Life is like an analogy...

•One mathematical proof explaining why girls are evil.
•A page of cartoon facial expressions that says, 'How do you feel today?'
•A Mariners game ticket stub
•A Seahawks pre-season scrimmage ticket stub
•My Carnival Cruise I.D. from the graduation cruise I took in 1998.
•A piece of cardboard cut from a shoebox that held "Apostrophe" brand shoes and says "Apostrophe"
•Billy Joel concert ticket stub
•Postcard of a very young Beatles group
•Invite to a "private party" at "Studio 51" featuring a band called Mr. Chesterfield.
•Wedding invitation to my friend Selena's wedding in 1999.
•Ticket stub from Pacific Science Center and IMAX movie Space Station 3D
•Postcard from friend B.J. in the shape of a circle that says "Drama Queen" on the front.
•Mini Beatles calendar... or perhaps, for clarification, I should say "Beatles mini calendar."
•Two rose drawings from ex-boyfriend
•Wedding invitation to my best friend Brett's wedding.
•Invitation to rehearsal dinner for my best friend Brett's wedding.
•Ticket stub for Phantom of the Opera
•Approximately 30 pictures of Billy Joel printed off an internet fan site.
•List of 15 Distored Thinking Styles as obtained from my psychologist.
•Clothing tag that says, "I am washable."
•Vending machine horoscope from August 2001.
•Ticket stub from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat as performed at WWU.

•My published letter to the editor regarding local newspaper's "appalling sensationalism" about a student suspension involving my mother's allergy

•Four drawings by friends I don't speak to anymore, including one of two half-faces wearing pink and purple eyeshadow, two that depict the same math equation in different forms and a random scribbling of fruit.

•Einstein's "Who Owns The Fish?" logic problem, which he claims only 2% of population can solve... and the answer as deduced by me.

•Quote from my "pride" in my former sorority, Alpha Delta Pi, which says, "Why is it that when we are together time seems to fly and when we are apart it drags so? Could it be that the passing of time is directly related to the nearness of you?" -- Thomas R. Dudley.

•A photocopied poster titled "Whose Job Is It?" that reads: "This is story about four people named Everybody, Somebody, Anybody and Nobody. There was an important job to be done and Everybody was asked to do it. Everybody was sure Somebody would do. Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it. Somebody got angry about that because it was Everybody's job. Everybody thought Anybody could do it but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn't do it. It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did what Anybody could have done."

•Drawing from a friend, made into a notecard, of a bum bummed out because the cardboard box house he wanted to buy has been sold by Windermere. Inside, the artist, Steve, has written me a little note which includes the sentence "Sorry about the card. In case you didn't catch on, it's really dumb." Included is a picture of Steve. He was so cute when he was self-depricating.

•Note from my dad, referencing our favorite movies:
"A Father's Advice to His Daughter:

If it's pouring rain and you're getting soaked, find an umbrella and dance through the puddles.

Although one person might judge 'Jelly of the Month' as a poor substitute for a Christmas gift, another will recognize it as the 'gift that keeps on givin' the whole year.'

Qantas will keep you safe, but it may not take where you need or want to go."


© 2004

Today I had a very important decision to make. televisionwithoutpity.com is soon to be shipping t-shirts that say, "This is how we do it at TWoP, BITCH!" and the only way to obtain one is to pre-order it before March 31st (tomorrow). I really wanted one and yet... I wasn't sure if I did. Here's why:

PROS:
1. The shirt says, "This is how we do it at TWoP, BITCH!"
2. It comes in both long-sleeved and short-sleeved versions
3. It references both televisionwithoutpity.com and my guilty TV pleasure, The O.C.
4. It's hilarious

But... the CONS:
1. The shirt says, "This is how we do it at TWoP, BITCH!"....which means I can't wear it everywhere.
2. It's bright bright bright orange-- like traffic-cone-construction-sign orange. Not my best color.
3. It's $20 for the short-sleeved version and $22 for the long-sleeved version.
4. Did I mention that it was bright bright bright orange?

So I got a second opinion (from Brett) and a third opinion (from Jon). Brett said he had no problem with orange but he understood why I might not want to wear it since it's a color that barely even looks sort-of good on very few people. And we agreed that the "BITCH" part was not exactly conducive to Sunday dinner with the grandparents or meeting with a prof to review a grade on a paper.

However, Brett pointed out that the shirt would be a conversation piece, not unlike the "Phreakin' Whores" cap he had his first year of college. And we agreed that at college, wardrobe requirements are much more lax. After all, I wore my IEtaPi sweatshirt all over the place and no one said a word. It's a liberal arts school out in the middle of nowhere. They don't care as long as you pay them tuition and all the fees and pretend like you want to be there and learn. And don't, you know, burn the stadium down or anything. And it could double as a pajama shirt as well.

Jon basically said the same thing, but much more concisely (as he is wont to do): "I say get it. The orange sets it off nicely... and it says 'BITCH.'"

It's hard to argue when he puts it that way.

So I ordered the shirt-- long-sleeved. It won't be here until probably May-ish, since they don't start shipping out until mid-April. But I'll have it to wear during the colder summer days and then be able to break it out on occasion once I'm in the lax-wardrobeness of college to keep the conversation flowing.

And (you knew this was coming, right?)........ that's how we do it at TWoP.... BITCH.

Bitch, bitch. Bitchity bitch bitch bitch. Bitch! Bitchy bitchy bitch bitch.... BITCH!

....bitch....



© 2004 (except "This is how we do it at TWoP, BITCH!")

A couple months ago, I got an email from my friend, St. Ben. No, he's not really a saint, of course but since, in my circle of friends we have two Bens whose last names both start with "S", we have to distinguish somehow. So we have Big Ben, who is not-so-much a big guy and St. Ben whose last name starts with Saint.... or rather "St."

Anywho, I got an email from St. Ben and he said he was back in town and would Brett and I want to hang out sometime? Sure, we would. So last week, I forwarded the email to Brett, who is considerably busier than me and said, "Here's St. Ben's number-- we should all get together and do something whenever you and Ben are available."

So about three days later, Brett tells me, "Ben is coming over for dinner on Monday at 5:30." I said, "Wait a minute. I might have this meeting I have to go to on Monday evening." Brett commences whining: "But we already made the plans! And we can't change them! Blah blah bitch bitch whine whine! (direct quote)" So I recant and say, "Fine... I'll just say I'd rather meet in the morning on Monday so we can have dinner Monday night. Sigh." Because I hate getting up in the morning.

Cut to today: I call Brett at 4:30 p.m. and he answers, sounding stuffy. "What's the matter?" I ask.
"I have a cold..." He groans, "And it sucks."
"Well, what are we going to have tonight?"
"Huh? What?" Brett is confused... as usual.
"For dinner? What's the plan for tonight?"
"What? Oh crap! It's Monday! Ohhhh...." I hear him sniff and he grouses, "I'm so sick. I struggled through work today and have just been waiting to come home and lie down... I don't want to have dinner tonight. I totally forgot about it."

"So let me get this straight," I say, "You make plans with St. Ben without bothering to ask me when I'm available. Then when I say I might not be available, you whine at me until I promise to be available. Then when I call you an hour beforehand to find out the specifics of the plans I had no say in, you've forgotten about the plans and are now sick and don't want to have plans."

There's a long pause. And a sniff.

"Yeah, I guess so." Brett concludes.

Sigh.


