About 6 years ago I made a deliberate trip to a bookstore on Superbowl Sunday. I claimed to be in search of intelligent life, figuring if there were romantic possibilities lurking about the greater metropolitan Denver area (where I was living at the time), they might best be discovered during this crucial moment of unbridled American machismo. Basically, it occurred to me that anyone away from the TV at that moment (especially one whose alternate locale was the bookstore—Tattered Cover—a thriving independent bookstore, at that) was someone worth getting to know.
Oh, the idealism of youth. The self-righteousness, perhaps(?).
I didn’t meet anyone interesting that day. And anyway, how much more worthy was my cause? Instead of being in the bookstore seeking to expand my web of knowledge, I was in there on the make! What a phony baloney. (I’m reminded of a book I saw the other day called When God Winks on Love, subtitled Let the Power of Coincidence Lead You to Love. All I could think was this hypothetical testimonial from readers-turned-devotees to the author’s cause: “The coincidence I masterminded worked out beautifully.” Ridiculous.)
I know what part of my problem was at the time: I had just returned to the States from an extended stay in Mexico, where my new awareness of sub-par living conditions greatly soured my outlook on American wastefulness and decadent self-indulgence. To me, the Superbowl and everything that touched it was evidence of a spoiled rotten population with too much time on its hands and its priorities way, way off-base.
And I still feel that way sometimes. And I don’t plan to watch tomorrow’s game or wager any money on it or even bother to check the score in the next day’s newspaper. But that’s mainly because the Raiders aren’t playing this year (and that’s assuming I’m kind enough to term what they did last year “playing.” Other words that came to mind are “floundering,” [are you guys] “kidding?!,” and, simply, “Sad. So sad.”). It’s not that I care particularly about football (certainly not in the way I care about baseball, not in the way I have elaborate fantasies about meeting the Dodgers’ Paul LoDuca), but I am no longer opposed to the idea of sitting down for an afternoon and enjoying the be-all, end-all, American sporting Super Event.
Please indulge my desire to share a few reasons for the change of heart.
I’ve thought a lot in recent years about the Superbowl in relation to the World Cup. I happened to be in Mexico when the World Cup was here in the United States, and I was struck by the serious devotion to fútbol (soccer) I found among the people there. One day when Mexico was playing Germany (causing me, in my mixed-raced Beanerschnitzel-ness, great inner-conflict), I noticed that the town where I was staying was teeming with young people who would otherwise have been studying at the time. I stopped a young boy and asked, “Why aren’t you all in school? Is there some sort of holiday or something?” to which he answered, “Mexico’s playing,” with a look on his face that said precisely, ‘Like, duh.’
My friend Kelsi was somewhat disgusted by this fanaticism, sparking a great debate between us. I surprised myself by presenting the argument that soccer, while not being the most intellectual of pursuits, was a wonderfully unifying activity. It was the only thing I could think of that so great a percentage of people worldwide took very seriously and agreed upon: The importance of the sport’s outcomes are agreed upon. The rules are agreed upon. That grown men should put their machismo on hold, flop, and cry to their heart’s content if it means drawing the attention of the ref and, ultimately, a yellow card, is absolutely agreed upon.
To me soccer is the innocuous version of war. (Excepting, of course, the unfortunate incidents of murder and mass-suffocation that have resulted from the games more fervent, more overzealous elements—to everything, there are extremes). Countries from all over the world come together once every four years and settle their scores in a forum where the laws are set, the game is timed (though loosely sometimes), and everyone has the chance to cover his privates before any serious damage can be done. Why can’t men always play by the rules in this way?
American football is just a microcosm of this worldwide phenomenon. It’s a less-exciting, heavily padded, far-too-oft-stalled version of soccer, but a version all the same. Black Hole Raider fans excluded, grown men come together to play or to cheer for their favorite teams in a normal, healthy way. We need not kill each other to prove our superiority. Why not just run faster, block better, or have a person on our team whose precise aim and strong “gun” means an extra six points rather than an extra person dead?
And there’s another thing. In all my former pooh-poohing of the Big Game, what I had neglected to consider were the humans who comprised the teams. I had forgotten that, behind every facemask and (behind that) every snarl of threat and audible declaration of dominance, is a man with a dream—a man who has, no doubt, been working day after day and year after year for the chance to be, in this exact moment, on this very field. Who am I to criticize that? Put aside the announcers, the commercials, the millions of dollars exchanging hands, and you’ve got about 100 men who are about to experience the best goddamned day of their lives. And yeah, I support that.
P.S. Please send any comments to scoobisnac2000@yahoo.com
Saturday, January 31, 2004
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Did I say *Always* Right?...
It seems we’ve created a colossal monster. Or, to be more exact, we’ve created millions of lesser monsters that, when considered individually, are really just singular off-shoots of (maybe roughly the size of the fingernail of) one, big, sweaty, ugly, snaggle-toothed beast: The Customer.
And how did we do this? Well that’s easy. Someone, somewhere, in some fluorescent lit conference room came up with the phrase that would become the bane of retail and restaurant workers from then until somebody comes up with a truer (and yet equally profitable) phrase…the phrase, of course, being “The customer is always right.”
Whoever came up with that phrase couldn’t possibly have been in contact with any actual customers, or at least not the kind who hang around bookstores. I know what you all are thinking (I used to think it myself)…The bookstore—what a mellow place to work. What a nice environment. Books. What could be better than working around books all day? And to be honest, that’s mostly true. But there’s a definite, lurking danger hidden below, around, and inside words like “mostly”—that danger being what “mostly” doesn’t include.
Some examples:
1) Golf Club Guy, who’s been an everyday regular since the first time I worked at Barnes and Noble, about 3 years ago. He earned his nickname by bringing (you guessed it) his golf clubs to the store with him and practicing his swing in the parking lot. As far as I know, the man has never purchased anything more than a cup of coffee, and yet he still feels it’s his right to remove an entire shelf of books from the poetry section and use the then-empty shelf as his personal coffee table. He comes to the store in the evenings, but when he was a morning customer, he was joined by the likes of:
2) Motorcycle Man, who is also still a regular and who earned his name because of the dirt bike attached to the back of his truck. The truck, it seems, is his bedroom, while Barnes and Noble, he seems to think, is his living room. Then there’s
3) Obsessive-Compulsive Lady Part 1, who used to grab a stack of books, sit on the floor in the children’s section, and tear tiny pieces off the corners of every page, creating a sea of tiny white scraps all around her. She was soon asked to leave and was replaced by
4) Obsessive-Compulsive Lady Part 2, who comes in every morning and has to move a table in the children’s section over about 1 ½ inches before she can comfortably sit and do whatever the hell it is she does all day.
5) Que Buena, a Hispanic man who hangs around the magazine section and, when a girl he likes walks by, stares her down and says in a thick accent, “Oh…My…God” real slowly, the words dragging out and morphing together in one long, creepy mantra.
