Imagine you walk into your office on some random Tuesday morning, for example. You open your e-mail and see, “Jane Q. Public, you have an E-Greeting!” as the subject line of one of your e-mails. You open said e-greeting to discover that it is from your boyfriend of three years and it is a picture of two pairs of underwear hanging on a clothes line. The caption says, “We’re a perfect pair. Will you marry me?” I’m thinking the range of emotions would go something like this:
Shock: Oh my god, is he serious?
Amusement: He can’t be serious. Who proposes via e-greeting?
Bewilderment: But what if he is serious?
Anger: He proposed to me via e-greeting? I want a ring, you cheap bastard!
Resentment: No way in hell I’m marrying a guy who proposes to me with an e-greeting.
Thus ending the relationship.
Now who, you may ask, would propose via e-greeting? Does said e-greeting even exist? Yes, yes it does. I actually saw three of them today. Count them, three. Three ways to propose to the person you want to spend the rest of your life with via e-mail. Granted, the sunset one was a smidge nicer than the underwear or the slot machine, but still. If you want to spend the rest of your life with someone and can’t get up the courage to ask in person if they feel the same way, maybe you should re-think your relationship with said person. Or if you think this is a cute way to propose, let me fill you in on a little secret – every little girl dreams of being proposed to in some grandiose way. I don’t care how butch she is or how independent, we all dream of finding that person who compliments us completely and having him produce a ring at just the right moment with just the right words. We remember the moment we get engaged for the rest of our lives and if you screw it up, chances are you won’t make it to the wedding. Sorry, boys, that’s how it goes.
Though I do have one other semi-related question: what does the guy do if the girl doesn’t right him back? Or what does the girl do if the guy doesn’t write her back (for our politically correct friends)? What does the sender do when the sendee doesn’t respond?
Friday, May 31, 2002
So I'm going to go audition next weekend for a touring show. I don't know if I'll get it, I don't know if they would even have use for me, so I'm not going to say too much. But how cool would that be? To go on tour across the country for four months? I'm pretty sure I could work out all of the logisitics here so that I would have something to come back to when I come back, but still. Eep. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up because then I won't get it and I'll just be disappointed. But I'm going to go for it. Why not? What do I have to lose by auditioning?
Thursday, May 30, 2002
Speaking of legs, I was thinking that I should walk somewhere significant. Well, the destination wouldn’t have to be so important, but the fact that I walked there would be. Like walk from Chicago to New York or something. There are all these songs about “I’d walk a thousand miles” for whatever reason, usually to see the “you that the singer sings to.” What if I walked a thousand miles? And got sponsors for it and gave the money to some worthy charity or something?
Would something like that be possible? To walk from Chicago to New York? And what besides water and clean socks would I really need to bring with me? Sunscreen. Money. Are there enough towns between Chicago and New York that I could stop frequently enough for food and rest, or would I have to bring a tent and some non-perishables with me?
I can walk about four miles an hour. If I walked for ten hours a day, that’s forty miles. It would probably be about 800 miles from my house to Midtown Manhattan. So that’s, what, twenty days? I could walk to New York in twenty days. I’d smell really bad when I got there, but I could do it. Hmmm…I may need to think about this…or pick a different destination that really is a thousand miles away from here…
Would something like that be possible? To walk from Chicago to New York? And what besides water and clean socks would I really need to bring with me? Sunscreen. Money. Are there enough towns between Chicago and New York that I could stop frequently enough for food and rest, or would I have to bring a tent and some non-perishables with me?
I can walk about four miles an hour. If I walked for ten hours a day, that’s forty miles. It would probably be about 800 miles from my house to Midtown Manhattan. So that’s, what, twenty days? I could walk to New York in twenty days. I’d smell really bad when I got there, but I could do it. Hmmm…I may need to think about this…or pick a different destination that really is a thousand miles away from here…
I wore shorts last night. Not in public, mind you. In the privacy of my own home. (That’s pr-ih-va-cy, not pr-eye-va-cy, mind you.) But I wore them, nonetheless. For about four hours. It was unnerving and liberating at the same time. Why am I telling you this? Because it leads us nicely into:
Reason #463 why we think Kitty is on crack.
I have nice legs. Really nice legs. I should show them off more often. I don’t think my thighs are too big. I have lovely quads. My calves are nice and round. Cute ankles. I have really nice legs and I hide them all of the time. Partially because I don’t want them to get sunburned (in the summer) or because I want to keep them warm (in the winter), but I want to take a moment and give wicked mad props to my legs. They have withstood constant abuse, what with my random walking though the city for miles and miles at night and with all of the countless bruises endured on the social dance floor and the Osgoodschlatter’s disease I had in junior high. But my legs are still there, kickin’ away, carrying me everywhere I want to go and looking cute while they do it.
So while I will probably continue to keep them hidden most of the time, I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate my legs and everything that they do for me. I’m so lucky to have them.
Reason #463 why we think Kitty is on crack.
I have nice legs. Really nice legs. I should show them off more often. I don’t think my thighs are too big. I have lovely quads. My calves are nice and round. Cute ankles. I have really nice legs and I hide them all of the time. Partially because I don’t want them to get sunburned (in the summer) or because I want to keep them warm (in the winter), but I want to take a moment and give wicked mad props to my legs. They have withstood constant abuse, what with my random walking though the city for miles and miles at night and with all of the countless bruises endured on the social dance floor and the Osgoodschlatter’s disease I had in junior high. But my legs are still there, kickin’ away, carrying me everywhere I want to go and looking cute while they do it.