© 2004

I was selecting my team for fantasy baseball, as opening day is only about a week away and the roster freezes on Tuesday when the Damn Yankees and the Devil Rays play in Japan, (As if anyone cares about the Yankees and the Devil Rays.... yawn....) and I noticed the highest-ranked player in terms of financial worth (by The Sporting News) was named "SF Left Fielder." Huh? So I click around a little bit and find out that "due to contractual obligations," Barry Bonds will be listed as "SF Left Fielder" in TSN Fantasy Baseball.

Holy crap.

BACKSTORY: Barry Bonds does indeed play left field for the San Francisco Giants. He is currently one of the best hitters in major league baseball-- arguably the best. He is also the biggest asshole in the league. Even more so than Roger Clemens, whom most Red Sox fans refer to as the Antichrist. Barry Bonds is Antibaseball. Everything that is good and wholesome and national pastime-y about baseball, Barry Bonds is not. Barry Bonds is arrogant. He's selfish. He's the guy who, when someone says, "There's no 'I' in team" thinks to himself and may even shout out, "But there's a 'me.'" and smirks. Barry smirks a lot. Barry Bonds is baseball at its worst.

Say what you want about Alex "Pay-Rod" Rodriguez. I hate the guy just as much as anybody-- he was from my team, the Seattle Mariners, and he sold out completely, only to turn around this winter and shove it back in his last-place team's face. Roger Clemens-- the Red Sox crew has it nailed. Ken Griffey, Jr. got exactly what he deserved for screwing over Seattle in a nasty trade: he got injured and barely plays anymore. And most of the Yankees, former and current, aren't in it for the love of the game now-- it's all about the Benjamins.

Baseball fans don't actively hate other baseball teams-- it's a courtesy of the sport. Sure, you root against the A's or the Royals when they play your team, but you don't actively wish ill on them otherwise. And the Cubbies? They're Baseball's Sweethearts. But, unless you're a die-hard fan of 'em, everybody hates the Yankees. Actively hates them. They're the richest team in baseball. They buy championships. Their owner has been skewered on Seinfeld so deep is the vile hatred of this team. There really is a reason the play is called Damn Yankees and the guy sells his soul to the Devil to beat them. It's not just fictional fluff.

I'm surprised Barry hasn't sold out to them yet. On second thought, I take that back. Why is Barry Bonds still in Frisco? I'll tell you why: in San Fran, Barry gets to be King of the Hill, A Number One. In NYC, he'd have to compete with Derek Jeter, Gary Sheffield, Jason Giambi (goddamn his deodorant commercials), Mariano Rivera and Mr. Pay-Rod himself. Bronx Bomber fans love Hideki Matsui-- he's the most popular Japanese player next to Ichiro.

Barry, on the other hand, needs his ego inflated about once every other inning. I suspect Barry tells himself in the mirror every morning: "You are the reason your team went to the World Series-- and the rest of your team is the reason they lost it." It's his sense of entitlement, his complete lack of humility and the general air about him that just piss me off like nobody's business.

So when I saw that due to "contractual obligations," Barry was listed as "SF Left Fielder," I guffawed. Was this his doing? I assume so. Barry is his own biggest fan. He probably didn't want his name in a "fantasy" baseball game where his 'stock' rose and fell based on his performance in each game. No, no, Barry Bonds is too good for that. Hell, even Pay-Rod could care less about having his name in the game-- Alex probably checks out how many rosters list him every night after he leaves the locker room. The more I think about, the happier I am that Barry's name isn't listed in TSN Fantasy Baseball. Perhaps, people won't be able to find him in the listings, so they won't pick him and he'll fade into oblivion.

Oh, who am I kidding? Let's be realistic: I'd really be the happiest if Barry knocked himself out with his own bat and prematurely ended his oh-so-illustrious major league baseball career. And I'd smirk. A lot.


© 2004

"Staying home alone on a Friday,
Flat on the floor, looking back,
On old love... or lack thereof.
After all the crushes have faded,
All my wishful thinking was wrong,
I'm jaded... I hate it."

~John Mayer, Love Song For No One~

Recipe For A Solo Friday Night

1 empty house
3 slices Hawaiian-style pizza
1 box Red Vines licorice
2 chick flicks, both with happy endings.
1/2 pint Ben & Jerry's "Half-baked" ice cream (reserve half for tomorrow)
Equal amounts relaxation and pensiveness
Small pinch anxiety
1 slighty pushy (and sleepy) golden retriever
Small teaspoon (ok, tablespoon) indigestion

Mix well. Consume. Let set. Meditate. Sleep.


©2004

So I finally turned in my passport application today. This has been one of the most annoying and drawn-out processes ever, since I have been to City Hall four times since November trying to take care of this.

I was thrown for a loop when filling out the application because they have a bunch of rules about being over 14 but under 16, having passports issued in the past 15 years, but not having expired passports.... I have been issued two passports previously. The first was when I was 14 and the second was right after I had turned 15. But both had been issued less than 15 years ago. And both of these passports had expired. I seemed to meet all the requirements even though I should only have met one of them. As you can see it was all very confusing. And I was paranoid about making sure I got everything right. Passports scare me.

I got the first passport at 14 in the spring of 1995 because we were going on a trip to England and France that summer. We had started the process early enough to make sure that we would receive our passports in time. I don't remember every detail about it but I do remember filling out the forms, then having the pictures taken and then, several weeks later after receiving the passports in the mail, going to the notary's office to get our passports... uh, notarized.

I was in a foul mood by the time we got to the office because we had performed the junior high play during the day for all the junior high classes and I still had all my makeup on including bright green eyeshadow, bright pink lipstick and schlacked gray hair dye. (I was playing the narrator, an elderly hokey joke-telling character I had invented called "Mabel Stirrup." What? I was 14.) After we had the passports notarized, my dad had lambasted me for sulking and whining throughout the ordeal, saying that I could have been denied a passport due to my attitude in front of the government official. I snarked back that I could have been denied a passport based on the fact that I looked nothing like the picture in the passport since they wouldn't let me go home and take a shower beforehand.

This vivid memory is mostly to blame for my numerous trips to City Hall to get this new passport. I would have had to renew my passport five years ago had I not left it in a hotel in France during that summer trip after the gray-hair-government-official incident. I didn't mean to leave it at the hotel in France. We had been going somewhere the day before leaving France to head back to England and I had taken the passport out of the little pouch I wore around my waist but under my pants (as opposed to the packs you wear around your waist but over your pants).

SIDEBAR: These pouches were designed by Rick Steves, a guy who runs a European tour business in Edmonds, Washington, near where I live. His business is called "Europe Through the Back Door" and he's designed tours specifically to save people tons and tons of money by staying at small inns, using lesser-known transportation and avoiding tourist traps. Steves hosts a TV show on the local PBS affiliate and is known worldwide. My cousin's ex-wife worked there for awhile, in the Edmonds office and giving tours since she speaks fluent French. The pouches are designed to prevent pickpockets from, well, picking your pocket. Mr. Steves figures that whereas you might not notice if someone reached into your back pocket to grab your wallet, you'll definitely notice if someone reaches into the front of your pants to try to grab your cash, your traveller's checks, or your passport. He has a point.

But passports don't bend very well when in a pouch in the front of your pants and it was blazingly hot in Europe that year-- the hottest summer they'd had in 75 years-- so the pouch had been sticking to my stomach from all the sweat and just making everything generally uncomfortable. So I took out the passport-- just for that day-- to go sightseeing. I left it sitting on my bed, slightly tangled up in the covers, in the room on the top floor of the Hotel L'Orange down the street from a Baskin-Robbins.

