Merry Marchmas!

Those who know my family understand how bad my mother's memory is. In fairness, she doesn't really forget the important stuff -- and with a family history of Alzheimer's, I feel we'd take such a thing very seriously -- but it's still lots of fun to pick on her when relatively simple stuff slips her tender mind.

Today, the "stuff" happened to be her driver's license. It seems she misplaced it sometime after work on Friday and hasn't seen it since. Now, yesterday, while driving to recycle (the Disneyland of Momville), she pointed out to me that she didn't have her license and wasn't sure where it was. So we know that she misplaced it between the end of work Friday and Saturday morning. A pretty small window, one that shouldn't contain that many different places.

Silly me.

While I spent the better portion of the morning (post-awakening, of course, which didn't leave much left) reading the paper, drinking coffee, and working on the crossword puzzle, she ran around frantically seeking out her missing ID. She tore through pocketbooks, all the pockets of clothes she'd worn, all the places she normally frequents -- yes, the laundry room got a thorough once-over. Alas, no license.

I observed all this with mild indifference and even less concern. Knowing my mother, these things tend to just work out. And besides, she wasn't freaking out too much, so why should I?

So given my lack of caring, imagine my surprise when my mother walks into the kitchen with her hands filled with clothing and other such paraphernalia. She plopped it all on the counter and presented it to me in sequential order:

• a black Life Is Good hat featuring a guitar and the line, "Let's get together and feel alright"
• a white t-shirt with an acoustic that reads, "There are things that come before guitar...I just don't know what they are."
• three Disney World pins:
  • a recreation of the famous Partners statue, in front of Cinderella Castle
  • a Rock 'n' Roller Coaster pin shaped like a guitar pick
  • Goofy laughing out loud, with the letters LOL underneath
• and a $25 Starbucks gift card

After her presentation, she said, "Merry Christmas!" and ran off to continue searching for her license.

Turns out, in an effort to hide the swag she bought me from Disney World (which she'd planned to give me for Christmas), she hid them at the bottom of the ironing basket -- the last place she figured I'd look (and rightly so). Unfortunately, she never got to the bottom of the basket in all this time and, you guessed it, she forgot they were there. Until she found them today.

While looking for something that else that she forgot where it was.

Suddenly, the idea of Christmas in July doesn't seem like an unreasonable expectation.

(I'll close by sharing that she did end up finding her license -- in her car, right where she normally puts it. It just slid farther back into the console than it normally does, so she didn't see it upon first glance. Can't say that she isn't a creature of habit, even if that is to a fault.)

Why Is Twitter So Damn Addictive?

At the risk of stepping on the toes of I Hate Everything, I have to lodge an only-kinda-sorta-serious complaint.

At its core, the concept of Twitter explicitly exacerbates our current cultural communication breakdown. People don't think through things, they just type out short bursts. Everyone follows one another instead of, you know, actually talking to each other. And it reinforces our attachment to technology at the expense of the real world: when it's so easy to post, you never know when someone important (broadly defined, of course) is going to say something that you'll clearly want to read.

And yet, like a car wreck, I just can't turn away from it.

Thus why I'm posting here. Because even though this blog is specifically designed for my less-well-thought-out ideas, I would probably need to tweet at least 9 times to get the entire content of this post onto my Twitter. (I just word counted it. Because I'm a sad, sad little man.)

But while I'm at it, you know...go check out my Twitter. And follow me too. You wouldn't want to miss out on any of my useless ramblings, would you?

I fear I'm a hopeless case.

If He Only Knew!

My professor just made my day.

Reinforcing the notion that I'm the worst student ever, I failed -- despite having all day yesterday with no other responsibilities -- to successfully read one article and write a two-page critique of that article before going to bed last night. What I did do was read the first two sections of the article, write a crappy six-line introduction, and begin typing up a short list of quotes that I planned to examine.

