Everybody knows walnuts. But do we really know walnuts? I think it's far more accurate to say we know the concept of walnuts. If you ask me if I know what a walnut is, I'll of course say "yes." But if you ask me to state any sort of facts about walnuts, I'll pretty much draw a blank. Sure, I could tell you the basics -- they're nuts, they grow on walls -- but outside of that I can't name one aspect of the walnut I know by heart.
My point's obviously a broader one: walnuts need to be taught better in schools.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I wish my life were an Old Navy commercial
Sometimes I do wish my life were different. That I studied harder in high school, or got my driver's license earlier, or didn't do that one thing that forced me to change my identity. But probably the one thing I regret is that my life is nothing like an Old Navy commercial.
I truly wish I could get a few of my fellow catalog models together to have a fashion sweater party, wrapping presents and drinking hot cocoa while smirking for no discernible reason as a vaguely Christmasy round about tangerines plays in the background. There may or may not be heaven, but that sounds damn close.
Honestly, could there be anything better? None of that pesky conversation to bog you down. You'd just have to speak to each other with your eyes.
"We're sexy aren't we?"
"Yes, and effortlessly so."
"Pass the marshmallows."
Nary a word spoken aloud. Sexy people have telekinetic powers. True fact.
I used to wish my life were a Gap commercial. You know, call up two dozen or so friends, tell them to put their khakis on and run on over to my apartment consisting of an empty white room to put on a intricately choreographed dance. Seal would be there, too!
But then it turned out none of my khaki friends liked Seal. So that dream died.
Also, Seal doesn't do swing music. Or at least not well.
Anywho, it's my belief that nirvana can only be achieved through being in a commercial for a clothing store. No worries at all. Everybody is sufficiently trendy. No hunger, no war, just dancing (and in some cases, prancing). You can survive for three days on nothing but the pure unfiltered joy achieved by wearing the latest brands with other people while participating in one or more arbitrary activities.
Seriously, it never fails. Take any mundane, meaningless activity, put it in a clothing commercial, and suddenly there's nothing you'd rather do.
Addressing an envelope: boring.
Addressing an envelope WHILE WEARING A CASHMERE BLEND V-NECK SWEATER: PREFERABLE TO CURING CANCER.
Watering a plant: lame.
Watering a plant WHILST SPORTING A BRUSHED COTTON T: I WOULD LEAVE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE TO DO IT AGAIN.
Bathing the elderly: gross.
Bathing the elderly IN A TRAPEZE TOP: GREATER THAN EVERY MIRACLE EVER PERFORMED COMBINED.
(Note to self: Could genocide be stopped by filming GAP ad in affected village? Look into it.)
I should clarify. I'm not saying models are the happiest people in the world. I'm saying the people they portray are the happiest people in the world. I wish I were a character in an Old Navy commercial. To live in a perpetual state of brand name-induced glee...
If we could all be so happy/sexy about things as simple as sweaters, what a wonderful/sexy world this would be.
I truly wish I could get a few of my fellow catalog models together to have a fashion sweater party, wrapping presents and drinking hot cocoa while smirking for no discernible reason as a vaguely Christmasy round about tangerines plays in the background. There may or may not be heaven, but that sounds damn close.
Honestly, could there be anything better? None of that pesky conversation to bog you down. You'd just have to speak to each other with your eyes.
"We're sexy aren't we?"
"Yes, and effortlessly so."
"Pass the marshmallows."
Nary a word spoken aloud. Sexy people have telekinetic powers. True fact.
I used to wish my life were a Gap commercial. You know, call up two dozen or so friends, tell them to put their khakis on and run on over to my apartment consisting of an empty white room to put on a intricately choreographed dance. Seal would be there, too!
But then it turned out none of my khaki friends liked Seal. So that dream died.
Also, Seal doesn't do swing music. Or at least not well.
Anywho, it's my belief that nirvana can only be achieved through being in a commercial for a clothing store. No worries at all. Everybody is sufficiently trendy. No hunger, no war, just dancing (and in some cases, prancing). You can survive for three days on nothing but the pure unfiltered joy achieved by wearing the latest brands with other people while participating in one or more arbitrary activities.
Seriously, it never fails. Take any mundane, meaningless activity, put it in a clothing commercial, and suddenly there's nothing you'd rather do.
Addressing an envelope: boring.
Addressing an envelope WHILE WEARING A CASHMERE BLEND V-NECK SWEATER: PREFERABLE TO CURING CANCER.
Watering a plant: lame.
Watering a plant WHILST SPORTING A BRUSHED COTTON T: I WOULD LEAVE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE TO DO IT AGAIN.
Bathing the elderly: gross.