I remember this series of images so vividly even 10 years later because I played them, like a frame-by-frame DVD, over and over in my head as the Customs Agent on the Channel stared at the photocopy of my passport photo page and tried to determine if she could allow me back in the country or if I would be riding the underwater train forever, unable to set foot in either England or France for lack of a visa. "Make an excellent photocopy of your passport photo page," Every guidebook advised us, because if one loses one's passport, a photocopy will show that you did indeed have a passport and will make it easier to A) enter whichever country you're trying to enter and B) obtain a replacement passport once you get in that country.

I'd never been to a U.S. Embassy before and this whole "losing a day of our vacation to get me identification so I could get back into the United States" thing was, frankly, ruining the new experience. I liked the fact that U.S. had bought a tiny island of property in the middle of London and if someone from the U.K. were to attack it-- even though it was in London-- it would be like attacking the country. Remember, this was in 1995, before Dubya was president and before I hated nearly everything about America.

The woman issuing me a replacement passport was no-nonsense to the point that I trembled trying to spell my own mother's maiden name: "Uh... F...A...R-A-O...N-E..." I finally stuttered out. It was almost lunchtime and clearly this woman was hungry. My passport photos for both my first and second passports looked almost the same since I had purposely worn the same shirt. Imagine that-- thousands of miles from home and I just happened to have that blue-striped top with me.

So now it's 2004, both my passports have expired, and I am going to City Hall for the fourth time to turn in my application for my new passport. The first three times at City Hall, I was unable to turn in said application for the following reasons:

First Trip: I was picking up the application and thus had not filled it out or had photos taken. I waited in line for ten minutes at the front desk in City Hall behind a woman with two noisy and obnoxious children that I wanted smack silly before realizing that passport applications were upstairs on the second floor. It was a Thursday and I said to the woman at the Clerk's Office, "So I can fill this out and just turn it in tomorrow?" "Sure!" She said brightly.

Second Trip: I wasn't able to turn the application in the next day, so I brought it back the following Monday. "Oh, we only accept passport applications on Thursdays and Fridays," The woman at the front desk told me. "That's when the notary's here." "Oh... thanks." I said stupidly.

Third Trip: Several weeks later, finally remembering that I still hadn't turned in my application, I went to City Hall on a Thursday. At this point, I was getting rather peeved about all these trips because they're doing massive construction on several blocks of State Avenue around City Hall and it's a bitch to get anywhere in the area. "Oh..." The woman said, looking at the photos I brought in. Before she even finished her sentence, I knew from her tone of voice that I would coming back a fourth time: "These pictures are too big."

This was not the way I remembed it and I remembered it vividly. Apparently, since 1994, they have changed the procedure for getting passports-- not that anyone actually said that. I just figured it out on my own. Now you have the photos taken before you ever turn in the application. I just assumed they wanted two random photos of you, like when I auditioned for SummerStage at Seattle Children's Theatre back in 1996. Random photos. You would get the actual photos for the passport taken later like I had before.

Fourth Trip: I have my birth certificate. I have my passports-- both of them. I have my two matching photos-- taken at the one-hour photo place only minutes earlier. The woman at the photo shop couldn't make the camera work right away and so I stood in front of the white backdrop, smiling like that creepy kid in A Christmas Story for about 90 seconds-- you know, the one who wears the aviator goggles and is all, "I like Santa. I like the Wizard of Oz." And his smile never changes.

I walk upstairs to the Clerk's office on the second floor. Fortunately, Municipal Court isn't in session today and I don't have to go through the goddamn metal detectors. I ran into that problem on one of my other trips and the guard had to search my purse and my manila envelope of papers. I couldn't figure out why the metal detector was being used until I went upstairs and practically ran into some juvenile offender sitting on the stairs outside the courts, looking forlorn. He'd scrubbed up and worn his best jeans and button-down shirt but you could tell that he wasn't going to get off with a light sentence for whatever crime he'd committed.

But there are no J.D.'s on the stairs today. I walk into the Clerk's office and tell the woman at the front desk that I want to turn in my passport application. I hand over the application. I hand over my old passport-- the replacement one that has expired. I hand over my driver's license. I hand over the pictures. I hand over two checks-- one for $55 and one for $30. In return, I receive a receipt for the $30 check-- the processing free the city collects. The $55 check goes to "Passport Services." Wherever that is. The woman signs my form and says to me:

"Do you swear that all the information on this form is accurate to the best of your knowledge?"

THAT'S IT?!?!

I have spent three months, paid almost $100, and fought through construction, juvenile delinquents and red tape four times so you can say one sentence to me to verify my passport?

"Yes, I do." I say.
"Your passport will be mailed to you in four to six weeks," She smiles.

Great. Though knowing my luck, it'll get lost in the mail.


©2004

"This is so boring sitting here at this computer.... Why can I discipline myself to write this damn blog everyday that no one except my best friend reads and not discipline myself to read my Cognition book for class.... And Brett doesn't even read this everyday because he's 'busy....' Reading my Cognition book, in the long run, is way more important than writing this.... and yet I continue writing....

"I was writing about my lack of comfortable sleeping apparatus over the past 48 hours but it wasn't very much fun, so I figured I'd write stream-of-consciousness and see what I came up with... except that I'm not on severe amounts of controlled/illegal substances like Jack Kerouac and so I'm actually typing words and not 'B.Bb.b./b.bg.lbk.bljkfd.bvjkfgkl;.bjgkjyt.##############%%%%%%%%%@@@@@@....' That's a direct quote from On The Road.....

"I'm glad I finally figured out how to write in code here so I can italicize to my heart's content.... The writing is much more effective without the asterisks for emphasis... Or the quotation marks for titles... People need to learn to use italics correctly... and to spell 'weird' 'W-E-I-R-D' instead of 'W-I-E-R-D.' Drives me crazy, it does.... and readerboards that use 'U''s for 'N''s and 'M''s for 'W''s and let letters fall off and don't put them back up.... if you run out of letters, how expensive is it really to go buy another set?.... the gas station down the street always has their threes upside down... most people aren't anal and OCD enough to even both looking... alas, I'm always grinding my teeth everytime the price goes to $1.83 a gallon or whatever... isn't it weird that milk and gas both come in gallons?... I wonder why they chose that particular measurement for those two completely unrelated things.... it's just so strange... so are the stars flying around my head... and the sinking feeling in my eyelids... and my body's inability to string words together in appropriate 'legal' sentences (as my cognition book calls them).... didn't I already talk about my Cognition book?... yes... so I've come full circle as was my plan... ok, not really... but it worked... and now it's time for b..."


© 2004

So I sincerely apologize for failing to post yesterday. I know the two of you who read this were heartbroken-- to say the least. Does driving across state count as a valid excuse? No? Ok, how about driving across state lines? I almost did that. Almost being eight miles. The cops caught up with me then. I had to surrender my license, my bottle of vodka and my dignity for a cavity search.

Ok, ok-- I'm lying again. Bald-faced, shameless lying. I'm sorry I didn't write yesterday, ok? You know, sometimes I just need some time for me. Jesus. Typing stream-of-consciousness, even for my own enjoyment, is a lot harder when you've got people looking over your shoulder, harassing you with phone calls, expecting perfection. I am only human... one nearly-perfect human, mind you, but still only human. I cannot be everything to everyone and you know that as well as I do. No, stop. Just stop it right now. You think you can just storm in here every goddamn day, wanting a piece of frickin' classic literature. I gave you Values. I gave you my doctorate-thesis-worthy analysis of St. Patrick's Day. But you just take, take, take-- "Thank you, sir, may I have another?" Sound familiar? You say the same thing at the bars-- every night. You're drunk. Flaming drunk. And I refuse to stand for it any longer. I may be co-dependent but I still have some dignity-- what the PO-lice didn't take from me. Now get the hell out of my sight. Bastard.

