If I won the lottery

If I won the proverbial lottery, the bottomless pit of money, so to speak, here's what I'd do, for the record:
Move
Write
Make movies
Travel
That saving the world kind of stuff
Donate money to VPDLC to get a modern phone system and more bathrooms. Each phone and stall would have a plaque inscribed with my family name.

Here's what I'd probably do:
Read more books
Watch move movies
Eat more sushi
Buy some hair
Drive my brother and sister-in-law crazy with extravagent gifts for the nephews

50 Percent

When I add up the daydreaming, dreaming, reading books, and watching movies, my life must be at least 50 percent imaginary. I walk to work. Am I really aware of all that's happening between points A and B? No, I am scheming, speculating, dreaming as I avoid stepping on the remnants of hoagies. Only when I reach Market Street and face the risk of injury and death does my life reality percentage shoot up past 90 percent. At my desk, it's the same. Reality does not engage me as much as the hypothetical, or even as much as memory. Something tells me this is not so good. Yet I wonder how else could life be? Who is out there white water rafting, making love, tasting fresh berries, squishing damp sand between their toes, contemplating the dappled light through the trees all the time? Let me take a moment to be mindful of my present reality.

In this room, I hearken to the drone of the idle laser printer, I cool myself in the fluorescence of the overhead fixture. So much beige. So much gray. So many parallel lines. A ringing phone. The drone undercut by the baritone anti-W mumblings of the librarian across the hall.

Okay. I'll have to make a few changes before I can do straight 100 percent proof reality. Maybe I should aim for 45 percent imaginary, 65 percent reality to start, then work my way up to a more mindful mix.

kumquatness

(not to be confused with bitterness, which is always represented by a lemon tree in a faux terra cotta pot)

the spiral of comments

I goofed. I put comments regarding Quiconque's blog on Melba's comment thingy. It seemed like the best way to speak to two audiences at once about the same topic, but the result is that now I don't know who the heck I'm talking to. I'm confusing and there's nothing I can do to correct it.

I think I'll go back to the conceit of being an anonymous person writing to an anonymous audience, even though you all know who I am and where I live, and I see most of you at least once a month. Right.

bitterness

Krumping Crunk: Move over Mummers

Learn about Krumping.

During my last visit to Memphis, one of my cousins handed me a magazine called Crunk, and I was like, what does that mean, and he said in his best Bill and Ted "It's like party on, dude." (That's the kind of crap you get for growing up just south of the Great White North. Well, I ain't apologizing for it. Purified in the waters of Lake Minnetonka!) And this article on krumping has the word crunk in it. So I posted it.

So I bet these guys could kick Froggy Carr's ass!

Either Or And Or

Young at Heart or Immature?
Quirkyalone or Spinster?
Free Spirit or Underachiever?
"All who wander are not lost." or "If you don't know where you're going, you'll probably get there."?

What you gonna do when you get out of jail?

"Have you ever watched cops slap hand cuffs on your boyfriend?"
"Uh, no, that must really suck."
So I'm the director of an improv comedy group. We had two shows this weekend which fell like the proverbial tree in the woods with no one there to hear them. Before Saturday's show, I put together my little bag of improv tricks and head to the venue. I see a mess o fire trucks on Market Street and think, oh, I sure don't want to take a cab, especially with Penn Relays and all. I'll be a smart commuter and take the El.

After standing on the El station platform for a half an hour (call time has come and gone), I ask the booth guy what's happening. "You have to take the shuttle bus." Of course they couldn't announce this to the dozens of people waiting on the platform like schmucks. Up on street level, every east going street is a parking lot. Jamaican track and field fans flood the sidewalks and every cab is full. Finally, I catch a bus.

A few of the riders look like they haven't taken a bus since Nixon resigned. A lady in a chanel pink suit insists, much to her husband's shame, on sitting facing the isle, her well-shod feet in everyone's way. Her husband scolds her, but she doesn't want anyone to try and sit next to her. He also scolds her for the question she asked at the campus political forum. "Terrorism has nothing to do with Iraq. That's how Bush clouds the issue. That's why it's so embarrassing that you asked that question about terrorism and Iraq." Another fancy boomer couple waves hello to these two. These other two aren't dressed for the bus, but they are totally cool and confident riders. One of the boomers says, "The El is the only way to get to Center City, but they found a suspicious package at 30th Street Station."

