I am with QTKatie. I will post when I can, if I no longer meet the requirments for the blogring, I will resign my position with a minimum of grief.
Aside from that : "...the blogstapo wants to read more sleepwalker."
wants to, ladies and gentlemen. Check that out...
So.
I commented on FHB, but I don't officially know email (although I now think that if I was smart I would just check in the comments but anyway) I can't send the proof I have that it is "pushmi-pullyu" and I would use the Hello! program provided by blogger, but I can't make it work right now, and I can't get my tripod/lycos site to work with me either (hate them, hate them, hate them...) so I don't know what to tell you. If someone wants to volunteer to take the image and post it, let me know. I'm tired. Maybe I'll try again later.
But to the blogstapo: thanks. I think. I'll try to be entertaining tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
May it please the jury...
I must begin with the defense of Ninsi's honor -- indeed, ladies and gentlemen, it was not her leopard print bikini underwear that was on sideways on the night in question. I am sure that whatever print or cut her underwear was that night, it remained properly oriented throughout the proceedings.
Now. On with the show:
It only takes me about 3.5 to 4 hours to make Draco's new digs from my home. This is with all the stopping for traffic lights (on the highway, no less!) and slowing down to go through small towns... I may take a different route next time, with similar results, I'm sure.
There was no spanking for Draco's festivities, probably only because few people had the brain cells functioning to remember or the motor skills to perform said feat. There was much stupidity, however. Mostly of the sitting-quietly-in-a-corner-contendedly-staring-at-the-crowd kind. There was a lot of that, and it was fueled in part by the Old Hippy Network that Draco has managed to fall into. May I say, Wow? Oh yes, I may, and I did. More than once. There was also much drinking. And eventually people filtered out, one by one and two by two, and then there were only five or six of us. And I had the itch in my hands to read cards. I had known this was going to happen, I had looked for my deck before we bailed out of Tulsa -- but they hid from me quite expertly, and remain hidden at this very moment. I ended up borrowing Draco's girlfriend's deck; it worked just fine. The cards were beautiful, if unfamilliar. And I discovered -again- that I don't read well for men, at all. I don't know why. It just doesn't flow as well. And then it was time for unconciousness.
We awoke to a room much brighter than we are accustomed to, and the smell of sausage cooking. We got up after a while, and came out to biscuits and gravy - quite good! And after a bit, we got directions from Draco & Girlfriend, and we went out into the sunshine.
We got a bit lost looking for the tattoo parlor they reccommended, but we weren't in a hurry, so it was ok. We found it, and the guy was good. Then we went across the street to that comforting familiar place, a QT, and discovered that the beer cases were locked. So we just went down the street a very small distance and went into the liquor store that was open. There we bought beer, and the hunt for food was on. We ended up eating at a place whose name is familliar, but I cannot now bring it to mind... we don't have them in Tulsa, anyway. But it was funny, in a way, because we ended up in a place that serves food just about exactly like where Dr. Nick works... the next stop was for lottery tickets, where we discovered that the debit card Luigi had in his wallet did not work. Lucky for us, Dr. Nick was funding this expedition, or we would have been in a sore spot of trouble. Or so we thought. Once we made it back home, we discovered that the functioning card was in my wallet. In my backpack. In the trunk.
Ha ha ha.
Oh well. Dr. Nick said he'd hook me up if he won... he will definetly have the room to spare some. the Jackpot was at about 95 million. That's right, 95 million. How 'bout them apples?
Of course, he still has to win it...
But i can dream. It gives me something to do at work.
Anyway. That's enough for now. We'll see how things are on Wed. or so.
Now. On with the show:
It only takes me about 3.5 to 4 hours to make Draco's new digs from my home. This is with all the stopping for traffic lights (on the highway, no less!) and slowing down to go through small towns... I may take a different route next time, with similar results, I'm sure.