6) Thank goodness, not a regular, is the man who was sitting in (again) the children’s section of all logical places, and masturbating while reading (naturally) a math book. Yes, I said masturbating. Yes, I said a math book. Somehow, this escaped the notice of not only all the employees working, but the plainclothes security men as well. He was only discovered, in fact, when the fruits of his labor landed (yes landed) on the leg of a woman sitting nearby, who screamed and went home to change, sanitize, and tell her husband. She returned shortly thereafter to tell the manager, who was amazed to find the man still seated right where she’d left him, still reading the same sexy math book. He was shocked to be asked to leave and insisted on a full explanation of what was wrong with his being there.
7) There was the man who was caught stealing but who managed to escape security losing only his backpack. They opened it to see what all he’d taken and also discovered hypodermic needles and a small stash of what they figured must be heroin. He returned a little while later, asking for his backpack, and ended up going into a full-on seizure in, of course, the children’s section.
It’s a wonder there are still parents willing to take their kids there. Luckily, I was not there to witness those last two incidents.
Once, an employee found these romantic items in a lady’s bathroom stall: an empty half-bottle of champagne, an empty box of stolen Godiva chocolates, and a pair of lady’s panties. If that doesn’t make it into the Date Hall of Fame!
These are clearly the extreme examples and not a fair representation of the knowledge-hungry folks who comprise most of our clientele. And it’s not even them who prompted me to write this. It was the woman who called the other day with a four-book long list of requests. The first book, we had in the store. The second and third I happily ordered for her, but the fourth was one we couldn’t get because there weren’t any in our warehouses and the publisher information was not provided.
Her: What do you mean you can’t get it?!
Me: Well, it’s not available from any of our warehouses.
Her: Can’t you call the publisher?!
Me: Sometimes we can, but this publisher’s information is not provided. It’s possible you’d have better luck at Borders(?)
Her: What’s Borders?
Me: Another bookstore, like ours.
Her: Can you call them, then?
Me: You want me to call Borders?
Her: Yeah, call them.
I should say here that her request might have stood a chance of being honored if she weren’t so rude.
Me: I’m sorry, we’re not really in the practice of making business for our competitor.
And this is where the non sequitur of all non sequiturs came:
Her: Can’t you call them for me?! I have a bad back!
I think the fact that most customers are familiar with this “Customer is always right” business just works to perpetuate their spoiled, demanding behavior. A person should be able to work in the service industry and still retain a decent amount of integrity, no? Just ask the manager who was lucky enough to have to clean up what didn’t land on the leg of sexy math man’s poor victim: Some customers are not only not right: They’re just wrong. Just really, really, really wrong.
And how did we do this? Well that’s easy. Someone, somewhere, in some fluorescent lit conference room came up with the phrase that would become the bane of retail and restaurant workers from then until somebody comes up with a truer (and yet equally profitable) phrase…the phrase, of course, being “The customer is always right.”
Whoever came up with that phrase couldn’t possibly have been in contact with any actual customers, or at least not the kind who hang around bookstores. I know what you all are thinking (I used to think it myself)…The bookstore—what a mellow place to work. What a nice environment. Books. What could be better than working around books all day? And to be honest, that’s mostly true. But there’s a definite, lurking danger hidden below, around, and inside words like “mostly”—that danger being what “mostly” doesn’t include.
Some examples:
1) Golf Club Guy, who’s been an everyday regular since the first time I worked at Barnes and Noble, about 3 years ago. He earned his nickname by bringing (you guessed it) his golf clubs to the store with him and practicing his swing in the parking lot. As far as I know, the man has never purchased anything more than a cup of coffee, and yet he still feels it’s his right to remove an entire shelf of books from the poetry section and use the then-empty shelf as his personal coffee table. He comes to the store in the evenings, but when he was a morning customer, he was joined by the likes of:
2) Motorcycle Man, who is also still a regular and who earned his name because of the dirt bike attached to the back of his truck. The truck, it seems, is his bedroom, while Barnes and Noble, he seems to think, is his living room. Then there’s
3) Obsessive-Compulsive Lady Part 1, who used to grab a stack of books, sit on the floor in the children’s section, and tear tiny pieces off the corners of every page, creating a sea of tiny white scraps all around her. She was soon asked to leave and was replaced by
4) Obsessive-Compulsive Lady Part 2, who comes in every morning and has to move a table in the children’s section over about 1 ½ inches before she can comfortably sit and do whatever the hell it is she does all day.
5) Que Buena, a Hispanic man who hangs around the magazine section and, when a girl he likes walks by, stares her down and says in a thick accent, “Oh…My…God” real slowly, the words dragging out and morphing together in one long, creepy mantra.
6) Thank goodness, not a regular, is the man who was sitting in (again) the children’s section of all logical places, and masturbating while reading (naturally) a math book. Yes, I said masturbating. Yes, I said a math book. Somehow, this escaped the notice of not only all the employees working, but the plainclothes security men as well. He was only discovered, in fact, when the fruits of his labor landed (yes landed) on the leg of a woman sitting nearby, who screamed and went home to change, sanitize, and tell her husband. She returned shortly thereafter to tell the manager, who was amazed to find the man still seated right where she’d left him, still reading the same sexy math book. He was shocked to be asked to leave and insisted on a full explanation of what was wrong with his being there.
7) There was the man who was caught stealing but who managed to escape security losing only his backpack. They opened it to see what all he’d taken and also discovered hypodermic needles and a small stash of what they figured must be heroin. He returned a little while later, asking for his backpack, and ended up going into a full-on seizure in, of course, the children’s section.
It’s a wonder there are still parents willing to take their kids there. Luckily, I was not there to witness those last two incidents.
Once, an employee found these romantic items in a lady’s bathroom stall: an empty half-bottle of champagne, an empty box of stolen Godiva chocolates, and a pair of lady’s panties. If that doesn’t make it into the Date Hall of Fame!
These are clearly the extreme examples and not a fair representation of the knowledge-hungry folks who comprise most of our clientele. And it’s not even them who prompted me to write this. It was the woman who called the other day with a four-book long list of requests. The first book, we had in the store. The second and third I happily ordered for her, but the fourth was one we couldn’t get because there weren’t any in our warehouses and the publisher information was not provided.
Her: What do you mean you can’t get it?!
Me: Well, it’s not available from any of our warehouses.
Her: Can’t you call the publisher?!
Me: Sometimes we can, but this publisher’s information is not provided. It’s possible you’d have better luck at Borders(?)
Her: What’s Borders?
Me: Another bookstore, like ours.
Her: Can you call them, then?
Me: You want me to call Borders?
Her: Yeah, call them.
I should say here that her request might have stood a chance of being honored if she weren’t so rude.
Me: I’m sorry, we’re not really in the practice of making business for our competitor.
And this is where the non sequitur of all non sequiturs came:
Her: Can’t you call them for me?! I have a bad back!
