Smelly

my computer is smelly.

i have an old computer. it's a laptop. sometimes i lug it with me places like the coffee shop or the deli or maybe somehwere else too. the outside of my smellbox is festooned with stickers ...but not flowery stickers, as "festoon" might have suggested to some. nope. they're just random stickers.

they were stuck there with the intention of infecting the smellbox with some character. we do that with our cars. when they get old, these automobiles (not 'cars'; cars are new) get little additions. they start to grow fuzzy dice or hula girls or furry steering wheels. and, you see bumper stickers that say "how's my driving?" or "my other car's a mazerati." and, then the car is named "steve-o" or "betty" or "kiki." somehow, the total sum of these attributes meets the minimum threshold of what we consider a personality because, as the clock winds down, we start to say things like, "kiki sure is fiesty, but she's been good to me" or "steve-o, he hangs in tough. he's a scrapper; that's why i like him." and so it goes.

i thought i could manage the same fate for my sharp-cornered laptop by stickering it. but, as its name is smellbox, it's pretty clear that the stickers didn't really do much for its character. they've been far outshined by smelliness. my laptop is that ugly, smelly kid that always grossed you out in gym class ...but, now, with the stickers, he's got an extreme case of acne.

icing on the cake.

my funky laptop is a people-repellant. it's the funk that does it; i'm pretty sure. i go somewhere with my smellbox, and i open it up and turn it on. it takes one to two minutes for the armpit-smell to waft up from beneath the keyboard. if you could see it, i think it would look like that stink-ribbon that always trailed skunks in old cartoons.




it's only a matter of time before that ribbon winds its way beneath elmer fudd's nose.










we all know what happens next:










can't shoot my smellbox though. i need it. to write this.

is it bad that i'm talking about it right now? i wonder if it can tell. maybe it will get back at me. like when that crazy computer started to eat richard pryor in superman 3. that would suck.

anyway.

it's just me and my smellbox. everytime i sit down with it, people start to leave. i think the girl sitting next to me is talking about it right now. she's speaking russian, but sometimes she'll turn her head to look at me during her phone conversation and say some words in english, like "smelly" and "hairy" and "guy" and "computer."

poor smellbox. he's good, but no one likes to be near him.

Tacos!

first, some background:
microsoft has released a new little gizmo to compete with the ipod. it's called "the zune." you can't buy it yet, but a lot of people are talking about it. by a lot of people, i mean gadget freaks and techies who sit up all night scouring the interwebs for pr0n. not...say...housewives who sit in the audience of the ellen degeneres show and shop at kmart.

speaking of dancing lesbians, ms. degeneres decided to give a whole bunch of these little guys away to her audience. following her announcement, mayhem ensues. the good stuff jumps off at around 1:12 in the clip below.

basically, we get some good looks of 30- to 40- something women jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, hugging each other; it's a fucking frenzy. i think i even saw one girl start crying. take a look...

here's my gripe (i'm about to get all 'marketing-speak-y' for a minute): these women, this particular demographic--the audience that watches daytime soaps, oprah, and 'the view'--their ken revolves around things like new 'scrubbing bubbles,' febreze, playtex 24-hour bras, and manwich meals. i bet if you stopped one of them on the street and asked her to give you a zune, she'd track down the nearest police officer and tell him that you asked her to do something involving drugs or sexual favors; she's not sure which, but she's positive it had something to do with one or the other. and yet, when ellen mentions that they're all getting one of these things, they flip out like a bunch of 14 year-olds at an aaron carter concert.

this got me thinking: if they really have no idea what this doo-hickey is that they're being given, ellen could have probably said anything--ANYTHING--and they would've all still gone schizo. it's as if they came to the show just waiting for an excuse to go apeshit and jump up and down and hug each other. they were primed, they just needed an excuse. to that end, our nation's favorite daytime talkshow host could've said, "and hey! guess what! you're all getting tacos!"

Cue 'madness.'

or maybe they were just desperate for free shit. this paints an even bleaker picture.

1. it portrays our countrymen/women as a people ravenous for a handout, no matter how relevant or useful said handout happens to be.

2. the broadcast is transformed from an object of mere entertainment to that of psychological conditioning. this show and its audience's reaction cleverly becomes a model, exemplary of how all citizens of the free world should act when given something by someone of a higher caste. we must be grateful for their generosity; we must celebrate these crumbs for without them, we would only have CD players. and, god, would that suck.

imagine what would've happened if ellen offered to give them free sour cream, too; there would've been riots of celebration pouring from the studio into the street.

