Tim and Eric on Adult Swim.
I hate "Tom Goes To The Mayor." It is a stupid, stupid show.
I hate "The Tim and Eric Super Amazing Show! Good Job!" or whatever it's called.
They try so very very hard. And it is the worst form of contrived "randomness." It's not Dadaist, it's not absurdist. It's the ramblings of two idiots who were once told they were funny by a bunch of stoned losers and have taken it way too seriously.
Here is what I miss:
Sealab 2021
Space Ghost Coast to Coast
Venture Brothers (the second season was nowhere near as good as the first - shoddy production values).
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Lo, my defenses have failed!
I am so very very sick. And I think it's cosmic punishment for bravado. This weekend I was all like, "Haha, isn't it funny that my brother's been sick for a week and a half, my mother's been sick all week and Pete's coming down with something and yet I'm not sick? Haha! I have the worst immune system ever! How ironic!" Yeah, well, that was a poor strategy. Monday night I started to feel bad and Tuesday I was sick, but nothing compared to Tuesday night. This cold has had diferent symptom sets for each of us - Aren and Mom have had bronchitis; Mom and I have had chills; Mom, Aren and Pete have had runny noses. But Tuesday night I had body aches and chills like you wouldn't believe. Every single point on my body hurt. And it didn't mater that I knew it was just viral, that it wasn't "real" pain, like from a sprain or whatever. I have no idea how people with chronic pain deal on a daily basis. One night of body aches and I was ready to throw in the towel. Wednesday was sore throat day and today is sore throat/coughing/feeling faint day. (I think maybe I have low blood pressure today? Is that possible?)
What I have learned is this: I am a HUGE sickness wimp. Mom's been crazy sick, but she hasn't missed a day of work. Aren only missed a couple days of work, and he was sicker than all the rest of us combined. Pete and I have really gotten off easy compared to them. But let's compare Pete and me. What did I do yesterday? I woke up at 4:20, at 5 and at 6:40 when I got up because there was no point. I watched TV in Mom's room until 8 when I fell asleep again. I slept until 11:30. I ate lunch. I watched tv until six or so and then I made chicken soup. I ate dinner, watched tv, and went to bed. Now, let's compare what Pete did. He got up around 10, brought in the recycling bins from the curb, took stuff down to the main post office to mail it, made lunch, cleaned out the cat boxes, ran to the store to buy chicken soup-making ingredients that we had run out of, put left over soup away and did the dishes. In short, Pete is amazing. Also, I am a huge wimp.
What I have learned is this: I am a HUGE sickness wimp. Mom's been crazy sick, but she hasn't missed a day of work. Aren only missed a couple days of work, and he was sicker than all the rest of us combined. Pete and I have really gotten off easy compared to them. But let's compare Pete and me. What did I do yesterday? I woke up at 4:20, at 5 and at 6:40 when I got up because there was no point. I watched TV in Mom's room until 8 when I fell asleep again. I slept until 11:30. I ate lunch. I watched tv until six or so and then I made chicken soup. I ate dinner, watched tv, and went to bed. Now, let's compare what Pete did. He got up around 10, brought in the recycling bins from the curb, took stuff down to the main post office to mail it, made lunch, cleaned out the cat boxes, ran to the store to buy chicken soup-making ingredients that we had run out of, put left over soup away and did the dishes. In short, Pete is amazing. Also, I am a huge wimp.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Happy Pi Day!
I just heard about this today. I think Pie Day would be better than Pi Day, but apparently (according to the American Pie Council, whatever that is) Pie Day is 1/23.
You know who is awesome?
Neil Patrick Harris, that's who. If you don't know who that is and you are American, you should look around your cave, gaze at your crude shelves full of anarchist tracts and survivalist literature, mentally catalog how long it took you to build that hydroponic "mini-collective-farm" out of old beehives, consider how long it's been since you had a hot shower or used soap, and ask yourself, "Has it been worth it?" Actually, I extend that command to anyone who doesn't recognize that name and is from an English-speaking country, because Doogie Howser, MD has had such a lasting influence on Western culture. Observe: Your doctor looks young? He gives you advice that seems specious? You want to be a jerk about it? There is only one thing to say! "Okay, Doogie, thanks. Now send in a real doctor and leave your plastic stethoscope at the door."
ANYWAY... my point is that Neil Patrick Harris is awsome. Proof? Pete will not only watch, but actually often enjoys watching a sitcom, "How I Met Your Mother." And I think he will confirm that the best parts are the Neil Patrick Harris parts. He just has perfect timing and makes even the most clichéd sitcom antics work (because he does so with a sense of irony). Also, the show seems to be written well, which helps. I had the hugest crush on him as Doogie Howser, MD, when I was but a girl, and that is one of only three school-girl-crushes-on-tv-or-movie-stars to which it is not embarrassing to admit.
And now you know who is awesome.
ANYWAY... my point is that Neil Patrick Harris is awsome. Proof? Pete will not only watch, but actually often enjoys watching a sitcom, "How I Met Your Mother." And I think he will confirm that the best parts are the Neil Patrick Harris parts. He just has perfect timing and makes even the most clichéd sitcom antics work (because he does so with a sense of irony). Also, the show seems to be written well, which helps. I had the hugest crush on him as Doogie Howser, MD, when I was but a girl, and that is one of only three school-girl-crushes-on-tv-or-movie-stars to which it is not embarrassing to admit.
And now you know who is awesome.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Post-Modernism: RIP
Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, for it tolls for post-modernism! And possibly critical theory. Let's take a look at our Important Post-Modernist Life & Death List, shall we? (*=Critical Theorist)
Ludwig Wittgenstein d. April 29, 1951
Theodor Adorno d. August 6, 1969
Martin Heidegger d. May 26, 1976
Roland Barthes d. March 28, 1980
Jacques-Marie-Emile Lacan d. September 9, 1981
Michel Foucault d. June 25, 1984
Louis Althusser* d. October 23, 1990
Jean-François Lyotard d. April 21, 1998
Pierre Bourdieu* d. January 23, 2002
Jacques Derrida d. October 8, 2004
Jean Baudrillard d. March 6, 2007
Jürgen Habermas*, beware! You're nearing your 88th birthday. And Noam Chomsky*... You just turned 88!
I was surprised that no one but the BBC covered the fact that Baudrillard died yesterday. Maybe they will today, but I doubt it. As important as he is to my field - or any qualitatively-oriented social science - I'd be surprised if enough people recognize his name to warrant any kind of televised obituary. I remember when Derrida died, endless seminars, tributes, discussion groups and other homages popped up all over campus. You would have though the French department had lost one of their own faculty! I can't imagine what they're doing for Baudrillard; maybe nothing, maybe they had a department-imposed day of mourning, I can't say.
If you don't know Baudrillard's work, you should totally check him out. His most famous work, Simulacra and Simulation (1981) is a little hard to read (and understand...) but I've heard his more recent stuff is much more accessible, if Crazy Liberal Propaganda (my favorite kind! ::squeal::). His book, America (1986), got pretty mediocre reviews - people thought he was stretching - but that would have been a hard time to be a post-modernist. His most recent stuff has been about how the Gulf War was really a simulacra - that the abstract reality of the war was entirely invented by public discourse and was not real (he does not dispute that it happened or anything like that). He has another book about how the same thing happened with 9/11. As you can imagine, he was not very popular in some quarters...
Anyway, I think it is strange to realize that Post-Modernism may have died yesterday along with M. Baudrillard. Sure, there are probably scholars who call themselves Post-Modernists out there. But who are they? What clout do they have? Do they represent an era of intellectual critique and epistemological change?
Also, if I left anyone off that list, let me know. Or don't, if this whole exercise has been too depressing. Just go read some Foucault and think happily about a time decontextualisation was a crazy new idea.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Valentine Dentist Appointment
Twenty-six years, zero cavities! And that's not the only good news I got at the dentist yesterday. My front tooth that's been all crazy sensitive to hot and cold is dying and will need a root canal. But the tooth itself is in such good shape, all they have to do is drill a small hole in the back and remove the root, and then patch it up with a little dental spackle! Where is the good news in a root canal, you may ask? I have no fear of the dentist, so the root canal doesn't bother me. There'll be Novocain and I'll have my iPod. It'll be a little open-mouthed nap and then my tooth will stop acting like a crazy old person. "It's too cold! No, it's too hot! What's wrong with the rest of you? Can't you tell how cold it is in here? You kids get off my lawn! Where's my condensed milk? I want to pay in nickels! Is it really past four pm? Past my bedtime!" Okay, so not exactly like a crazy old person. But as close as teeth get!
Friday, February 02, 2007
An Open Letter To The Jell-O Pudding People
Hello Jell-O People! Or are you a subsidiary of some MecaGiantFoodCorp, like Kraft or Kroger? Well, whomever, I have an idea for product improvement that I think you'll like. And this one is a freebe. That's right: I'm just giving it away!