At last, I get to the venue, just one hour late. Our opening act is futzing around with the sound guy. One of the cast members is crying. Her boyfriend is in jail, in New York City, and she's glued to her phone trying to call anyone who knows anyone who can get him out. The cops stopped her and her boyfriend for speeding, then they arrested him for driving with a revoked license. She's one of the toughest broads I know, but she's sucking back tears. I give her a hug for what it's worth. So, I'm still a bit gimpy and recovering from laryngitis. One person's boyfriend is in jail. Another looks like Lurch because he's suffering from a cold. And the other person is all antsy. Let the comedy begin!

We go down to the "green room" and try to get mentally prepared, when in come these mannish ladies and a topless dancer, complete with moneyed G string. Turns out it's also lesbians of color night at the venue. Too bad I'm just mannish looking and not so excited by topless ladies.

That night, I perform better than I have in months. Go figure.

Sympathetic Laryngitis

I lost my voice yesterday. I could only whisper. When I whispered to co-workers to let them know about my laryngitis, they would whisper back. Many people would keep whispering as long as I was in earshot. I know they couldn't help it, but it was stupid. No one tried to limp along with me after my toe surgery.

Oompa-Loompa

Apparently, there's going to be another film version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka. Of course, the burning question is not whether Tim Burton will direct, but what will the Oompa Loompas will look like.

(5/01/2004, The Pictures will be back soon! See comments.)

I remember when I first read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory back in the 1970's. I was so happy that there were black people in the book, not the dreamcicle colored freaks from the movie. Most of the negative social and political implications of a bunch of Africans being imported to Europe to work and live in a candy factory were lost on me. Any qualms I may have felt about these people's conditions and their boss's insistence on their happiness were washed away by my pleasure in seeing my people represented in a quality chapter book. I thought it was better than Good Times.

Well, what can you do?

From Greg's Previews at movies.yahoo.com:
Oompa-Loompa Note: As noted at this fan site, in the original 1964 edition of the novel, the Oompa-Loompa's were pygmies from Africa imported to replace the local workers (part of why the city is so impoverished). This movie will definitely use the Oompa-Loompas with "rosy-white skin", as depicted in later editions.

Libertarians

I've been thinking a lot about libertarians lately, just because. Seems like the fine folks at the Onion were thinking about them, too. Note that a cigarette was involved in the story. Sometimes, I get a little libertarian when enjoying a Marlboro Light, but then, all of the sudden, the feeling dissipates like the nicotine buzz.

Libertarian Reluctantly Calls Fire Department
CHEYENNE, WY—After attempting to contain a living-room blaze started by a cigarette, card-carrying Libertarian Trent Jacobs reluctantly called the Cheyenne Fire Department Monday. "Although the community would do better to rely on an efficient, free-market fire-fighting service, the fact is that expensive, unnecessary public fire departments do exist," Jacobs said. "Also, my house was burning down." Jacobs did not offer to pay firefighters for their service.

The Real Me

In case anyone out there hasn't met me in the flesh (ha), I decided to go out on a limb and reveal my true self. My position on the faculty of an ivy league law school and the attendant appearances on 60 Minutes and Good Morning America leave little time for blog fun. Still I manage to throw together the odd post or two, all while looking movie star gorgeous, just for kicks. All those statements about my wacky life as a single clerical worker with just a bachelor's degree (in communications of all subjects! Please!) were just a lark. I just wanted to be more accessible, like Laverne and Shirley, but there's no virtue in false modesty. Learn more about the real me.

Qui est Quiconque?

Hey, Folks. The mysterious Quiconque finally posted something other than a place holder on her blog. You can share the laughs and the tears of this young, urban intellectual's life at http://quiconque.diaryland.com.

synaesthesia?

Last night, I was listening to R.E.M.'s We Walk from the album Murmur, and it smelled like pot. Synaesthesia?

Egregious Mistakes of Contemporary Youth Culture

Somthings should never come back. Some things never should have come in the first place.

blue movie at film fest

I am the un_Gridley.
So far, Young Adam, starring Eewwwan McGrregorrr and the birdlike belle-laide Tilda Swinton, has been my only film fest flick. This movie was blue in every sense of the word -- in color, in spirit, in raunchiness. A few scenes provoked gasps from the daintier members of the audience. I sat next to Melba during the screening and later Saginator and her main squeeze appeared. Although afterwards none of us could say that she liked this movie, it fueled a pretty interesting discussion at Little Pete's (including a brief tangent about guys calling their privates "junk." What is up with that, people?), and isn't that what arty film fest going is all about? I thought Young Adam was a pretty honest look under the rocks of humanity. It was well done, but the ending definitely leaves you wanting a bath, or wanting to watch weeping camels.