So while I will probably continue to keep them hidden most of the time, I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate my legs and everything that they do for me. I’m so lucky to have them.
I followed a link from Moby’s site to the site of an artist named James Turrell. I hadn’t really heard of him before, but I was trying to kill some time so I figured what the hell. And it got me thinking. (Oh, no, not another one of those blogs. I know, I can feel all of your little eyeballs rolling back in your little heads as you brace yourself for another strange Kittyblog.)
But first, there are bees on the flowers outside my window. That makes me happy.
Anyway, Turrell. From what I can gather from the pictures and descriptions of his works on his website, he did a lot of work with light and vision and how the human mind perceives light or the total lack thereof. He did one piece called Soft Cell wherein the viewer would go into a soundproof chamber where the lights would go off when the person sat in the chair in the middle of the room. And the viewer sits there in total darkness with no sound for about ten minutes before small adjustments are made with light. Kind of like being in an isolation tank, I guess. He did another one wherein the viewer is surrounded in light, like a tanning bed, I’m guessing, but without the purpose of turning brown in mind. And as the viewer experiences these works, the works become whatever the viewer perceives them to be, kind of. I don’t know. I’ve never seen any of his work up close and personal, I’m only hypothesizing. Just like I’ve never been in an isolation tank (though I wouldn’t mind trying it), but I can guess that the experience is different for each person who tries it because the experience becomes one that is generated in each person’s mind as his or her senses are slowly deprived of external stimulus. Or over-stimulated, as in the case of the one where the viewer is encased in light.
But this got me thinking about human vision and reality. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” is a catch phrase that a lot of people use as a cop out or as an excuse to not believe something that is outside the realm of his or her own reality. I wonder if this was the impetus behind the creation of photography and television – to prove things to people who need to see something with their own eyes. But when your eyes are deprived of external stimulus, you don’t just sit there looking at black. The rods and cones in your eyes work with your brain to produce images of things that aren’t there, things that exist in your mind only. So are those images real? You are seeing them with your own eyes, aren’t you?
So what defines real? Is something real if you can see it? Is something real if you can touch it? Is something real if you can smell it? The five human senses are wonderful tools that we can use to operate in the physical world around us, but as has been shown time and time again, our senses aren’t perfect. People can have audio, visual, and olfactory hallucinations. Or stimulation of one sense can lead to stimulation of another (sense memory). Whenever I smell Zest soap, I think of my grandmother’s bathroom in Minnesota and then I can see the strawberries on the wallpaper in there and feel the bath mats beneath my feet and I can begin to remember the feelings I had when I would go and visit her. And all of these things can become as vivid as if I was there. Are they real? Of course not. I’m sitting at my desk in my office, not at my grandma’s house in Minnesota. But I experienced them, so why are they not real?
I don’t know. I don’t have one solid definition for reality. I don’t think there is one because my best guess is that there is no one solid reality. I think that each person, each animal, each plant has its own reality and then there might be one great big reality that encompasses us all. I don’t think we’ll ever know what that great big reality is, but we can figure out our own realities and work as well as we can within them and try to make the places where our individual realities overlap with other people’s realities as pleasant as possible. But this could explain things like bigotry and hatred and misunderstanding – in my reality, there is nothing wrong with homosexuality, but in someone else’s, there might be. I have no idea what that reality would be like, but it could be out there. Just like there could be millions of alternate universes that are created whenever we make choices in our life paths like in that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Maybe I should keep my crazy talk to myself and funnel it in to science fiction stories.
But first, there are bees on the flowers outside my window. That makes me happy.
Anyway, Turrell. From what I can gather from the pictures and descriptions of his works on his website, he did a lot of work with light and vision and how the human mind perceives light or the total lack thereof. He did one piece called Soft Cell wherein the viewer would go into a soundproof chamber where the lights would go off when the person sat in the chair in the middle of the room. And the viewer sits there in total darkness with no sound for about ten minutes before small adjustments are made with light. Kind of like being in an isolation tank, I guess. He did another one wherein the viewer is surrounded in light, like a tanning bed, I’m guessing, but without the purpose of turning brown in mind. And as the viewer experiences these works, the works become whatever the viewer perceives them to be, kind of. I don’t know. I’ve never seen any of his work up close and personal, I’m only hypothesizing. Just like I’ve never been in an isolation tank (though I wouldn’t mind trying it), but I can guess that the experience is different for each person who tries it because the experience becomes one that is generated in each person’s mind as his or her senses are slowly deprived of external stimulus. Or over-stimulated, as in the case of the one where the viewer is encased in light.
But this got me thinking about human vision and reality. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” is a catch phrase that a lot of people use as a cop out or as an excuse to not believe something that is outside the realm of his or her own reality. I wonder if this was the impetus behind the creation of photography and television – to prove things to people who need to see something with their own eyes. But when your eyes are deprived of external stimulus, you don’t just sit there looking at black. The rods and cones in your eyes work with your brain to produce images of things that aren’t there, things that exist in your mind only. So are those images real? You are seeing them with your own eyes, aren’t you?