*****

Do I sound selfish and snotty? Really? Awesome. That's exactly what I was going for. After reading David Sedaris last night (as I do most nights), I noticed that all of his characters are unapologetically selfish. Unapologetically selfish and condescending as the day is long. I am in love with each and every one of them. Seriously. To quote the back of his book, "A do-it-yourself suburban dad saves money by performing home surgery...":

"For example, I have given my daughter, Dawn, stitches several times. If you can sew a button on a shirt, then you can give someone stitches.... [But] Do not, under any circumstances, use yarn. I found myself in a pinch last year and Dawn still blames me for that scar on her forehead. I said then and I will say now that I am not paying some doctor three hundred dollars just because my daughter got drunk and fell."

"...A man who is loved too much flees the heavyweight champion of the world..."

"Mike Tyson is making an ugly face in the 'Newsmakers' section of this week Newsweek magazine, an ugly face directed toward me. I'm not frightened so much as shamed and concerned. In the picture, Mike's skin seems sallow and blotchy. He looks like he's been rolling around in an ashtray. Our breakup was hard on him, but whining to the press won't help."

"... a teenage suicide tries to incite a lynch mob at her funeral..."

"Is everyone on earth as two-faced as Annette Kelper? Is everyone on earth as cruel as Randy Sykes? I think not. Most of you, the loved ones I left behind, are simple, devoted people. I urge you now to take a look around the room. Are Randy Sykes and Annette sitting in the audience? Are they shifting uncomfortably in the pew, shielding their faces with the 8 1/2-by-11 photograph of me I had reproduced to serve as a memento of this occasion?"

"... a bitter Santa abuses the elves."

"Jerome is a difficult Santa, moody and unpredictable. He spends a lot of time staring off into space and tallying up his paycheck for the hours he's worked so far. When a manager ducks in encouraging him to speed things up, Jerome says, 'Listen up, I'm playing a role here. Do you understand? A dramatic role that takes a great deal of preparation, so don't hassle me about "Time."'"


See? Selfish and condescending. It is a dynamite combination for the darkest humor ever imaginable. And that Santa story? It's real. David Sedaris lived it: Santaland Diaries: One of the finest pieces of classic literature I've ever read. No, seriously. And, look, I'm trying to emulate it, ok? Trying to incorporate his essence into my style. Taking tips from the pros, for Chrissakes. So don't talk to me about goddamn "TIME."

*****

Yes, I think this will work out just fine.


© 2004 (except for excerpts from Barrel Fever by David Sedaris)

So Alyssa has instructed me to write about how my life would be five million times better if I was Rudy Huxtable. Of course, we all know who Rudy Huxtable is. The "cute 'n' sassy" youngest daughter of Bill Cosby and Phylicia Rashad's characters Cliff and Clair Huxtable on The Cosby Show. I guess my life would be somewhat better if I was Rudy Huxtable. Good things about it include:

1) Having Bill Cosby-- or rather, having Bill Cosby acting in the role of my father. Bill Cosby is hilarious. I'm a huge fan of his record albums, especially the one "Why Is There Air?" where he does an eight-minute routine about kindergarten. My favorite line in there is when he says:

"I was playing with my navel-- you know, 'Oh, navel, navel, navel...' My mother says, 'Alright, keep playing with your navel pretty soon you're gonna pop it right open, the air's gonna go whooshing out of you, you're gonna fly around the room backward for 30 seconds 'til you're flat as a piece of paper, nothing but your little eyes buggin' out.' I used to carry Band-aids with me in case I had an accident."

My personal dad certainly isn't as funny as Bill Cosby and doesn't have nearly the taste for chocolate Jell-O pudding either.


2) Having a dad who was a doctor would be way better than having a dad who is a public school teacher. The money, for one thing. The accessability to other doctors, for another. (No, I'm not shallow-- why do you ask?)

3) Getting to say cute 'n' sassy lines on TV while accompanied by a laugh track is kind of cool, though not as cool as making people laugh in real life, something I strive for everyday.


But you know, saying cute lines on TV might get old after awhile. And thus, here are some reasons why being Rudy Huxtable would not be five million times better:

1) Saying lines on TV that aren't so cute 'n' sassy... that are, in fact, forced and not funny.

2) Growing up on TV. Candace Cameron, Fred Savage, Mark-Paul Gosselaar (see Saved By The Bell: The Early Years)-- these are people we have watched grow up on TV. And from their examples, we now know that Puberty on Film is not all it's cracked up to be.

3) When not being young enough to be cute enough 'n' sassy enough, being replaced by someone cuter 'n' sassier. This actually happened to Keisha Knight Pulliam, who played Rudy Huxtable. After awhile she got older and wasn't so "cute 'n' sassy" and so the Cosby Show realized that if they wanted to retain the viewers who wanted "cute 'n' sassy," they needed to find someone who was "cute 'n' sassy." So they picked everyone's favorite: Raven-Symoné. Nick at Nite even made fun of the fact that the show replaced someone formerly known as "cute 'n' sassy" with someone who was currently "Cute 'n' Sassy." Nick at Nite, people.

And, no, I am not making that name up. That's her name. It was a four-year-old child with a diva name on a family TV show. It had a hyphen in the middle of it-- what's up with that? First and last names are supposed to have a space between them-- not a hyphen. Actually, Raven-Symoné's full name is Raven-Symoné Christina Pearman. I don't get why they gave her a middle name. She already has one-- it's just attached to her first name with a hyphen. Like if I was Shannon-Nicole. Yes, I know. It looks dumb. Really dumb.

I think that in being Rudy Huxtable, the negatives outweigh the positives. After all, who wants to get replaced? And since I would actually be Rudy Huxtable, not just playing Rudy Huxtable, that would mean getting replaced in real life, not just on TV. And no amount of having Bill Cosby playing your dad is gonna make up for that. TV. It's so fake and yet the rejection would still sting as if it were real.


© 2004

I just realized that I typed a whole bunch of stuff on St. Patrick's Day but failed to mentioned that it was actually St. Patrick's Day. The first holiday in my blog and I don't even bother to acknowledge it. Instead, I talked about Reni poking her eye out on Sunday. Ok, I'm just three days behind, which is pretty early for me on average. So Wednesday was St. Patrick's Day and I did lots of St. Patrick's-y things, including but not limited to:

1. Wearing my Norte Dame (Fightin') Irish sweatshirt with the Fightin' Irishman mascot on it. It doesn't have the word "Fightin'" on it and I don't know why, but it has the Irishman mascot and "Notre Dame Irish" and that's close enough.

2. Eating two helpings of green chocolate-chip mint ice cream.

3. Typing IMs using the "Patrick" font and green lettering.

4. Listening, almost exclusively, to John Mayer's song St. Patrick's Day. This was the very last song he played in concert when Ben and I saw him on Valentine's Day. He plays it a lot in his encores, but Ben was absolutely convinced that he purposely played it because he talks about Valentine's Day in it. And Ben was probably right because John ad-libbed a reference to Vancouver when he sang it, the place where the concert was. Hmm... for the two of you who read this and haven't heard the song, how about a:

BACKSTORY: The song is called St. Patrick's Day and one would probably initially think that it would be all Irishy and about corned beef and cabbage, the IRA, blarney stones and whatnot. No such luck. It's about the singer, presumably John Mayer (no, really?) meeting a girl just as cold weather sets in and, I think, realizing that the relationship can't last forever but that it will last for awhile through the winter and the significant holidays but maybe not through St. Patrick's Day, a holiday that isn't significant enough or romantic enough to need to stay together.