I think the fact that most customers are familiar with this “Customer is always right” business just works to perpetuate their spoiled, demanding behavior. A person should be able to work in the service industry and still retain a decent amount of integrity, no? Just ask the manager who was lucky enough to have to clean up what didn’t land on the leg of sexy math man’s poor victim: Some customers are not only not right: They’re just wrong. Just really, really, really wrong.
Saturday, January 24, 2004
Mr. Bubble Gum Ring
On the bus a couple of evenings ago, I was kept entertained by a man and woman sitting at the front of the bus and talking (though they were seated right across the aisle from one another) as if there were miles between them. They seemed to know each other only marginally, through mutual halfway house friends (from what I could gather—and it’s not eavesdropping if the people are talking that loud). Regardless, when the woman discovered they were headed to the SAME halfway house just then (him because he lived there, her because her friend lived there), she sidled up next to him.
“Well, then I’ll sit next to you, since we’re going in the same direction,” she said. Then, nudging him, she added, “Hey there, Mister…Bubble…Gum…Ring. Huh huh.”
He giggled knowingly then, and the two of them sat there staring straight into each other’s eyes, “huh huh-ing” in a knowing and, then, surprisingly familiar way.
I say surprising because, at that point, she put her arm around him (he responded by warning her he was sick) and then he said, “Charlene, right?”
And she said, “Dor-een.”
And he said, “I was close enough.” Which she apparently agreed with, because when he asked, she agreed to stop with him for a soda at Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way to where they were going.
I was rapt the entire way home, listening for any clue into what “Mister Bubble Gum Ring” might have been referring to. Did he wear such a ring? Had he once given her one? What is a bubble gum ring, anyway? It sounded kinky, the way she said it, but “kinky” didn’t really seem an applicable term for either party. Who can say about those types of things, though?
I love the bus.
A few years ago, I was sitting on the 22 (Eastridge Mall to Palo Alto Caltrain Station) when a man and woman (not together but having apparently struck up a conversation at the bus stop) boarded, both with chocolate rings around their mouths. She was carrying a big, Costco-sized container of chocolate muffins, which she had, by all outward appearances, been kind enough to share.
[I’d seen the woman before. We’d once been sitting at the same bus stop and she told me about having worked twenty-some years at the now-defunct Del Monte canning plant in San Jose before deciding to take an office job. She advised me against taking such a job (secretary), because “the men, you know, they only want one thing.” I’d been facing forward, and when it became clear she wasn’t going to continue that sentence, I looked at her to find her making that finger-sliding-in-and-out-of-a-hole-made-by-the-other-thumb-and-forefinger motion while watching me with a raised eyebrow. Ohmigod!]
Anyway, the man seemed about her age (mid- to late-50’s), and wasn’t so much talking with her as listening to her.
She talked about things I can’t remember now, and then stood abruptly when she realized we had reached her stop. Though the man had said absolutely nothing the entire way, when she stood, she shook his hand and said, “I wish you well. You seem like a lovely person.”
His response was, “I am.”
That’s it. No “thank you.” No humble “puh-shaw” and dismissive waving-off. Just a simple, “I am.”
What I thought was so great about this transaction was that “lovely” would rank about 9,987 on a list of 10,000 adjectives I would have thought of in describing this man. He was very large and very stinky with a scraggly beard and crooked teeth and, you’ll remember, a big chocolate ring around his mouth.
But that was only on the outside. Whatever it was he knew he had inside of him—whatever it was that made him lovely—she had seen it. He knew it was there and she had glimpsed it. And I thought that was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever witnessed. Imagine how different the world would be if everyone could honestly describe himself or herself as “lovely,” could accept a compliment that soberly and know it held within it some truth.
Or imagine if we all went around commenting on each other’s loveliness and sharing our chocolate muffins.
I think I had a vision of my dream world that day. Who’d have thought it would happen on the 22? I must always strive to keep my eyes and ears wide open. There are a million transpirings to witness and overhear in a day, and some of them--even on the Urinemobile of all Urinemobiles, the 22 bus--give me the kind of renewed hope that every person needs now and then to remind him or her of what's awe-inspiring, what's comical, what's worth it, in this world.
“Well, then I’ll sit next to you, since we’re going in the same direction,” she said. Then, nudging him, she added, “Hey there, Mister…Bubble…Gum…Ring. Huh huh.”
He giggled knowingly then, and the two of them sat there staring straight into each other’s eyes, “huh huh-ing” in a knowing and, then, surprisingly familiar way.
I say surprising because, at that point, she put her arm around him (he responded by warning her he was sick) and then he said, “Charlene, right?”
And she said, “Dor-een.”
And he said, “I was close enough.” Which she apparently agreed with, because when he asked, she agreed to stop with him for a soda at Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way to where they were going.
I was rapt the entire way home, listening for any clue into what “Mister Bubble Gum Ring” might have been referring to. Did he wear such a ring? Had he once given her one? What is a bubble gum ring, anyway? It sounded kinky, the way she said it, but “kinky” didn’t really seem an applicable term for either party. Who can say about those types of things, though?
I love the bus.
A few years ago, I was sitting on the 22 (Eastridge Mall to Palo Alto Caltrain Station) when a man and woman (not together but having apparently struck up a conversation at the bus stop) boarded, both with chocolate rings around their mouths. She was carrying a big, Costco-sized container of chocolate muffins, which she had, by all outward appearances, been kind enough to share.
[I’d seen the woman before. We’d once been sitting at the same bus stop and she told me about having worked twenty-some years at the now-defunct Del Monte canning plant in San Jose before deciding to take an office job. She advised me against taking such a job (secretary), because “the men, you know, they only want one thing.” I’d been facing forward, and when it became clear she wasn’t going to continue that sentence, I looked at her to find her making that finger-sliding-in-and-out-of-a-hole-made-by-the-other-thumb-and-forefinger motion while watching me with a raised eyebrow. Ohmigod!]
Anyway, the man seemed about her age (mid- to late-50’s), and wasn’t so much talking with her as listening to her.
She talked about things I can’t remember now, and then stood abruptly when she realized we had reached her stop. Though the man had said absolutely nothing the entire way, when she stood, she shook his hand and said, “I wish you well. You seem like a lovely person.”
His response was, “I am.”
That’s it. No “thank you.” No humble “puh-shaw” and dismissive waving-off. Just a simple, “I am.”
What I thought was so great about this transaction was that “lovely” would rank about 9,987 on a list of 10,000 adjectives I would have thought of in describing this man. He was very large and very stinky with a scraggly beard and crooked teeth and, you’ll remember, a big chocolate ring around his mouth.
But that was only on the outside. Whatever it was he knew he had inside of him—whatever it was that made him lovely—she had seen it. He knew it was there and she had glimpsed it. And I thought that was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever witnessed. Imagine how different the world would be if everyone could honestly describe himself or herself as “lovely,” could accept a compliment that soberly and know it held within it some truth.