Donut Holes

a long day's afternoon is upon me, and i need a quick fix to keep my wits. i stroll over to the local coffee shop to pick up a double espresso (yeah, i know). it's been pretty busy at work, so i'm hoping that the line will move quickly.

let me digress for a moment. i have been cursed. specifically, a dark, pestilent plague has been cast upon me when it comes to waiting in lines. its modus operandi is to make me wait in line as long as possible for no reason. and, for the most part, when i am waiting in said lines, i am in a desperate hurry. i'm not sure why i'm always in such a hurry, but i think the act of waiting in line in and of itself has something to do with it. and so, i will say this: i fucking hate waiting in line.

the nature of a line is like that of a reservoir, and a reservoir is the illusion of the polite management of pressure. millions and millions of gallons of water have been corralled and bottled-up, exerting unheard of amounts of newton-meters of force on whatever has been engineered to contain it. usually, this containment comes in the form of a dam. so, there sits a tranquil midwestern town, over which looms the tall shadow of the great dam. behind this barrier is our gigantic volume of water dying to release its energy and rush freely over what is currently an impoverished, dry river bed; this water yearns to replenish and restore what was once a fecund valley, now occupied by...say...a coffee shop.

people in line are no different. as more gather, the pressure rises. however, we're not as passive as our liquid counterparts. so, as the line augments, its members become raucous, perturbed. they too feel the need to embark upon their intended paths, but something is holding them back: the dam. this time, though, the dam is equally unique.

it talks.

not only does it talk, but it has a cash register, an apron, and lingo. it has its very own fucking lexicon. and, it slings this ridiculous polysyllabic nonsense from its oral orifice at freakishly high volume, right in your face. this dam is running interference, trying to stuff its reservoir to maximum capacity.

meanwhile, this plague of mine, it festers and gurgles in the confines of my inner monologue and ultimately manifests as a throbbing neck vein. hitting something is usually the desired recourse and release. yet, as is the case, there isn't anything acceptable to hit. so i just stew, while the dam keeps spouting crap--the bottled up muck that results from stagnation.

finally, there's just one person--let's call him "Mongo"--in front of me. enter stage left, The Curse.

m: "yeah, uh, what are those there?" Mongo says, looking and pointing at round objects with holes in them, lying just beneath the glass counter top.

mind you, Mongo has no accent; he isn't from a far away place, untouched by man, dams, and coffee shops. all things considered, it in fact appears that Mongo is fairly accustomed to this procedure of ordering an object of which he is desirous.

d: "hi sir, how may help you?" as if the dam didn't just hear what Mongo had so astutely asked.
m: "yeah, those there," still pointing, "what are those?"
d: "those are donuts, sir," the dam replies.

then it enters into a long-winded exegesis, using the untranslatable lexicon to describe the history of said donuts and their romanticised journey. they started as sacred wheat in a remote african province and were blessed and harvested by anointed shamans (can you pluralize that?). from there they underwent an ancient, secret process by which they were combined with the rendered animal fat of sacrificial goats. bob's you uncle and, a dozen steps later, you got fucking donuts.

they're fucking donuts, not the holy sacrament.

m: "hmm, what was that you said about this one here," pointing at a donut that looks like this:







the explanation continues and, after another two or three wasted minutes, we get another gem:

d: "...and so that there is our luxurious glazed donut."

A glazed donut. Christ.

m: "okay, i think i'll have this one here. this one with the...uh...the stuff on it, right here. this one on your..."

Mongo turns around so that his right and left are synchronized with those of the dam. Mongo thinks for another minute, making sure the "right" he's about to refer to is in fact the same "right" of the dam. long pause--

m: "...the one on your right."
d: "the one here?" dam is pointing to his other right.
m: "no, that one, there on your other side."
d: "this one, here?"
m: "yes. yes, that one. that's the donut i'd like to order." Now all attention is focused on a donut that looks about like this:







m: "what's on that, anyway?"
d: "oh, i have no idea. it looks like..."
m: "yeah, gimme that one."

and here is my problem: who takes fifteen minutes to order something, let alone a goddamn donut, when he doesn't even know what it is? what if what he's just ordered isn't actually food at all? what if it was a mistake, and it's actually a mouldy cow patty that's found it's way from africa all the way to this counter? and, due to the intricate aging processes of mould, it just happens to resemble a donut?

what if Mongo is deathly allergic to not one, but ALL of the ingredients in this age-ripened-mouldy-cow-patty-donut?

what the fuck?!

i hope he chokes on that thing, has an allergic reaction, turns bright purple for ten days, then, a month later, his penis falls off.

i finally get to the counter.

a: "i'll have a double espresso, please." Gritting teeth.
d: "let me tell you about our exotic blends of beans..."

something has gone terribly wrong.

