I'm pretty sure that's it for Audblog. For me, I mean.
I will not rob anyone that reads me of the ability to skim down the page when I get boring, stop making sense, or become too drunk to type properly.
It's just common courtesy.
* * * *
Speaking of work, I guess I have been looking particularly young tonight. Most of the people I work with are younger than me. But I've been told I act like a big kid.
As we all turned in our paperwork at the end of the day, I was asked,
"Wait, so how old are you?"
"I am 21 years old, which means I'll be having a lot more fun tonight than any of you," I said with a grin.
I heard someone behind me laugh and say, "Now that's real."
* * * * *
More Obscure-Work-References-To-Old-Cartoons Humor:
Potential blood donor: "I can't donate, I'm taking autobiotics."
Me: "Oh, okay. You'll be eligible to donate after you've been off them for three days." (But thinking:) "Oh are your Decepticons flaring up again?"
* * * * *
I'm taking Luis to see a play today. It's "A Christmas Carol," a play that has a special place in my heart. After today, I should be able to whittle away a couple of those requests.
Saturday, December 13, 2003
Friday, December 12, 2003
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Not Too Long Ago, In San Diego
Nick G, Brian Y, and Guillermo sitting on the beach. (Here, the part of Guillermo is being played here by a small, black, bag.)
We all sat on the beach and alternately read and slept. Nick was reading Edgar Allen Poe, I was reading Transmetropolitan, and I forgot what Brian was reading.
I made a friend on the beach; a seagull that I named, "Beakface."
I later played capoeira in the sand. (I learned that handstands and cartwheels are much more difficult to perform in wet sand.) I also waded into the water, getting the bottom of my jeans wet. It was all part of my master plan to completely distinguish myself as a tourist.
I miss San Diego. I miss Spider Jerusalem.
I miss Beakface.
Later, in Anaheim, as we waited grimly for the shuttle that would transport us magically to the happiest place on Earth.
And by "magically" I mean by an old ex-Marine who asked me if I was in the military. It's a bit unsettling how the older soldiers are able to spot others who have been in the armed forces. It's particularly unsettling for me, given my not-so-spotless standing with the United States Army.
But that's Brian, Nick, a small, black, bag, and Shea. (Here, the part of the small, black, bag is being played by Guillermo.)
And, for no other reason than because she mentioned that she had seen my blog and thought it was "weird," here's a picture of Morgan:
Now who's "weird?!"
"Caw! Caw!"
You said it, Beakface!
Monday, December 08, 2003
Speaking of Things That Have Been Tormenting Me
After reading Charles Lutwidge Dodgson's (aka Lewis Carroll) Alice In Wonderland, I found myself tormented by the riddle, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" I thought, "Because they both have quills?" But it seemed a bit obvious, and not at all funny, which I felt a riddle should be.
I suppose I failed to take into account that it was British humor. Er, humour.
I also think that I should have also realized that it might have been my own difficulty imagining a raven that was anything like my writing desk.
That particular set-up no longer exists, but the brunt of my writing happened right there. I miss it so. Aw, well.
I also miss having room for all of my books. Right now I sleep nestled snugly between Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell To Arms and The Complete English Poems of John Donne.
Speaking of John Donne, I'd first heard of him when my high school did a play called W;t, in which the main character (mesmerizingly portrayed by Lauren Resnick) is a professor that teaches a class on John Donne's poetry and then dies of cancer. (There is more to it than that, but that's basically what happens.)
Heh, I remember D.C. putting up posters for our improv shows that proclaimed, "Reading Causes Cancer."
The other night I picked up the complete poems and read the first two poems, The Flea and The Good Morrow.
A line in the second one struck without warning, like some sort of iambic mugger.
"For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one little roome, an every where."
Then I realized, "This is some lovely shit!"
Oddly spelled at times, but very compelling.
* * * * *
Has anyone seen the 1998 adaptation of Great Expectations?
I am not one to ask favours, but I would dearly like to know what Estella says to Finn (she says it in French) the night before she leaves him for the first time.