Or imagine if we all went around commenting on each other’s loveliness and sharing our chocolate muffins.
I think I had a vision of my dream world that day. Who’d have thought it would happen on the 22? I must always strive to keep my eyes and ears wide open. There are a million transpirings to witness and overhear in a day, and some of them--even on the Urinemobile of all Urinemobiles, the 22 bus--give me the kind of renewed hope that every person needs now and then to remind him or her of what's awe-inspiring, what's comical, what's worth it, in this world.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Hoop-Jumping
Last month I took the CBEST (California Basic Education Skills Test) as a preliminary step in attaining my adult teaching credential. The CBEST isn’t known for putting its takers up to challenging mental feats of strength (it’s not like taking the GRE or the Bar Exam). Mostly, it’s just another hoop to jump through—a barrier between the school districts and the mobs of motley folk who would gladly take $110/day to substitute teach or $30/hour to teach ESL, if it were simply a matter of having the desire.
The CBEST had been a pain in my ass for a few months. I’d signed up to take it once, paying $20 more than the initial fee because I’d signed up late. Then I missed that exam because of car-borrowing schedule conflicts, which sucked. Two months later (when it was finally offered again) I signed up early enough to pay only the regular $40 the second time around, and made sure to have my travel plans well-outlined. That’s a total of $100 I paid in order for the state to tell me, on an official piece of (not just paper) stock paper, that I can convert fractions to percentages and identify the closest synonyms to obscure words like “strange,” or “ambiguous” if asked to do so.
The reading section was easy, the math a fun little blast from the past (I realized I hadn’t done any math—other than standard arithmetic—in ten! years), and then came the essays. Now, nobody likes an in-class essay (let alone 2!), and despite what y’all might think, English majors are no exception. It might be slightly easier for us to whip out lengthy, super cheese responses to the types of generic questions asked in these standardized tests, but it’s no less obnoxious.
The first question had something to do with whether or not we were currently living in something that could be considered “the best of times and the worst of times.” I don’t recall much about my response to that one except the main point being: we have a great deal of potential to be living in “the best of times” with scientific advances and what not, but that such potential was rendered null and void when advances were used for less-than-noble causes or when the worthy causes (i.e. treatment for HIV patients, or even basic healthcare) were like pipedreams for the majority of the county’s citizens—due to outrageous costs, etc, etc.
Anyway, the second question was a bit more tangible, though no less irritating to consider: “What is the single best piece of advice you’ve ever received?” For a stagnating 4 or so minutes, the only pieces of advice I could remember having received were, while incredibly practical, not the sort of responses you want to hand in to state-administered essay topics.
The first piece of advice was good for around-the-house matters: “Righty tighty, lefty loosey,” from my friend JD. If you’re unfamiliar with this phrase, it has to do with the direction for turning screws in order to produce the desired effect; I’ve used it many times in the year and a half or so since I learned it. Incidentally, this is close to what an ex-boyfriend deemed the best piece of advice he’d ever received from his father, which was: “Only an idiot screws a screw in too tightly.” Neither of those would have made much of an essay.
The second piece of advice I’ve considered invaluable came from my brother, about 6 years ago: “Beer before liquor, never been sicker…liquor before beer, never fear.” It’s not like I’m a big drinker, which is precisely why—come to think of it—a compact, rhyming, easily-remembered-even-when-already-a-little-bit-tipsy phrase like that has come in so handy—the two-line poem of sorts has more than made up for my lack of experience or marginal street smarts. How many toilet-hugging incidents were shrewdly sidestepped? How many “sick” days carefully preserved for bona fide illnesses? How many embarrassed apologies never uttered? Now, I should note here that there’s room for mention of wine in that little ditty (a point the owner of the wine bar downtown, my friend Nick, and any unfortunate witnesses to an unfortunate incident last winter will verify). Should it be considered liquor? Can it be safely mixed with anything? And what about warm alcoholic beverages like Sake, which just seem doomed for disaster by virtue of their being warm?
It’s not that I couldn’t have written an essay about this advice from my brother…look, I’m writing about it right now. It’s just that I shouldn’t. And I didn’t. What I did was make up a piece of advice that supposedly came from my Dad: “Never fail to recognize the lessons you can learn in the midst of a so-called failure,” or something like that. It’s exactly like something my Dad would say. My Mom, too, for that matter. And it's good advice. But it’s also like something you’d hear in an after school special or even from the Evil Dr. Phil. No matter how good the advice might be, it’s just not all that captivating to write about.
Is it so impossible to imagine that giving test-takers topics that are truly interesting would perhaps produce a better example of their best writing? Wouldn’t you have some pretty exciting responses to a question regarding the best and worst things about your first kiss? How about the shittiest day you remember? The time you walked out on a job and what brought you to that breaking point? What are the three most terrible (and yet true) things your ex-girlfriend could/would say about you? I suppose there are some censorship rules prohibiting the state from printing words like “shittiest” on standardized texts, but maybe it’s time we relax these puritan tendencies a bit.
With the new topics, they wouldn’t have to pay people so much to sit around and read these boring essays all damned day. It would be like a privilege—something they could get Masters students to do for next-to-nothing. Ok, maybe that’s exaggerating, but they sure would be easier to write. And they’d be more reflective of our personalities—isn’t that the most useful information anyway? What if some man’s shittiest day was the one that landed him in jail on charges of 2nd degree murder and racketeering? It might be a slightly better gauge of his appropriate place teaching children than some piece of advice his grandma handed down when he was 11. I guess that’s what the background checks are for, eh?
Just allow me my fantasies for now. I happen to believe standardized tests shouldn’t HAVE to be less fun than an enema.
The CBEST had been a pain in my ass for a few months. I’d signed up to take it once, paying $20 more than the initial fee because I’d signed up late. Then I missed that exam because of car-borrowing schedule conflicts, which sucked. Two months later (when it was finally offered again) I signed up early enough to pay only the regular $40 the second time around, and made sure to have my travel plans well-outlined. That’s a total of $100 I paid in order for the state to tell me, on an official piece of (not just paper) stock paper, that I can convert fractions to percentages and identify the closest synonyms to obscure words like “strange,” or “ambiguous” if asked to do so.
The reading section was easy, the math a fun little blast from the past (I realized I hadn’t done any math—other than standard arithmetic—in ten! years), and then came the essays. Now, nobody likes an in-class essay (let alone 2!), and despite what y’all might think, English majors are no exception. It might be slightly easier for us to whip out lengthy, super cheese responses to the types of generic questions asked in these standardized tests, but it’s no less obnoxious.
The first question had something to do with whether or not we were currently living in something that could be considered “the best of times and the worst of times.” I don’t recall much about my response to that one except the main point being: we have a great deal of potential to be living in “the best of times” with scientific advances and what not, but that such potential was rendered null and void when advances were used for less-than-noble causes or when the worthy causes (i.e. treatment for HIV patients, or even basic healthcare) were like pipedreams for the majority of the county’s citizens—due to outrageous costs, etc, etc.