That Doesn't Fit You

i'm going to be an asshole.

but someone needs to be. for all of our sakes. because frankly, this shit won't stand. correction: it can't stand. rather, it more or less hangs ...loosely ...gathered at the edges ...flapping, flopping, bouncing.

that shit hanging out from the side of your jeans, that's not cute. that's fat.

now, i'm pretty sure someone is getting pissed at me right at this moment. try not to be too angry. i'm just letting you in on the shit-talk that's going on behind your back, after it trundles by.

oh, and also, don't think this is gender-specific. that's just the best picture i could find. men are equally heinous perpetrators. let's examine a few errors in judgment:


there's the ass-taco

the gut-bomb

and man-jugs




if any one of these things is made more visible, is enhanced, or is accentuated by your clothing, you are one of two things:

a) a retard
b) blind

if two or more of these symptoms is exhibited by the patient at any one time, they should be euthanized immediately ...or at least shown to a mirror.

seriously though, it's no wonder europeans make fun of americans for being fat. just look at the shit we wear. the clothes we're picking out aren't doing us any favors. okay fine, europeans smell funny, but you've never heard someone go, "those italians girls, they're so fucking fat and ugly." on the other hand, when a tourist begins to rant on america, the only thing you can pick out between his nasty teeth, characteristically strong b.o., and terrible halitosis are the words "americans" and "fat" (...which are then followed up by the questions, "where is Mac Do? and why no mayo with french fries?")

at any rate, people need to be better judges of appropriateness. just because matthew mcconaughey goes around shirtless and lindsay lohan forgets to wear ...well, clothes... doesn't mean that either of those things will work for you. next time that saleswoman tells you those hotpants look great, be a harder sell and spare us the pain of watching you wear them.

Scabs

i had lunch outdoors on monday. i had worked just about every hour of the past couple of days, and i wanted to enjoy the daylight a bit. i had a lumberjack breakfast at the diner around the corner: pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage...swimming in syrup. reason being i'm always counseled, "feed a cold, starve a fever." feed, i did.

i sat, somewhat bovine in my sleep-deprived state, with an equally zombie-like spectre that was my lunchtime comrade. we were humbly munching on the softness of our sap-soaked flapjacks. then two men passed by our outdoor feed plot. they wore black t-shirts with white words upon them. the words read, "remember 9/11."

then i remembered ...that morning.

i never watch the television when i get up in the morning. but that morning, i turned it on. and, there was the local morning newscast. that day it wasn't particularly bubbly. no, it was dark; it was a memorial. that morning there was a telecast on the local news memorializing the tragedy of 9/11. there was a telecast like this one on every channel on the television that morning.

then i remembered ...cnn.

cnn had replaced their "red-alert" ticker. instead, there was a black band filled with white letters. for days, i had been seeing this new alert ticker as i visited the site filled with all the news and information i could handle. in all those visits, those white letters only read one thing: "cnn's exclusive footage of 9/11 to be rebroadcast, uninterrupted here on cnn.com on monday."

then i remembered ...nicholas cage.

for weeks, i realized i had been seeing hundreds of adds that focused on two very tell buildings and one cop with a handlebar mustache. the buildings were the two towers of the world trade center. the mustachioed-cop was nicholas cage. as usual, he looked like shit. the movie was called World Trade Center.

then i remembered ...pennsylvania.

months prior, i remember having seen more adds for another movie about a plane crash. the plane couldn't make it to its final destination. apparently, some bad people took control of the plane. the passengers, unhappy that they couldn't arrive where they needed to go, decided to take matters into their own hands and put an end to this misdirection before it got any worse. in the end, the plane crashed in pennsylvania. everyone was killed. no one got to where they needed to go. no one needed to die for that. the movie was called United 93.

then i got ...angry.

there is something terrible and something great in all of us. but, it's mostly terrible. we pick at scabs. from time to time, we get hurt. and, when we get really hurt, we get cuts or scrapes. and, as those minor fleshwounds start to heal, we get scabs. these marks aren't necessarily troublesome, but sometimes they itch a lot. they also feel different than regular skin; and, they look funny. thus, i think it's safe to say that these aren't things we want so much as that they're things we have to deal with ...at least until they heal properly.