First of all, DON'T CHANGE YOUR PUDDING. I love the pudding just the way it is. At least the full calorie stuff. And I did my lable reading: I know that you're trying to weed out the people who are into pudding just for the calorie cut but not for the silky smoothness or the super deliciousness. The "100-Calorie Pack" that tastes of artificial sweeteners? Only a few calories less than the a cup of the "full fat" pudding. Hahahahaha! Take that, all you people who just jumped on the pudding bandwagon when it started to market itself as "diet food!" You deserve what you get!
No, the thing you should change is the packaging. Here is my problem: My spoon cannot get into all the nooks and crannies of your pudding cup. What's that you say? It's round, so it doesn't have nooks and crannies? Au contraire, Moose Breath! It has plenty because of that little inverse rim around the bottom to keep the cup from falling over. Because my spoon can't get all the pudding, I am always reduced to licking. And the cup is too deep! My tongue can't reach the bottom and I end up with a chocolate ring around my chin. How embarassing! I'm 26, for crying out loud! But don't I deserve every last drop of wonderful pudding in my cup? I should think so!
The problem is that no spoon will ever be right for the pudding cup. But designing a specific "pudding cup spoon" is silly; not even I would carry that around with me, and with all my food texture issues, I'm like pudding's biggest fan. Here is what I suggest: Make a wider, shallower pudding cup. Without an inverse rim for stability. Go to Brookstone and check out their retarded wobbling clocks. "Push me," say their labels, "I'll never fall over! Also, I can tell you the humidity in Tokyo and the temperature of Idi Amin's butt - it's not real warm 'cause he's dead!" Not that you'd want your pudding cups to tell people humidity or the condition of dictator corpses, because really, no one wants a clock that does that either. But if you mimic their Wobble Technology, you don't need the rim! And if there is no foot-rim-thing at the bottom, and the cup is shallow and wider, I can lick up all of the delicious pudding orts (or do orts have to be solid?) without getting my chin all chocolatey!
So there you have it, Jell-O Pudding People! This is a seriously awesome idea. Your wobbling (but never tipping!) pudding cups would be the hit of the season, and much as I hate your current ad campaign (that "wiggle on a jiggl'in' spree" song is just plain creepy), it would totally fit right in. In fact, it would be like you intended to introduce wobbling cups filled with wiggling pudding all along! Your ads could say, "Worried about tipping over the edge and right off your diet? Our Jell-O Pudding cups will never tip! They're the wobble in your diet that puts the wiggle in your walk! And the giggle in your talk! Yes, Jell-O Pudding makes the world go 'round!"
XXXOOO,
Sydney
PS Could you also make Super Jumbo Sized pudding cups, for when you want to fill your whole mouth with pudding and just smoosh it around inside your cheeks with your tongue? I find that if I can get the entire contents of a current-sized pudding cup into my mouth at once, I get one good go-round. But if you made a Super Jumbo Sized pudding cup, I could do it at least twice whithout having to look like a glutton who took two pudding cups instead of her allotted one. People at work would think I made Pete go without pudding if I took two!
First of all, DON'T CHANGE YOUR PUDDING. I love the pudding just the way it is. At least the full calorie stuff. And I did my lable reading: I know that you're trying to weed out the people who are into pudding just for the calorie cut but not for the silky smoothness or the super deliciousness. The "100-Calorie Pack" that tastes of artificial sweeteners? Only a few calories less than the a cup of the "full fat" pudding. Hahahahaha! Take that, all you people who just jumped on the pudding bandwagon when it started to market itself as "diet food!" You deserve what you get!
No, the thing you should change is the packaging. Here is my problem: My spoon cannot get into all the nooks and crannies of your pudding cup. What's that you say? It's round, so it doesn't have nooks and crannies? Au contraire, Moose Breath! It has plenty because of that little inverse rim around the bottom to keep the cup from falling over. Because my spoon can't get all the pudding, I am always reduced to licking. And the cup is too deep! My tongue can't reach the bottom and I end up with a chocolate ring around my chin. How embarassing! I'm 26, for crying out loud! But don't I deserve every last drop of wonderful pudding in my cup? I should think so!
The problem is that no spoon will ever be right for the pudding cup. But designing a specific "pudding cup spoon" is silly; not even I would carry that around with me, and with all my food texture issues, I'm like pudding's biggest fan. Here is what I suggest: Make a wider, shallower pudding cup. Without an inverse rim for stability. Go to Brookstone and check out their retarded wobbling clocks. "Push me," say their labels, "I'll never fall over! Also, I can tell you the humidity in Tokyo and the temperature of Idi Amin's butt - it's not real warm 'cause he's dead!" Not that you'd want your pudding cups to tell people humidity or the condition of dictator corpses, because really, no one wants a clock that does that either. But if you mimic their Wobble Technology, you don't need the rim! And if there is no foot-rim-thing at the bottom, and the cup is shallow and wider, I can lick up all of the delicious pudding orts (or do orts have to be solid?) without getting my chin all chocolatey!
So there you have it, Jell-O Pudding People! This is a seriously awesome idea. Your wobbling (but never tipping!) pudding cups would be the hit of the season, and much as I hate your current ad campaign (that "wiggle on a jiggl'in' spree" song is just plain creepy), it would totally fit right in. In fact, it would be like you intended to introduce wobbling cups filled with wiggling pudding all along! Your ads could say, "Worried about tipping over the edge and right off your diet? Our Jell-O Pudding cups will never tip! They're the wobble in your diet that puts the wiggle in your walk! And the giggle in your talk! Yes, Jell-O Pudding makes the world go 'round!"
XXXOOO,
Sydney
PS Could you also make Super Jumbo Sized pudding cups, for when you want to fill your whole mouth with pudding and just smoosh it around inside your cheeks with your tongue? I find that if I can get the entire contents of a current-sized pudding cup into my mouth at once, I get one good go-round. But if you made a Super Jumbo Sized pudding cup, I could do it at least twice whithout having to look like a glutton who took two pudding cups instead of her allotted one. People at work would think I made Pete go without pudding if I took two!
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Back by popular request
This is for Joe!
Wrestler 2: Hey, let's all get drunk and stoned so that we can forget all about our Mat-Herp problems.
Cheerleader: I dunno guys...
Wrestler 1: It's okay; I drive better when I'm high.
[Exit wrestlers and cheerleader. Fade to black. Suddenly you hear a tires-squealing-car-going-out-of-control sound and two headlights blind you from the screen!]
Disemboddied Voice of Wrestler 1: Damn you Mat-Herp!
[Message appears at end: This story was based on true events. Sometime, somewhere, teenagers have drowned their sorrows over an STD in beer and weed. AND IT KILLED THEM! So remember kids: no glove, no love. Or wrestling. Because if you get an STD from a surface, YOU'LL DIE IN A FIRELY CAR CRASH!]
FIN
Wrestler 2: Hey, let's all get drunk and stoned so that we can forget all about our Mat-Herp problems.
Cheerleader: I dunno guys...
Wrestler 1: It's okay; I drive better when I'm high.
[Exit wrestlers and cheerleader. Fade to black. Suddenly you hear a tires-squealing-car-going-out-of-control sound and two headlights blind you from the screen!]
Disemboddied Voice of Wrestler 1: Damn you Mat-Herp!
[Message appears at end: This story was based on true events. Sometime, somewhere, teenagers have drowned their sorrows over an STD in beer and weed. AND IT KILLED THEM! So remember kids: no glove, no love. Or wrestling. Because if you get an STD from a surface, YOU'LL DIE IN A FIRELY CAR CRASH!]
FIN
Um, Boston, can you, like, take a deep breath or something?
Boston, please to note how no other city freaked the hell out. Seriously. The world is just so weird. Boston is all like, "Oh my God, a Lite-Brite of a crappy cartoon show! Let's call the bomb squad and then yell at everyone when we're embarassed by how badly we've over reacted!" Meanwhile, back on the ranch... So long as the ranch is in Minnesota. And is also a wrestling mat.
Cheerleader: Hi Jimmy!
Wrestler 1 (AKA Jimmy): Oh, hey Suzy.
Cheerleader (AKA Suzy): Are you excited about the big meet this weekend? I'm gonna be there cheering - have you heard our new cheer? It's all about naked Michael Jackson to help you guys avoid a gnarly trip to Bonertown.
Wrestler 1: Oh, um, wow. It sure sucks that we won't get to hear that...
Cheerleader: What? Why??
Wrestler 1: Yeah, um, the meet has been cancelled. Someone got the herp and then humped the mat. And you know what they say in health class... When you hump some chick, you're basically humping every dude she's ever been with before you. Well that wrestling mat gets around, if you know what I mean.
Cheerleader: Oh my God. That's... that's...
Wrestler 1: Actually, the mat didn't get around nearly as much as Dwayne. Fawking Mat-Humper.
Cheerleader: That's... that's...