Anyway, the second question was a bit more tangible, though no less irritating to consider: “What is the single best piece of advice you’ve ever received?” For a stagnating 4 or so minutes, the only pieces of advice I could remember having received were, while incredibly practical, not the sort of responses you want to hand in to state-administered essay topics.
The first piece of advice was good for around-the-house matters: “Righty tighty, lefty loosey,” from my friend JD. If you’re unfamiliar with this phrase, it has to do with the direction for turning screws in order to produce the desired effect; I’ve used it many times in the year and a half or so since I learned it. Incidentally, this is close to what an ex-boyfriend deemed the best piece of advice he’d ever received from his father, which was: “Only an idiot screws a screw in too tightly.” Neither of those would have made much of an essay.
The second piece of advice I’ve considered invaluable came from my brother, about 6 years ago: “Beer before liquor, never been sicker…liquor before beer, never fear.” It’s not like I’m a big drinker, which is precisely why—come to think of it—a compact, rhyming, easily-remembered-even-when-already-a-little-bit-tipsy phrase like that has come in so handy—the two-line poem of sorts has more than made up for my lack of experience or marginal street smarts. How many toilet-hugging incidents were shrewdly sidestepped? How many “sick” days carefully preserved for bona fide illnesses? How many embarrassed apologies never uttered? Now, I should note here that there’s room for mention of wine in that little ditty (a point the owner of the wine bar downtown, my friend Nick, and any unfortunate witnesses to an unfortunate incident last winter will verify). Should it be considered liquor? Can it be safely mixed with anything? And what about warm alcoholic beverages like Sake, which just seem doomed for disaster by virtue of their being warm?
It’s not that I couldn’t have written an essay about this advice from my brother…look, I’m writing about it right now. It’s just that I shouldn’t. And I didn’t. What I did was make up a piece of advice that supposedly came from my Dad: “Never fail to recognize the lessons you can learn in the midst of a so-called failure,” or something like that. It’s exactly like something my Dad would say. My Mom, too, for that matter. And it's good advice. But it’s also like something you’d hear in an after school special or even from the Evil Dr. Phil. No matter how good the advice might be, it’s just not all that captivating to write about.
Is it so impossible to imagine that giving test-takers topics that are truly interesting would perhaps produce a better example of their best writing? Wouldn’t you have some pretty exciting responses to a question regarding the best and worst things about your first kiss? How about the shittiest day you remember? The time you walked out on a job and what brought you to that breaking point? What are the three most terrible (and yet true) things your ex-girlfriend could/would say about you? I suppose there are some censorship rules prohibiting the state from printing words like “shittiest” on standardized texts, but maybe it’s time we relax these puritan tendencies a bit.
With the new topics, they wouldn’t have to pay people so much to sit around and read these boring essays all damned day. It would be like a privilege—something they could get Masters students to do for next-to-nothing. Ok, maybe that’s exaggerating, but they sure would be easier to write. And they’d be more reflective of our personalities—isn’t that the most useful information anyway? What if some man’s shittiest day was the one that landed him in jail on charges of 2nd degree murder and racketeering? It might be a slightly better gauge of his appropriate place teaching children than some piece of advice his grandma handed down when he was 11. I guess that’s what the background checks are for, eh?
Just allow me my fantasies for now. I happen to believe standardized tests shouldn’t HAVE to be less fun than an enema.
Friday, January 16, 2004
Loves or Wants to Kill You
It had been a peaceful bus ride until then—a group of elementary school kids tend to pull one’s attention away from even the most mundane reading (and this was far from—a recommendation from a friend…Chalmers Johnson’s “Sorrows of Empire”…most excellent and disturbing critique of the current administration). I was a little annoyed at the disturbance. But once I decided the reading was a wash, I was happy to sit there and eavesdrop. Kids are so damned cute without even trying.
There were about six of them—third graders, I’m thinking. Loud, loud, loud. There was an elderly man sitting next to two of them, and I initially thought he was lamenting his deplorable choice of seating, but it turns out he was quite taken. The chaperone had told this one little boy that he should tie his shoes so he didn’t trip. The kid made a face and pretty much ignored her. Then the old man said:
“You may not want to, but it’ll make her happy. That’s the reason men do things. There, I’ve let you in on one of the secrets.”
BOY #1: Then you get her heart?
MAN: (laughing) Hey! That’s the other secret!
BOY #2: I already knew both those secrets. I like a girl. She hates me.
GIRL #1: Yeah, and her name’s A-man-da!
(laughter all around)
BOY #2: So?
He looked down at the ground then and smiled a super shy smile revealing two dimples. So stinkin’ cute!!
A conversation ensued regarding what these boys knew about women.
KID #1: Actually, I learned another lesson: girls can talk a realllllly long time.
KID #2: Yeah, and they like to yell.
I thought maybe they were talking about their mothers until Kid #1 chimed in again
KID #1: When I don’t listen to my sisters, I’m a REAL man…I think.
Apparently, the women these boys know just love to scream and fight, cuz
KID #2: The girl I like? She wants to kill me.
I was laughing so hard. Kill him? Goodness! They certainly knew they had a captive audience, so I think this group was perhaps more animated than usual, but then maybe not. If you never spend any time around children, I can tell you it’s worth the strain on your patience (if you're not-so-kid-inclined) just to hear how they interact and try to remember having that kind of outlook.
Things are pretty clear: either a girl likes you back (not bloody likely, in the 3rd grade), or she wants to kill you. Makes things pretty easy, no?
Can you imagine such conversations in the grown-up world?
John: Hey what about that chic from marketing…did you ask her out?
Rick: Naw. I haven’t.
John: Well, what’s your take? Does she like you?
Rick: No, actually, she wants to kill me.
John: Tough luck, man.
I’m calling for all-out, across the board regression, just to simplify matters.
P.S. The kid actually tripped when he got off on account of not tying his shoelace. If men would just listen to women...
There were about six of them—third graders, I’m thinking. Loud, loud, loud. There was an elderly man sitting next to two of them, and I initially thought he was lamenting his deplorable choice of seating, but it turns out he was quite taken. The chaperone had told this one little boy that he should tie his shoes so he didn’t trip. The kid made a face and pretty much ignored her. Then the old man said:
“You may not want to, but it’ll make her happy. That’s the reason men do things. There, I’ve let you in on one of the secrets.”
BOY #1: Then you get her heart?
MAN: (laughing) Hey! That’s the other secret!
BOY #2: I already knew both those secrets. I like a girl. She hates me.
GIRL #1: Yeah, and her name’s A-man-da!
(laughter all around)
BOY #2: So?
He looked down at the ground then and smiled a super shy smile revealing two dimples. So stinkin’ cute!!
A conversation ensued regarding what these boys knew about women.