There was no spanking for Draco's festivities, probably only because few people had the brain cells functioning to remember or the motor skills to perform said feat. There was much stupidity, however. Mostly of the sitting-quietly-in-a-corner-contendedly-staring-at-the-crowd kind. There was a lot of that, and it was fueled in part by the Old Hippy Network that Draco has managed to fall into. May I say, Wow? Oh yes, I may, and I did. More than once. There was also much drinking. And eventually people filtered out, one by one and two by two, and then there were only five or six of us. And I had the itch in my hands to read cards. I had known this was going to happen, I had looked for my deck before we bailed out of Tulsa -- but they hid from me quite expertly, and remain hidden at this very moment. I ended up borrowing Draco's girlfriend's deck; it worked just fine. The cards were beautiful, if unfamilliar. And I discovered -again- that I don't read well for men, at all. I don't know why. It just doesn't flow as well. And then it was time for unconciousness.
We awoke to a room much brighter than we are accustomed to, and the smell of sausage cooking. We got up after a while, and came out to biscuits and gravy - quite good! And after a bit, we got directions from Draco & Girlfriend, and we went out into the sunshine.
We got a bit lost looking for the tattoo parlor they reccommended, but we weren't in a hurry, so it was ok. We found it, and the guy was good. Then we went across the street to that comforting familiar place, a QT, and discovered that the beer cases were locked. So we just went down the street a very small distance and went into the liquor store that was open. There we bought beer, and the hunt for food was on. We ended up eating at a place whose name is familliar, but I cannot now bring it to mind... we don't have them in Tulsa, anyway. But it was funny, in a way, because we ended up in a place that serves food just about exactly like where Dr. Nick works... the next stop was for lottery tickets, where we discovered that the debit card Luigi had in his wallet did not work. Lucky for us, Dr. Nick was funding this expedition, or we would have been in a sore spot of trouble. Or so we thought. Once we made it back home, we discovered that the functioning card was in my wallet. In my backpack. In the trunk.
Ha ha ha.
Oh well. Dr. Nick said he'd hook me up if he won... he will definetly have the room to spare some. the Jackpot was at about 95 million. That's right, 95 million. How 'bout them apples?
Of course, he still has to win it...
But i can dream. It gives me something to do at work.
Anyway. That's enough for now. We'll see how things are on Wed. or so.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
weekend wackiness
ok, so it has been unofficially voted that my timing sucks. Thank you, sir, may I have another?
Ok. Btw, knats, you spoke first about how the men were reacting, and then went to the forklift. I understood that it was supposed to be tounge-in-cheek, but my strange sense of humor prompts me to react to the truth in such statements, mostly because that is the best way to pull people's feet out from under them. They don't expect it, and if you can straight-face it, they just get more confused by the second. Honestly, this doesn't always work the way I want it to. I don't know where I got this habit (probably learned it to deal with assholes in school) and I'm not sure I can shake it. But now you know a stinky little secret of mine.
So: on with the weekendness!
In the later hours of what is officially today, I will be driving to KC with two of my favorite guys, Luigi and Dr. Nick. We are going to see Draco for his birthday stupidity, and I am sure that the stupidity will abound. I do plan to be incoherent at some point, and will probably wake up way too early and have to drive way too long after a work week that lasted an extra ten hours/full day. The things you do for fun when you are young...
Speaking of drunken stupidity when you are young: Ninsi, do you remember the shoopashoo story? "oh my goodness... oh my goodness... why is my underwear on sideways?!?" I still laugh... oh, the leopard print bikini underwear. God, what a night that was.
I'm going to go and have my shower now, and in about 1.5 or 2 hours, I am going to take the car for an oil change, and then, maybe, I will sleep...
and in honor of Draco, I leave you with these words:
Dirty deeds, done with sheep;
Dirty deeds, done with sheep;
Dirty deeds, and they're done with sheep...
Ok. Btw, knats, you spoke first about how the men were reacting, and then went to the forklift. I understood that it was supposed to be tounge-in-cheek, but my strange sense of humor prompts me to react to the truth in such statements, mostly because that is the best way to pull people's feet out from under them. They don't expect it, and if you can straight-face it, they just get more confused by the second. Honestly, this doesn't always work the way I want it to. I don't know where I got this habit (probably learned it to deal with assholes in school) and I'm not sure I can shake it. But now you know a stinky little secret of mine.
So: on with the weekendness!