Wrestler 2 (AKA Dwayne; AKA The Fawking Mat-Humper): Jesus H. Gophernuts, Jim! I didn't hump the mat; I wrestled on it. And so did you. You know, you don't have to "do the deed" to get the pox. Sometimes just heavy petting is more than enough....
Cheerleader: That's SO GROSS! Oh my God! Mat-herp! EW!! What other surfaces are crawling with STDs?? My desk in History? The bench in the girl's locker room? Oh my God - could I get that rank fungus Ashley had under her toenails from sitting in the hall at lunch? Uhhhhggg... I think I'm gonna be sick...
Wrestler 1: Look, all I'm saying is that you had some oral herp before practice even started this year. If anyone gave the mat herpes...
Wrestler 2: You know, you're still contagious between outbreaks. Just because I'm the only one with open cold sores doesn't mean the other guys on the team are clean. What about you, huh? Maybe your herp isn't oral; maybe you got the genital herp.
[Cheerleader horks on feet of wrestlers.]
Wrestler 1: Oh man! Now my shoes are ruined! Damn you, herpes gladiatorum!
[Cue NBC "the more you know" logo and chime-y music]
FIN
Cheerleader: Hi Jimmy!
Wrestler 1 (AKA Jimmy): Oh, hey Suzy.
Cheerleader (AKA Suzy): Are you excited about the big meet this weekend? I'm gonna be there cheering - have you heard our new cheer? It's all about naked Michael Jackson to help you guys avoid a gnarly trip to Bonertown.
Wrestler 1: Oh, um, wow. It sure sucks that we won't get to hear that...
Cheerleader: What? Why??
Wrestler 1: Yeah, um, the meet has been cancelled. Someone got the herp and then humped the mat. And you know what they say in health class... When you hump some chick, you're basically humping every dude she's ever been with before you. Well that wrestling mat gets around, if you know what I mean.
Cheerleader: Oh my God. That's... that's...
Wrestler 1: Actually, the mat didn't get around nearly as much as Dwayne. Fawking Mat-Humper.
Cheerleader: That's... that's...
Wrestler 2 (AKA Dwayne; AKA The Fawking Mat-Humper): Jesus H. Gophernuts, Jim! I didn't hump the mat; I wrestled on it. And so did you. You know, you don't have to "do the deed" to get the pox. Sometimes just heavy petting is more than enough....
Cheerleader: That's SO GROSS! Oh my God! Mat-herp! EW!! What other surfaces are crawling with STDs?? My desk in History? The bench in the girl's locker room? Oh my God - could I get that rank fungus Ashley had under her toenails from sitting in the hall at lunch? Uhhhhggg... I think I'm gonna be sick...
Wrestler 1: Look, all I'm saying is that you had some oral herp before practice even started this year. If anyone gave the mat herpes...
Wrestler 2: You know, you're still contagious between outbreaks. Just because I'm the only one with open cold sores doesn't mean the other guys on the team are clean. What about you, huh? Maybe your herp isn't oral; maybe you got the genital herp.
[Cheerleader horks on feet of wrestlers.]
Wrestler 1: Oh man! Now my shoes are ruined! Damn you, herpes gladiatorum!
[Cue NBC "the more you know" logo and chime-y music]
FIN
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
I have spent way too much time looking for this
Seriously - I have spent literally hours looking for this "episode" of Questionable Content (what does one call an individual comic in a series?) even though it's way no longer relevant. But, um, Erika, the other night when you and Aren and I were chatting until all hours and I wanted Pete to look up a comic on quantum fetish mechanics? Yeah, so here it is. For everyone who isn't Erika, if you haven't read this QC, you totally should, and not just because I reference it all the time. Huh? Oh, also because it's funny. In addition, it's totally true. And Erika (or possibly my Mom) posed an interesting question: did so many weird fetishes exist before the internet? I mean, if you really liked elbows and peanutbutter, did you have to just wait until you got a really tolerant girlfriend, or did you have to hire hookers? Was there a magazine for you, maybe just a quarterly, perhaps called "Peanutbogen?" (That's my attempt at combining "Peanutbutter" and "elbogen," which is German for "elbows," I think. Yes, all of my German is this useful.) And how would you find said periodical? I swear to God, deviancy before the internet just boggles the mind. And to think: the internet has come into existance within my lifetime. Crazypants.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Rose-Colored Memories of TriMet
In high school, I road Tri-Met buses twice a day, every week day for like three years. Mostly I road the 9 or the 8 (once or twice the 41 and walked home from Fremont, or the 33 and walked home from Grant High School), although when being too lazy to walk from the bus mall to school, I took the 57. And sometimes I took the 20 up over the hill to where Mom worked at the time, or the 15 to look at clothes I would never be able to afford (much less fit into) on 23rd. And once, as a Freshman, I road the 12 all the way to the airport and back just to see how long it took.
The 9 ran Powell in SE, to the bus mall, and then into NE (Weidler to 24th to 27th). I caught it on 24th and Brazee and it was mostly filled with adults heading downtown to their white collar jobs. They read, listened to music, or stared out the windows quietly, occationally two would chat softly about their kids or someone they knew from work. It was very laid back, the other riders were just trying to get from one place to another without having to pay $100+/month for parking.
The 8, on the other hand, ran from deep inner NE to the bus mall, and then up the hill to the VA hospital, next to OHSU. From NE to the bus mall it was usually filled with gang bangers at the back and crazies at the front. I never saw truly lunitic people on the 9, but the 8 was like a magnet for them. From the bus mall up the hill, it was filled with sick veterans. From the VA to the bus mall and back out to NE it was also filled with sick veterans. And gang bangers. My brother, who is pretty much as white and non-threatening as you get (being above average height, but not over 6'; fit and slender, but not very "Fight Club," as it were; and a natural dirty blonde, which just fails to threaten the way, say, Goth Black would), Aren always chooses to sit at the back of the bus with the gang bangers when he rides the 8 rather than at the front with the creepy pedophiles and crazy cat ladies. He said that the bangers don't really know what to make of him. He's not a threat to them, he doesn't want to chat with them for some kind of passing, insane person's "street cred," and they probably feel the same way about the people at the front of the bus, so they leave him alone.
Anyway, this is all to say that I road the bus a lot and had a lot of contact with people from varied, um, "walks of life." But when I look back on those three years of riding the bus, I always think, "Man, TriMet is really a good system. It's clean, it's friendly, it's on time, and there really is a pretty decent social contract in place: I leave you alone, you leave me alone. Sure, I once saw an abusive drunk (or drug addict) get denied access to the bus, but as abusive and dangerous as he seemed, the bus driver held her own and he backed the fuck down. And if anyone was a chatty nutter, they made a bee-line for Aren anyway, so everyone else's social contract was still intact.
After my allergist appointment last Monday, I decided to take the bus to work. It was kind of a neat route: take the 20 down Burnside to E Burnside & Grand Blvd and then get on the 19 at the same stop. The 19 drops me off literally across the street from my office, and not the busy street (Glisan) either: the little numbered avenue that no one ever uses but the people who live on it. It's not often that you can transfer from one bus to another that usually run parallel to one another at the same stop when you're not on the bus mall.
The 20 was late and a little smelly. The other people on the bus were just people, I didn't mind them and they didn't mind me. Admittedly, the guy who sat down in front of me may have been the King of Hobo BO, but he took his odor with him when he got off just before the bridge. But when I got off at Burnside and Grand, there were these, well, assholes waiting at the stop for another bus. I got off the back of the 20 to the sounds of this dickwad yelling at the bus driver at the front. What was he pissed about? That it wasn't the 12. Like this was the driver's fault. "Oh, I'm so sorry sir, let me just dump these other passengers and change my reader board and we'll be on our way! Fuck the other people waiting for this bus!" The bus pulls away and he yells after it, "Fucking BUSES!!!" He had two or three buddies with him. And here is where I expose myself for the classest jackhole you always knew I was: they had that look of uneducated, alcoholic, NASCAR ghetto, white trash losers who can't hold down a menial job and think that the world owes them something for being loud mouth, anti-intellectual bastards all the time. The three or four of them stood there and the first guy shouted about how TriMet employees are all assholes and it's all a conspiracy against him and the other guys nodded and laughed and smoked and jeered whenever the first guy said, "Fucking buses!" or "Fucking TriMet!" Then the 12 came and they got on and were probably assholes all the way to wherever they were going. I went and checked the bus schedule. The 19 was probably about five minutes away. So I waited. And after five minutes or so had gone by, I checked the schedule again. And then I saw a bus coming over the bridge. It was another 12. I was like, "Seriously? Two in a row??" So I checked the 12's schedule: identical to the 19 at that time of day. Another couple minutes, and another bus on the bridge. The 20. Finally the 19 showed up, but it was like it had just flat out skipped a scheduled bus.