most of the time, we get anxious. we are determined to move forward. we don't want to be pestered with some awkward looking, strange feeling blotches. no, we need to keep moving. besides, those things really do itch like crazy. in our haste to push forward, we start to scratch. and, in the end, the scabs usually come off earlier than our bodies intended. and that leaves a new wound, smaller than the last one but no less raw.

the process starts again, and finally, we get a scar--discolored and melty--where smooth, healed skin should have found its way. now, that mark will always be with us, never to be forgotten.

this is how we've handled 9/11. yet, still worse because we didn't really prolong our ugliness for the sake of moving forward, as a people or a nation. we're pushing forward for a profit, a bottomline. it can be said that these "memorializations" have been perpetrated not by a people, but by corporations. however, it is a people that makes exploitation acceptible. and so it seems to me that we've set ourselves down the long path of destroying the healing process of a people. and, we've lost focus.

really, who the fuck likes nicholas cage?!

Deep Thoughts

there is a rhythm to things.

i can't quite figure out the beat, but i know that there is a rhythm. which is to say, that, inevitably, particular events or occurrences or thoughts strike me with a frequency i can't predict. there is a surety to these happenings, but it only evinces itself once the moment is upon me. and so, there seems to be some certainty, but only with hindsight.

Hesse called these times "moments of clarity."
Nietzsche called this dynamic the "eternal recurrence."

for the latter, the fate of man hinged upon breaking the cycle. the problem is that the rhythm becomes oppressive and renders its victims apathetic to its regularity. moreover, the issue isn't just the regularity, it's the entrenchment. only when you try to make that first step do you realize how deeply embedded in this rhythm you've become.

wittgenstein might refer to this paradigm as a symptom of "shared meaning;" to break from it demands a deconstruction of all previous conventions. but, now the problem becomes the fact that no one can understand you.

this then begs the question: if left all alone with meanings only you understand and conventions by which only you can operate, will a rhythm--some new kind of rhythm--find its way into your life once more? is this just a different expression of the eternal recurrence?

"CNN confirms that fugitive polygamist Mormon sect leader..."

did you manage to catch this headline this morning? it was at the top of the cnn.com homepage, in that big red 'alert' bar.

i saw it ...and i had to read it five times over. my hang-up was that i couldn't believe it was actually real. let's look at this one more time just in case you're missing the hilarity:

CNN confirms that fugitive polygamist Mormon sect leader...

this was published in the good faith of journalisitic intergrity by one of the largest news sources in the nation; and, i'm not talking about the relatable fact that the phrase conveys (which is ridiculous in itself: does this really happen?). i'm specifically ridiculing the language.

fugitive. polygamist. mormon. sect. leader.

someone at cnn has officialy lost his mind. this isn't news; it's the line out of a sitcom. it's a long lost seinfeld episode. i'll tell you how it goes: this mulitisyllabic villain is actually elaine's bad date for the night. he ends up being married to george's new girlfriend, who ran away from her husband because he was too controlling. she came to new york to start over and reinvent herself (no wonder george thought she was 'wild'). meanwhile, george has actually come to believe in his new girlfriend's reinvention rhetoric and decides that he is no longer 'george'. he is 'jorge'.

this is a bad joke if someone thought that the entirety of the english-literate world would take such a headline seriously.

but what's perhaps more disconcerting is the fact that this title had to pass by so many people. cnn has got to be a labyrinth of fact checking gnomes, one only slightly larger than the next (redundancy is invaluable at a company that large). these words passed by countless eyes, seeing the words and the fact, but nothing else. i guess it's fault and folley: it's upsetting that this was published, but it's also really fucking funny.

Let's Do Lunch

s: "hey! I haven't seen you in ages! wow, crazy running into you like this; how have you been?! gosh, i would love to catch up, but i'm actually on my way to a meeting downtown. lemme get your phone number. i'll call you; we'll get some lunch."

a: "uh, okay. it's--"
and right at this point i wonder if i can get away with giving this guy the wrong phone number. but then what if he calls straight back so that i'll have his?
"--415.423.7798." gave out the real one.

s: "great, hold on real quick. let me call you back so you'll have my number too."

that would've been awkward. but now i got this dude's number, and, frankly, i don't even remember who he is. And so, here we arrive at another instance of a social retardation: what the hell is up with 'lunch'? nobody actually plans on meeting for these so-called 'lunches.' they don't even plan to call you. and, that's fine, really, because i don't plan on calling them either. so why bother going through the effort of looking like you care? it's not like saying hello and then moving on is rude. on the contrary, i find it sincere. i'd rather have a short exchange with someone i never see than a long one that gets pinned to the unreal expectation of meeting for a lunch that will never happen with a person i don't really know.