Bathing the elderly IN A TRAPEZE TOP: GREATER THAN EVERY MIRACLE EVER PERFORMED COMBINED.
(Note to self: Could genocide be stopped by filming GAP ad in affected village? Look into it.)
I should clarify. I'm not saying models are the happiest people in the world. I'm saying the people they portray are the happiest people in the world. I wish I were a character in an Old Navy commercial. To live in a perpetual state of brand name-induced glee...
If we could all be so happy/sexy about things as simple as sweaters, what a wonderful/sexy world this would be.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I don't appreciate your attitude towards my potato chip situation
Sir? Excuse me, sir. I don't know if you noticed, but my potato chips are soggy.
My potato chips are fucking soggy.
You know why they're soggy? Because you bumped into me while I was drinking my glass of water and forced several drops over the rim and into my basket which contains a ham and cheese sandwich (thankfully unharmed) and a handful of chips that were up until very recently decidedly NOT soggy.
But YOU had to get to throwing away your trash SO damn quickly that you forgot all regard for regular human decency and in the process.
What's that look for? You think I'm crazy? Look at the name of these chips: Crunchers. Why, praytell, are they called Crunchers? BECAUSE THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE CRUNCHY. How can they be crunchy if they're motherfucking soggy?
You think I like wet potato chips? You think I dunk them in coffee like donuts or frolick through the sprinkler with a bag of Lay's in my hand? No, I don't, and I don't like assholes like you thinking they can do anything they want, even if that means ruining a guy's lunch by making his potato chips moist.
You laughing, jerk? You think the word "moist" is funny? Here's something funny: why don't I shove this ice scraper down your face? Yeah, I accidentally brought my ice scraper in here, what's it to you? Obviously you could use it to scrape the ice off your cold, empty, black excuse for a heart. You just don't seem to understand what this has done to me.
What are you supposed do? Oh, I don't know, maybe you could magically re-crisp my chips! Do you have some miraculous chip re-crisper up your ass for just such an occasion? Do you go from cafe-slash-bakery to cafe-slash-bakery just waiting to pounce on some poor sap just as he's lifting his glass, barreling into his unsuspecting shoulder and forcing a waterfall of cruel wetness upon his kettle chips, which may or may not be the only thing he lives for every day? There's nothing you can possibly do to repair the inescapable darkness you have rained upon my lunch hour. NOTHING. My chips are fucking SOGGY and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it.
Come back here, you prick! That doesn't mean you're off the hook! I want you to apologize. No, no, I want you to get down on your knees and kiss my feet for sparing your life today. You've been nothing but an insensitive, apathetic jerk this entire time. By making my potato chips soggy you have incurred a wrath once dormant deep within me I thought I would reserve only for somebody trying to harm a close friend or significant other. But because I don't have any of those yet, I'll have to settle for these chips. And the perfectly crafted, homestyle crispy crunch these chips once possessed was all I had in this godforsaken world.
I want you to become my servant, forever ruing the day you bumped into me in such a careless manner. I want you to repay me by catering to my every whim, including actually catering at any special occasions that may happen in the future. I want you to slave away under the hot sun, sweating all over your only sustenance: potato chips.
Or I guess you could buy me another bag.
My potato chips are fucking soggy.
You know why they're soggy? Because you bumped into me while I was drinking my glass of water and forced several drops over the rim and into my basket which contains a ham and cheese sandwich (thankfully unharmed) and a handful of chips that were up until very recently decidedly NOT soggy.
But YOU had to get to throwing away your trash SO damn quickly that you forgot all regard for regular human decency and in the process.
What's that look for? You think I'm crazy? Look at the name of these chips: Crunchers. Why, praytell, are they called Crunchers? BECAUSE THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE CRUNCHY. How can they be crunchy if they're motherfucking soggy?
You think I like wet potato chips? You think I dunk them in coffee like donuts or frolick through the sprinkler with a bag of Lay's in my hand? No, I don't, and I don't like assholes like you thinking they can do anything they want, even if that means ruining a guy's lunch by making his potato chips moist.
You laughing, jerk? You think the word "moist" is funny? Here's something funny: why don't I shove this ice scraper down your face? Yeah, I accidentally brought my ice scraper in here, what's it to you? Obviously you could use it to scrape the ice off your cold, empty, black excuse for a heart. You just don't seem to understand what this has done to me.
What are you supposed do? Oh, I don't know, maybe you could magically re-crisp my chips! Do you have some miraculous chip re-crisper up your ass for just such an occasion? Do you go from cafe-slash-bakery to cafe-slash-bakery just waiting to pounce on some poor sap just as he's lifting his glass, barreling into his unsuspecting shoulder and forcing a waterfall of cruel wetness upon his kettle chips, which may or may not be the only thing he lives for every day? There's nothing you can possibly do to repair the inescapable darkness you have rained upon my lunch hour. NOTHING. My chips are fucking SOGGY and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it.