In the later hours of what is officially today, I will be driving to KC with two of my favorite guys, Luigi and Dr. Nick. We are going to see Draco for his birthday stupidity, and I am sure that the stupidity will abound. I do plan to be incoherent at some point, and will probably wake up way too early and have to drive way too long after a work week that lasted an extra ten hours/full day. The things you do for fun when you are young...
Speaking of drunken stupidity when you are young: Ninsi, do you remember the shoopashoo story? "oh my goodness... oh my goodness... why is my underwear on sideways?!?" I still laugh... oh, the leopard print bikini underwear. God, what a night that was.
I'm going to go and have my shower now, and in about 1.5 or 2 hours, I am going to take the car for an oil change, and then, maybe, I will sleep...
and in honor of Draco, I leave you with these words:
Dirty deeds, done with sheep;
Dirty deeds, done with sheep;
Dirty deeds, and they're done with sheep...
Thursday, September 16, 2004
bird brained, part 2
and if the last one wasn't enough, here's more:
-----------------------------------------
Sparrow
2.
What is the death of a sparrow?
To most, it is nothing, a non-registering event that occurs without their knowledge or interaction. It is not a thing to think about, or worry over.
But sometimes the death of a sparrow is mor than that. Sometimes it impinges upon our reality in a manner that we cannot ignore. It touches something in us that we can't quite identify.
A sparrow is not food - it is much too small for humans to bother with, really. It is not (normally) a pet; there is no real emotional attatchment in either direction. It is not a predator - again, it is much too small and not near vicious enough.
So why do we feel bad when we watch one die? Why this sense of loss; why do we mourn a tiny bird that is neither friend nor food nor foe?
Perhaps because they are so small. Despite their size, they are full of life, of energy. They are a part of our world whether we are conciously aware of them or not. And maybe it is because to witness the death of something so small and yet so alive, so daring, is incredibly intimate. It is so small, a sparrow, yet the look in its gleaming eye connects with you in such a large way. You feel as though you should protect this tiny feathery life force, that it is daring you to do other wise.
There are so many sparrows in the world, and they seem so happy to stay out of our way and to catch the crumbs that we leave in our wake, as if there is no other purpose for us in their world.
-----------------------------------------
Sparrow
2.
What is the death of a sparrow?
To most, it is nothing, a non-registering event that occurs without their knowledge or interaction. It is not a thing to think about, or worry over.
But sometimes the death of a sparrow is mor than that. Sometimes it impinges upon our reality in a manner that we cannot ignore. It touches something in us that we can't quite identify.
A sparrow is not food - it is much too small for humans to bother with, really. It is not (normally) a pet; there is no real emotional attatchment in either direction. It is not a predator - again, it is much too small and not near vicious enough.
So why do we feel bad when we watch one die? Why this sense of loss; why do we mourn a tiny bird that is neither friend nor food nor foe?
Perhaps because they are so small. Despite their size, they are full of life, of energy. They are a part of our world whether we are conciously aware of them or not. And maybe it is because to witness the death of something so small and yet so alive, so daring, is incredibly intimate. It is so small, a sparrow, yet the look in its gleaming eye connects with you in such a large way. You feel as though you should protect this tiny feathery life force, that it is daring you to do other wise.
There are so many sparrows in the world, and they seem so happy to stay out of our way and to catch the crumbs that we leave in our wake, as if there is no other purpose for us in their world.
bird brained
ok, kids, you've been hanging around for long enough so I have some personal writing to share with you. ("Personal" as in "I wrote it my very own self." )
There are a couple of pieces in this bit, and I'll put them up one at a time.
Feel free to comment.
-------------------------------------
Sparrow
1.
One day, about an hour before lunch, someone found the little bird. It was a sparrow, not quite ready to fly away on its own. It was just in the floor, someone said, I almost ran over it.
We work in a factory: it is big, and noisy, with huge bay doors that trailers can back right up to. So it is no real wonder that we have a couple of birds in the building all the time. But we only see the adults, though we know there must be nests with chicks somewhere. But as with most urban wildlife, the resident sparrows go largely unnoticed.
At least, until that day. News of the foundling spread through the plant; by the time lunches were all done the bird had a box, a dish of water, a dish of assorted crumbs, and a makeshift nest. It seemed as though half of the plant had been by to see it, in its box on the table in the break area. For the next few hours, there was always at least one person looking in the box every few minutes. Then the supervisors declared "that is enough, now, really." And for almost an hour, the box went untouched.