KID #1: Actually, I learned another lesson: girls can talk a realllllly long time.
KID #2: Yeah, and they like to yell.
I thought maybe they were talking about their mothers until Kid #1 chimed in again
KID #1: When I don’t listen to my sisters, I’m a REAL man…I think.
Apparently, the women these boys know just love to scream and fight, cuz
KID #2: The girl I like? She wants to kill me.
I was laughing so hard. Kill him? Goodness! They certainly knew they had a captive audience, so I think this group was perhaps more animated than usual, but then maybe not. If you never spend any time around children, I can tell you it’s worth the strain on your patience (if you're not-so-kid-inclined) just to hear how they interact and try to remember having that kind of outlook.
Things are pretty clear: either a girl likes you back (not bloody likely, in the 3rd grade), or she wants to kill you. Makes things pretty easy, no?
Can you imagine such conversations in the grown-up world?
John: Hey what about that chic from marketing…did you ask her out?
Rick: Naw. I haven’t.
John: Well, what’s your take? Does she like you?
Rick: No, actually, she wants to kill me.
John: Tough luck, man.
I’m calling for all-out, across the board regression, just to simplify matters.
P.S. The kid actually tripped when he got off on account of not tying his shoelace. If men would just listen to women...
Friday, January 09, 2004
[sic]
“This check cashing place stoled [sic] $85 from me.”
So read the message painstakingly markered on a sandwich board worn by the one-man picket line I saw downtown yesterday. I didn’t stop to get the details; I figured he must have a legitimate beef if he’s willing to stand in the cold and explain his plight to complacent passers-by. And yet I wondered how much that “stoled” was taking away from the serious reception of his message. Or was it just me?
See, I’ve been thinking a lot about language lately.
There’s a sign outside a furniture store near my place of work that advertises a free entry into a drawing for a harly davisons motorclcye, free with every purchased. I have to say there’s something about those and other errors on that sign that make me leery of shopping at that store. A little part of me fears I won’t be able to communicate with the people who work there.
I don’t like that part of me.
What’s that statistic say? That something like 90% of all messages are transmitted and received non-verbally? I’m not sure how They calculate these things in clear statistics like that, but it certainly feels true. So why should poor grammar be such a roadblock for me?
I’ve just begun the process of getting credentialed to teach adult English as a Second Language. This seems a good fit for me—I love language and (just as I enjoy learning other languages) will enjoy helping others communicate better in English. It’s something I’ve been doing informally for a while anyway, and I think what motivates me is my own awareness of sounding like a mentally challenged third-grader when speaking either of my two foreign languages.
Have you ever had a relationship (even a brief one—a.k.a. a fling) in another language? There’s something very frustrating about wanting to say, perhaps, “There’s this look you have that’s very arresting in nature. I feel somewhat off-balance when you look at me like that—like you know something I don’t and would regret knowing if I did,” and instead saying something about the equivalent of “Your face makes me sad.”
So, last summer when I was in Malta and a German acquaintance said things like, “We are having these [zeez] meetings all the [zuh] time in the [zuh] mornings,” I would (at his request, of course, that I help him with his English) explain how and why “we have meetings every morning” is a sufficient and more common way of expressing the same idea.
But then, there are infinitely many ways to convey a message, and aren't the idiosyncratic expressions of second-language learners what make their speech so captivating? Really, is “your face makes me sad” that far off base?
I’ve traveled a little distance, however, from my original point, which was that a few letters can make a big difference in whether or not one’s true intention will be effectively communicated. This idea hit home one day when I was in high school and my Mom, who’s really named Carmelita Konrad, received a letter addressed to Carnekuta Jibrad (say it aloud in a mean voice—it sounds really intimidating). It seems whoever typed the envelope had his or her right hand over to the left by one key [what does your name become? I’m Jusa Jibrad or Losa Lpmrad, depending on in which direction I’m off].
If I were into New Year’s resolutions, I’d resolve not to equate poor spelling and grammar with bad ideas or a lack of intelligence. It’s not like I do this, ultimately, now—but I’m tempted sometimes and I don’t like that. Even if grammatical skills were a true measure of one’s intelligence, it would be, at most, one type of intelligence out of many. Would Nietzsche have needed the ability to spell Nietzsche in order to prove the worth of his ideas? Kahlil Gibran? What of those who don’t even communicate their ideas in words—or more interestingly—their art, their emotions, their music?
It’s a process, though. So if you write me an e-mail that doesn’t contain a single period and says things like “whose comming to you’re party besides myself?” and it takes me a day or two to recover and respond, please forgive me. You can laugh at my ill-fated attempts at baking, my inability to stay in one key while singing, the fact that I can't do a single pull-up, or my complete incapacity to “get” double entendres all you want. I’ll understand.
So read the message painstakingly markered on a sandwich board worn by the one-man picket line I saw downtown yesterday. I didn’t stop to get the details; I figured he must have a legitimate beef if he’s willing to stand in the cold and explain his plight to complacent passers-by. And yet I wondered how much that “stoled” was taking away from the serious reception of his message. Or was it just me?
See, I’ve been thinking a lot about language lately.
There’s a sign outside a furniture store near my place of work that advertises a free entry into a drawing for a harly davisons motorclcye, free with every purchased. I have to say there’s something about those and other errors on that sign that make me leery of shopping at that store. A little part of me fears I won’t be able to communicate with the people who work there.
I don’t like that part of me.
What’s that statistic say? That something like 90% of all messages are transmitted and received non-verbally? I’m not sure how They calculate these things in clear statistics like that, but it certainly feels true. So why should poor grammar be such a roadblock for me?
I’ve just begun the process of getting credentialed to teach adult English as a Second Language. This seems a good fit for me—I love language and (just as I enjoy learning other languages) will enjoy helping others communicate better in English. It’s something I’ve been doing informally for a while anyway, and I think what motivates me is my own awareness of sounding like a mentally challenged third-grader when speaking either of my two foreign languages.
Have you ever had a relationship (even a brief one—a.k.a. a fling) in another language? There’s something very frustrating about wanting to say, perhaps, “There’s this look you have that’s very arresting in nature. I feel somewhat off-balance when you look at me like that—like you know something I don’t and would regret knowing if I did,” and instead saying something about the equivalent of “Your face makes me sad.”
So, last summer when I was in Malta and a German acquaintance said things like, “We are having these [zeez] meetings all the [zuh] time in the [zuh] mornings,” I would (at his request, of course, that I help him with his English) explain how and why “we have meetings every morning” is a sufficient and more common way of expressing the same idea.
But then, there are infinitely many ways to convey a message, and aren't the idiosyncratic expressions of second-language learners what make their speech so captivating? Really, is “your face makes me sad” that far off base?