This morning, I almost reset my alarm for an hour later before remembering, Oh shit, I still need to finish my critique. So up I was at 7:00am, out of the shower by 7:15am, and sitting in front of my laptop ready to roll at 7:20am.

And with my ride due to pick me up at 8:20am, what did I do with my hour? Why, watch SportsCenter, of course!

During the shittier highlights (Who gives a fuck about basketball anyway? Not this guy!) I managed to successfully read the remainder of the article and take down some more quotes, but I was still about a page-and-a-half and a lot of elucidation and coherence short of a true critique. With this, I went to class.

I then proceeded to select an advantageous seat (far from the professor) and turn my quotes and thoughts into a cogent response. It ended up two-and-a-half pages, and was surprisingly not as crappy as I'd anticipated it would be.

At break, I sent it to the office printer, produced a paper copy, and submitted it to my professor. Success!

But here's where it got really good. Because no sooner do I return to class than does my professor announce that I have "reminded" him that the critiques are due, and that everyone should hand them in.

Because I'm "the model student" of the class. And, given my excessive sense of "responsibility," the "goody-two-shoes" of the group.

Procrastination FTW!

Yeah baby, I still got it.

Janet Lyon Would NOT Be Proud

One doesn't typically expect high Modernism and lowbrow humor to find common ground on a radio program like The Opie & Anthony Show, but I suppose I've learned in my life to be prepared for anything. Unfortunately, I just wasn't prepared enough.

As I'm driving to campus yesterday, a discussion about scarves on the show led to (I believe) Jim Norton telling comedian Bob Kelly that he hopes his scarf gets caught in something and decapitates him. Bob responded by explaining that it had actually happened, to the general disbelief of everyone else present.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, listening on my satellite radio, I knew it was true. It was explicitly mentioned in a presentation for a Modernism seminar I took last spring. The only problem? I couldn't remember the person's name.

Despite lacking the key information, I called the show. I figured it would take me forever to get on the line, and in that time I could park my car and pull out my laptop -- and, if I was lucky, borrow a wireless connection in order to look up the name.

I did not anticipate my call being picked up just seconds after I dialed. Fuck. "Who's this?" I told him it was Dave from Jersey. (Yes, I know I was in Pennsylvania. But this state has been on my shit list since I learned that the closest IHOP to State College is in Maryland and that I therefore could not partake in Free Pancake Day. Fuck you, Pennsylvania.)

But when prompted to tell him what I had for the show, all I had was a tenuous grasp. I told him I'd learned in a class that the story was true, that it was a dancer from the 1920s, and that she wasn't decapitated but was dragged to her death. She was friends with Gertrude Stein and her crew, but goddamn it, I wasn't near a computer and I couldn't remember her name.

"Thanks for your help." CLICK. Double fuck.

I just couldn't come up with the name. And for whatever reason, I couldn't get Eudora Welty out of my head, even though I knew it was wrong, because Eudora Welty was a writer, not a dancer. (It also doesn't help that she only died a few years ago.) A few minutes later, the show confirmed why that name was stuck in my mind.

It wasn't Eudora. It was Isadora. Isadora Duncan.

I got an A in that Modernism seminar, too. A seminar that was strongly invested in learning backgrounds and, yes, memorizing names and dates.

Methinks I need to rescind my English snob membership card after this one. Punching out.

Getting Back Into the Groove

I'll be the first to admit it: for someone who really loves writing, and particularly enjoys spending time blogging, I'm pretty legendarily awful at updating in a timely manner.

The simple truth is that, when other things start piling up and I get stressed out about my condition, an activity that takes patience and brainpower is usually the first to go. Especially when I should, by all accounts, be working on writing that will, you know, justify the nice diploma frame I just invested in (because really, if that doesn't motivate me, nothing will [...and that's what scares me...]).

Anyway, this is my ceremonial, every-so-often-after-a-long-period-of-neglect post where I promise I'll be more diligent with my postings in the coming weeks. I swear.