in fact, suggesting to do the 'lunch' thing makes you look like a schmuck. you stare someone in the face, act happy and surprised to see them, then even go so far as to suggest the two of you make an opportunity out of this chance encounter by meeting later to 'catch up'--and none of it's true. what's really being said is: "do i know you? i think i do. do i want to try and know you more? eh...not really. i deduced your current status via your appearance at present. you seem to be doing fine. there's really no need to draw this out any further just to see it go nowhere because we all know that's what's going to happen. we weren't close friends before; why start now?"

suggesting to do something with the intention of never doing it just for the sole purpose of coming off as nice: that's what's called being an asshole.

in the future, don't be surprised if this happens:

s: "let's do lunch."
a: "go fuck yourself."

That Thing in Your Ear

"hey man, what's up?
wait a sec. what the hell is that thing in your ear? do realize that it's blinking obnoxiously? can you even hear what i'm saying?"

wtf? when did it become normal to walk around with some dongle hanging out year earhole? is this herb on the left really that excited about the shit that's stuck to the side of his head? i hope not, because he looks like a moron.

it's like i woke up one day and, suddenly, arrived in bizarro world. everywhere i look, people are sticking these things in their heads and then just leaving them there like nothing ever happened. this shit won't stand. that thing doesn't belong in your head.

i went to the deli yesterday, and Dude sitting next to me is eating his pastrami on rye, talking to his buddy, with one of these doodads sucking his aural canal and blinking at me. as if, all of the sudden, he's going to get THE call; the call to end all calls. and, god forbid his phone might ring three times before he can fish it out of his pocket. Noooooo. when that call comes, he's got to be ready. and by ready, i mean a loser with some bluetooth schbiel surgically implanted onto his face.

another example: at dinner the other night. i'm in a nice restaurant, having a pleasant dining experience, when something begins to catch my eye. yeah, an awkwardly out of place blinking blue light keeps flashing in my peripheral vision. i look over, and some guy is all dressed up, sitting at the table with what appears to be his girlfriend, laughing, joking, holding hands, with his headset in his ear.

this shit is ridiculous. do people think it's cool to look like a robot? maybe it's just that i didn't get the memo and we've all begun to be assimilated and will soon be part of the borg 'collective.' ...fucking borg.

i wonder if these things will ultimately get relegated to the lexicon of tampons. like, will someone eventually leave one of these things in his ear for too long and develop a nasty case of toxic shock syndrome? is the packaging going to start coming with warnings about hygiene and proper maintenance of 'the device' as it pertains to your earhole? is there going to be an o.b. equivalent of the bluetooth earpiece: "designed by an eardoctor to perfectly conform to the curves and contours of your body." then comes the debate over cardboard versus plastic applicators, vending machines in bathrooms, and that ever pesky odor problem. let's not even get into the uncomfortable talks with mom and dad about the new needs of your growing body.

i tell you: this shit has got to stop because it has already gone too far.

Comments

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A Vist and A Toothbrush

my parents have come to new york to visit me.

this is an interesting moment. frankly, there hasn't been a time when i was actually alone with my parents--just the three of us--when they've made one of these visits. in most cases, i'd travel to somewhere other than home to see them. and, for the most part, this other place was one of my siblings' current place of residence. that said, there was always company involved in any long-distance parental consultation. even still, for the last three years, coming to new york to visit meant visiting me and my sister (she recently moved). so, to get down to it: i've always had a buffer zone. by the transitive property, that also means that for most of my semi-adult life (if you can even venture to call it that), it's never been 'just the three of us.'

and that pretty much brings us to up to right about four hours prior to now.
here we are.

at this very moment, my parents are on an official visit here--to new york--on business from the familial consulate back in the Homeland. this single visit could have ramifications that echo in the eternity of reunions, reminiscing, and any awkward silent moment shared among family members... because we all know that everyone fills space with gossip.
that means you.
and, by 'you', i mean me.
that means, as an ambassador to this delegation, i must act like a statesman. And so, there is to be no awkward silence. Yet, inevitably, every now and again these conversational black holes manage to suck all the words right out of peoples' brains until they're left staring blankly at one another, which just makes everyone feel weird. Thus it follows that there must be a contingency plan for when such a moment does indeed arrive. Contingency plan: fill aforementioned awkward silence.*
*all parent-worthy 'filler' must be 100% natural. gossip-free.