If you tell me, you will be handsomely rewarded with...with...a mystery box!
* * * * *
Luis woke up again, and we were talking again. This was earlier tonight, around 2:30 am. We were laughing, and my mom woke up and came out to scold us. She sent Luis back to bed.
She heard me coughing, and then told me, in essence, that I needed to be more careful with my health or I would wake up dead. I laughed/coughed.
Then she tried to convince me that I had bronchitis. I laughed/coughed again. I have been sick for almost two weeks now, but to be fair, I haven't exactly been taking it easy.
She made me take Ny-Quil, which is something I'm afraid of. I'm telling you, they bottle eternity and sell in liquid form. I always feel very, very, off after I take it. But I guess it's good that I'm sitting here writing and not trying to drive, or see how fast I can dissassemble and reassemble my shotgun. (I was never very good at that sort of thing.)
"Tell me, where all past yeares are,
Or who cleft the Divel's foot,
Teach me to heare Mermaides singing,
Or to keep of envies stinging,
And finde
What winde
Serves to advance an honest minde."
-Song.
After reading Charles Lutwidge Dodgson's (aka Lewis Carroll) Alice In Wonderland, I found myself tormented by the riddle, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" I thought, "Because they both have quills?" But it seemed a bit obvious, and not at all funny, which I felt a riddle should be.
I suppose I failed to take into account that it was British humor. Er, humour.
I also think that I should have also realized that it might have been my own difficulty imagining a raven that was anything like my writing desk.
That particular set-up no longer exists, but the brunt of my writing happened right there. I miss it so. Aw, well.
I also miss having room for all of my books. Right now I sleep nestled snugly between Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell To Arms and The Complete English Poems of John Donne.
Speaking of John Donne, I'd first heard of him when my high school did a play called W;t, in which the main character (mesmerizingly portrayed by Lauren Resnick) is a professor that teaches a class on John Donne's poetry and then dies of cancer. (There is more to it than that, but that's basically what happens.)
Heh, I remember D.C. putting up posters for our improv shows that proclaimed, "Reading Causes Cancer."
The other night I picked up the complete poems and read the first two poems, The Flea and The Good Morrow.
A line in the second one struck without warning, like some sort of iambic mugger.
"For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one little roome, an every where."
Then I realized, "This is some lovely shit!"
Oddly spelled at times, but very compelling.
* * * * *
Has anyone seen the 1998 adaptation of Great Expectations?
I am not one to ask favours, but I would dearly like to know what Estella says to Finn (she says it in French) the night before she leaves him for the first time.
If you tell me, you will be handsomely rewarded with...with...a mystery box!
* * * * *
Luis woke up again, and we were talking again. This was earlier tonight, around 2:30 am. We were laughing, and my mom woke up and came out to scold us. She sent Luis back to bed.
She heard me coughing, and then told me, in essence, that I needed to be more careful with my health or I would wake up dead. I laughed/coughed.
Then she tried to convince me that I had bronchitis. I laughed/coughed again. I have been sick for almost two weeks now, but to be fair, I haven't exactly been taking it easy.
She made me take Ny-Quil, which is something I'm afraid of. I'm telling you, they bottle eternity and sell in liquid form. I always feel very, very, off after I take it. But I guess it's good that I'm sitting here writing and not trying to drive, or see how fast I can dissassemble and reassemble my shotgun. (I was never very good at that sort of thing.)
"Tell me, where all past yeares are,
Or who cleft the Divel's foot,
Teach me to heare Mermaides singing,
Or to keep of envies stinging,
And finde
What winde
Serves to advance an honest minde."
-Song.
Sunday, December 07, 2003
There have been quite a few things on my mind as of late.
The first is, obviously, The Art of Clown Warfare.
A few nights ago, I was making myself a light lunch, (a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,) when my littlest brother, Luis, stumbled into the kitchen. He had been sleeping, as he usually does at 2:30 am. I asked him, "What, do you want a sandwich too?"