As a gesture of good will, you can take a look over at my other blog, where I'm making better on the good-faith gesture that LibraryThing makes in me, by actually reviewing some of the Early Reviewer books they've sent to me. (Some of them are really good, too!)

Until then, know that I appreciate your endless patience while I deal with the mostly unfunny transition from the comforting craziness of grad school to the scary excitement of trying to find a job with a liberal arts degree in a shitty economic market.

Because really, what do I have to worry about?

When Did This Happen?

Can someone let me know when it suddenly became okay to come into a quiet room, sit two feet away from someone who is keeping to himself, quietly reading a book, and strike up a lengthy and loud conversation about whom your roommate is fucking and how big your exes' cocks are?

Because I was under the impression that, you know, because of tact, that kind of thing was off the table.

Silly me.

Axed

If there's one thing I do well while in State College, it's watching television. But since laziness is my m.o., the channel rarely changes. With the exception of the occasional Jeopardy! viewing, my pretty TV broadcasts mostly two channels: GSN (formerly the Game Show Network) and ESPN (currently the worldwide leader in sports).

Both channels, to my great surprise, show an astonishing amount of irritating ads. I say "to my great surprise" because GSN, like many daytime game shows, skew towards an older, more nostalgic audience. So I'm not astonished to find that they constantly advertise medications, diabetes testing supplies, and (how I wish this wasn't so) incontinence pads. My surprise comes more out of the realization that, for reasons unbeknownst to me, both channels are equally likely to broadcast those goddamn horrendous Cash4Gold.com commercials.

As I'm unwilling to give that particular site any more space here, I'll instead focus my fangs and venom on two other ads. The first is an ad for Axe Hair Products, featuring an attractive young woman narrating the scene at a gorgeous beach. Three male models are fitted with bad wigs. (My choice of word is critical here: "bad." Not "horrendous." Not "roadkillesque." Just "bad." Let's continue.) The models then proceed to try picking up chicks, to no avail -- because, as our snobbish spokeswoman tells us...

"If these gorgeous guys can't pick up girls with this hair, what hope do you have?"

Wanna know what I think? There's a long version and a short version.

The long version: I know I don't have the physique or the looks to capture the attention of 10s for an exceptional length of time, but I'd like to think that even without the perfect body, I have plenty to offer the pretty single ladies out there. But not every single guy has the same level of confidence or patience, even if they are better looking than me. So, as usual, the media presents the single-minded, stereotypical perception that looks are all that matter and if you don't look good, you're not worth a damn. To be honest, if a girl rejected me because she thought my hair didn't look good, I'd be happy to have avoided wasting my time on someone so shallow and self-centered. And as for the exceptionally smarmy phrasing of our intrepid spokeswoman's query, I've got a lot more hope in the long run than you do, because my personality and intelligence will hold out for substantially longer than your looks will.

The short version: Fuck you, bitch.

I feel better. I think I might have had a rant in me about the FinallyFast.com commercials -- why would the Web site's commercial feature predominantly Apple computers when the site's software, per the fine print, can't help fix problems on Macs? -- but I've mellowed out now that that's out of my system.

And I guess the FreeCreditReport.com toolbag's uppance will have to come another day.

Delicious, Delicious Paper...

I find it hard to believe that in neither of my blogs have I ever posted once about WebMD. While I generally believe that the Internet is a fantastic resource that can effectively bring people together and spread information, WebMD often proves to me how easy it is for this to go horribly, horribly wrong.

The usual tales of WebMD woe involve looking up simple symptoms, only to find that you could potentially have a devastating disease. ("Headache? Probably a brain tumor!") But today, while searching for some possible solutions to my once-again-onset vertigo, I saw some head-related symptoms that made me just a little sad.

Some symptoms are completely plausible: "headache," "hair loss," etc.

Others, to my knowledge, are grouped there strictly because they are psychological in nature, despite not being strictly head-related: "mood swings" and "lack of pleasure" (tee-hee) are just a few of the symptoms there.