Then 19 reeked. Like full-on Bum Stink all throughout the bus. And no bums, to speak of. But the 19 did aquire a couple of moms and their kids at Providence Portland (47th & Glisan, or thereabouts). They were sweet, the mom and daughter who sat at the front were smiling and talking together. The mom removed lint from the knees of her daughter's tights (the girl was maybe 8 or so), and ran her hand over the girls head and down her braids, hugging her to pull her back up into her seat, which she was falling out of as she squirmed around to tell her Mom something else about someone at her school. It was just so sweet and intimate and thoughtless (as in, "natural," not as in, "uncaring").
I don't think I'll be signing up to take the bus to work any time soon. My memory of TriMet was that it was clean and safe and friendly. But in reality, it has always been like this: cleanish, kind of smelly at times, safe enough (if you're aware of your surroundings) and friendly in small doses. And that's how all mass transit is, everywhere I've ever lived or even just visited: Portland, Moscow, Paris, Lyon, DC... I never road the train or bus in NY or LA, but I'm sure it's the same. It's really a question of necessity. When I had to ride the bus because I didn't have a license or a car, it was great. But now that it's a choice, it's just so much less enjoyable. And I feel bad for complaining, because I know that I should ride the bus more to be a better citizen. But that is a concern for another post on another day because this one is already ridiculously long.
The 9 ran Powell in SE, to the bus mall, and then into NE (Weidler to 24th to 27th). I caught it on 24th and Brazee and it was mostly filled with adults heading downtown to their white collar jobs. They read, listened to music, or stared out the windows quietly, occationally two would chat softly about their kids or someone they knew from work. It was very laid back, the other riders were just trying to get from one place to another without having to pay $100+/month for parking.
The 8, on the other hand, ran from deep inner NE to the bus mall, and then up the hill to the VA hospital, next to OHSU. From NE to the bus mall it was usually filled with gang bangers at the back and crazies at the front. I never saw truly lunitic people on the 9, but the 8 was like a magnet for them. From the bus mall up the hill, it was filled with sick veterans. From the VA to the bus mall and back out to NE it was also filled with sick veterans. And gang bangers. My brother, who is pretty much as white and non-threatening as you get (being above average height, but not over 6'; fit and slender, but not very "Fight Club," as it were; and a natural dirty blonde, which just fails to threaten the way, say, Goth Black would), Aren always chooses to sit at the back of the bus with the gang bangers when he rides the 8 rather than at the front with the creepy pedophiles and crazy cat ladies. He said that the bangers don't really know what to make of him. He's not a threat to them, he doesn't want to chat with them for some kind of passing, insane person's "street cred," and they probably feel the same way about the people at the front of the bus, so they leave him alone.
Anyway, this is all to say that I road the bus a lot and had a lot of contact with people from varied, um, "walks of life." But when I look back on those three years of riding the bus, I always think, "Man, TriMet is really a good system. It's clean, it's friendly, it's on time, and there really is a pretty decent social contract in place: I leave you alone, you leave me alone. Sure, I once saw an abusive drunk (or drug addict) get denied access to the bus, but as abusive and dangerous as he seemed, the bus driver held her own and he backed the fuck down. And if anyone was a chatty nutter, they made a bee-line for Aren anyway, so everyone else's social contract was still intact.
After my allergist appointment last Monday, I decided to take the bus to work. It was kind of a neat route: take the 20 down Burnside to E Burnside & Grand Blvd and then get on the 19 at the same stop. The 19 drops me off literally across the street from my office, and not the busy street (Glisan) either: the little numbered avenue that no one ever uses but the people who live on it. It's not often that you can transfer from one bus to another that usually run parallel to one another at the same stop when you're not on the bus mall.
The 20 was late and a little smelly. The other people on the bus were just people, I didn't mind them and they didn't mind me. Admittedly, the guy who sat down in front of me may have been the King of Hobo BO, but he took his odor with him when he got off just before the bridge. But when I got off at Burnside and Grand, there were these, well, assholes waiting at the stop for another bus. I got off the back of the 20 to the sounds of this dickwad yelling at the bus driver at the front. What was he pissed about? That it wasn't the 12. Like this was the driver's fault. "Oh, I'm so sorry sir, let me just dump these other passengers and change my reader board and we'll be on our way! Fuck the other people waiting for this bus!" The bus pulls away and he yells after it, "Fucking BUSES!!!" He had two or three buddies with him. And here is where I expose myself for the classest jackhole you always knew I was: they had that look of uneducated, alcoholic, NASCAR ghetto, white trash losers who can't hold down a menial job and think that the world owes them something for being loud mouth, anti-intellectual bastards all the time. The three or four of them stood there and the first guy shouted about how TriMet employees are all assholes and it's all a conspiracy against him and the other guys nodded and laughed and smoked and jeered whenever the first guy said, "Fucking buses!" or "Fucking TriMet!" Then the 12 came and they got on and were probably assholes all the way to wherever they were going. I went and checked the bus schedule. The 19 was probably about five minutes away. So I waited. And after five minutes or so had gone by, I checked the schedule again. And then I saw a bus coming over the bridge. It was another 12. I was like, "Seriously? Two in a row??" So I checked the 12's schedule: identical to the 19 at that time of day. Another couple minutes, and another bus on the bridge. The 20. Finally the 19 showed up, but it was like it had just flat out skipped a scheduled bus.
Then 19 reeked. Like full-on Bum Stink all throughout the bus. And no bums, to speak of. But the 19 did aquire a couple of moms and their kids at Providence Portland (47th & Glisan, or thereabouts). They were sweet, the mom and daughter who sat at the front were smiling and talking together. The mom removed lint from the knees of her daughter's tights (the girl was maybe 8 or so), and ran her hand over the girls head and down her braids, hugging her to pull her back up into her seat, which she was falling out of as she squirmed around to tell her Mom something else about someone at her school. It was just so sweet and intimate and thoughtless (as in, "natural," not as in, "uncaring").
I don't think I'll be signing up to take the bus to work any time soon. My memory of TriMet was that it was clean and safe and friendly. But in reality, it has always been like this: cleanish, kind of smelly at times, safe enough (if you're aware of your surroundings) and friendly in small doses. And that's how all mass transit is, everywhere I've ever lived or even just visited: Portland, Moscow, Paris, Lyon, DC... I never road the train or bus in NY or LA, but I'm sure it's the same. It's really a question of necessity. When I had to ride the bus because I didn't have a license or a car, it was great. But now that it's a choice, it's just so much less enjoyable. And I feel bad for complaining, because I know that I should ride the bus more to be a better citizen. But that is a concern for another post on another day because this one is already ridiculously long.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
A Note On Gender Perceptions, Or How I Am A Big Closet Sexist
So we're at the Fred Meyer the other day.... and as the checker bags our last items, those of the person behind us in line roll to the front: two tubs of Hagen Daas (Cookies and Cream and something else) and a Twix. Earlier a woman had been standing behind us in line. I thought to myself, "Man, that is one sad and lonely evening she has planned." I looked back to see if she was weeping. or bleeding. or, um, okay, okay, you got me: I looked to see if she was hot. Yes, I'm just as shallow as you feared. ANYWAY, as I was SAYING... I turned around and it was in fact a dude behind us. For whatever reason, I immediately revised my "that is so sad" assessment and thought, "ooh, nevermind: romantic evening plans!"
I think it's because I think of eating a whole pint of ice cream by oneself as a female thing. If their team loses The Big Game or they get fired, TV doesn't represent men as eating a whole tub of ice cream, but that's like SOP for TV ladies in any kind of distress. What's weird to me is that when I thought there was a girl behind us, I didn't think she was planning a romantic evening. Why am I predjudiced against girls bringing home the sexy pints of creamy goodness? (Let's just pretend that it was decent ice cream, and not that bland Hagen Daas stuff, for arguement's sake, okay?) Why is the primary image "Girl eats entire pint by self, a la Bridget Jones"? But for dudes, it's "Dude impresses girl with romantic gesture, gains entry to pants."
I think it's because I think of eating a whole pint of ice cream by oneself as a female thing. If their team loses The Big Game or they get fired, TV doesn't represent men as eating a whole tub of ice cream, but that's like SOP for TV ladies in any kind of distress. What's weird to me is that when I thought there was a girl behind us, I didn't think she was planning a romantic evening. Why am I predjudiced against girls bringing home the sexy pints of creamy goodness? (Let's just pretend that it was decent ice cream, and not that bland Hagen Daas stuff, for arguement's sake, okay?) Why is the primary image "Girl eats entire pint by self, a la Bridget Jones"? But for dudes, it's "Dude impresses girl with romantic gesture, gains entry to pants."
Bad News For Wayne & Misha
I had an allergist appointment on Monday to do the first half of the fabled "scratch test." They don't do it on your back anymore (or maybe just this place has given up the whole "topless and rashy" thing), but on your forearm. The test is split into two parts to keep your system from overloading, so they logically start witih the gross categories of allergens to see what if you react topically to anything. If you don't, it doesn't mean you're not allergic to it, it just means that you're not that allergic to it. I, predictably, reacted to some of the pollens, dust and cat, but the shocker to me was how much my arm reacted to the tree pollens. The little 1-2 mm dots of allergen mostly just turned red and itchy, and some of them swelled up into little 1-2 mm white welts surrounded by a red rash. The "sugargum tree" dot swelled into a welt the size of a dime, and the "tree mix" dot was only slightly smaller. They were right next to each other and the rash spread out over my arm until you couldn't tell where one dot's rash ended and another's began. Gross!