So what defines real? Is something real if you can see it? Is something real if you can touch it? Is something real if you can smell it? The five human senses are wonderful tools that we can use to operate in the physical world around us, but as has been shown time and time again, our senses aren’t perfect. People can have audio, visual, and olfactory hallucinations. Or stimulation of one sense can lead to stimulation of another (sense memory). Whenever I smell Zest soap, I think of my grandmother’s bathroom in Minnesota and then I can see the strawberries on the wallpaper in there and feel the bath mats beneath my feet and I can begin to remember the feelings I had when I would go and visit her. And all of these things can become as vivid as if I was there. Are they real? Of course not. I’m sitting at my desk in my office, not at my grandma’s house in Minnesota. But I experienced them, so why are they not real?
I don’t know. I don’t have one solid definition for reality. I don’t think there is one because my best guess is that there is no one solid reality. I think that each person, each animal, each plant has its own reality and then there might be one great big reality that encompasses us all. I don’t think we’ll ever know what that great big reality is, but we can figure out our own realities and work as well as we can within them and try to make the places where our individual realities overlap with other people’s realities as pleasant as possible. But this could explain things like bigotry and hatred and misunderstanding – in my reality, there is nothing wrong with homosexuality, but in someone else’s, there might be. I have no idea what that reality would be like, but it could be out there. Just like there could be millions of alternate universes that are created whenever we make choices in our life paths like in that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Maybe I should keep my crazy talk to myself and funnel it in to science fiction stories.
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
Okay, something that I find interesting/funny about techno music:
The people who make and/or spin techno music need a tremendous amount of patience. Back in the days before computerized mixers and stuff, if a DJ wanted a drum beat, he had to play it for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted a cymbal on every seven, he had to play a cymbal on every seven for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted some sampled sound to come in every other three, he had to play that sampled sound every other three. There was no copying and pasting this sixteen measures over here kind of technology, but these people would sit and work out these amazing songs with layer upon layer upon layer of sound. And the mixing process when a DJ is actually spinning takes an incredible amount of patience, too. You put on one record. Then find another record that you think the first one would blend well with. You listen half with the headphones to your new song and half through the speakers to the record already playing, match the speeds, wait for the sweet spot, and slowly start adding the second song into the first until the first one is completely gone. DJs are always concentrating. If they have a five minute record, they might have a minute to chill, but if you watch a really good DJ, he/she always knows exactly where and when to throw on the next record. And once the speeds are matched, it can be a two-minute process to phase one song in and the other one out. They have to be alert and focused and steady and patient.
Yet the vast majority of the people who enjoy listening to techno music are hyperactive kids with MTV attention spans.
I dunno. It amuses me.
The people who make and/or spin techno music need a tremendous amount of patience. Back in the days before computerized mixers and stuff, if a DJ wanted a drum beat, he had to play it for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted a cymbal on every seven, he had to play a cymbal on every seven for five minutes straight. Then if he wanted some sampled sound to come in every other three, he had to play that sampled sound every other three. There was no copying and pasting this sixteen measures over here kind of technology, but these people would sit and work out these amazing songs with layer upon layer upon layer of sound. And the mixing process when a DJ is actually spinning takes an incredible amount of patience, too. You put on one record. Then find another record that you think the first one would blend well with. You listen half with the headphones to your new song and half through the speakers to the record already playing, match the speeds, wait for the sweet spot, and slowly start adding the second song into the first until the first one is completely gone. DJs are always concentrating. If they have a five minute record, they might have a minute to chill, but if you watch a really good DJ, he/she always knows exactly where and when to throw on the next record. And once the speeds are matched, it can be a two-minute process to phase one song in and the other one out. They have to be alert and focused and steady and patient.
Yet the vast majority of the people who enjoy listening to techno music are hyperactive kids with MTV attention spans.
I dunno. It amuses me.
Tuesday, May 28, 2002
So it was a nice, lovely, quiet holiday weekend. I didn't do much. Ate too much chocolate. Played my guitar (badly) down by the lake for some friends (I'm so sorry!). Watched Cannibal: The Musical. What a lovely bit of B-movie making that is. "The sky is blue/And all the leaves are green/My heart's as full as a baked potata/I think I know exactly what I mean/When I say, 'It's a schpedoinkel day!'" Tee hee.
I don't know what my problem is with singing in front of people. I'm an actor. I have a decent voice. I can carry a tune. Singing is just somehow much more personal to me than talking. Particularly singing things that I wrote because then it is my heart and soul up there on display for anyone within earshot. And what if they don't like it? What if they say I'm no good? I just don't think I could handle that kind of rejection. Tee hee. But seriously, I do have problems with singing in front of people and it is something I want to work on. But if you walk up to me and just randomly ask me to sing, you'll probably get little more than a smack upside the head. Because I know exactly which one of you, my seven faithful readers, would do that and you'd be doing it just to piss me off, so yeah, I'd hit ya. Not hard, but I'd hit ya.
There go my dreams of being a rock star, huh?