And then it was break.
A small croud gathered in the break area, and heads shook, and smiles faded. The bird had died.
It was widely speculated and accepted that the bird had fallen from a nest built high, perhaps even in the rafters, that it had mortally wounded itself somehow in its trip from home to us. Such a fall would surely have caused more than survivable damage to the tiny creature.
The tone of the day changed, for certain, after news of its demise spread. People were more sedate. Heads wagged, tounges clucked, poor little thing became the phrase of the day.
I think that the majority of the workforce was much more gentle in spirit after that, more melancholy; as if we all realized, unanimously, that something wonderful had left our world.
There are a couple of pieces in this bit, and I'll put them up one at a time.
Feel free to comment.
-------------------------------------
Sparrow
1.
One day, about an hour before lunch, someone found the little bird. It was a sparrow, not quite ready to fly away on its own. It was just in the floor, someone said, I almost ran over it.
We work in a factory: it is big, and noisy, with huge bay doors that trailers can back right up to. So it is no real wonder that we have a couple of birds in the building all the time. But we only see the adults, though we know there must be nests with chicks somewhere. But as with most urban wildlife, the resident sparrows go largely unnoticed.
At least, until that day. News of the foundling spread through the plant; by the time lunches were all done the bird had a box, a dish of water, a dish of assorted crumbs, and a makeshift nest. It seemed as though half of the plant had been by to see it, in its box on the table in the break area. For the next few hours, there was always at least one person looking in the box every few minutes. Then the supervisors declared "that is enough, now, really." And for almost an hour, the box went untouched.
And then it was break.
A small croud gathered in the break area, and heads shook, and smiles faded. The bird had died.
It was widely speculated and accepted that the bird had fallen from a nest built high, perhaps even in the rafters, that it had mortally wounded itself somehow in its trip from home to us. Such a fall would surely have caused more than survivable damage to the tiny creature.
The tone of the day changed, for certain, after news of its demise spread. People were more sedate. Heads wagged, tounges clucked, poor little thing became the phrase of the day.
I think that the majority of the workforce was much more gentle in spirit after that, more melancholy; as if we all realized, unanimously, that something wonderful had left our world.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
one more thing...
by the way, just in case you were wondering:
You're Lili St. Cyr!
What Classic Pin-Up Are You?
brought to you by Quizzilla
You're Lili St. Cyr!
What Classic Pin-Up Are You?
brought to you by Quizzilla
thinking
I often have the urge to write, now, mostly in the blog; but I guess I should work with what I have.
Lists I need to make:
Lists I need to make:
- things I want to recieve as gifts
- things I just want
- things I want to do
- words I like
- people I miss
- people I should call
- places I want to go
- books I should read
- story ideas
um. what else?
- things I should remember
- letters I should write
- art ideas
- things I like about me
- things I want to change; and how to change them
- things I should just let go of, already...
- things I should tell my mom when she calls
I guess that's it, for now. I'm sorry I don't have anything better to say.
but this does sort of satisfy my need for wordcraft, I think.
so.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
frankenbike
( I wrote this last week, and then forgot to post it... so here you go.)
so, a couple of months ago (has it been that long already?) we bought a bike for Luigi so he would have some mobility, because we have one car and it takes me to work which is about 30 miles away. Ok, 25.
Anyway.
I thought a bike was a great idea. I wanted one too.
So we bought the one that was sitting outside the neighbor's door since we moved in, because she was moving out.
Um. Just so you folks know, a bike should not be left outside in the weather for long periods of time.
Yeah.
So, essentially, I got a frame and tires. And the tires need air.
Well.
My brother, the amazing Dr. Nick, gave me his old bike. It just needed a little work.
I finally got around to doing that work yesterday (Friday) and thought "huh. all this needed was brake pads, and some tightening... I guess he just wanted a new bike."
Nope. I should have known that things are never that easy.
Anybody want to guess what I missed?
Anyone?
I'll just tell you -- it was missing a pedal.
And not just the pedal, the whole arm of the thing. As in there was nothing on that side of the gears, just the other end of the bolt that holds the whole thing together.