I hope it doesn't come off as heartless because I really don't think the song is intended to be as such. In fact, I think it's intended to be the opposite. I bounced some ideas off my mom (who as an English teacher and literary interpreter extraordinare can always get down to the nitty-gritty of this stuff and figure it out) and decided that it was meant to be a caring song but also a pensive one. And wistful. John Mayer seems to be saying that it would be nice if relationships could last forever but, often, they can't. So this particular relationship is new and shiny and will carry on, most likely, through the winter holidays, particularly with what my mom referred to as the "societal support" of Christmas and New Year's and Valentine's Day. But once St. Patrick's Day rolls around, that newness and societal support may fade away, the relationship might start to taper off and they might end up going their separate ways.

So, yes, the song does not exactly share the sentiments that most people associate with St. Patrick's Day like drinking and the color green (ok, I know those aren't exactly 'sentiments' either), but it's a pretty interesting song. Thoughtful, John Mayer is. Here are the lyrics-- see what you think:



ST. PATRICK'S DAY
~John Mayer~

Here comes the cold,
Break out the winter clothes,
And find a love to call your own.

You- enter you,
Your cheeks a shade of pink,
And the rest of you in powder blue.

Who knows what will be?
But I'll make you this guarantee.

No way November will see our goodbye
When it comes to December, it's obvious why
No one wants to be alone at Christmas time.

In the dark, on the phone
You tell me the names of your brothers
And your favorite colors
I'm learning you
And when it snows again
We'll take a walk outside
And search the sky,
Like children do

No way November will see our goodbye
When it comes to December it's obvious why
No one wants to be alone at Christmas time
And come January we're frozen inside
Making new resolutions a hundred times
February, won't you be my valentine?
And we'll both be safe 'til St. Patrick's Day.

We should take a ride tonight around the town,
And look around at all the beautiful houses,
Something in the way that blue lights
On a black night can make you feel more
Everybody, it seems to me, just wants to be
Just like you and me

No one wants to be alone at Christmas time
Come January we're frozen inside
Making new resolutions a hundred times
February, won't you be my valentine?

And if our always is all that we gave,
And we someday take that away,
I'll be alright if it was just 'til St. Patrick's Day.


(And just so I end on a semi-humorous note, in concert John Mayer is very tongue-in-cheek. After he sang the line: "In the dark/On the phone/You tell me the names of your brothers/And your favorite colors/I'm learning you..." he yelled over his shoulder "Mom! Get off the phone!")


© 2004 (except the song lyrics which aren't mine at all)

So, now that I've posted a week's worth of mindless drivel and various crap, perhaps I should talk even more about myself. Cat, on her website (see link to the right), has a list of 101 things you should know about her. Wow. I'm seriously not even half that interesting. No, really. I could never come up with 50.5 things about me that people would actually be interested in reading. Maybe 30, if I included that whole obsession with personality disorders and serial kil--- Oh, wait-- no, I didn't mean to say that.... seriously...

Things You Might (But Maybe Not) Want To Know About Me:

~•~ I'm a quarter-Italian. My mom's family is all about being Italian. She has 8 brothers and sisters.

~•~ Hence, I was raised Catholic. I went through First Communion. But I don't practice anymore because I heavily disapprove of organized religion.

~•~ My dad's family is all about being wheat farmers in Eastern Washington. He has one brother and one sister.

~•~ My paternal grandparents, who are both 83, still live in a teeny tiny town in Eastern Washington.

~•~ I have 16 aunts and uncles, 20 cousins and 5 cousins-in-law

~•~ I have a rambunctious, mischievous, fluffy golden retriever puppy named Renaissance-- she'll be three in April. My long-suffering, unappreciated, striped tabby cat Misha is almost 16. She's glaring at me right now.

~•~ I have three best friends: Brett, Kimberly and my cousin Alanna.

~•~ Two of my best friends are married. One of them has a child.

~•~ I have triple-jointed thumbs.

~•~ I took piano lessons for 10 years, from the time I was 7. I still can't sight-read and play everything from memory. It's not that I can't read music-- I just can't read music while immediately playing it. My playing from memory, though, was impressive. I've lost most of the songs now.

~•~ I'm a psychology student (see The Reputation Speaks For Itself). First I was an English and theatre double major. Then I realized that I didn't have any better chance of getting a decent career with an English degree than I did with a theatre degree so I switched to theatre and psychology (one's for work and one's for play). Then I realized that theatre was just stressing me out and pissing me off, so I dropped that degree. I'm probably within 30ish credits of graduating with honors and any one of those degrees, but psychology it is. Some days I waffle and wish I'd gone with English or theatre. But then I think about having a job.

~•~ I usually speak with perfect grammar and spell perfectly. My parents are both English/spelling teachers (along with geography) so they've never spoken in anything other than correct and proper English.

~•~ I'm a Cancer with Sagittarius ascendant and a Virgo moon. I'm also an astrology freak. Making up other people's charts is fabulous because I get to find out more about them and they love to hear about themselves. Everybody wins!

~•~ I have been a bridesmaid in two weddings: Brett's and my other friend, Selena's. One dress was silver, the other one was burgandy.

~•~ I have only altered my hair color once-- I put in auburn highlights that lasted a week (just like the package said they would). Other than that, my hair care consists of shampooing, conditioning, less than 5 minutes of blow-drying and brushing. I'm horrible at styling hair.

~•~ I was in eight plays in high school (though my 9th grade year was at the junior high). In all but the last play, I played a character that was some type of "mother" role.

~•~ I don't think the characters I was cast as were a concidence since my high school director knew I worked at the daycare I attended as a child. And that I was a Cancer (the mother of the zodiac). I worked at the daycare for 2.5 years, starting two days after I turned 16.

~•~ I've also worked as a receptionist for Selena's dad, at the Bon Marché department store and with the CrazyAss Cutco Company. And, no, I don't want to talk about it.

~•~ I love to write-- especially nonfiction essays, parodies of songs, devastating horoscopes and limericks. I think limericks are the most underappreciated form of writing. I'll write one right now:

I've been up since last night at eleven,
Studying for my test since seven.
So I'll finish with flair,
And I'll stagger upstairs,
For a nap which, right now, sounds like heaven.


© 2004

You'll notice that lately my posts have been coming in at like 11:52 p.m., 11:46 p.m., 11:58 p.m.-- minutes before the next day begins. I want to post everyday and somedays I just cut it really close. Ok, ok-- that's a big, fat lie. Blogger makes it way too easy to cheat. Once you click on "Create a new post," Blogger logs the time in right then-- not when you actually click "Publish post." At first I wasn't sure if I liked it, because if I start to write something at 5 and don't actually finish until 5:45, then shouldn't it say I posted it at 5:45 because that's when I did? But now that I've realized that I can open up a new post at 11:47 p.m., let it sit open for two hours while I fiddle around reading televisionwithoutpity and checking my four email accounts, then post at my leisure and have it still come up as being the day before, I commend Blogger on a wonderful product.

One of these days, though, I know I'm gonna forget to post something before it's too late and I'll miss a day. And then I'll feel all guilty about it (as if anyone is actually reading this) but it will open the door to missing two, three, seven days at a time and being able to say, "Well, it's not like it hasn't happened before." I love rationalization. I love that making excuses for things that really are your fault has a name that sounds vaguely like a religion. "I'm a rationalist," I say. Or: "It's against my religion to wear a watch. I'm a procrastinator." Bahaha! It's all HI-larious.