I don't know what my problem is with singing in front of people. I'm an actor. I have a decent voice. I can carry a tune. Singing is just somehow much more personal to me than talking. Particularly singing things that I wrote because then it is my heart and soul up there on display for anyone within earshot. And what if they don't like it? What if they say I'm no good? I just don't think I could handle that kind of rejection. Tee hee. But seriously, I do have problems with singing in front of people and it is something I want to work on. But if you walk up to me and just randomly ask me to sing, you'll probably get little more than a smack upside the head. Because I know exactly which one of you, my seven faithful readers, would do that and you'd be doing it just to piss me off, so yeah, I'd hit ya. Not hard, but I'd hit ya.
There go my dreams of being a rock star, huh?
I love the soundtrack of the city at night. It is worth taking a two-hour walk just to listen to all of the different sounds. The different sizes and types of car, truck, bus, and motorcycle engines. The heavy bass blasting from one car stereo followed by the thumping Mariachi music from the next. The buzz of the streetlights and the electric generators and air conditioners. The chatter of people sitting out on their front porch enjoying a beautiful summer night in Chicago. The snippets of conversations from the people passing by in the opposite direction. The music spilling out on to the street from any number of bars and nightclubs. The wind through your own hair. And each sound has a memory that goes with it, sometimes moreso than the visual cues you pick up on as you walk down the street. It is truly a walk down memory lane and it is so wonderful that coming home to my warm, comfy, beautiful apartment is a disappointment by comparison.
Friday, May 24, 2002
I'm playing hookey today. I know, I should care more about my job. I should be more responsible. But you know what? One of the perks of my job is a ridiculous amount of paid vacation time and paid sick leave. So since I have had nothing to do for the past couple of weeks while I am at work, I figured I could take a day off and live my life. And how fortunate that we all get Monday off, too. I now get a lovely four day weekend wherein I don't really have much to do. But at least it is more interesting stuff to not do than the stuff I don't do at work. If that makes sense.
For example, I started my day by watching footage of an 80-something year old mostly blind man dance. And I must say that while he may no longer have the stamina to last an entire song, he is a better dancer than a lot of the "new school" lindy hoppers out there right now. And it cracks me up that lindy hoppers can be divided into "old school" and "new school." Talk about a clash of street creeds. And while I was watching him dance (on a videotape, actually), I ate oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins. I love oatmeal. Oatmeal doesn't get nearly enough credit. I wrote a paper on oatmeal once. It was fun.
And now I am catching up on my pop culture. I came out to my dad's house to get my bicycle. I was having delusions of grandeur wherein I start riding my bike places to get exercise and stop using my car so much (to save on gas money) only to find that my tires are 100% shot. I pumped them up to a decent pressure and they died as soon as I sat on the darn thing. And as I can't really afford new bike tires right now, I guess I'll have to go back to walking places. Or start dancing more again. Something like that. But anyway, so now I'm at my dad's watching VH-1 and MTV. Because I can. I finally saw Moby's new video, though I guess it really isn't new anymore, huh? But I saw it. I feel like I'm being a real fan now. I probably shouldn't mention the dream I had last night, huh?
Okay, I will. I dreamt we were filming the last couple of days worth of stuff on this film I'm currently shooting (Dancing with Gaia) and for some reason Moby was there to watch the shoot that day. He had me running around doing PA type tasks until I got to shoot. I think he was confused by the fact that I was a performer, not part of the crew. I blame that on my character's clothing. But yeah, I got to shoot this one scene (which isn't actually in the film but involved this woman who isn't necessarily my favorite person in the world drowning in a car that was sinking in a flooded building while her male counterpart talked to me on his cell phone and much hilarity ensued as it can only in your dreams. Or only in my dreams.) and it went pretty well and then the DP of the film told me that he had a crush on one of the extras, who happens to be a friend of mine. I remember feeling the stubble on his chin when it brushed against my cheek as he whispered into my ear that he had a crush on her and that's about all I remember now. *shrug* So I have weird dreams. So sue me.
Okay, I probably shouldn't even post this because it is the epitome of random stream of conscious writing that comes from the bowels of Kitty's brain. But hey, that's what this is all about, right? The bowels of Kitty's brain? Well, welcome. You wonder what people think about on their day off while they do laundry and watch cheesy pop culture icons on TV? This would be it. Or proof that TV rots your brain. One of the two.
This? This is your brain. This? This is your brain on TV. Any questions?
For example, I started my day by watching footage of an 80-something year old mostly blind man dance. And I must say that while he may no longer have the stamina to last an entire song, he is a better dancer than a lot of the "new school" lindy hoppers out there right now. And it cracks me up that lindy hoppers can be divided into "old school" and "new school." Talk about a clash of street creeds. And while I was watching him dance (on a videotape, actually), I ate oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins. I love oatmeal. Oatmeal doesn't get nearly enough credit. I wrote a paper on oatmeal once. It was fun.
And now I am catching up on my pop culture. I came out to my dad's house to get my bicycle. I was having delusions of grandeur wherein I start riding my bike places to get exercise and stop using my car so much (to save on gas money) only to find that my tires are 100% shot. I pumped them up to a decent pressure and they died as soon as I sat on the darn thing. And as I can't really afford new bike tires right now, I guess I'll have to go back to walking places. Or start dancing more again. Something like that. But anyway, so now I'm at my dad's watching VH-1 and MTV. Because I can. I finally saw Moby's new video, though I guess it really isn't new anymore, huh? But I saw it. I feel like I'm being a real fan now. I probably shouldn't mention the dream I had last night, huh?