So I called him and said "what the hell. Am I just a tard? Is this thing at your place? Is it here and I just can't see it?"
And he said "You're a tard." And explained to me the whole story, which sounded familliar as soon as I heard it, but refused to voluntarily come to mind.
What to do?
Take the needed part off of the other bike. Duh.
We had to get the Hammer of Kneecapping after it, but it was nice outside, and I wanted very badly to ride with my Luigi. I haven't ridden a bike in years (and I mean more than 10) and I thought this sounded fabulous.
A bit of banging later, and the pedal arm was off of one and onto the other. Oh yeah, I love being a chick with glittery nail polish using tools! I just love it...
And a very short while later, we were off.
We rode around in the neighborhood behind the complex, found the park in the area, and I discovered that when I put the seat back on the bike I didn't tighten it enough. So it was uncomfortable, and now -- now, there is a part of my sitting-upon that is sore. I didn't realize that it could be sore. I've got bountiful padding -- bones most certainly should not be trying to poke through in that region. Bones should not even be thought about in that region.
However, the padding is obviously not distributed in a helpful manner for this difficulty.
This will not deter me. I still have tools. The seat has been readjusted, and tightened 'till it just about squeaked. I will ride again.
Just maybe not today.
Or tomorrow.
Definetly Monday, as it is a holiday, and I am not working. (Yay, for paid holidays!)
And someday, I will move the brakes, and the shifters, and the gears, to the other frame and tires -- and, of course, the other pedal arm. As I have three, and not four. And then, I will have a crossbreed bike. And as long as I remember to tighten the seat mount, and the pedal bolt, we will get along fine. Until I try to hop a curb and it tries to kill me.
But when that happens, I will tell you, and we will all laugh.
Until then...
so, a couple of months ago (has it been that long already?) we bought a bike for Luigi so he would have some mobility, because we have one car and it takes me to work which is about 30 miles away. Ok, 25.
Anyway.
I thought a bike was a great idea. I wanted one too.
So we bought the one that was sitting outside the neighbor's door since we moved in, because she was moving out.
Um. Just so you folks know, a bike should not be left outside in the weather for long periods of time.
Yeah.
So, essentially, I got a frame and tires. And the tires need air.
Well.
My brother, the amazing Dr. Nick, gave me his old bike. It just needed a little work.
I finally got around to doing that work yesterday (Friday) and thought "huh. all this needed was brake pads, and some tightening... I guess he just wanted a new bike."
Nope. I should have known that things are never that easy.
Anybody want to guess what I missed?
Anyone?
I'll just tell you -- it was missing a pedal.
And not just the pedal, the whole arm of the thing. As in there was nothing on that side of the gears, just the other end of the bolt that holds the whole thing together.
So I called him and said "what the hell. Am I just a tard? Is this thing at your place? Is it here and I just can't see it?"
And he said "You're a tard." And explained to me the whole story, which sounded familliar as soon as I heard it, but refused to voluntarily come to mind.
What to do?
Take the needed part off of the other bike. Duh.
We had to get the Hammer of Kneecapping after it, but it was nice outside, and I wanted very badly to ride with my Luigi. I haven't ridden a bike in years (and I mean more than 10) and I thought this sounded fabulous.
A bit of banging later, and the pedal arm was off of one and onto the other. Oh yeah, I love being a chick with glittery nail polish using tools! I just love it...
And a very short while later, we were off.
We rode around in the neighborhood behind the complex, found the park in the area, and I discovered that when I put the seat back on the bike I didn't tighten it enough. So it was uncomfortable, and now -- now, there is a part of my sitting-upon that is sore. I didn't realize that it could be sore. I've got bountiful padding -- bones most certainly should not be trying to poke through in that region. Bones should not even be thought about in that region.
However, the padding is obviously not distributed in a helpful manner for this difficulty.
This will not deter me. I still have tools. The seat has been readjusted, and tightened 'till it just about squeaked. I will ride again.
Just maybe not today.
Or tomorrow.
Definetly Monday, as it is a holiday, and I am not working. (Yay, for paid holidays!)