I’ve traveled a little distance, however, from my original point, which was that a few letters can make a big difference in whether or not one’s true intention will be effectively communicated. This idea hit home one day when I was in high school and my Mom, who’s really named Carmelita Konrad, received a letter addressed to Carnekuta Jibrad (say it aloud in a mean voice—it sounds really intimidating). It seems whoever typed the envelope had his or her right hand over to the left by one key [what does your name become? I’m Jusa Jibrad or Losa Lpmrad, depending on in which direction I’m off].
If I were into New Year’s resolutions, I’d resolve not to equate poor spelling and grammar with bad ideas or a lack of intelligence. It’s not like I do this, ultimately, now—but I’m tempted sometimes and I don’t like that. Even if grammatical skills were a true measure of one’s intelligence, it would be, at most, one type of intelligence out of many. Would Nietzsche have needed the ability to spell Nietzsche in order to prove the worth of his ideas? Kahlil Gibran? What of those who don’t even communicate their ideas in words—or more interestingly—their art, their emotions, their music?
It’s a process, though. So if you write me an e-mail that doesn’t contain a single period and says things like “whose comming to you’re party besides myself?” and it takes me a day or two to recover and respond, please forgive me. You can laugh at my ill-fated attempts at baking, my inability to stay in one key while singing, the fact that I can't do a single pull-up, or my complete incapacity to “get” double entendres all you want. I’ll understand.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Glaring Gloppies
When Kelsi and I decided to find a place together, we had a pretty substantial list of requirements. I won't bore with ALL the details, but we were looking for things like good natural light, a kitchen that opened to other living spaces, a bit of space separating the bedrooms, etc., etc. Our new place meets nearly every requirement, with two exceptions. I'd wanted laundry on the premises and she'd wanted a fireplace. We settled for a bi-weekly jaunt to our most favorite laundrymat and employing the two central heating systems in our apartment. All was good, except, that is, one thing...
...see, there was this pigeon shit to contend with.
Honestly, I didn't really feel the bird shit represented a force to contend with, per se. But my gal Kelsi--when she gets an idea in her head... :)
The thing is that the view from our little dining area is less-than-breathtaking. The many-windowed wall faces a large, Victorian house next door whose adjacent wall just happens(ed) to be covered in the droppings of the two birds who'd made a love nest of the tiny stoop above. Before we moved in, Kelsi mentioned to our soon-to-be landlord and landlady (on separate occasions) that she'd like to have an improved view, and she asked for their suggestions.
The landlady suggested we talk to the owner of the house next door and see if she'd mind our cleaning it. Logical.
The landlord was slightly more, shall I say, proactive (?). In addition to bringing over a large ladder and some kind of high-powered cleaning agent, he (how to say this delicately?) saw to it that the pigeons, well, uh, met with an accident.
Horrible! I know. If I'd known that was going to be part of his solution, I would never have let Kelsi mention it to him.
But anyway, we were then free to clean the droppings ourselves. There was some downtime though...it rained or we didn't have the time or it was dark or we didn't have the cleaning stuff yet. It was during this downtime that I came to understand just how big a stick in Kelsi's spokes this bird shit thing was. There was more than one occassion when I walked out of the hallway to find her gazing disconcertedly out the window at the poo. I'd laugh--I couldn't help it; she reminded me of the grocer in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" who was always driving into the Walmart-like, small business-crushing Food Mart's parking lot and staring up at the big sign, no doubt wondering where he went wrong, what he did to deserve this lot in life. It would take her a second to realize why I was laughing, why I began to fear she was being overtaken with thoughts of these...damned...pigeons (clenched fist, clenched teeth)!!!!!
I'd been thankful for the post-poning rain and for my absense over the holidays because, as you can imagine, scraping bird droppings off high-up places atop rickety ladders is, while ranking high, just not The Highest on my list of fun ways to pass the time. But finally, the rain cleared, the sun came out, we had the cleaning stuff and the time and (50% of us anyway) the drive. I'd kept thinking the problem would take care of itself (an inclination I'd like to blame--as I blame so many of my other undesirable qualities--on my Gemini-ness), but alas, problems don't generally work that way. [Incidentally, when one group of birds meets with an accident, others are happy to move in--just so you and YOUR sniper landlord know]
The day of reckoning came last Friday.
Even as the day was upon us, I tried to delay.
I took an extra long bath in the morning.
I mentioned that maybe, for who knows what reason, the following day might be an even BETTER day to clean bird poop!
I took to a bit of pouting, pointing out how it was my first day off in 7 and blah blah blah.
But that didn't last long. After all, who really wants to look at bird droppings when eating?
I was about 8 steps up the ladder when I realized this was one of those things I'd be telling Kelsi's future children about: "And yet another thing your mama somehow convinced me was a good idea..."
See, I have a serious ladder phobia. I discovered this only after I was hired to work at Pier 1 Imports about 9 years ago, where climbing to the very tops of ladders and flinging huge, off-balanced floor pillows onto and off of shelves overhead is just part of the daily grind. Four years after that and about 10 jobs later I graduated to even taller ladders at Target, flinging even heavier objects like King-sized comforters. Strangely enough, however, ladder phobias don't really go away.
So I did wonder how far I'd have to fall to ensure my spot in next year's "Darwin Awards" book. I can hear Kelsi's quote now: "She was reaching over...see, there was this especially menacing little chunk, a bit yellowish with a big gloppy hanging off... I asked her could she please grab that one while she was up there and the next thing I knew..."
Obviously, however, I survived the ordeal. 'Cept the rain starting down in sheets just as we were folding up the ladders. I was soaked through and through by the time I'd rolled up the neighbor's hose and made quick waste of the newly bio-hazarded scrubbing agents.
I giggled up the back steps, tugged my red, dripping wet Chuck Taylors off my feet, and thanked the universe for yet another ridiculous memory to tuck into the folds of my joyful life.
And I've never quite enjoyed a homecooked meal so much as the blueberry pancakes we shared while gazing out the breakfast nook window at our new, gleaming and glowing, dookie-free wall.
Sometimes, you just gotta clear away the shit.
...see, there was this pigeon shit to contend with.
Honestly, I didn't really feel the bird shit represented a force to contend with, per se. But my gal Kelsi--when she gets an idea in her head... :)
The thing is that the view from our little dining area is less-than-breathtaking. The many-windowed wall faces a large, Victorian house next door whose adjacent wall just happens(ed) to be covered in the droppings of the two birds who'd made a love nest of the tiny stoop above. Before we moved in, Kelsi mentioned to our soon-to-be landlord and landlady (on separate occasions) that she'd like to have an improved view, and she asked for their suggestions.
The landlady suggested we talk to the owner of the house next door and see if she'd mind our cleaning it. Logical.
The landlord was slightly more, shall I say, proactive (?). In addition to bringing over a large ladder and some kind of high-powered cleaning agent, he (how to say this delicately?) saw to it that the pigeons, well, uh, met with an accident.
Horrible! I know. If I'd known that was going to be part of his solution, I would never have let Kelsi mention it to him.