He told me to shut up.
I asked him if he was thirsty, and he said that he was.
"There is some apple juice in the fridge," I told him, handing him a glass.
He poured himself some, and, still bleary-eyed and stumbly, went back to his room. I abandoned my sandwich and followed him.
Luis has a queen sized bed, so I laid down along the foot of it. The boy is so small, he doesn't even take up a quarter of it. And, like me, he edges up right to the side of the bed when he sleeps.
"Get out of here, they'll here you!" Luis protested as I loudly complained that his bed was uncomfortable.
"Who'll hear me?" I asked.
"The clowns," he answered, with a tone that is usually reserved for imbeciles.
"What clowns?"
"The ones under the bed!"
"Boy, you don't have to worry about clowns," I admonished, "You just have to know how to fight them."
"What are you talking about?"
"Clowns aren't built for speed. They have big, floppy shoes that make it hard for them to run. They usually wear wigs, and you can pull them down over their eyes so that they can't see. Don't try to punch them in the nose, though. That's the most protected spot on a clown."
I leaned in closer, as if to impart a great secret.
"What you really want to do when fighting clowns is to take out one of the clown cars. See, you blow up just the one car, and you're actually taking out at least 20 clowns."
We laughed hysterically at the idea. I left him to sleep, and, still chuckling, went back to finish making my sandwich.
* * * * *
At work, we have pseudo-cubicles. The other day, I was stuck in one of the ones that I refer to as "solitary confinement." I was not sitting next to or across from anyone else.
Stuck to the wall of the cubicle, along with relevant, work-related information, is a picture of a big, bright, flower, and a smiling bee is lighting upon on it. The caption reads, "Stay Buzz-ey!"
I stared at it for a moment. Then I ripped off a piece of paper, scrawled "GO POLLINATE YOURSELF!" across it, and stuck it to the picture. I didn't take it down when my shift ended.
* * * * *
Dana likes stars, and so do I.
* * * * *
Also at work, when I wasn't in solitary, my co-worker next to me was laughing about her friends key-chain. I asked what was so funny, and she showed me. The key-chain read, "Men are all alike, they just have different faces to tell them apart."
I laughed sarcastically, and handed it back.
A minute or so later, I handed her a scrap of paper that read, "Women are all alike, they just spend all your money at different stores!"
We laughed together about it. It was all in good fun. Just the same, I didn't show her the alternate one I had, which read, "Women are all the same, some just lie better than others."
Some jokes are best kept to yourself.
Also, I didn't want her to alert the other women that I was on to them.
* * * *
Ah yes, and to elaborate on what Donovan pointed out, Kate and the girl I had cheated on her with ended up working at the same Hooters restaurant.
Now if that just ain't some deep-fried irony served with a frosty pitcher of awkward.
My friend Garrett used to work at a coffee shop that we would all hang out at that was literally two stores down from the aforementioned Hooters restaurant. It was odd, to say the least, because for a time I was still hanging out there knowing that a few yards away were two of my biggest fears: The girl I had cheated on and the girl I had cheated on her with.
My imagination had concocted elaborate fantasies in which they joined forces to exact their revenge on me, most of which concluded with certain parts of me being deep-fried in boiling cooking oil.
I was tired of torturing myself, so I squared my shoulders, marched down the concrete walk to Hooters and burst into the restaurant.
Neither of them were working that day.
I had rejoiced in my good fortune and then immediately resolved never to tempt fate by going in there again.
* * * * *
Guillermo-4, Fate-10 Jillion.
Wait, I'm not a Fatalist. I keep forgetting that.
Finally, read Neil Gaiman's Sandman, Book Four: Seasons of Mist Quite invigorating, and highlights some of the most amazing facets of perspective.
I hope you're having fun, Jaden.
We do miss you, Methinks.
"Goodnight!" he said, at 4:30 am.
The first is, obviously, The Art of Clown Warfare.