And someday, I will move the brakes, and the shifters, and the gears, to the other frame and tires -- and, of course, the other pedal arm. As I have three, and not four. And then, I will have a crossbreed bike. And as long as I remember to tighten the seat mount, and the pedal bolt, we will get along fine. Until I try to hop a curb and it tries to kill me.
But when that happens, I will tell you, and we will all laugh.
Until then...
Friday, September 10, 2004
Things I should have said at the time:
No.
Yes.
No.
Egg.
No.
Why?
Happiness.
No.
I'm sorry.
Your opinion means nothing to me.
I love you.
Eat dirt.
No.
Thursday.
Yes.
(nothing)
You're a jerk.
Hello.
No.
I refuse to play your stupid little games.
Bite me.
Wait.
Liar.
I like you.
No.
(anything)
Why?
No, you didn't.
I don't know.
No.
Help me.
No.
Yes.
No.
Monday, September 06, 2004
very much like a train wreck, thank you.
(warning! this is a long post. I got carried away.)
I couldn't look away. I couldn't stop reading. Even when I thought: surely, my eyes will begin to bleed if I look at one more entry; I simply could not look away.
And so, I must share the pain.
But I warn you, it will make you hate people who have children and insist on doing strange things in the process of naming said children.
All I could think was: Oh, sweet shit. Over and over, that was the only thing escaping through the horrified immobility in my brain. Oh, sweet shit. (Thank you, Luigi, for the phrase.)
Sometime after I managed to wrench myself away from the carnage, I began to think about the problem these people were having. They wanted to name their children something interesting, or different, or (heaven defend us ) unique. The thing that creates the maddening, screaming irony is that these are probably the people who buy things advertised because everyone "needs" (wants/deserves/has) one. They are the cookie cutter masses, defined by the garbage media, up to their ears in consumer crap and hollow inside their designer shells. I believe they are subconsiously trying to save their children from the hell they (the parents) find they have created for themselves. I also believe that by tying such albatrosses around the necks of their children, they are consigning them to the exact hell they think they are trying to save them from.
Honestly, how many girls have you met in the last few years carrying around the moniker "McKenzie" in whatever incarnation her parents dreamed up for her? Or "Tyler"? I can think of at least 5 specific cases. And I don't know that many kids.
It is terrifying, my people. I flinch when I meet some poor child with a mangled name.
This thought has just occured to me: Names used to mean things; people were given names to define them, to give them attributes -- names used to be things of power, in one way or another. What happens to that attribute, that power, when the name is deliberately malformed? How could it possibly retain any of its former influence, when the substance is so tampered with? And I am not talking about simple linguistic evolution. I am talking about deliberate and forced mutation; and in ever increasing cases, parents are outright making shit up. I'm not wholly aginst this, mind you. I have met some truly interesting people with names that never existed before them. (I love the name Ijah. She is just as fabulous as you think she is, by the way.)
I am against: the syncophantic and emerging prevalence of the letters K, Y, and doubled Ns; phonetic spellings; product names; mismatching ethinic names and babies (in truly offensive manners, only. Noone who is Irish should be named "Omar".) Pretentious spellings of simple names; adding letters or syllables or (gods forbid) punctuation; giving boy's names to girls, and vice versa...
Oh, hell. Just go look at it for yourself. But rig some kind of electric shock, or set your computer to spontaneously combust, to save yourselves from the horror.
You have been warned.
I couldn't look away. I couldn't stop reading. Even when I thought: surely, my eyes will begin to bleed if I look at one more entry; I simply could not look away.
And so, I must share the pain.
But I warn you, it will make you hate people who have children and insist on doing strange things in the process of naming said children.
You have been warned.
All I could think was: Oh, sweet shit. Over and over, that was the only thing escaping through the horrified immobility in my brain. Oh, sweet shit. (Thank you, Luigi, for the phrase.)
Sometime after I managed to wrench myself away from the carnage, I began to think about the problem these people were having. They wanted to name their children something interesting, or different, or (heaven defend us ) unique. The thing that creates the maddening, screaming irony is that these are probably the people who buy things advertised because everyone "needs" (wants/deserves/has) one. They are the cookie cutter masses, defined by the garbage media, up to their ears in consumer crap and hollow inside their designer shells. I believe they are subconsiously trying to save their children from the hell they (the parents) find they have created for themselves. I also believe that by tying such albatrosses around the necks of their children, they are consigning them to the exact hell they think they are trying to save them from.