But the point of this, the bad news for Wayne and Misha, has to do with my new medication. You see, over the last few months my allergies had gotten so bad that not only was I sick all the time but my asthma was actually becoming a noticable problem. My old allergy medication (Zyrtec) is super for my actual allergies, but it does nothing for my asthma, so the doctor is having me try out Singulair to see if that helps. "It doesn't really have any major side effects. It won't make you sleepy and it won't keep you up," she (the allergist) said. "But... Well, some people have reported having more vivid dreams while they're on it and it does increase the percentage of the night you spend in REM sleep. Some people don't care, for some it's a good thing, for some it's maybe a bad thing, I don't know. But if it bothers you, we'll find something else." When the CMA brought the samples for me to take with me she said that she never used to remember her dreams before she was on Singulair, but then every night she was having these crazy adventures. "I could be a novelist now, I swear!" she averred.
And all I could think about was what I have come to think of as "Wayne's Law," namely, "Sydney is not allowed to tell me about her dreams. Ever." Adherents of Wayne's Law react to the statement, "I had the weirdest dream last night," when uttered by yours truly, by throwing up their hands in defense and saying, "No NO no no no no no - I am not listening to this, you are not allowed to tell me your dreams, seriously, we discussed this already, just, just, no, just shut up, just no, I'm going to walk away now!" The only person as devoted to the consistant application of Wayne's Law as Wayne himself, is Misha. Although he usually stops after "you are not allowed to tell me your dreams" and gives me a look that says, "Remember that one time you told me about your crazy dream and you the other person in the dream and I saw them that day and it was totally weird and uncomfortable?" So now, being the person whose dreams are so vivid and so involved naturally, I am on a medication that frees stony sleepers from their nightly low-level comas to frolic in the garden of imagined delights.
So far - two nights - everything seems pretty normal. I've dreamed all night, both nights, like usual. The dreams are vivid, have plots (often carrying over from previous dreams), and are usually fairly lucid. All systems normal. But there's a ramp up, so maybe I'll start hallucinating during the day here over the next week or two. And I'm sure Wayne and Misha will be the first people I'll want to tell about it. Of course, I'll probably think that I am telling them all about it, as I'm hauled off to the psych ward somewhere... So, I'll keep you posted!
But the point of this, the bad news for Wayne and Misha, has to do with my new medication. You see, over the last few months my allergies had gotten so bad that not only was I sick all the time but my asthma was actually becoming a noticable problem. My old allergy medication (Zyrtec) is super for my actual allergies, but it does nothing for my asthma, so the doctor is having me try out Singulair to see if that helps. "It doesn't really have any major side effects. It won't make you sleepy and it won't keep you up," she (the allergist) said. "But... Well, some people have reported having more vivid dreams while they're on it and it does increase the percentage of the night you spend in REM sleep. Some people don't care, for some it's a good thing, for some it's maybe a bad thing, I don't know. But if it bothers you, we'll find something else." When the CMA brought the samples for me to take with me she said that she never used to remember her dreams before she was on Singulair, but then every night she was having these crazy adventures. "I could be a novelist now, I swear!" she averred.
And all I could think about was what I have come to think of as "Wayne's Law," namely, "Sydney is not allowed to tell me about her dreams. Ever." Adherents of Wayne's Law react to the statement, "I had the weirdest dream last night," when uttered by yours truly, by throwing up their hands in defense and saying, "No NO no no no no no - I am not listening to this, you are not allowed to tell me your dreams, seriously, we discussed this already, just, just, no, just shut up, just no, I'm going to walk away now!" The only person as devoted to the consistant application of Wayne's Law as Wayne himself, is Misha. Although he usually stops after "you are not allowed to tell me your dreams" and gives me a look that says, "Remember that one time you told me about your crazy dream and you the other person in the dream and I saw them that day and it was totally weird and uncomfortable?" So now, being the person whose dreams are so vivid and so involved naturally, I am on a medication that frees stony sleepers from their nightly low-level comas to frolic in the garden of imagined delights.
So far - two nights - everything seems pretty normal. I've dreamed all night, both nights, like usual. The dreams are vivid, have plots (often carrying over from previous dreams), and are usually fairly lucid. All systems normal. But there's a ramp up, so maybe I'll start hallucinating during the day here over the next week or two. And I'm sure Wayne and Misha will be the first people I'll want to tell about it. Of course, I'll probably think that I am telling them all about it, as I'm hauled off to the psych ward somewhere... So, I'll keep you posted!
Saturday, January 06, 2007
I may be consumptive
So I haven't written anything in forever because I've been sick. I can't shake a stupid common cold because my allergies have left me completely immune system-less. I have a new allergy to add to the list: Christmas tree. Well, invisible Christmas tree mold. So that, plus the cats, the dust inherent in unpacking decorations left dormant 11 months out of the year, and the mildew inherent in storing them in a damp basement, and I have pretty much been taken out by a cold an 86-year old diabetic on chemo who recently had open heart surgery could have faught off. And to make matters worse, my TV choices are "Cobra," in which Sly Stallone wears some awesome glasses and no one manages to figure out the "inside man" is the weird female officer who's always calling someone everytime they hide the witness they're protecting somewhere new, and "The Chamber" in which Chris O'Donnell defends his grandfather (who is a klansman and baby killer), Gene Hackman, because the times, they were a' evil and made him do it. Or whatever. At least Stallone looks cool. But maybe that's the DayQuil talking...
But while I'm laid up here, wasting my Saturday away in pajamas, sitting in a sea of tissues, I thought I'd provide at least a bullet point update of what's been going on since Christmas.
- Pete and I went to a Blazer game (vs. the Seventy-sixers). It had several super awesome moments, including Rodriguez's half-court basket at the first quarter buzzer after he'd only been on the court for like thirty seconds, and a crazy second quarter allyoop and dunk, but the ultimately lost.
- My cousin, Koelby, announced that he and his girlfriend, Jessica, are getting married in March. Congratulations to them!
- Mom's dishwasher finally completely broke and we got a new one. It's really amazing, though: that machine is somewhere between 15 and 25 years old, the spinning part that sprays water was bent, the rubber was peeling off the baskets, and then the hose that fed the bend plastic spinner tore so water was just spraying directly out of the connection in the back of the machine. And it still cleaned the dishes. So if you're in the market for a dishwasher, you can't go wrong with a KitchenAid. Mom bought a new one to replace the old one - it's almost identical except brand new and with added super cool bonus features.
- I have become obsessed with "Elebits" on the Wii. I beat it last night - although there are still tons of things I have yet to unlock - but it's the only console video game I've ever a) enjoyed playing, and b) (probably more importantly) been good at. Serously: I am the Queen of Elebits. Except for that All the Purple Ones Shoot You and You Die Challenge. But that one's impossible.
And that about sums things up. Also, in the two and a half hours it's taken me to write this (lots of nose blowing breaks), I have watched most of "Cobra." That movie is great! Like, "Red Dawn" style great. It's filled with campy non-sense and bizarre one-liners. I mean, I don't think anyone drinks pee or eats a beating deer heart or anything, but the Bridgette Nielson fashion shoot scene is surreal and irrelevant enough for any lover of unintentional absurdist humor.
But while I'm laid up here, wasting my Saturday away in pajamas, sitting in a sea of tissues, I thought I'd provide at least a bullet point update of what's been going on since Christmas.
- Pete and I went to a Blazer game (vs. the Seventy-sixers). It had several super awesome moments, including Rodriguez's half-court basket at the first quarter buzzer after he'd only been on the court for like thirty seconds, and a crazy second quarter allyoop and dunk, but the ultimately lost.
- My cousin, Koelby, announced that he and his girlfriend, Jessica, are getting married in March. Congratulations to them!
- Mom's dishwasher finally completely broke and we got a new one. It's really amazing, though: that machine is somewhere between 15 and 25 years old, the spinning part that sprays water was bent, the rubber was peeling off the baskets, and then the hose that fed the bend plastic spinner tore so water was just spraying directly out of the connection in the back of the machine. And it still cleaned the dishes. So if you're in the market for a dishwasher, you can't go wrong with a KitchenAid. Mom bought a new one to replace the old one - it's almost identical except brand new and with added super cool bonus features.
- I have become obsessed with "Elebits" on the Wii. I beat it last night - although there are still tons of things I have yet to unlock - but it's the only console video game I've ever a) enjoyed playing, and b) (probably more importantly) been good at. Serously: I am the Queen of Elebits. Except for that All the Purple Ones Shoot You and You Die Challenge. But that one's impossible.