A few nights ago, I was making myself a light lunch, (a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,) when my littlest brother, Luis, stumbled into the kitchen. He had been sleeping, as he usually does at 2:30 am. I asked him, "What, do you want a sandwich too?"
He told me to shut up.
I asked him if he was thirsty, and he said that he was.
"There is some apple juice in the fridge," I told him, handing him a glass.
He poured himself some, and, still bleary-eyed and stumbly, went back to his room. I abandoned my sandwich and followed him.
Luis has a queen sized bed, so I laid down along the foot of it. The boy is so small, he doesn't even take up a quarter of it. And, like me, he edges up right to the side of the bed when he sleeps.
"Get out of here, they'll here you!" Luis protested as I loudly complained that his bed was uncomfortable.
"Who'll hear me?" I asked.
"The clowns," he answered, with a tone that is usually reserved for imbeciles.
"What clowns?"
"The ones under the bed!"
"Boy, you don't have to worry about clowns," I admonished, "You just have to know how to fight them."
"What are you talking about?"
"Clowns aren't built for speed. They have big, floppy shoes that make it hard for them to run. They usually wear wigs, and you can pull them down over their eyes so that they can't see. Don't try to punch them in the nose, though. That's the most protected spot on a clown."
I leaned in closer, as if to impart a great secret.
"What you really want to do when fighting clowns is to take out one of the clown cars. See, you blow up just the one car, and you're actually taking out at least 20 clowns."
We laughed hysterically at the idea. I left him to sleep, and, still chuckling, went back to finish making my sandwich.
* * * * *
At work, we have pseudo-cubicles. The other day, I was stuck in one of the ones that I refer to as "solitary confinement." I was not sitting next to or across from anyone else.
Stuck to the wall of the cubicle, along with relevant, work-related information, is a picture of a big, bright, flower, and a smiling bee is lighting upon on it. The caption reads, "Stay Buzz-ey!"
I stared at it for a moment. Then I ripped off a piece of paper, scrawled "GO POLLINATE YOURSELF!" across it, and stuck it to the picture. I didn't take it down when my shift ended.
* * * * *
Dana likes stars, and so do I.
* * * * *
Also at work, when I wasn't in solitary, my co-worker next to me was laughing about her friends key-chain. I asked what was so funny, and she showed me. The key-chain read, "Men are all alike, they just have different faces to tell them apart."
I laughed sarcastically, and handed it back.
A minute or so later, I handed her a scrap of paper that read, "Women are all alike, they just spend all your money at different stores!"
We laughed together about it. It was all in good fun. Just the same, I didn't show her the alternate one I had, which read, "Women are all the same, some just lie better than others."
Some jokes are best kept to yourself.
Also, I didn't want her to alert the other women that I was on to them.
* * * *
Ah yes, and to elaborate on what Donovan pointed out, Kate and the girl I had cheated on her with ended up working at the same Hooters restaurant.
Now if that just ain't some deep-fried irony served with a frosty pitcher of awkward.
My friend Garrett used to work at a coffee shop that we would all hang out at that was literally two stores down from the aforementioned Hooters restaurant. It was odd, to say the least, because for a time I was still hanging out there knowing that a few yards away were two of my biggest fears: The girl I had cheated on and the girl I had cheated on her with.
My imagination had concocted elaborate fantasies in which they joined forces to exact their revenge on me, most of which concluded with certain parts of me being deep-fried in boiling cooking oil.
I was tired of torturing myself, so I squared my shoulders, marched down the concrete walk to Hooters and burst into the restaurant.
Neither of them were working that day.
I had rejoiced in my good fortune and then immediately resolved never to tempt fate by going in there again.
* * * * *
Guillermo-4, Fate-10 Jillion.
Wait, I'm not a Fatalist. I keep forgetting that.
Finally, read Neil Gaiman's Sandman, Book Four: Seasons of Mist Quite invigorating, and highlights some of the most amazing facets of perspective.
I hope you're having fun, Jaden.
We do miss you, Methinks.
"Goodnight!" he said, at 4:30 am.
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