Salmonspotting

Oh, yeah. During lunchtime, I ran into Salmon at the cusp of our two campuses. She was sporting a sophisticated new hair color.

Tasty MoveOn Bake Sales Tomorrow

http://action.moveon.org/bakesale/selectmtg.html?zip=19104&distance=10&event_type=Bake%20Sale

Come fire, come floods, come fungus!

I tell myself that one of the reasons I decided not to become a librarian (other than the fact that when I asked a dean of a certain library school if he could recommend a seminal text on library science, he stopped himself mid-answer and said, "No, you'd better not read it. It's awful.") is that I'm not a collector. Many librarians I know have amazing collections. But I am not so good with the possession thing. I am a borrower. I appreciate a good collection; I just don't want it taking up space in my home.

Come fire, come floods, come fungus. I do not care. A borrower never has to worry that there's no living person around who knows how to fix her eight-track tape deck. The borrower's motto is never collect any media that requires special hardware to enjoy. So I was content with my dozen CD's, 25 odd books, and couple handfuls of VHS tapes. Until I bought a DVD player. At first I loved Netflix. I could rent whatever I wanted without fear of video store hipster clerk judgments (that'll be in the frustrated baby-buster section, ma'am). But Netflix isn't fast enough. I have 50 movies in my queue. There's no way I'll be in the mood for Death To Smoochy when it arrives. I want to see Ed Norton in a rhino costume when I want to see it, not when Netflix and the post office get it together. Thanks to the DVD, I have this strange new urge to possess the movies, to know that they'll be there when I need them. Is this what being a collector feels like?

Query: Is an elusive boss a blessing or a curse?

I keep trying to meet with my boss boss (the boss above my other boss), but she's never in at the appointed time. This leaves my hands idle, and you know what happens to idle hands.

New Time Killers

For you last minute income tax filers, new weapons to murder more minutes.

Test your 80's Pop Song savvy
English speech accent archive
Subservient Chicken???
and a classic from lileks.com, the Gallery of Regrettable Food

The 'Phews and the Proud

"Baby sisser. Baby sisser."
"I am Aunt _____."
"Baby sisser!"
"Aunt," I repeated. I figured my 2-ear-old nephew, who couldn't possibly remember me from my last visit in 2003, thought I was the baby sitter, but my brother corrected me. The boy was trying to share his excitement about the baby sister he thinks he'll be getting. (Unless he thought I was his new sibling. They tell you Mom's going to have a baby. The next thing you know, you go to the airport with your Dad and pick up a 30 something sister, complete with college education, full dental work and a crick in her neck.)

So began my Easter visit to my older brother's growing family unit in suburban Boston. My brother and his wife appeared sane, in spite of being surrounded by 2 rambunctious boys with thing 3 on the way. (Cross your fingers for a sisser!).

I was standing before their open fridge when Thing 1, the 5-year-old, entered and made the following report:
"Hungry. Thirsty. Bored."
I watched Thing 1's amazing prowess at the toonami and clone wars online arcades with a combination of pride and dread. He can't read (although he recognizes a few words, can count, knows what sounds letters make), yet he has mastered the controls of several complicated computer games and can navigate the web. Like Quiconque, Thing 1, is into Yu Gi Oh!, one of the worst anime programs I have ever seen. He collects cards like this one:
. After looking at a couple of them, I thought, maybe it's a good thing he can't read.

Thing 2, who just turned 2, enjoys Yu Gi Oh as well. He thrusts his finger in the air, or one of his brother's cards and shouts "Attack!" He is also into Mucha Lucha. His favorite toy is a dinner knife. His second favorite toy is a pair of salad tongs.

Yes, I, maiden aunt (unmarried, prudish, up tight, etc.) think the boys watch too much TV (the 2 year old sings the jingle for McDonald's or "Hotdonalds" as he calls it) and play too many video games. They don't eat enough fruits vegetables for my comfort (I usually bring books when I visit, then try to get Thing 1 to eat an apple. This time around the little smart ass asked if I had any books about apples!). They are too aggressive. And yet, they are darlings! Here's a list of cute things they do:

Thing 1
Likes to prepare snack foods
Likes to help set the table
Draws cool monsters
Takes great pleasure in folding his clothes
Likes to watch Iron Chef with Mom
plays soccer

Thing 2
Says "Aw, man!" and "Sorry, dude."
Instead of saying the resolute terrible two "No!" he says "Not now."
Says "Soccer! Soccer!"
Kissed the cover of the "Pat the Bunny" book I gave him.
When I was laying on the lawn, he ran up to me, touched my head and said "Hurt?" I said, no. Then he pushed my head to help me get back up.

