-drink-aphobia. It's an honest-to-goodness condition that I have. It means, wuite literally, that I'm afraid to order drinks at bars. My fear isn't really of ordering, per se, it's more a fear of forgetting what drink I want to order. And then, because I'm afraid I'm gonna forget what drink to order, it's self-fulfilling prophecy, and when I go up to a bar to order a drink, my mind just empties and I can never think of a single thing. So, usually, I pick a drink that I know I like and I stick with it so that every time I find myself in a situation where I need to order a drink I can always fall back on the one that I got last time. You know how people have "safe words" in S&M relationships? Well, this is like my "safe drink."
For the last 6 months or so, my "safe drink" has been an Amaretto Sour, and before that it was a Black Russian, and before that it was a White Russian. If you can't tell from that list of alcoholic beverages, I like my liquor sweet. Anyway, I'm kinda over the Amaretto Sour thing, and last night that an Amaretto Sour really did not sound like the drink to do, so I was starting to get all I-gotta-order-a-drink-aphobic, and I talked to our cocktail waitress about it, and I told her I had no idea what I should order, and then we talked about how I like sweet alcoholic beverages, and then we made up our own drink.
Now, I'm sure that where alcohol is concerned, there is no such thing as virgin territory, I am sure that every possible concoction has been whipped up in some bar or another and every concoction already has a name, but we didn't know what to call this drink last night, so we called it a "Gina," after my cocktail waitress, but if you know a lot about cocktail drinks and you know that this drink already has a name, would you be so kind as to let me know what the name of this drink is? In the meantime, we'll continue calling it a "Gina."
The "Gina" is a very simple drink. It's a Shirley Temple (Sprite and Grenadine) with Raspberry Stoli in it. Jessica decided it should be called the "vaGina" because it was such a girly drink, but I'm going to continue to call it the "Gina" in honor of its namesake. Oh, also, the "Gina" is really bad. I mean, it's a terrible drink. It's awful. The Raspberry Stoli mixed with the Grenadine totally sucks. So I don't have any illusions of grandeur about this drink catching on and being the new craze. But still, if it is a new drink, then I suppose it's a New Thing, and even if it's not a New Drink To The World, I suppose it's still a New Drink To Me, and so it can still count as one of my New Things. Chalk it up as New Thing #30.
So, after I had two "Ginas," I decided I wanted to do some karaoke. Because I love karaoke. I just didn't realize how hostile the crowd at Dimples was going to be. Like I said before, the crowd at Dimples was all about the alcohol, not about the singing. I think Jessica put it best when she said: "Karaoke is not about putting on a hat and a wig and being a doofus. It's about delivering. It's about loving the song you're singing--and because you love it, your audience will love it too." But the people at Dimples? They didn't get the memo, and the karaoke portion of our evening kind of sucked.
The first song I sang was Under Pressure, by David Bowie and Queen, excelt the karaoke version they had in the machine was only by David Bowie. Meaning it was missing all of the Queen portions of the song. Meaning the song sounded completely unlike the song you and I know and love. Meaning it was impossible to sing. Meaning I was standing up there like a total idiot who didn't know the song he had decided to sing. Which is so lame because I love Under Pressure. It's a great song. One of my favorite songs. And it's a song I definitely know. However, you wouldn't know I knew it if you heard me singing it at Dimples.
Then Larra sang Go Your Own Way by Fleetwood Mac, and while she was singing, the woman who was hosting the karaoke (her name was Angelle) got up on stage with Larra to pose for a picture. Apparently this is what they do at Dimples. They just get up on stage with you to pose for a picture so they can have you on their wall. But they don't only get up on stage with you in the middle of your song--which, if you're trying to have a moment, if you're trying to feel the song, is incredibly distracting, and, I'm gonna go ahead and say it, it's rude as well--but they also make you wear a hat during the picture. They just grab a hat and they put it on your head.
Well, unlike most of the people at Dimples, Larra wasn't up on that stage to be a doofus. She really wanted to lay it all on the line for us, and tell us, in song, about how we could "go our own way." She wasn't up there for no minstrel wig-and-hat-wearing show. But Angelle didn't care that Larra was feeling the moment; no, Angelle just got up on stage with her and grabbed and hat and started to put it on Larra's head. And then--this was my favorite moment of the evening--Larra stopped singing and said, with so much edge, "if you put that hat on my head, I'm walking out of here." And Angelle looked at her like, are you serious? And Larra continued singing, but with even greater purpose now, and she gave Angelle a look that could kill and that said you damn better believe I'm serious. And then Larra kept singing:
"You can go your own way...
Go your own way!"
And then the guy with the camera started cursing at her--true story--he was horrified that Larra refused to put on the dumb hat, and then he walked away in disgust, refusing to take the picture. And Larra kept on singing:
"You an call it...
Another lonely day...
You can go your own way!"
And then Angelle threw the hat on the ground and rolled her eyes at Larra--she literally rolled her eyes--they have video cameras that project what's going on on-stage on a big monitor so you could see her rolling her eyes on widescreen--and then she walked off the stage, also disgusted with Larra. That ain't how we do it here at Dimples, you could practically hear her thinking.
And Larra kept on singing:
"Go your own way!"
It was like an anthem for all of us true karaoke purists in the house--for Larra and Jessica and me, and, well, it was just for the three of us. Larra was urging us not to succumb to the folly that was Dimples. To sing for ourselves, and not for the drunk fascist hat-lovin' freakazoids out there.
I was right there with her. I heard her. I felt her. Her plight was mine.
a few minutes later,
when it was my turn to sing again,
I had had several Ginas by then,
as much as I felt the anger
and the passion
and the fury
in Larra's awesome rendition of Go Your Own Way,
I was also kind of drunk,
if not drunk,
then definitely buzzed,
Angelle came up on stage in the middle of my rendition of Never Tear Us Apart by INXS.
She grabbed a hat.
And I let her put that dumb hat on my head. I let them take the dumb picture.
(which I was going to post here, but I'm having trouble uploading it, so the picture is on its way) (I know, I know, anti-climactic, I'm sorry)
(okay, here it is)