shit.

what in the world do i have to say? current events: jon-benet ramsey, israel, and beirut. not your typical uplifting, witty-yet-appropriate small talk. you don't just have a chit-chat about missiles landing in haifa or dirty men in bangkok. that stuff only puts a sour taste in your mouth. that's what we call a Dinner Killer. i've got useless facts: water is most dense at around 4 degrees celsius, toilet bowls flush the other way around in the southern hemisphere, eggs are really really hard to crush if you try to squeeze them from their top and bottom most points. but that's all pretty much crap, which, when measured on the conversation scale, is well below 'gossip.' and so yields a 'negative, Ghostrider." after all that, i got nothing. i'm screwed.

well, this mental tail-spin starts to kick in right about the time we sit down for dinner. up until this point, there has been meaningful--but expected--conversation. things like:
'how are you?" or,
'how was your day?", or maybe
'what's goin on these days?" or perhaps even
'did you get that thing at that place like you were saying you wanted to do the last time we talked?'
in reality, it was all of those and a few more that were equally uninteresting/less-than-crucial. nonetheless, it's nice to share those details, especially with loved ones. at this point i'm thinking, "so far so good," conversation has been flowing well for a good...oh...say....17 minutes. about the time it took to meet them at the hotel and share a cab to the restaurant. mind you this has been intense one on one time; full parental focus. lockdown.

now, i freeze. two thoughts were developing simultaneously: one was traveling linearly along the path of the general discussion, anticipating upcoming questions and comments and preparing the mind accordingly. the other was a bit more hurdy-gurdy, planting a seed of anxiousness that feeds upon the awareness of the inevitable Lull. if they leave the cerebral cortex at about the same time, when will these two thoughts collide? i'll tell you: 17 minutes.

faced with this pileup and an ever mounting heart rate, my brain begins to shut off all non-essential systems. i'll let you in on another gem: when defcon 5 jumps off in your head, cognition is about the third to go. first you wet yourself, then you realize you can't smell the urine in your pants, then you can't remember anything after that. if you're lucky, you might be able to rig a jumpstart and manage to reboot. one thing that has worked for me in the past is liquor

w: "hi guys, welcome to Z. would you like anything to dri--"
a: "vodka soda." stat.

moments later that sweet, sweet nectar--the very same libation responsible for some of my most infamous undoings--is politely gushing over my lips and rushing through the spaces between my teeth. ah, that bitter-semi-sweet blend of a tasty russian vodka, a judiciously applied amount of soda water, and the hint of a lightly squeezed lemon. the effect sends serotonin rushing to my upper most extremity. the light-bulb flickers back on.

it's sort of like that experiment your science teacher would show in seventh grade. you're all dissecting frogs, some are doing it more precisely than others. you've gotten past the goo that lines their bellies. then you see that tiny little stomach, some other odds and ends. then, before you go for the brain (you know you'll do it), you see it. right there between those tiny little lungs. it looks like a slightly overgrown caper, and you wonder at how that little thing is responsible for powering this slightly larger little thing. that's when you hear:

t: "everyone, come over to my dissection tray!" the class hazily complies. finally, you're all gathered round.
t: "remember when i told you that we all carried a charge? well, now i'll show you how we need electricity just like our clocks do." as he's speaking, the teacher places two little clamps--one on either side--on kermit. teach flips the switch. then, ZAP; the little guy starts working. he's brain dead, but he's working.

well, i wasn't brain dead, but it got me working again.

surprisingly, i didn't really need to worry about the Lull or filler. things managed to just sort of take care of themselves. we talked about our family, my siblings and their various newsworthy activities, a little about life, and then just told stories. my parents talked to me about some of their experiences growing up. some funny ones, but mostly inspiring ones. i did my best to counter with tales that seemed equally well-aged.

looking around, i realized that it wasn't just us at the kitchen table in our house as it had been so long ago. we were in a restaurant. we were in new york. and yet, oddly it felt like home. dad finishing mom's sentences. mom telling me to get my elbows 'off the table.' all of the endearing little habits and favorite turns-of-phrase found themselves right back where i had remembered them. having my parents around made everything feel like home.

and as such, home wouldn't be complete without an awkward yet sentimentally meaningful gift. for chanukah, i used to get a right-footed sock on one night, and a left-footed one on the other. sometimes, i'd get tic tacs or post-it notes. once i got a box of number 2 pencils, followed by a notepad the next night. and, of course, there was always the little case of thumbtacks packed in the deceptively huge box. all of these gifts were, in and of themselves, pretty meager. their purpose was more for humor than anything else...and we always had a pretty good laugh at them. so much so that when it came time to actually need one of those gifts, the use of it wasn't simply evocative of its utility; rather, its use became swaddled in the memory of what it had once occasioned.

my parents came to new york to visit me. they gave me a toothbrush.