Okay, I will. I dreamt we were filming the last couple of days worth of stuff on this film I'm currently shooting (Dancing with Gaia) and for some reason Moby was there to watch the shoot that day. He had me running around doing PA type tasks until I got to shoot. I think he was confused by the fact that I was a performer, not part of the crew. I blame that on my character's clothing. But yeah, I got to shoot this one scene (which isn't actually in the film but involved this woman who isn't necessarily my favorite person in the world drowning in a car that was sinking in a flooded building while her male counterpart talked to me on his cell phone and much hilarity ensued as it can only in your dreams. Or only in my dreams.) and it went pretty well and then the DP of the film told me that he had a crush on one of the extras, who happens to be a friend of mine. I remember feeling the stubble on his chin when it brushed against my cheek as he whispered into my ear that he had a crush on her and that's about all I remember now. *shrug* So I have weird dreams. So sue me.
Okay, I probably shouldn't even post this because it is the epitome of random stream of conscious writing that comes from the bowels of Kitty's brain. But hey, that's what this is all about, right? The bowels of Kitty's brain? Well, welcome. You wonder what people think about on their day off while they do laundry and watch cheesy pop culture icons on TV? This would be it. Or proof that TV rots your brain. One of the two.
This? This is your brain. This? This is your brain on TV. Any questions?
Thursday, May 23, 2002
I don’t understand prejudice. I don’t understand racists. I don’t understand homophobia. Maybe I have just been incredibly blessed to know so many different people from so many different walks of life, but I don’t get it. How can you say that all homosexuals are wrong or paranoid or girlie or butch or whatever? How can you make a sweeping generalization about an entire country of people? Can somebody please explain this way of thinking to me? I mean, I understand running into a few bad eggs every now and again, but we all run into bad eggs from all walks of life. If you take a cross section of any segment of the population – Africans, Native Americans, Europeans, Middle Easterners, Caucasians, Asians, homosexuals, heterosexuals, whoever you want to pick out – I bet that there will be a pretty even distribution of “good” people and “bad” people in your sample. And I’m betting that the percentages of “good” to “bad” are pretty similar between cross sections. People are people. Why is that so hard to understand?
I’m sorry, but this is really bugging me. I met a random man today who seemed all nice and pleasant and intelligent and such until he made some very racist remarks and it sullied my day. It sullied my image of him. I physically watched him become ugly as he stood there in front of me and I just can’t get past it.
I know, if I am going to sit here and preach tolerance, I should be tolerant of everyone, regardless of his or her beliefs. But I have a certain prejudice against closed-minded people. Whatever experiences this man may have had however many years ago, that does not give him the right to judge people he is just meeting now who probably weren’t even alive back then.
I’m sorry. I sound like a horrible person. I’m angry and upset. Fuck, I’m not even 25 years old yet and I have a greater capacity to forgive than this man twice my age who I am supposed to look up to and kiss the ass of. That’s not right. I don’t think everyone should think like me, but I don’t think anyone should think like him. That is what causes things like September 11 to happen – hatred and stereotypes and unfounded judgments and sweeping generalizations. What good does it do you to think like that? Does it make you feel safe? Does it make you feel better than everyone else? Because all I can see it doing is closing off opportunities for you to meet some incredible people and learn some incredible things. And it makes you look small and ugly in the eyes of some other incredible people. It just makes me so sad. I’m sorry. I’m stopping now.
I’m sorry, but this is really bugging me. I met a random man today who seemed all nice and pleasant and intelligent and such until he made some very racist remarks and it sullied my day. It sullied my image of him. I physically watched him become ugly as he stood there in front of me and I just can’t get past it.
I know, if I am going to sit here and preach tolerance, I should be tolerant of everyone, regardless of his or her beliefs. But I have a certain prejudice against closed-minded people. Whatever experiences this man may have had however many years ago, that does not give him the right to judge people he is just meeting now who probably weren’t even alive back then.
I’m sorry. I sound like a horrible person. I’m angry and upset. Fuck, I’m not even 25 years old yet and I have a greater capacity to forgive than this man twice my age who I am supposed to look up to and kiss the ass of. That’s not right. I don’t think everyone should think like me, but I don’t think anyone should think like him. That is what causes things like September 11 to happen – hatred and stereotypes and unfounded judgments and sweeping generalizations. What good does it do you to think like that? Does it make you feel safe? Does it make you feel better than everyone else? Because all I can see it doing is closing off opportunities for you to meet some incredible people and learn some incredible things. And it makes you look small and ugly in the eyes of some other incredible people. It just makes me so sad. I’m sorry. I’m stopping now.
It looks like my archives are kind of screwy again. For which I apologize. I know how much you all love to read my incessant drivel. But trust me, I will stay on top of the situation and when the lovely people at Blogger.com decide to fix the problem, my archives will be back and viewable to all.
Man, I really need to get my own site up and running...
Man, I really need to get my own site up and running...
So I pulled my usual “I’m not leaving my house tonight” thing last night and watched probably more TV than is healthy. But I got one really good laugh out of it and they say laughter is good for you, right?