In other news, I was doing the Wednesday New York Times crossword puzzle today since I didn't get around to it yesterday (I'm a procrastinator). Two years ago, I wouldn't even look at any crossword puzzle in the newspaper-- now, I'm a crossword snob and only do the New York Times crossword puzzle. Why? Because it has a theme. It's not just random words thrown in-- there's a point to every puzzle and so it's a big mystery each day to find out what the theme is. Once of my favorites was when they made phrases that consisted of words that went: consenant-A-consenant-A-consenant-A etc. They had "The epic stories of an 80's pop group" (BANANARAMASAGAS) and "A Southern Middle-Eastern Princess" (ALABAMAMAHARAJA, if I'm remembering correctly). It was fabulous. Or in the Sunday puzzle, when they used the movie rating NC-17 to make a puzzle where words that had "NC" in them, the "NC" went together in one box. That's what makes the NYTimes Crossword so cool.

I must confess, however, that I didn't actually complete the NC-17 one. The puzzles start out easy on Monday and work their way up to 200-clue difficulty on Sunday. That's why Sunday's puzzle is so big and has so many clues. Also, all the puzzles during the week are edited versions of other Sunday ones. I don't know if they use the same clues and answers (I've never bothered to check) but they recycle the themes. I'm an intermediate NYT crossword puzzle-solver, meaning I can only make it through Wednesday. So Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I get bored with the newspaper since only the Jumble is at a difficulty level that I can handle. I know that if I keep practicing, one of these days I'll be able to solve two or three Thursdays in a row, maybe even figure out most of a Friday. To my credit, I did do most of one Sunday, a long time ago. The theme was "personal ad for children's book fictional characters," so it was Goldilocks, Paul Bunyan, Cinderella, etc. And I was very proud of myself when I almost finished it, despite the fact that it took me almost 90 minutes to do so.

If you decide to take up solving New York Times crossword puzzles, there are a few rules you should know about-- at least imposed on myself in my own house because I'm just crazy like that:

1) No pencils allowed. I think my dad actually made up this rule, but it's a fair one, considering that if you think you can handle NYT, you should be definitive and sure enough in your answers to use a ballpoint pen.

2) You can't look up information. You can ask other people what the capital of Indonesia is and who won the 1964 U.S. Open and, if they give you an answer, then that's fine. But you can't actually consult an encyclopedia. And employing the internet is an absolute violation, punishable by spending a few hours in Crossword Hell, filled with Crossword Guilt. (Jakarta, Ken Venturi)

3) When asking others for help, you must give them all spaces and letters involved in the word you're trying to fill in. Ahh, the frustration of anyone who does crossword puzzles with my Grandpie:
"Ok," he says, "'Sweetest place on earth.'"
"Disneyland."
"No, that doesn't fit-- there are only seven letters."
"Atlanta."
"No, the first letter is an 'H.'"
"H?"
"And the third letter is an 'R'..."
Four minutes later: "Hershey, Pennsylvania?"
If you want help, you have to give all the information at the beginning of the brainstorming session.

4) The crossword can be considered "Solved" if the theme has been obtained, 95% of the theme-related answers have been filled in and 85% of the rest of the puzzle has been solved. Then, you can consult all the encyclopedias and internet sites you want to find out the last name of "Author Umberto" and "Female star of 1934's 'Broadway Bill.'" (Eco, Myrna Loy)

(started at 11:47 p.m., actually posted at 12:36 a.m. Look, I'm trying to be honest here.)


© 2004

My golden retriever puppy, Renaissance, nearly poked her eye out on Sunday. No, I'm not exaggerating. Like it was bleeding from the inside and my mom had to call the vet at home (on Sunday night) and he actually came into the office to check it out. He gave her eyedrops and antibiotics and said that if it wasn't improving by Monday morning, she'd have to have surgery. Luckily, she healed. (Ooh, puns!)

However, these eyedrops are the devil. You have to put them in four times a day. FOUR. In other words, every time you turn around. It requires two people, despite the fact that Reni tries hard to be good about it, because she doesn't appreciate the necessity of holding your eye open until the drops go in. I tried to put them in by myself once and succeeded in putting them almost in her nose instead.

So the drops go in like every 30 seconds and then you have the antibiotics which are capsules. Renaissance, like most other dogs, wants to gum and mouth everything to figure out what is it. So she tries to chomp on the pills. Crunch, crunch, crunch. "Reni, stop it!" My mom admonishes. Reni thinks the pills are treats. Anything that goes in Reni's mouth is a potential treat. Except for grapes which she can't break apart with her teeth since the grape is too smooth. We gave her one once, not realizing this and watched her roll it around in her mouth, gently place it back on the floor, mouth it a bit, pick it up, roll it around her mouth, gently place it back on the floor.... it took her about four rounds of that before she was able to break the skin and chew it. She also thinks ice cubes are treats. Yeah, I know. I don't know either.

In other news, a friend of mine told me she'd met this guy online (he's in the Navy) and they'd been seeing each other for a couple months. She hadn't told me earlier because she's always been kind of anxious about guys and wasn't sure about this. I've always hoped she'd find just the right guy and that anxiousness would disappear. This guy seems like just the right one. They talk for hours on end, he's met her parents, stayed at her house. From what she's told me, he's honest and mature and likes her for her. Now, I know a lot of really good, sweet, caring guys (my best friend is one) but I will also be the first to tell you that there aren't enough good ones out there. And it just tears your life apart when you somehow get wrapped up with a bad one. And I shouldn't even pawn it off as "guys"-- it sucks when you get wrapped up in a bad relationship with a creepy guy or girl. It's so draining and unhealthy and miserable. So, the fact that she's found a great guy... well, it's just all good and I'm so happy for her. Seriously, I was just overjoyed when I found out-- giddy and smiley and happy. I told her that she really deserves to be as happy as she is and while I don't know how seriously she took me, I really meant it. People need those really good things in their lives-- the rays of sunshine that cut through all the mundane, gray, cloudy drivel of everyday life. It's like a breath of fresh air... a new beginning... a little renaissance, if you will.

Just remember to put on your sunglasses before you go out there, ok, kids? I'm running low on eyedrops.


© 2004

I was watching American Idol tonight and Simon Cowell, the mean British one, was in fine, fine form. There's this guy, Matt, who I like to call "RoseBowl Rogers" since he never frickin' SHUTS UP about playing O-Line with the Huskies in the Rose Bowl. They showed his "Bio Clip" and not only was it the ultimate presidential ad-- Matt shaking babies, Matt kissing hands, Matt taking a goddamn bubble bath (I kid you not)-- but at least a third of it was clips of RBR as a Husky in Martin Stadium... at the Rose Bowl... celebrating with the team. Marques Tuiasosopo gives an endorsement; someone talks about Matt putting on his jock strap while singing opera; Matt says, "Once a Husky, always a Husky." My entire family groans.

So, after listening to Matt talk and butcher his way through Hard to Handle, (being that it's 'soul' theme week) Simon says: "Your bio package was like a presidential ad and your performance was second-rate Tom Jones." *Snark!* And hee. A poster at televisionwithoutpity.com commented, "Sometimes I think Simon is the only one paying attention." It's funny 'cause it's true.