And that about sums things up. Also, in the two and a half hours it's taken me to write this (lots of nose blowing breaks), I have watched most of "Cobra." That movie is great! Like, "Red Dawn" style great. It's filled with campy non-sense and bizarre one-liners. I mean, I don't think anyone drinks pee or eats a beating deer heart or anything, but the Bridgette Nielson fashion shoot scene is surreal and irrelevant enough for any lover of unintentional absurdist humor.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
New Lyrics to White Christmas
I thought of these in the shower. Because that's how I roll.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas;
So white with fog you cannot see!
Where the tree tops glisten
And children listen
To hear them shining through the murk!
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas;
The kind that closes Heathrow down.
May your days be merry and dim!
And may all your Christmases be fogged in!
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas;
So white with fog you cannot see!
Where the tree tops glisten
And children listen
To hear them shining through the murk!
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas;
The kind that closes Heathrow down.
May your days be merry and dim!
And may all your Christmases be fogged in!
Monday, December 18, 2006
But HE was the cheerleader!
So there's this awful picture of Dubya & Laura in People magazine (available here) that's totally creepy. Mom pointed it out to me; it made us feel gross. There's something about it that's just not right. We surmised that it's the "football hero corners cheerleader" vibe that's just so totally wrong for the fawking President of the United States of America. Especially as HE was the CHEERLEADER!
The gross feeling it gave us is very specific. Mom has a friend whose family has come up with a name for this specific feeling, the feeling you get when someone is doing something really stupid that's totally going to backfire on them or make them (or you) look like an idiot. When mom reported this name to us, she reported it as "the tardwillies." (Yep, tard willies.) That wasn't exactly correct, but it's way better than whatever her friend actually came up with and it's become common parlance in our household. We have, in fact, created an entire echelon of names for related sensations. Unfortunately only one other stuck: the jerkwillies, when someone is being a total asshole for no reason (like Dr. House on TV's House, for instance) and you feel anxious in your tummy because you know that it will result in no good! No good, I say!
So this photo totally gives me the tardwillies. And so does most of Seinfeld and I Love Lucy, which is why I can't watch them. It's nice to finally have a name for my particular illness, which I'd heretofore been forced to describe as "an overabundance of empathy." No no - it's just an overabundance of the tardwillies.
Anyway, I think everyone should start using "tardwillies" and "jerkwillies" in their daily goings-on.
(Yes, I did consult Pete about spellings. We decided to use compound words instead of hyphens or two words because ultimately hyphens are almost always dropped, making hyphen users look like weirdos. I mean, who writes e-mail any more? Or builds a ro-bot?)
The gross feeling it gave us is very specific. Mom has a friend whose family has come up with a name for this specific feeling, the feeling you get when someone is doing something really stupid that's totally going to backfire on them or make them (or you) look like an idiot. When mom reported this name to us, she reported it as "the tardwillies." (Yep, tard willies.) That wasn't exactly correct, but it's way better than whatever her friend actually came up with and it's become common parlance in our household. We have, in fact, created an entire echelon of names for related sensations. Unfortunately only one other stuck: the jerkwillies, when someone is being a total asshole for no reason (like Dr. House on TV's House, for instance) and you feel anxious in your tummy because you know that it will result in no good! No good, I say!
So this photo totally gives me the tardwillies. And so does most of Seinfeld and I Love Lucy, which is why I can't watch them. It's nice to finally have a name for my particular illness, which I'd heretofore been forced to describe as "an overabundance of empathy." No no - it's just an overabundance of the tardwillies.
Anyway, I think everyone should start using "tardwillies" and "jerkwillies" in their daily goings-on.
(Yes, I did consult Pete about spellings. We decided to use compound words instead of hyphens or two words because ultimately hyphens are almost always dropped, making hyphen users look like weirdos. I mean, who writes e-mail any more? Or builds a ro-bot?)
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Nastiest Bush In the World
So Pete and I went to visit my cousin at work the other day, and in her parking lot (well, that of her place of employ - she is in no way responsible for this) was the nastiest bush ever. Seriously: it was so disgusting. We took pictures.
Mom says that when these bushes are allowed to grow freely, they're loose-leaved with lovely bunches of shiny orange berries. Apparently when they're shorn into boxes, they become the most God forsaken shrubberies known to mankind, with hideous bunches of nasty orange maggot-berries. I'm not sure these pictures do true justice to how fully and utterly horrifying and disgusting this bush was. Hugghh... I shudder to even look at them now. I post them as a service, to you, the community at large. As a service and a warning! Hire a trained landscaper, and listen to them. Certain plants were not meant to be hedgerows. Heed this warning or face the peril that is... NASTY BUSH!!
Mom says that when these bushes are allowed to grow freely, they're loose-leaved with lovely bunches of shiny orange berries. Apparently when they're shorn into boxes, they become the most God forsaken shrubberies known to mankind, with hideous bunches of nasty orange maggot-berries. I'm not sure these pictures do true justice to how fully and utterly horrifying and disgusting this bush was. Hugghh... I shudder to even look at them now. I post them as a service, to you, the community at large. As a service and a warning! Hire a trained landscaper, and listen to them. Certain plants were not meant to be hedgerows. Heed this warning or face the peril that is... NASTY BUSH!!
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Jury Duty
Yes, that's right, today and yesterday I had [duhn duhn duhn!] JURY DUTY. Yesterday I showed up downtown at the Multnomah County Courthouse to fulfill my civic duty at 8am on the dot. Each potential juror was checked in at a little desk and given a plastic tag that said "Juror" on it and had a barcode associated with your name. The jury room was really nice - comfortable chairs, clean, flat screen TVs with cable, work stations and internet access, a kitchen area, microwave, vending machines, private "jury only" bathrooms, board games, puzzles, books, magazines... I'm not saying the hour I was there before anyone said "boo" to us wasn't boring, but it was nicer than expected. Then there was half an hour of "here is how this works," and then another half hour of boredom before they called THE GRESHAM JURY. Yes, because Multnomah County is so populous and (I suspect) so weirdly shaped, there is a second county courthouse in Historic Downtown Gresham (I'm so not making that up) that holds short trials, whose jurors are selected from the same pool as the main, Historic Downtown Portland Courthouse. At ten to ten or so, they called sixteen (or so) names of people who would be let go for the day, but asked to show up at the Gresham Courthouse the following day. As soon as I read the words "Gresham County Court" on the little "Juror Handbook" they gave us as we checked in, I just knew I'd get called for it. As soon as I went to the "Kitchen Area" to get a soda and ran into a talkative old vet - of the mostly deaf, jovial, retired, disabled, everyone's grandpa variety - I knew that he'd be called for it too. I don't know how I knew, but I was just certain of it. When they started calling names for that jury, I walked out of the kitchen without buying a soda so that I could shout "here" when they called me. Keep in mind, there were like 150 people there and only 16 were going to Gresham. And I thought about warning the old guy, but that seemed weird.
So this morning I drove out to Gresham after dropping Pete off at work. And it was a fully surreal experience. It was like visiting another world. I also realized that I've never actually been to Gresham before. I've driven through it on Powell (Hwy 26) on my way to the mountain, but I've never actually been to Gresham. I couldn't find a Starbucks. I didn't need to be at the courthouse until 10, I dropped Pete off at 8, and found myself tooling around Historic Downtown Gresham at 15 mph around 8:30am. And there was no Starbucks. Checking Google Maps, I can now find two or three, but Gresham is a big-ish place, and none of them were on my path. We found Starbucks in Cody, WY and in Rapid City, SD - to find one's self in a palce that ostensibly has no Starbucks, Peete's Coffee, Boyd's, Stumptown, Coffee People or Seattle's Best at all is like finding one's self in a parallel universe. Gresham is not interesting enough to offer anywhere else to go, so I just cut my losses and showed up an hour and fifteen minutes early at the courthouse.
I had a feeling I'd be waiting a long time, so I was prepared. I had my iPod, a book of crosswords, a book of number puzzles, an actual book, paper for letter writing and my cell phone (games) in my satchel. I also had my purse. When I got through the door, there was a metal detector and a guard sitting at a little table next to it. I said, "Hi, I'm here for jury duty." He said, "Um, you really need both those bags?" I said, "What?" He said, "Yeah, um, I'm gon' have to ask you to git rid'a one'a those, 'cause we don't have a scanner or anything here, so I hafta check'em by hand, and it takes a while, so if you could jus' git rid'a one'a them, that'd be great. K, thanks." And then he looked past me. Into the empty vestibule. Into the empty parking lot. Dude! I'm the only one here!!