Honestly, how many girls have you met in the last few years carrying around the moniker "McKenzie" in whatever incarnation her parents dreamed up for her? Or "Tyler"? I can think of at least 5 specific cases. And I don't know that many kids.
It is terrifying, my people. I flinch when I meet some poor child with a mangled name.
This thought has just occured to me: Names used to mean things; people were given names to define them, to give them attributes -- names used to be things of power, in one way or another. What happens to that attribute, that power, when the name is deliberately malformed? How could it possibly retain any of its former influence, when the substance is so tampered with? And I am not talking about simple linguistic evolution. I am talking about deliberate and forced mutation; and in ever increasing cases, parents are outright making shit up. I'm not wholly aginst this, mind you. I have met some truly interesting people with names that never existed before them. (I love the name Ijah. She is just as fabulous as you think she is, by the way.)
I am against: the syncophantic and emerging prevalence of the letters K, Y, and doubled Ns; phonetic spellings; product names; mismatching ethinic names and babies (in truly offensive manners, only. Noone who is Irish should be named "Omar".) Pretentious spellings of simple names; adding letters or syllables or (gods forbid) punctuation; giving boy's names to girls, and vice versa...
Oh, hell. Just go look at it for yourself. But rig some kind of electric shock, or set your computer to spontaneously combust, to save yourselves from the horror.
You have been warned.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
Oh, great and powerful Phlome...
Please do not remove me from the webring for the mere fact that I am mortal and thereby falliable; that and I simply have more things than time right now...
So, you folks had stuff to say about the last two posts. Right on. Unfortunately, just as I am sure you are getting into a groove of commenting on this blog, I am flinging my wrench of monkeyness into the works, bringing the conversation to a screaming halt.
In other words, this post probably won't be as interesting.
this week has come and gone, and it has had its moments.
I am frustrated and sad about something -- why is it that really really good people will end up losing their job before the jerk that nobody really likes and would be relieved to see hit the door? I am struggling with this right now. The cowboy coworker is still working, and Pretzel is not. What the hell. Pretzel deserves every word of praise I sing in his name, and I mean that. He is one of those few fine folks who works hard, is fun to be around, and always holds up his end of the stick.
The cowboy, however, is not.
There are so many things that I have witnessed, and heard, that I just don't get why he is still working there. I have been promised a team meeting next week, by the man himself (my boss) and so maybe I'll bite the bullet, take one for the team, and out him. I know that I am going to dishonor myself in the doing. And I feel bad, some times, because I know he needs this job. (But if he needs this job, shouldn't he act like it? If I hear him say "I don't care" one more time when it's something that applies to his job, I may scream...) I don't know. I probably won't say anything. Unless he says something first. And if he does, then I know I'll have the rest of the team on my side.
But I'm still not happy about it.
So, you folks had stuff to say about the last two posts. Right on. Unfortunately, just as I am sure you are getting into a groove of commenting on this blog, I am flinging my wrench of monkeyness into the works, bringing the conversation to a screaming halt.
In other words, this post probably won't be as interesting.
this week has come and gone, and it has had its moments.
I am frustrated and sad about something -- why is it that really really good people will end up losing their job before the jerk that nobody really likes and would be relieved to see hit the door? I am struggling with this right now. The cowboy coworker is still working, and Pretzel is not. What the hell. Pretzel deserves every word of praise I sing in his name, and I mean that. He is one of those few fine folks who works hard, is fun to be around, and always holds up his end of the stick.
The cowboy, however, is not.
There are so many things that I have witnessed, and heard, that I just don't get why he is still working there. I have been promised a team meeting next week, by the man himself (my boss) and so maybe I'll bite the bullet, take one for the team, and out him. I know that I am going to dishonor myself in the doing. And I feel bad, some times, because I know he needs this job. (But if he needs this job, shouldn't he act like it? If I hear him say "I don't care" one more time when it's something that applies to his job, I may scream...) I don't know. I probably won't say anything. Unless he says something first. And if he does, then I know I'll have the rest of the team on my side.
But I'm still not happy about it.
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