Okay, I'll say it. I WANT ONE!

Or do I? My sister in law has morning sickness. She asked if I'd seen any good movies lately. They tried to watch Lost In Translation on on-demand cable, but they never had enough time to see the whole thing, not even in their own house! There are hidden blobs of peanut butter everywhere, small toys and crumbs hide in every crevice. You can't leave anything anywhere. And then there's the aggression, the raw, unprovoked aggression in a house of boys (my brother included).

Mad About the Song

Thanks to Melba and Edith I met Dinah, who had mad skills. A search on the French chanteuse lead me to "Mad About the Boy," a song written by a stately English homo, made immortal by a blues singer from Alabama, then again by God. So now I'm obsessed with this song. More info available from this BBC dude. At least now I have Patrick Swayze's "She's Like the Wind" out of my head.

My City is Not an Ass

I live in a city of mangy pigeons, surly squirrels and a streak of provincial meanness that reaches far more neighborhoods that the sorry subway system. But lately, so many people have shown me kindness. I'm not up to civic pride yet, but I want to declare that my city is not an ass. It's like when we almost won that sports championship thing.

Spoons Wanted

Warning: this post contains heavy bitching. Those who don't want to deal, please look at the happy picture of the claes OLDENBURG and coosje VAN BRUGGEN's Spoonbridge and Cherry from the Walker Sculpture Garden.



It's staff self-appraisal time at work, time for me to describe my mediocrity. I wish I was being falsely modest here, but that's the way it is. (I could go on about how screwed up it is for someone in my job to do self development self empowering appraisal shit, but I'll spare you that.)

After last year's appraisal, my boss made me attend an Admin Professionals training session. All I got out of it was smile, nod, and put the paper clips where the highly educated people I word for could see them. (Something about earning a masters impairs certain people's ability to navigate a supply cabinet, open boxes, etc. Assuming they had that ability to begin with. I didn't, but I managed to teach myself these skills. Hmmm.) Perhaps bosses should be forced to attend seminars where they learn how to manage administrative professionals! Ah, but where could such angry thought lead me? Smile, nod, smile, nod. Prior to that, I made all these other changes so that I would be more efficient and I would have more time to "think strategically," like my boss wants me to. Now I don't have enough stuff to do so my service sucks like when you go to McDonald's at a slow time.

My boss is afraid to assign work to me because I make typos, and therefore I am stupid.(I really think my boss thinks I'm piteously stupid or some kind of mental case.) I ask my other boss to give me deadlines, because I need structure, but she balks. Besides there aren't any real deadlines in this place. Even the fiscal year concept is fuzzy around these parts. It's so easy for me to drift. I get up to do something, but just as quickly forget what it was.

Since I can't work my way up here, my only motivation is pride. Time was when I took pride in a job well done for its own sake. Now, I'm like, eh. I used to be such a good worker. Really. Even when I first took this job. Now I am adequate. I'll do.

I must tunnel out of here. I must avoid the sewer lines. I must find the right spoon.

coming down from percocet

Quiconque and I were wondering why people get addicted to pain killers like percocet? because my experience with them wasn't so fun. It wasn't until I stopped taking them that I came to understand their evil powers. Since I'm no longer in danger of experiencing hellacious toe pain, I thought, well, who needs these pills anymore? They just make me want to take naps. But that's when the grumpy percocet withdrawl gremlins jumped out of the pill vile, knocking my noggin with their nasty little mallets. "Take another pill and we'll go away. Nothing like the hair of the dog to get rid of your grumps. Yes, why not take a pill? What's another harmless little nap? Your doctor wants you to rest." Ahhh! Damn you, pills!

I had to escape from the soft hell that is my bedroom and hobble to this lab. So now I'm in the video lab listening to the tall girls as they make a highlight reel of the basketball season. (These are nice, strapping girls; they want shots of the whole team doing cool stuff, not just the stars. It takes big women to make a big video.)Now I am safely surrounded by healthy sportive young people. God bless 'em.

And while the blessings are going around, thanks to Melba Lee and Snacks for stopping by and watching some vintage Spike Jonze videos with me. And to Pony Girl for her history phone calls. And to Quiconque for listening to me ramble. And mom for sending me fruit and flowers. Gremlins don't stand a chance against pals like these.