I was as mean to his as I could be: I rolled my eyes. And then I complied. Oh, and I pushed the door extra hard when I left. Yeah! That'll teach him to make silly demands! I crammed all the stuff in my purse into my satchel and went back in. Now there was a second guard standing next to the first one. The first guard bore a striking resemblence to my mom's brother, Rick - it was just eerie. The second guard was a woman with a beautiful round face and pink cheeks. The uncle-resembling-but-not-at-all-avuncular guard started pulling stuff out of my satchel. He handing the clipboard thing I keep my stationary in to the female guard and said, "We hafta look through everything." It's essentially a letter-sized plastic box with a clipboard clip attached to it, and a little pen holder at the bottom. "You want me to open this?" asked the female guard. "Mm hm," said the male guard. She opened it, and carefully rifled through my paper. "Oh, these your Christmas stamps?" she asked. "Yep," I said, while the Not-My-Uncle guard finished emptying out my bag and began haphazardly shoving everything back into it.
I checked in, and the woman at the window told me to go make myself at home in the jury room. Unlike the Historic Downtown Portland Courthouse, this was not a spacious room with new chairs and fun things to do. It was a room the size of an Associate Professor's office at U of O (maybe a little longer) with two beat up old conference tables and exactly 17 chairs. There was a tiny sink, a non-functioning coffee maker, an old postal pin (those white, plastic/cardboard things they use to move mail around in an actual post office) filled with old magazines and a single deck of cards. There was no microwave, there were no vending machines, there was no TV. I played several hands of solitaire before the second juror showed up at 9:15. Around 10, the other jurors started showing up and I filled in some crossword puzzles. Around 10:30, the final juror - Old Man Chatty Pants - arrived, but there was no sign of any court official. Two of the middle-aged ladies talked and talked and talked. Old Man Chatty Pants challenged everyone to a game of gin and ended up playing solitaire. Everyone else was quite and read, worked on their computers, played Nintendo DS, did crosswords, or listened to music. Or napped while pretending to read, which is what I did. At 11:15 they finally brought us into the courtroom. And the judge, who was super nice and had a great speaking voice, told us to go home. They had gotten new evidence and it just wasn't going to happen to day. So I drove the 200 blocks back down Powell Blvd, the 20 blocks up 39th, and the 60 or so blocks up Broadway, over the bridge and up Lovejoy to eat leftovers for lunch.
I have done my civic duty, such as it is, and am now free to go about my business for at least 24 months. Huzzah?
So this morning I drove out to Gresham after dropping Pete off at work. And it was a fully surreal experience. It was like visiting another world. I also realized that I've never actually been to Gresham before. I've driven through it on Powell (Hwy 26) on my way to the mountain, but I've never actually been to Gresham. I couldn't find a Starbucks. I didn't need to be at the courthouse until 10, I dropped Pete off at 8, and found myself tooling around Historic Downtown Gresham at 15 mph around 8:30am. And there was no Starbucks. Checking Google Maps, I can now find two or three, but Gresham is a big-ish place, and none of them were on my path. We found Starbucks in Cody, WY and in Rapid City, SD - to find one's self in a palce that ostensibly has no Starbucks, Peete's Coffee, Boyd's, Stumptown, Coffee People or Seattle's Best at all is like finding one's self in a parallel universe. Gresham is not interesting enough to offer anywhere else to go, so I just cut my losses and showed up an hour and fifteen minutes early at the courthouse.
I had a feeling I'd be waiting a long time, so I was prepared. I had my iPod, a book of crosswords, a book of number puzzles, an actual book, paper for letter writing and my cell phone (games) in my satchel. I also had my purse. When I got through the door, there was a metal detector and a guard sitting at a little table next to it. I said, "Hi, I'm here for jury duty." He said, "Um, you really need both those bags?" I said, "What?" He said, "Yeah, um, I'm gon' have to ask you to git rid'a one'a those, 'cause we don't have a scanner or anything here, so I hafta check'em by hand, and it takes a while, so if you could jus' git rid'a one'a them, that'd be great. K, thanks." And then he looked past me. Into the empty vestibule. Into the empty parking lot. Dude! I'm the only one here!!
I was as mean to his as I could be: I rolled my eyes. And then I complied. Oh, and I pushed the door extra hard when I left. Yeah! That'll teach him to make silly demands! I crammed all the stuff in my purse into my satchel and went back in. Now there was a second guard standing next to the first one. The first guard bore a striking resemblence to my mom's brother, Rick - it was just eerie. The second guard was a woman with a beautiful round face and pink cheeks. The uncle-resembling-but-not-at-all-avuncular guard started pulling stuff out of my satchel. He handing the clipboard thing I keep my stationary in to the female guard and said, "We hafta look through everything." It's essentially a letter-sized plastic box with a clipboard clip attached to it, and a little pen holder at the bottom. "You want me to open this?" asked the female guard. "Mm hm," said the male guard. She opened it, and carefully rifled through my paper. "Oh, these your Christmas stamps?" she asked. "Yep," I said, while the Not-My-Uncle guard finished emptying out my bag and began haphazardly shoving everything back into it.
I checked in, and the woman at the window told me to go make myself at home in the jury room. Unlike the Historic Downtown Portland Courthouse, this was not a spacious room with new chairs and fun things to do. It was a room the size of an Associate Professor's office at U of O (maybe a little longer) with two beat up old conference tables and exactly 17 chairs. There was a tiny sink, a non-functioning coffee maker, an old postal pin (those white, plastic/cardboard things they use to move mail around in an actual post office) filled with old magazines and a single deck of cards. There was no microwave, there were no vending machines, there was no TV. I played several hands of solitaire before the second juror showed up at 9:15. Around 10, the other jurors started showing up and I filled in some crossword puzzles. Around 10:30, the final juror - Old Man Chatty Pants - arrived, but there was no sign of any court official. Two of the middle-aged ladies talked and talked and talked. Old Man Chatty Pants challenged everyone to a game of gin and ended up playing solitaire. Everyone else was quite and read, worked on their computers, played Nintendo DS, did crosswords, or listened to music. Or napped while pretending to read, which is what I did. At 11:15 they finally brought us into the courtroom. And the judge, who was super nice and had a great speaking voice, told us to go home. They had gotten new evidence and it just wasn't going to happen to day. So I drove the 200 blocks back down Powell Blvd, the 20 blocks up 39th, and the 60 or so blocks up Broadway, over the bridge and up Lovejoy to eat leftovers for lunch.
I have done my civic duty, such as it is, and am now free to go about my business for at least 24 months. Huzzah?
Monday, November 27, 2006
Weee! I mean, Wii!
So my mother has some crazy awesome instant karma. (Instant in that she is rewarded in this life rather than the next.) I swear to God, she must have saved a bus load of attractive orphans or something. But first, some back story...
Mom listens to a lot of NPR, as does anyone I know with a long commute. On NPR last week they interviewed some guy about the new Nintendo Wii. Mom listened intently and was first intrigued, then interested, then finally, by the time she got home, intent on owning one of her very own. "I want to get a Wii," she said. "Where can we get one?" Aren and Pete and I explained that they were all sold out everywhere. Maybe she heard this on NPR as well, but we kept repeating ourselves that as much as she might want one, there was not one to be had. She checked the websites of Best Buy, Costco, Amazon and others but to no avail. I pointed out that for a little over retail (or sometimes a lot over retail) she could get one via eBay or Craig's List. But the eBay ones were all going for way too much money and the Craig's List ones were all probably stolen. Mom seemed to give up.
But in fact that was a facade! She spent her Friday morning rechecking websites and reading forums to see if she could get the fabled product. On one forum she found a lead: Toys'R'Us was rumored to have consoles, but the poster wasn't sure if that was true or if they had any left. Mom asked if I'd like to accompany her on a fool's errand and trek out to the Toys'R'Us at Jansen Beach on the busiest shopping day of the year. I said, "Sure," because I didn't have anything else to do, and chatting with my mother in the car for a couple of hours stuck in traffic seemed like more fun than watching my brother and Pete play Halo 2.
Jansen Beach was surprisingly calm. There was a lot of traffic - backed up almost to Delta Park on that long roller-coastery road that runs to the North of the shopping center - and getting into the main parking area was kind of a bear, but we found parking easily enough. Toys'R'Us wasn't even completely insane. This is probably mostly because it was 11 am and they'd already had their rush of bargain-hunting-crazies. We found a Wii-related product display pretty quickly, but there was no mention of the availablility of the actual consoles. Mom grabbed the first staff person she saw and asked if they had any Wiis left, and the girl looked hesitant and said, "I don't know. Hold on, I'll ask. Um, follow me." She walked us back to the video game section, all the while trying to get an answer to our question on her headset. When we got to the video game section - which those of you familiar with Toys'R'Us may recall is just vast walls covered in video game cover pictures in little vinyl covers below which hang little vinyl pockets filled with paper tickets baring the name of the game, the console it's for and the price - the girl we were following accosted another lady who worked that section specifically and asked if they had any Wiis left. The woman held out two pages of tickets - about six per page - that she was about to tear apart along their perferated lines. "Right here - just got 'em out! You want one?"
Mom: "Yes!"
Toys'R'Us Lady: "They're a package deal - you have to buy a game."
Mom: "That's okay!"