There was this show on that was like Bloopers, but from game shows. The clip that had me laughing hardest was not the woman on the Newlywed Game where a woman answered “In the ass” when asked what is the strangest place she had ever been tempted to “make whoopie,” but rather a clip from the British equivalent of Family Feud. It went a little something like this:
Host: Name something you take to the beach.
Contestant: Turkey
Host: Name the first thing you buy at the grocery store.
Contestant: Um, turkey
Host: Name an animal that is usually stuffed.
Contestant: Turkey
By this point, I’m rolling, laughing so hard I woke up my cat and he just sat there giving me the evil eye. I think it is partially because “turkey” is such a wonderful word to say with an English accent, but taking turkey to the beach? And for all that, the guy got 21 points. I laughed for about ten minutes straight – through the commercial break and into the next couple of clips.
There was also a woman on Family Feud who replied, “September” when asked, “During which months does a woman begin to look like she is pregnant?” That one had the host literally rolling on the floor. They had to stop the clock because both the host and the contestant just couldn’t get it together.
So yeah, fun was had by all. Except my cat who then moved to his pillow on the floor ‘cuz my laughing was shaking the whole couch.
There was this show on that was like Bloopers, but from game shows. The clip that had me laughing hardest was not the woman on the Newlywed Game where a woman answered “In the ass” when asked what is the strangest place she had ever been tempted to “make whoopie,” but rather a clip from the British equivalent of Family Feud. It went a little something like this:
Host: Name something you take to the beach.
Contestant: Turkey
Host: Name the first thing you buy at the grocery store.
Contestant: Um, turkey
Host: Name an animal that is usually stuffed.
Contestant: Turkey
By this point, I’m rolling, laughing so hard I woke up my cat and he just sat there giving me the evil eye. I think it is partially because “turkey” is such a wonderful word to say with an English accent, but taking turkey to the beach? And for all that, the guy got 21 points. I laughed for about ten minutes straight – through the commercial break and into the next couple of clips.
There was also a woman on Family Feud who replied, “September” when asked, “During which months does a woman begin to look like she is pregnant?” That one had the host literally rolling on the floor. They had to stop the clock because both the host and the contestant just couldn’t get it together.
So yeah, fun was had by all. Except my cat who then moved to his pillow on the floor ‘cuz my laughing was shaking the whole couch.
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
Bless me, Bill Gates, for I am a geek. It has been a long time since my last confession. In that time, I have been guilty of the following acts of geekiness:
As penance for my geekiness, I will go out wearing pleather pance and eat a giant rum-coated ice cream sundae while having sex with seven men and not brag about it on the Internet the next day.
Or not.
- I have played many a video game. Usually while eating bittersweet chocolate. With my cat curled up at my side and/or chewing on the game controller cords.
- The video game system I have to play on is a Nintendo 64.
- I have consumed five glasses of wine and three beers since the middle of March. I go to bars and have nothing to order.
- The highlight of my day is posting in this blog.
- I am known across the country as the girl who did the bull fighting and doggie breaks at the American Lindy Hop Championships.
- I have a crush on a rock star I will never meet. I sent him a letter he will never read. Yet this is a source of comfort for me.
- I have not been on an actual date in five months. The date I went on five months ago was extremely painful at the time, but is now just a source of much laughter for me and my friends.
- I like sci-fi movies. I like Oingo Boingo and boys who shave their heads. I like curling up with my cat on my couch and not answering my phone all evening. I haven’t answered my phone in two days.
- I like fake meat and cheese products.
- I sing to my cat.
- I daydream about being famous and not working behind a desk all day.
- I wore a thermal top, flannel pants, and thick socks to bed last night and still woke up cold.
- I can sing Monty Python songs and can hold my own in a Simpsons quote war.
- I listened intently while my friend described his job to me. While I was lying next to him in my bed. Not touching him. Him not touching me ‘cuz he has a girlfriend.
- I keep taking IQ tests and finding that I am way above average.
- I keep listening to the same four CDs over and over and over and over and over…
- My TV has rabbit ears.
- I can’t draw for shit, but when I do, I use crayon.
As penance for my geekiness, I will go out wearing pleather pance and eat a giant rum-coated ice cream sundae while having sex with seven men and not brag about it on the Internet the next day.
Or not.
I’m sorry, but I need to complain about this for a second.
As part of my job, I fill out the vouchers for my boss’ association memberships and such. He is a surgeon and very high up on the political ladder at this University so he belongs to a lot of associations and the University pays for his memberships. Which is fine. I think the University should. However, this particular morning, I am upset about one of the vouchers I just mailed off for approval and when I give you these two tidbits of information, perhaps you will agree with me. Or perhaps you won’t and I’ll get sued for libel, but I’m just presenting the facts here and will later express an opinion, which belongs solely to me and will not be acted upon other than writing a pissy blog entry about it.
The State is in a budget crunch. Whenever the economy goes into a recession, the first thing to lose funding is higher education. As the majority of the funding for this institution is government money, the University is in a budget crunch. Meaning we are in the middle of a hiring freeze and to the best of my knowledge, nobody is getting a raise this year – not even the standard 3% cost of living increase. Which is kind of disappointing, yes, but at the same time, I’m doing okay. Not going out much, but doing okay. But here’s tidbit #2 for you – one of the vouchers I filled out this morning for my boss’ membership in an organization amounted to about half of my annual salary. For one year’s membership in this organization. Yes, it is a good organization for my boss to belong to, but with membership dues that high? Kind of makes you think.