Then we watched a rerun of Whose Line is it Anyway? but it was new to me and they were doing the game "Title Sequence" where Wayne and Brad or Chip make up the theme song to a TV show and Ryan and Colin act out the opening sequence-- like Patty Duke or The Brady Bunch or whatever. Now, let me just say that I am a huge fan of the Patty Duke theme song (and the show, of course) but the stuff Brad and Chip (and sometimes Wayne) come up with is pretty damn funny. Drew always asks for two "unlikely roommates" and so far I've seen "Satan and the Schoolgirl" ("Little Connie was brushing her hair/had on a dress right down to her knees/When who should walk in her front door/Why it's Methsostopheles...") and "Monica and Hillary" (Yes, it's exactly what you think) and they were both great. Especially Colin playing the Devil.

So Drew, the host, asks for two unlikely roommates, per usual, and someone yells out "Bill Cosby and Hitler!" So Drew picks that. Then before they can even get started with the game, some random TV exec (I think the director) comes over, walking halfway in front of the camera, to tell Drew that Hitler is apparently unacceptable.

This is a show that makes fun of everyone from bald men to hillbillies to Kabuki theatre. But Hitler is off-limits. Go figure. We all know Hitler was bad-- that's why we want to make fun of him. A lot. Because he was a horrible person who deserves to be ridiculed every chance we get. Like President Bush. And Michael Jackson. And RoseBowl Rogers. All horrible people. All quite deserving of ridicule.

So, Drew cusses a bit which is censored both with the bleeps and the "censored" graphic over his mouth. Then they sing about Bill Cosby and the insurance salesman, which includes the immortal line: "The hilarity never stops/With policies and Jell-O pops!" ("Where Cathy adores a minuet, The Ballet Russes and Crêpe Suzette/Our Patty loves to rock and roll, a hot dog makes her lose control-- What a wild duet!")

Now, Bill Cosby and RoseBowl Rogers...

Our Matty adores a bubble bath,
And at UDub, they cut his brain in half
Cosby is a Jell-O fan,
So eating Matt's brain is his plan--
And it's non-stop laughs...


©2004

Written 2/03

My chiropractor and I were scheduling an appointment for next week. "How about Monday?" I asked. "Monday's a holiday," She informed me. I thought for a moment and realized it was President's Day, which, technically and theoretically, is a holiday, albeit a federal one. I always assumed this day wasn't really to honor the coincidence that the two greatest Presidents in American history were born ten days apart, but rather so rich congressmen and disgruntled postal workers could have a three-day weekend and furniture stores could throw their BIG PRESIDENTS' DAY BLOW-OUT BASH!!! My family and I have always liked the concept though, since in Washington State most schools take a four-day weekend.

I found it amusing, however, that my chiropractor, who is not a federal employee and runs her own practice, said "Monday's a holiday," like it was a holiday for everyone, which it isn't. I honestly don't see why she cares about holidays and three-day weekends anyway since she never works Fridays. My appointment is on Wednesday at 1:30 p.m. since she also never works Tuesdays. I plan to make it a point next Wednesday to ask her how her five-day weekend went.


©2003

G.W.B. sent my dad a "personalized" picture of himself and the wifey in the mail yesterday. It's retarded. And gross. The caption says:

To: Mr. Blah Blah, thank you for your early commitment and dedication as a Charter Member of the campaign in Washington. Grassroots leaders like you are the key to building a winning team. Best Wishes, (signed Laura Bush and G.W. Bush).

This caption ignores the fact that my dad has yet to give them any "commitment" or "dedication." Dubya just assumes he will what with the personalized "gift" and all. Talk about presumptuous-- first the war and now this.

Dubya's "Chairman of the Campaign," Marc-with-a-"C" writes:

"Dear Friend,
Will you become one of the first to join the Bush-Cheney '04 Team as a Charter Member? (so many capitals!) I would be thrilled to tell the President you are with us. (yuck)

"As a small token of appreciation and to welcome you to our team, I am proud to present you with the enclosed photo of the President and Laura Bush-- complete with a special, personal inscription to you. (Who do they think they're fooling??)

"Blah blah... symbol of commitment... blah blah blah (that's a direct quote)... photo will serve as a reminder... blah... democrats have relentlessly attacked... blah blah... liberal special interest groups.... blah blah blah... leaders in their area.... blah blah blah...strong grassroots.... blah blah blah... compared President Bush to Saddam Hussein blah... liberal nation media... blah blah blah... opponents are well funded... blah blah--"

Wait a minute. Why do all the candidates make such a big deal out of the fact that the other team has money? Marc-with-a-"C" says, "So far these groups have amassed a war chest of almost $200 million - with plans to raise half a billion dollars." That last part is underlined. Very dramatic, Marc. As if G.W.B. doesn't already have just as much and more. Shut up, Marc. Dubya has money to burn but he wants to make his supporters feel guilty and give more. Case-in-point: The letter written by Marc-with-a-"C" says at the bottom "Not Printed at Taxpayers' Expense." Well, I should hope not. The return postage-prepaid envelope says, "Your 1st class stamp is an added gift!" Wow. I'm horrified.

Then you're supposed to send this form attached to the picture back to Marc-with-a-"C" with your contribution. The form letter you send back reads:

"Dear Marc,
Thank you for sending the personalized photograph of the President and Laura Bush. I will display it proudly as a Charter Member of the Bush-Cheney '04 campaign. To help promote the President's compassionate conservative agenda and to help nominate and reelect President Bush, I am sending a contribution of(Money-- er, "commitment" and "dedication" go here)."

Ugh. It's all so disgusting.

Oh wait! Marc-with-a-"C" says:

"Send back the enclosed Receipt Conformation Form to let me know that your photograph arrived in good condition and is suitable for framing (excuse me?) and display (yeah, Marc. That'll happen). This may seem like a little thing, but it is very important to me personally to know that your support has been properly acknowledged."

Yo, Marc: Acknowledge this.


© 2004

I'm taking this Cognition and Memory class online through my university. It's one of the optional requirements for the psychology degree they offer. I say 'optional requirement' because the university requests that one takes X number of classes from one group and X number of classes from another group as part of the curriculum. You get to choose the classes from the group though, so it's 'optional' even though it's a requirement. So far I've taken Abnormal Psychology, Social Psychology and Operant Behavior. I got C-minuses in both Social Psych and Operant Behavior so I'll be retaking them to boost my GPA and prove that I'm not stupid. Ok, to clarify: I'm not stupid in the sense that I couldn't understand the material. I am stupid in the sense that I was too depressed and down-trodden to go to class on a regular basis and/or read the material and figured since I breezed through high school, I'd wing it here. Book-smart vs. street-smart, people. It makes all the difference. You would think after going through that once, I'd learn. No, no. It took about 14 times. And I think the more I talk about this inability to learn from experience, the higher my "stupid" rating gets. So, let's move on.

The Cognition and Memory class is online through the distance degree program (DDP) (Which, yes, makes me think of DDT). I find that I like the program so much better than regular college. Each week, we read the chapter, do a fun little experiment online, post our thoughts on the class message board and then post a few more messages about other people's thoughts. Then every four weeks, we take a test. It's a go-at-your-own-pace, don't-have-to-get-up-to-go-to-class-at-godforesaken-8-a.m., can-do-the-labs-at-4-a.m.-and-no-one-cares deal. Some of the other DDP classes are even offered "whenever," i.e. you just sign up whenever you want, complete the work and turn it in, take a couple of tests whenever you feel like it and they give you a grade. It's genius. Book-smart and street-smart.

I'm acing (aceing?) the weekly assignments. You can get from 0-4 points. I get 4. Every time. I think it has a lot to do with my ability to write things in complete sentences. You know what I mean-- they ask, "In the mental rotation experiment, why was it easier to rotate an image at 135˚ than to rotate an image at 90˚?" And I write: "In the mental rotation experiment, it was easier to rotate an image at 135˚ than rotating an image at 90˚ because..." I mean, yeah, the actual answer I put down is important, but the complete sentence structure ranks right up there with it. Form vs. function, people. It makes all the difference.