I guess that Toys'R'Us had extra Wiis that they were initially going to hold in reserve but then decided to release. One employee said that they had "just gotten them in," while another said that they were pre-ordered Wiis whose orderers had flaked. All I know is that Mom's crazy amazing timing got her the first tear off the ticket sheet.
Toys'R'Us did not have any extra Wiimotes (which Pete claims is their actual name, although I think he's making it up). We went to the Hollywood Fred Meyer (bust) and its adjacent Game Crazy where it was suggested that although they were all out, Target had had the remotes that morning. So, from NE Portland we headed out to the only non-crappy Target we could think of, in Beaverton. The Beaverton Target did indeed have remotes, and we got one and the last nunchuk controller too. When we went to pay for them, the girl at the counter said, "Oh, we must have gotten more in! We were all sold out like two hours ago." Again, Mom's crazy instant karma! Right place, right time!
While we were out, Mom got three games - Zelda, Excite Truck and Rayman & the Rabbids. And of course the Wii comes with Wii Sports. After trying out Wii Sports, Pete and I headed out to get two more remotes because it was obvious to everyone that we must play doubles tennis. And that's what I've been doing ever since. Aren and Pete and I were up until 2 or 3 in the morning Friday night/Saturday morning. When I got up around 11 on Saturday, my right arm ached like you wouldn't believe. But did that stop me? Hell no! I spent most of Saturday playing Wii sports or watching various other games be played. Today, much similar, except that I'm pretty sure I can no longer lift my right arm.
I highly recommend the Wii. You could buy two of them for the cost of a PS3. Sure, there are no hi-def graphics, but who the hell cares? You can play tennis, baseball or golf by making a real swinging motion! You can bowl! You can do all of this without leaving your house! Everyone should own one. Or two. Yeah... two... Then I could have a Mii on each one and do the Wii Fitness twice a day...
Mom listens to a lot of NPR, as does anyone I know with a long commute. On NPR last week they interviewed some guy about the new Nintendo Wii. Mom listened intently and was first intrigued, then interested, then finally, by the time she got home, intent on owning one of her very own. "I want to get a Wii," she said. "Where can we get one?" Aren and Pete and I explained that they were all sold out everywhere. Maybe she heard this on NPR as well, but we kept repeating ourselves that as much as she might want one, there was not one to be had. She checked the websites of Best Buy, Costco, Amazon and others but to no avail. I pointed out that for a little over retail (or sometimes a lot over retail) she could get one via eBay or Craig's List. But the eBay ones were all going for way too much money and the Craig's List ones were all probably stolen. Mom seemed to give up.
But in fact that was a facade! She spent her Friday morning rechecking websites and reading forums to see if she could get the fabled product. On one forum she found a lead: Toys'R'Us was rumored to have consoles, but the poster wasn't sure if that was true or if they had any left. Mom asked if I'd like to accompany her on a fool's errand and trek out to the Toys'R'Us at Jansen Beach on the busiest shopping day of the year. I said, "Sure," because I didn't have anything else to do, and chatting with my mother in the car for a couple of hours stuck in traffic seemed like more fun than watching my brother and Pete play Halo 2.
Jansen Beach was surprisingly calm. There was a lot of traffic - backed up almost to Delta Park on that long roller-coastery road that runs to the North of the shopping center - and getting into the main parking area was kind of a bear, but we found parking easily enough. Toys'R'Us wasn't even completely insane. This is probably mostly because it was 11 am and they'd already had their rush of bargain-hunting-crazies. We found a Wii-related product display pretty quickly, but there was no mention of the availablility of the actual consoles. Mom grabbed the first staff person she saw and asked if they had any Wiis left, and the girl looked hesitant and said, "I don't know. Hold on, I'll ask. Um, follow me." She walked us back to the video game section, all the while trying to get an answer to our question on her headset. When we got to the video game section - which those of you familiar with Toys'R'Us may recall is just vast walls covered in video game cover pictures in little vinyl covers below which hang little vinyl pockets filled with paper tickets baring the name of the game, the console it's for and the price - the girl we were following accosted another lady who worked that section specifically and asked if they had any Wiis left. The woman held out two pages of tickets - about six per page - that she was about to tear apart along their perferated lines. "Right here - just got 'em out! You want one?"
Mom: "Yes!"
Toys'R'Us Lady: "They're a package deal - you have to buy a game."
Mom: "That's okay!"
I guess that Toys'R'Us had extra Wiis that they were initially going to hold in reserve but then decided to release. One employee said that they had "just gotten them in," while another said that they were pre-ordered Wiis whose orderers had flaked. All I know is that Mom's crazy amazing timing got her the first tear off the ticket sheet.
Toys'R'Us did not have any extra Wiimotes (which Pete claims is their actual name, although I think he's making it up). We went to the Hollywood Fred Meyer (bust) and its adjacent Game Crazy where it was suggested that although they were all out, Target had had the remotes that morning. So, from NE Portland we headed out to the only non-crappy Target we could think of, in Beaverton. The Beaverton Target did indeed have remotes, and we got one and the last nunchuk controller too. When we went to pay for them, the girl at the counter said, "Oh, we must have gotten more in! We were all sold out like two hours ago." Again, Mom's crazy instant karma! Right place, right time!
While we were out, Mom got three games - Zelda, Excite Truck and Rayman & the Rabbids. And of course the Wii comes with Wii Sports. After trying out Wii Sports, Pete and I headed out to get two more remotes because it was obvious to everyone that we must play doubles tennis. And that's what I've been doing ever since. Aren and Pete and I were up until 2 or 3 in the morning Friday night/Saturday morning. When I got up around 11 on Saturday, my right arm ached like you wouldn't believe. But did that stop me? Hell no! I spent most of Saturday playing Wii sports or watching various other games be played. Today, much similar, except that I'm pretty sure I can no longer lift my right arm.
I highly recommend the Wii. You could buy two of them for the cost of a PS3. Sure, there are no hi-def graphics, but who the hell cares? You can play tennis, baseball or golf by making a real swinging motion! You can bowl! You can do all of this without leaving your house! Everyone should own one. Or two. Yeah... two... Then I could have a Mii on each one and do the Wii Fitness twice a day...
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Stink has to follow the laws of physics, right?
Is it just me or have grocery store scented candles gone insane? I just saw a commercial that went, approximately, "Scented candles are great, but they don't disperse scent quickly through the whole room. Thank God for Glade Scented Oil Bombs! For when you just can't get your whole home to reek of noxious florals fast enough!" I have never in my life thought, "Hot damn, this scented candle just doesn't stink enough." I have thought, "Hot damn, this scented candle - which smelled nice in the store - totally reeks now that I've lit it. I will never get this scent out of this room! Arrrrggg!!" Who wants an even more powerful scented awful? (That's right: I've nouned "awful." Deal with it!)
My theory is that people no longer care if their home is clean or hygenic. They only care that it doesn't smell as nasty as it is. Case in point: Fabreeze. Maybe, if you house stinks, you should clean it rather than just trying to remove the odor. I have had Mystery Stink in my home. And I have not fabreezed. I have sought it out. And vacuumed, cleaned, aired... There are only a couple of reasons why I use the stuff: 1) Clothes that must be dry cleaned which are not dirty but have been to a bar and reek of smoke; 2) Smells that have been cleaned but persist due to their awfulness (cat pee).
Here is my question: Where does the fabreeze go? I've watched it settle into the fabric it's sprayed on. I don't believe the commercials that it sucks the stink out of the fabric, traps it in little hovering fabreeze orbs, and then implodes, leaving no stink behind. Doesn't that violate at least one law of physics or thermodynamics or similar? If anyone knows where the fabreeze goes, I would like to know. -z.
Also, I invented a recipe tonight for brussel sprouts. Pete likes them, what can I say, and I like to cook. But my grandmother said that they were the "best brussel sprouts I've ever eaten." So if you like them or cabbage, or think that you might like them, I would be happy to share the recipe!
My theory is that people no longer care if their home is clean or hygenic. They only care that it doesn't smell as nasty as it is. Case in point: Fabreeze. Maybe, if you house stinks, you should clean it rather than just trying to remove the odor. I have had Mystery Stink in my home. And I have not fabreezed. I have sought it out. And vacuumed, cleaned, aired... There are only a couple of reasons why I use the stuff: 1) Clothes that must be dry cleaned which are not dirty but have been to a bar and reek of smoke; 2) Smells that have been cleaned but persist due to their awfulness (cat pee).
Here is my question: Where does the fabreeze go? I've watched it settle into the fabric it's sprayed on. I don't believe the commercials that it sucks the stink out of the fabric, traps it in little hovering fabreeze orbs, and then implodes, leaving no stink behind. Doesn't that violate at least one law of physics or thermodynamics or similar? If anyone knows where the fabreeze goes, I would like to know. -z.
Also, I invented a recipe tonight for brussel sprouts. Pete likes them, what can I say, and I like to cook. But my grandmother said that they were the "best brussel sprouts I've ever eaten." So if you like them or cabbage, or think that you might like them, I would be happy to share the recipe!
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