Now, I‘m not asking for a 50% raise – I don’t need that much money. But the 3% standard would be nice. It would be nice if every employee here at the University could get his or her annual 3% raise. I can’t help but think how many people, even in just my department, could get that extra hundred dollars a month if those membership dues weren’t so outrageous. I dunno. I know I shouldn’t be asking for more than I already have because, as I said before, I am very rich in a lot of ways. This just struck me as being a smidge imbalanced is all.
And no, I’m not a communist. Communism only works in theory. In practice, it is a disaster.
As part of my job, I fill out the vouchers for my boss’ association memberships and such. He is a surgeon and very high up on the political ladder at this University so he belongs to a lot of associations and the University pays for his memberships. Which is fine. I think the University should. However, this particular morning, I am upset about one of the vouchers I just mailed off for approval and when I give you these two tidbits of information, perhaps you will agree with me. Or perhaps you won’t and I’ll get sued for libel, but I’m just presenting the facts here and will later express an opinion, which belongs solely to me and will not be acted upon other than writing a pissy blog entry about it.
The State is in a budget crunch. Whenever the economy goes into a recession, the first thing to lose funding is higher education. As the majority of the funding for this institution is government money, the University is in a budget crunch. Meaning we are in the middle of a hiring freeze and to the best of my knowledge, nobody is getting a raise this year – not even the standard 3% cost of living increase. Which is kind of disappointing, yes, but at the same time, I’m doing okay. Not going out much, but doing okay. But here’s tidbit #2 for you – one of the vouchers I filled out this morning for my boss’ membership in an organization amounted to about half of my annual salary. For one year’s membership in this organization. Yes, it is a good organization for my boss to belong to, but with membership dues that high? Kind of makes you think.
Now, I‘m not asking for a 50% raise – I don’t need that much money. But the 3% standard would be nice. It would be nice if every employee here at the University could get his or her annual 3% raise. I can’t help but think how many people, even in just my department, could get that extra hundred dollars a month if those membership dues weren’t so outrageous. I dunno. I know I shouldn’t be asking for more than I already have because, as I said before, I am very rich in a lot of ways. This just struck me as being a smidge imbalanced is all.
And no, I’m not a communist. Communism only works in theory. In practice, it is a disaster.
Tuesday, May 21, 2002
Whoever wrote the jingle for the new Pizza Hut commercial is a genius. “Where the cheese go? Where the cheese at?” It’s so catchy you just want to shoot yourself. And when it gets to the line “Where the cheese be?” I can’t help but laugh out loud. Seriously. That sentence is so grammatically wrong yet so something a Chicagoan would say it cracks my shit up. Yay Pizza Hut jingle guy!
I was thinking last night about marriage and kids and stuff. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe because of the wedding I went to over the weekend and/or the fact that I have been telling people about it left and right. But I had marriage on the brain.
I have been to weddings in the past where I have gotten really depressed that I have no real hope that I will one day get married. The more friends I have who are my age and are getting married while I keep plugging along with nary so much as a boyfriend…it can get a person down. But I didn’t get depressed at the wedding over the weekend. I think I’m learning that that may or may not be what I really want anymore. When I was little, I used to play wedding like all little girls do. But now…I don’t know that marriage is the final answer.
My instructor friend from Switzerland said that there really isn’t this pressure on young people to get married in Europe, or at least he doesn’t feel pressured to get married. Which is kind of cool. I had an uncle with a common law wife for a while and when they determined that things weren’t working for them anymore, it was a very civilized break up. I can’t help but think that that was at least partially due to the fact that they didn’t have to go through all of the legal hassles of an official divorce. I kind of like that idea. I think that if children are involved, marriage can be a good idea, but at the same time, if you have two people who are committed to one another, what is the point of the ceremony and the party and the headaches and such? Did you know that planning a wedding has been ranked the most stressful event in a person’s life? Well, next to a planning a lindy exchange, maybe, but most people don’t plan lindy exchanges so planning a wedding will be the most stressful thing they have to do. If you could avoid that, how much happier would you be?
I don’t know. I’m obviously still torn about the whole thing. I still have the little girl fantasies of meeting Prince Charming and being swept off my feet and getting married and living happily ever after with 2.5 children and a dog. Or something to that effect. But I think I know in my heart that the kind of man I am looking for would be committed to me with or without a ring and that if we were to get married, it would be symbolic only or for tax reasons or something, you know? That our relationship would be one wherein we could get married or not get married and still love each other and treat one another the same way.
Or maybe I should just admit that I’m a fuzzy bunny cheese ball and get on with my life.
I have been to weddings in the past where I have gotten really depressed that I have no real hope that I will one day get married. The more friends I have who are my age and are getting married while I keep plugging along with nary so much as a boyfriend…it can get a person down. But I didn’t get depressed at the wedding over the weekend. I think I’m learning that that may or may not be what I really want anymore. When I was little, I used to play wedding like all little girls do. But now…I don’t know that marriage is the final answer.