Spelling Error

yeah. i know. fuck it.

let's use this opportunity to introduce some belated irony into an already sardonicly themed blog. *gasp*

now it's doubly funny because:
1. i'm not overprivileged
2. it's as if i'm overprivileged and stupid

Calendars

why do people keep calendars? seriously. i have not met a single person with a filofax, a blackberry, a pda, a laptop, or any other kind of calendar keeping device that has actually attended more than 20% of their scheduled 'info-sessions' for the day. in fact, i think that this whole calendar business is one big ruse. you know what i think? i'll tell you what i think: calendars are bullshit. that's right, i'm calling bullshit on all of you calendar keeping mutherfuckers. you might as well call that shit snakes on a plane because it's that ridiculous. i can hear it now, "there are mutherfuckin calendars on the mutherfuckin plane, bitch!"

deep breath.

on a slightly mellower note, i sincerely do believe that the entire point of a calendar isn't in fact to make and then keep appointments in this wondrous grid of times and dates, but rather -- wait for it, wait for it -- that calendars exist for the sole purpose of rescheduling everything. calendars are in fact a limbo for all things interpersonal. i know people whose entire existence is defined by the shuffling and rearranging of calendar events. phone calls--phone calls, mind you, because you can never actually get scheduled to meet in person--go a bit like this:

a: hey, what's up?
b: nothin much, just hangin out with my filofax. we're chillin
a: uh, right. so you wanna catch a few drinks tonight. maybe get faced and egg some cars?
b: wait? what was that? i...i was alphabetizing my Filofax. we weren't paying attention. did you say something about omelettes?
a: no, i said let's get shitfaced and egg cars.
b: oh. oh. hmm. well...(pages flipping)...we'll see. let me ask Filofax.
a: okay?
b: well, we have a 2:30 with scott, but we think we can move him around to maybe the 5:00 spot. you'll only need an hour right?
a: are you serious?
b: what was that? didn't hear you, was rearranging some dates here...
a: actually, i only really need fifteen minutes. (sarcasm)
b: oh really? oh! that's great! then we don't even have to move scott around! we have a fifteen minute spot between scott and jessica. let's say 4:45? (clearly didn't pick up on the sarcasm)
a: um. sure.
b: great! we'll see you then!

i'll call back in twenty minutes to cancel because that shit is just ridiculous. also, bear in mind that that call will set in motion a ten minute soliloquy on the other end of the phone while appointments are shuffled once more.

it's like meeting up in person is the equivalent of an asymptotic barrier. and so to be placed on someone's calendar is to be relegated to a friendship blackhole. once you're on the calendar, you can never get off of it, but also your appointment is never fulfilled. the illusion of actually meeting just seems to get closer and closer to becoming a reality; and then, you get 'rescheduled,' and the process starts over once more. thus, these calendar people walk around with books of acquaintances with whom they never have to actually meet. so beware if someone suggests that they put you on their calendar, because you may never see them again.

Speaking of Overpriviledged

so it seems that i'm the last of all of my known contacts to make the move into proper mid-adult-limbo area. which is to say that i'm not pursuing a graduate degree nor am i going to some far flung eastern continent in search of endangered species, children in poverty, or war-torn crisis areas.

and i'm also not trading over a bajillion dollars on wall street.

nope.

i'm right here, in new york. probably getting slightly underpaid and trying to figure out how much i love my life.

did i mention that i bought a bike? yes. i purchased a bicycle. that has been the biggest life-stage event thus far in my gray-area-of-adulthood phase. i guess i can justify it...or at least use this purchase to make it seem as though i'm doing some good with my life. i'm not in africa, but i am reducing fossil fuel emissions by .000001%, and that's saying something.

i can see how this will miraculously play itself out. let's set the scene.
Occasion: Going away party for Brendt
Place: The Cub Room (popped collars, khakis, and seersucker required)
Where's Brendt going: Brendt has been trying desperately to become a distinguished member of the Fulbright Society. But his fondness for 'the yayo' in his formative years has placed a bit of a tarnish on an otherwise sterile and gleaming collegiate record. That said, Fulbright et al have been more than reluctant to embrace this future presidential candidate. So, Brendt cashed in a few of the options on his trust fund and is off to Botswana to "find himself." Oh, and also for "the children." (He just hates how they suffer with those potbellies of theirs, the flies, and improper hair care)

The conversations vary from guest to guest. There's the typical social-scene jockeying. "I went to Harvard. I met my girlfriend at Princeton grad school." or "I went to Princeton. I met my boyfriend at Harvard grad school." or the ever popular, "I went to Yale. I met my girlfriend at Yale grad school. Then I transferred to Harvard grad school."