But anyway, we were then free to clean the droppings ourselves. There was some downtime though...it rained or we didn't have the time or it was dark or we didn't have the cleaning stuff yet. It was during this downtime that I came to understand just how big a stick in Kelsi's spokes this bird shit thing was. There was more than one occassion when I walked out of the hallway to find her gazing disconcertedly out the window at the poo. I'd laugh--I couldn't help it; she reminded me of the grocer in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" who was always driving into the Walmart-like, small business-crushing Food Mart's parking lot and staring up at the big sign, no doubt wondering where he went wrong, what he did to deserve this lot in life. It would take her a second to realize why I was laughing, why I began to fear she was being overtaken with thoughts of these...damned...pigeons (clenched fist, clenched teeth)!!!!!
I'd been thankful for the post-poning rain and for my absense over the holidays because, as you can imagine, scraping bird droppings off high-up places atop rickety ladders is, while ranking high, just not The Highest on my list of fun ways to pass the time. But finally, the rain cleared, the sun came out, we had the cleaning stuff and the time and (50% of us anyway) the drive. I'd kept thinking the problem would take care of itself (an inclination I'd like to blame--as I blame so many of my other undesirable qualities--on my Gemini-ness), but alas, problems don't generally work that way. [Incidentally, when one group of birds meets with an accident, others are happy to move in--just so you and YOUR sniper landlord know]
The day of reckoning came last Friday.
Even as the day was upon us, I tried to delay.
I took an extra long bath in the morning.
I mentioned that maybe, for who knows what reason, the following day might be an even BETTER day to clean bird poop!
I took to a bit of pouting, pointing out how it was my first day off in 7 and blah blah blah.
But that didn't last long. After all, who really wants to look at bird droppings when eating?
I was about 8 steps up the ladder when I realized this was one of those things I'd be telling Kelsi's future children about: "And yet another thing your mama somehow convinced me was a good idea..."
See, I have a serious ladder phobia. I discovered this only after I was hired to work at Pier 1 Imports about 9 years ago, where climbing to the very tops of ladders and flinging huge, off-balanced floor pillows onto and off of shelves overhead is just part of the daily grind. Four years after that and about 10 jobs later I graduated to even taller ladders at Target, flinging even heavier objects like King-sized comforters. Strangely enough, however, ladder phobias don't really go away.
So I did wonder how far I'd have to fall to ensure my spot in next year's "Darwin Awards" book. I can hear Kelsi's quote now: "She was reaching over...see, there was this especially menacing little chunk, a bit yellowish with a big gloppy hanging off... I asked her could she please grab that one while she was up there and the next thing I knew..."
Obviously, however, I survived the ordeal. 'Cept the rain starting down in sheets just as we were folding up the ladders. I was soaked through and through by the time I'd rolled up the neighbor's hose and made quick waste of the newly bio-hazarded scrubbing agents.
I giggled up the back steps, tugged my red, dripping wet Chuck Taylors off my feet, and thanked the universe for yet another ridiculous memory to tuck into the folds of my joyful life.
And I've never quite enjoyed a homecooked meal so much as the blueberry pancakes we shared while gazing out the breakfast nook window at our new, gleaming and glowing, dookie-free wall.
Sometimes, you just gotta clear away the shit.
Friday, January 02, 2004
Reunited (and it feels so good)
At the kind request of one of my international readers (ok, my only international reader), I've decided to take up my blog again and write for the simple satisfaction of it while trying to convince some-body/company/entity to pay me for my efforts.
So, a lot has happened since I last wrote--since, for example, I forewent the hare-brained idea of making a living in Los Angeles. Den of despair! I shouldn't say that. I know plenty of people who are, in fact, very happy living in the city of would-be angels; I just didn't happen to count myself among them.
As was customary in recent years, I made sure to be in San Jose for the annual jazz festival. My return to L.A. was to happen the following Tuesday, but when that afternoon arrived I found myself physically incapable (or more likely, simply unwilling) to board the lighting-fast, Greyhound bus that was to take me there. San Jose is indeed the place for me.
I pitched a tent in the living room of my dear friends, Nicole and Raul (and Maya too) and set out to find gainful employment, which I found (well, employment anyway) without too much delay. Two months later I moved into a groovy (umm) flat, we'll call it, with my best gal Kelsi, and that brings me about to present.
I'm still looking for the job I went into student loan debt for...the one that would make all the late-night term papers worth the trouble (and that is, of course, the most pessimistic viewpoint...the education WAS worth the effort in its own right...but it will be infinitely MORE worth it when I have the means to begin paying off those student loans, you dig?)
In the meantime I've been back at an old haunt--Barnes and Noble--which is among the most pleasant environments one might find when it comes to working retail. It's especially nice to be working in a Barnes and Noble in one of the most liberal areas of the country, where requests for Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them outnumber those for Bill O'Reilly's Who's Looking Out for You? by about 25-0 and the Evil Anne Coulter's book sits in heaping mounds, growing dusty, under a display table.
And that's the short of it, for now. I'm going to start writing more consistently, sharing some of my favorite public transportation tales of horror, along with other daily observations and embarrassing moments and good news as well.
Hope all is well--whoever you are, reading this, and wherever you might be.
So, a lot has happened since I last wrote--since, for example, I forewent the hare-brained idea of making a living in Los Angeles. Den of despair! I shouldn't say that. I know plenty of people who are, in fact, very happy living in the city of would-be angels; I just didn't happen to count myself among them.
As was customary in recent years, I made sure to be in San Jose for the annual jazz festival. My return to L.A. was to happen the following Tuesday, but when that afternoon arrived I found myself physically incapable (or more likely, simply unwilling) to board the lighting-fast, Greyhound bus that was to take me there. San Jose is indeed the place for me.
I pitched a tent in the living room of my dear friends, Nicole and Raul (and Maya too) and set out to find gainful employment, which I found (well, employment anyway) without too much delay. Two months later I moved into a groovy (umm) flat, we'll call it, with my best gal Kelsi, and that brings me about to present.
I'm still looking for the job I went into student loan debt for...the one that would make all the late-night term papers worth the trouble (and that is, of course, the most pessimistic viewpoint...the education WAS worth the effort in its own right...but it will be infinitely MORE worth it when I have the means to begin paying off those student loans, you dig?)
In the meantime I've been back at an old haunt--Barnes and Noble--which is among the most pleasant environments one might find when it comes to working retail. It's especially nice to be working in a Barnes and Noble in one of the most liberal areas of the country, where requests for Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them outnumber those for Bill O'Reilly's Who's Looking Out for You? by about 25-0 and the Evil Anne Coulter's book sits in heaping mounds, growing dusty, under a display table.
And that's the short of it, for now. I'm going to start writing more consistently, sharing some of my favorite public transportation tales of horror, along with other daily observations and embarrassing moments and good news as well.
Hope all is well--whoever you are, reading this, and wherever you might be.
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