My instructor friend from Switzerland said that there really isn’t this pressure on young people to get married in Europe, or at least he doesn’t feel pressured to get married. Which is kind of cool. I had an uncle with a common law wife for a while and when they determined that things weren’t working for them anymore, it was a very civilized break up. I can’t help but think that that was at least partially due to the fact that they didn’t have to go through all of the legal hassles of an official divorce. I kind of like that idea. I think that if children are involved, marriage can be a good idea, but at the same time, if you have two people who are committed to one another, what is the point of the ceremony and the party and the headaches and such? Did you know that planning a wedding has been ranked the most stressful event in a person’s life? Well, next to a planning a lindy exchange, maybe, but most people don’t plan lindy exchanges so planning a wedding will be the most stressful thing they have to do. If you could avoid that, how much happier would you be?
I don’t know. I’m obviously still torn about the whole thing. I still have the little girl fantasies of meeting Prince Charming and being swept off my feet and getting married and living happily ever after with 2.5 children and a dog. Or something to that effect. But I think I know in my heart that the kind of man I am looking for would be committed to me with or without a ring and that if we were to get married, it would be symbolic only or for tax reasons or something, you know? That our relationship would be one wherein we could get married or not get married and still love each other and treat one another the same way.
Or maybe I should just admit that I’m a fuzzy bunny cheese ball and get on with my life.
Monday, May 20, 2002
I was talking to my rent-a-date friend about our jobs this weekend. His sounds so much more interesting than mine, though I’m still not sure how “useful” in the grand scheme of things, but when you think about it, what jobs really are “useful” in the grand scheme of things? Parenting (for which you don’t get paid), healthcare workers (debatable – see my earlier tirades on Western Medicine), teachers (though again, these people hardly get paid and/or kids can learn from parents and friends), and goddamn, I’m really pessimistic today, aren’t I? That’s not my point. I was talking about jobs with my friend and he asked if I was actively seeking another job or not. Which got me thinking.
I really do hate this job. I hate not doing anything for eight hours a day and getting paid for it. I hate dressing up and coming to an office that smells like tar and is often infested with roaches and/or mice and sitting on my ass staring at a computer screen trying to look busy for eight hours a day. I hate covering the front desk all the time because our receptionist has the most germ-ridden family I have ever met (though through no fault of her own – she’s always cleaning, but she and her family are always sick). I hate it. I need to be doing things and I’m running out of ways to keep myself occupied at work.
But I love the people here. And where else am I going to find a job where my co-workers not only know I’m an actor, but encourage me to go out on auditions and will come see my performances? How often does that happen? And my sitting around all day doing nothing – I get to keep my blog, I can take online classes in other skills I would like to acquire, I can listen to pretty much any music I want to in my office that has its own door. And because I took the road less traveled and studied theater in college, I’m not really qualified to do anything that pays enough except sit here on my ass all day hoping that maybe someone will have some copies that they need me to make or something.
So I guess the conclusion is that no, I am not actively seeking other employment. I still live in Kittyland where I will one day be successful enough as an actor to not need a stupidfey day job. And until that day comes, I will stay here in my roach infested office with its own door and I will sit on my ass and try to come up with a million other ways to use the computer placed before me. Though maybe I should keep my eyes peeled just in case.
I really do hate this job. I hate not doing anything for eight hours a day and getting paid for it. I hate dressing up and coming to an office that smells like tar and is often infested with roaches and/or mice and sitting on my ass staring at a computer screen trying to look busy for eight hours a day. I hate covering the front desk all the time because our receptionist has the most germ-ridden family I have ever met (though through no fault of her own – she’s always cleaning, but she and her family are always sick). I hate it. I need to be doing things and I’m running out of ways to keep myself occupied at work.
But I love the people here. And where else am I going to find a job where my co-workers not only know I’m an actor, but encourage me to go out on auditions and will come see my performances? How often does that happen? And my sitting around all day doing nothing – I get to keep my blog, I can take online classes in other skills I would like to acquire, I can listen to pretty much any music I want to in my office that has its own door. And because I took the road less traveled and studied theater in college, I’m not really qualified to do anything that pays enough except sit here on my ass all day hoping that maybe someone will have some copies that they need me to make or something.
So I guess the conclusion is that no, I am not actively seeking other employment. I still live in Kittyland where I will one day be successful enough as an actor to not need a stupidfey day job. And until that day comes, I will stay here in my roach infested office with its own door and I will sit on my ass and try to come up with a million other ways to use the computer placed before me. Though maybe I should keep my eyes peeled just in case.
They're doing something with tar outside and the stench is filling up my building. To the point that one woman down the hall is about ready to vomit and I'm starting to get light headed.
So this blog entry has two purposes -- to first beg with you to not play with tar unless it is absolutely necessary and even then to do it at night and far away from anywhere that there might be people, and second to warn you that I might start posting even more random, incoherant blogs than I normally do 'cuz I'm gettin' high on tar fumes.
This can't be good for me.
So this blog entry has two purposes -- to first beg with you to not play with tar unless it is absolutely necessary and even then to do it at night and far away from anywhere that there might be people, and second to warn you that I might start posting even more random, incoherant blogs than I normally do 'cuz I'm gettin' high on tar fumes.
This can't be good for me.
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