Come back here, you prick! That doesn't mean you're off the hook! I want you to apologize. No, no, I want you to get down on your knees and kiss my feet for sparing your life today. You've been nothing but an insensitive, apathetic jerk this entire time. By making my potato chips soggy you have incurred a wrath once dormant deep within me I thought I would reserve only for somebody trying to harm a close friend or significant other. But because I don't have any of those yet, I'll have to settle for these chips. And the perfectly crafted, homestyle crispy crunch these chips once possessed was all I had in this godforsaken world.
I want you to become my servant, forever ruing the day you bumped into me in such a careless manner. I want you to repay me by catering to my every whim, including actually catering at any special occasions that may happen in the future. I want you to slave away under the hot sun, sweating all over your only sustenance: potato chips.
Or I guess you could buy me another bag.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Happy Pearl Harbor Day!
What did you get for Pearl Harbor Day? I received a Sony PlayStation, a Canon digital camera and a Toyota Camry. I want to thank everybody for the presents and, more importantly, helping me never forget and never forgive the Japs for the terrible things they did on this day 66 years ago.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Untitled
Sometimes I have some difficulty coming up with a title for things I write. I think and I think and I think, and then I kick a dog, and then I continue thinking, and nothing comes to mind.
The title is vital, and although what I just typed is fantastically clever, I've officially wasted it as a potential title. I mean, I can't have the title explicitly in the text, can I? No. That would be terribly cliché.
Not being able to come up with a title is cause for severe writer's block. The title is what whatever you're about to write is about; it's the starting point at which the magnificent prose (or poetry, if you're gay) will begin its journey of growth into a work of art. Take, for instance, Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. When he came up with that title, he knew exactly what he was going to write: a tale involving two cities whose times were both best and worst. How much clearer can you get? I'll bet you anything Dickens had that piece of junk penned out and ready to go in a week, maybe two. Everything just came right out of that incredible title.
(Dickens was not always successful with this method. Great Expectations ended up being a boring load of crap. Far from great. This may have been because he was paid by the word, as evidenced by the following passage:
"Miss Havisham was was was was was was was was was was was was was rich.")
To circumvent this issue, sometimes I start writing so I can come up with a title. Once I wrote out forty chapters of a story in hopes of coming across a title for a new piece. After months of hard work, drafting and redrafting, and fielding offers from a few publishers, my epic story about an Allied soldier in the North African theatre of WWII who left his comfortable job as a dentist in London to save his son from the Nazis was a success. It finally inspired the title I was looking for:
"My Report on Root Canals."
An A+ was in the bag. I almost doubled the 500 word minimum on that one.
So as you can see, the title is essential to writing. It is the fount from which your creativity will flow. Next time you're writing, be sure to come up with a strong and gripping name for your piece. You'll have a masterpiece in no time.
No need to thank me.
The title is vital, and although what I just typed is fantastically clever, I've officially wasted it as a potential title. I mean, I can't have the title explicitly in the text, can I? No. That would be terribly cliché.
Not being able to come up with a title is cause for severe writer's block. The title is what whatever you're about to write is about; it's the starting point at which the magnificent prose (or poetry, if you're gay) will begin its journey of growth into a work of art. Take, for instance, Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. When he came up with that title, he knew exactly what he was going to write: a tale involving two cities whose times were both best and worst. How much clearer can you get? I'll bet you anything Dickens had that piece of junk penned out and ready to go in a week, maybe two. Everything just came right out of that incredible title.
(Dickens was not always successful with this method. Great Expectations ended up being a boring load of crap. Far from great. This may have been because he was paid by the word, as evidenced by the following passage:
"Miss Havisham was was was was was was was was was was was was was rich.")
To circumvent this issue, sometimes I start writing so I can come up with a title. Once I wrote out forty chapters of a story in hopes of coming across a title for a new piece. After months of hard work, drafting and redrafting, and fielding offers from a few publishers, my epic story about an Allied soldier in the North African theatre of WWII who left his comfortable job as a dentist in London to save his son from the Nazis was a success. It finally inspired the title I was looking for:
"My Report on Root Canals."
An A+ was in the bag. I almost doubled the 500 word minimum on that one.
So as you can see, the title is essential to writing. It is the fount from which your creativity will flow. Next time you're writing, be sure to come up with a strong and gripping name for your piece. You'll have a masterpiece in no time.
No need to thank me.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Dinosaurs: Awesome. Sex: Hilarious. Dinosaur Sex: !!!!!!!
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