However, I just got my grade on my first test. C+. See, when I say I got a C+, one immediately goes, "Holy crap! But you're acing (aceing?) the assignments! Why are you getting a C+ on the test?" However, when I say I got 23 points out of 30, it comes off a little better. If you don't do the math right away, only missing seven points doesn't look so bad. It's when it comes up as 77% that I cringe and think, "Ooh... that a C+."

We don't get the tests themselves back. I think they're afraid that people will copy the questions and distribute them either freely or for a nominal fee. And I think this fear has been instilled thanks to the fraternities and sororities at the university. These institutions keep tests on file to which students can refer when they study. And it's not a big secret either-- it's openly published as a reason to pledge: "We have the answers to all the tests in the university! The profs are too lazy to change the questions on the tests, so the tests never change! And we have the answers! Pay us money, live in our house, and we'll give you the answers!"

So thanks to the Teeks (Tau Kappa Epsilon) and the Pikes (Pi Kappa Alpha) and the Pi Phi's (Pi Beta Phi), I don't have my test. I suppose I could blame the sorority I was part of for a year (Alpha Delta Pi) but they don't have a cute nickname like "Teeks." I couldn't remember whether the Pikes were Pi Kappa Alpha or Pi Kappa Epsilon, so I looked them up to be sure. The Pikes website for the chapter at my school uses some of the best buzzwords I've ever seen: "Finest men at the university... elite scholars, leaders, athletes and gentlemen... impenetrable brotherhood... GPA is consistently among the upper half of fraternities... reputation speaks for itself." That last bit slayed me. It's just so... suave... and self-assured... and dopey.

Anywho, the DDP (DDT) does allow the prof to post a few comments along with my grade where I can read them at my leisure and attempt to piece together why I ace the assignments and practically flunk the test in comparison. My prof's comments were that I had a good grasp of the general concepts but that I needed to focus more on specific evidence. I think what he really means is that if I'm gonna b.s., the least I can do is reference a few examples here and there. However, thanks to the Pikes-- whose reputation in speaking for itself is saying, "Oh, you're very welcome..."-- I don't have my answers to the essay questions in front of me so I can't say: "Ok-- I didn't cite a good example of evidence here, so I'll go back and find what examples I should have talked about and use those as a starting point for finding specific evidence for the essay questions on the next test."

Instead, I have to say: "Those goddamn Pikes. I'm gonna practically flunk the next test too. And it's all their fault." Taking responsibility vs. pointing fingers, people. It makes all the difference.

I get the feeling that the more my reputation speaks for itself, the higher my "stupid" rating gets. "Better to say nothing and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."

Too late.


© 2004

So why would I want a blog? I have yet to figure that out. Sure, it's fun to direct people to the myriad of writings that I intend to post here, but other than that, blogs kind of scare me. I can't talk shit about people I know because those people will read this (Oh, crap-- did I say that out loud?). I can't talk about the political aspects of my existence because Google is way too good at finding things that those crazy, crazy other people are searching for. They're crazy, I tell you-- rabid insanity at its finest. Every time I see them, I expect them to be foaming at the mouth, not unlike the dog in the children's book I have about Louis Pasteur.

Louis Pasteur, as we all know, invented the vaccine for rabies. Oh, you didn't know that? Well, he did. I guess he's probably more famous for inventing pasteurization, seeing that it bares his name; however, making all the milk in the world suitable to drink is apparently nothing compared to stopping rabies. So this book about him: The Value of Believing in Yourself: The Story of Louis Pasteur is one in a series of ValueTales and these tales kind of disturb me. I think values are good things and it's important to have them, but I'm not too keen on force-feeding them to children in something not even thinly disguised as a history lesson. It's like too much 'good' for one thing to be.

In this book, Louis Pasteur is working at his lab in France trying to invent this vaccine for rabies, the "invisible enemy." All the French people make fun of him, as French people are wont to do when someone tries to convince them that something exists even though they can't see it. But Louis Pasteur believes in himself and, unlike some other 'famous' people trying to convince the French that things exist, Pasteur perseveres and proves himself right, creating the vaccine for rabies.

Now, the foaming-at-the-mouth dog is drawn and even described in the book as having white foam around his mouth like "whipped cream." I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, I liked whipped cream a lot. So somehow, I don't think employing whipped cream as a visual aid to explain to kids a fatal disease like rabies is the best idea one could come up with.

So the dog's crazy. He's from Germany, and he gnaws on trees and stuff and is pissed off at this kid "Joey" (ahh, yes, the good German name "Joey") who keeps poking a stick at the dog's foaming mouth. And, of course, after Joey finishes tormenting the dog, Joey goes home without realizing that the gate is open to the dog's yard and the dog can get out. So the crazy dog gets out and bites the hell out of Joey-- 14 times-- as payback for pissing him off.

Now, I have to admit that I commend the book for this particular sentiment. They make it a point several times-- even as Joey's dad picks him up all bloody and bitten-- that if you go around poking sticks at rabid dogs, eventually you get what you deserve. Maybe not today... maybe not tomorrow... This is the value I think the book should tout: The Value of Being Kind to Animals: The Story of Joey Who Gets Rabies Because He's a Jerk. It could be co-sponsored by PETA and the ASPCA.

But no. Joey goes home and is bedridden. The book shows the rabies germs inside of him and they're exactly the way we used to picture germs when we were little kids: black-wearing, devilish-looking things with mean eyes and fangs. The dog dies. Things aren't looking good for ol' Joey. But, miraculously, his mother reads about Louis Pasteur in the paper and they bundle up Joey and take him off to France. Louis Pasteur tells Joey about the vaccine which he describes as being "soldiers with bright eyes," who can see in the dark and will find the rabies germs and kill them. Again, the book puts some weird, weird pictures in-- Louis Pasteur holds a syringe the size of The Statue of Liberty filled with these soldiers. The book asks: "Would you be comfortable if you had an army of Magical Soldiers fighting a war inside you?" Well, no.

And Joey gets better and everyone's happy, except me who is still pissed about the dog having to die and the book failing to recognize the true value in this story: "Animals are people too." Or something like that.

Now, the kicker here is, as I mentioned previously, the book is one in a series of ValueTales. And, on the back page, it lists all these ValueTales: The Value of Determination: The Story of Helen Keller; The Value of Patience: The Story of the Wright Brothers; The Value of Courage: The Story of Jackie Robinson. But then they mention things like The Value of Truth and Trust: The Story of Cochise. Of who? I thought the name was French-- like a French harlequin clown or something-- until I "googled" Cochise and found out he was a great Apache warrior. Even after reading accounts of his life, I'm still not sure exactly how 'truth' and 'trust' fit into all of it.

However, my personal favorite is The Value of Humor: The Story of Will Rogers. Apparently, children need to know that it's OK to be funny. Bet you never saw that coming. You can be determined and patient and courageous and believe in yourself all you want, but without being funny, you're completely and utterly worthless.

I think it's time for a few politically incorrect ValueTales: The Value of Sexuality: The Story of Britney Spears; The Value of Shock: The Story of Howard Stern; The Value of Playing the Race Card in the Courtroom: The Story of O.J. Simpson.

Of course, if you want to clue kids into what matters today, you really only need one ValueTale. Its potency will stay with your children long after the book has ceased to be:

The Value of Money: The Story of Michael Jackson, George W. Bush, Bill Gates, Walt Disney, Donald Trump, The CEOs of Enron....


©2004