Then there are the ones that are stupid because they're obvious, such as "broken bones (multiple fractures)." Call me crazy, but if you know that there are multiple broken bones in your head, why would your first instinct be, "I think I'm gonna go on WebMD...maybe it'll save me a trip to the doctor!" (Perhaps the broken bones are affecting your judgment, in which case I have to wonder why a) no one is accompanying you, or b) if one is, why the hell are they letting you fuck around on the computer instead of, oh, getting you to an emergency room?)

And then, we enter the realm of the absurd. For instance...

"Coma" -- Pray tell, how is a person going to diagnose themselves as having a coma if they're in one? And if it's someone else checking for the victim, I must once more question the wisdom of cross-checking coma symptoms on a Web site instead of with, you know, a certified medical professional. Silly me.

"Fear of gaining weight" -- Isn't that a symptom of, oh, I don't know, life? Does anyone really embrace the chub?

"Craving to eat ice, dirt, or paper" -- This is what-the-fuck on so many levels. First of all, has anyone ever actually craved eating dirt or paper? (Ice, I've been told, is a common enough snack for some.) And furthermore, who decided to put those three particular selections together? I don't believe there to be a disease that results in me desperately wanting to snack on only ice, dirt, or paper. Nor am I aware of what it takes to make the jump from ice to paper.

I could go on, but it's all just making me dizzy again just thinking about it. I'd better go lay down for a bit before dinner...maybe take a look at the bookshelf and see what I might want.

"Good day to be alive, sir!"

On this most momentous of Inauguration Days, I humbly give you this.

An actual exchange between two Princeton graduates:

Bob (6:41): stupid cold apartment
Bob (6:41): that's what happens when you leave a 85F shower into a 45F apartment
Me (6:59): GAH
Me (6:59): why is your apartment 45*?
Bob (7:46): because the Japanese don't believe in heaters or insulation
Me (7:48): sucks for you
Me (7:48): come back to America
Me (7:48): we have central heating AND a black President
Me (7:48): what now, world?

(10 points if you catch the reference.)

This One's For Liz

Because Liz is one of the only people who will appreciate the awesomeness of this.

Several years back, Danielle introduced me to a game she and her family would play while watching Jeopardy! After the Final Jeopardy! category was revealed, they would make a preliminary guess before the clue came up. It's the kind of thing that's silly and fun and almost guaranteed to never result in a win, but is painless and effortless enough to continue attempting whenever the show's on.

One time, the stars aligned themselves and I was able to guess correctly...but there was a bit of an asterisk surrounding it. The category in question was "1950s Fiction," which is not exactly a broad, wide-reaching category. Plus, my favorite novel ever -- and my candidate for Greatest Novel Ever Written -- happened to be written in the 1950s.

1955, to be precise. Little book called Lolita. And sure enough, though I can't remember the clue verbatim, "What is Lolita?" was the correct response. I received back pats, but only half-hearted ones, since the category was so specific.

Tonight, I found myself watching Jeopardy! and chatting online with Danielle. Our exchange went as follows:

Me (7:19): the head still hurts
Me (7:19): i ate, i took Advil, i took the contacts out, i'm resting
Me (7:20): dunno what else i'm supposed to do
Me (7:20): Who is Eliza Doolittle?
Danielle (7:21): category?
Me (7:21): Characters in Plays
Me (7:22): thus, Who is Eliza Doolittle
Danielle (7:22): who is nathan detroit

Note the timestamps there. My guess came at 7:20pm. Then, at 7:23pm, came the clue:

"This woman wished to be taken to 'Bucknam Pellis...don't you know where it is? In the Green Park, where the King lives'"

HOLY FUCK, I GOT IT RIGHT.

And since "Characters in Plays" is such a radically wide-ranging category, this officially legitimates my previous success! And who cares if it's a completely frivolous little game? I'm still a champ!

(Yes, in case you were wondering, this has been the highlight of my day. How'd you guess?)