Then it's on to questions about which fundraisers you went to, who you saw there that can corroborate your presence at said event. And, finally they sink their teeth in:
q: so, what are you doing these days?
a: oh, just working a bunch. trying to see how things go in new york.
(then a long pause; they're dying for you to show some interest. okay, i'll bite)
a: and you?
q: OOHHHHHH, i'm so glad you asked. recently, i went to micronesia, on a grant from the ornithological society, where i recently rediscovered the once-thought-to-be-extinct micronesian duckbilled dodo bird. it was really amazing. there i was--in 'the bush'--with my sherpa, Dippo (great guy, bad hygiene), and i hear this little 'yeep, yeep.' i look to my left, and, OH MY GOD, there was this precious little chick-a-dee all alone in the dense, overgrown, native foliage. so, carefully...
(i order another drink)
...i bend down and cradle this young ipsaltum incalcanea--that's the correct ornithological naming: genus, species, you know--in my hands and it just begins to chirp it's little beak off. it was so cute. and, i mean, i rescued this poor thing. well, then we hiked back to base camp where i had Dippo prepare my salt bath, ginseng tea soak, my facial mask, and my pedicure, while i quickly pulled a new can of pedialyte out of the minifridge , poured it into a bottle, popped on a nipple and began to nurse my little pet back to health. all the flight attendants in first class were just cooing as brought Dippie--that's what i named him, after Dippo--home for his unveiling. they just kept bringing be champagne and strawberries. what a flight!
a: i bought a bike.
q: oh, that sounds like... You pedal? like, you exercise on your way to work?
a: yeah.
q: don't you sweat? isn't that gross?
a: i sweat. it's not that gross.
q: huh. i see. that sounds....nice (translation: plebian).
a: yeah, well i'm helping to reduce fossil fuel emissions.
q: is it for a grant? do you have to go somewhere far way for these 'emissions'? like Chad or something?
a: no. it's not for a grant. i don't have to go anywhere.
q: right. oh i see Buffy over by the tea sandwiches. i'll catch you at the......
and they're gone.

so is life more meaningful the more ridiculous and far removed the stuff is that you do? i wonder how much more respect i would get if i spent a shitload of cash to go somehwere far away to help some small tribal village that, albeit a wonderful gesture, in the grand scheme of things, is really only ammo for my resume, conversation, and....well that's it. it just seems that these types of folks go on these pilgrimages because
1. they have too much time on their hands
2. they have too much money on their hands
3. they don't know what to do with themselves
4. in the end, it makes THEM feel better
which is pretty much antithetical to the entire point of their journey.

it just all seems a bit more like self-adulating theater to me than anything else, which is sad.

but then again, isn't that what this blog is?

it's a trap. wittgenstein anyone?

The Name

i guess i have to address the title of this blog before i begin to do anything else.

overpriviledged:
this isn't a comment meant to suggest, or rather proclaim, my financial state. nor is it an attempt to reference some wonderous upbringing filled with nannies, various hampton residences, 'summering,' and the countless number of totalled mercedes i have discarded while living this theoretical 'overpriviledged' life.

however, this isn't to say i'm not without priviledge. and this is where it becomes important to make a distinction. THE distinction, in fact. the fountainhead of this highlighted advantage isn't derived from money or breeding. it is a symptom from which many people suffer. simply put: we have a lot on our minds and we wind up having more time than expected to ruminate on said thoughts. or maybe it's better expressed the other way around: we have a lot more time on our hands than we tend to think...and that leads us to think about some really weird stuff.

it's a 'chicken and egg' kind of debate. but i'd rather just eat the omelette.

and, so, this is where overpriviledged comes in. it's a sounding board for all those interesting thoughts that find their way into my head during the moments that i don't even realize i'm thinking about something until all of the sudden, "Aha!"

so, bear with me as i begin to flesh this out. it could end up being kind of fun.