March 15, 2010
• Frasier and Niles Crane were the first metrosexuals.
• If you’re vegan and don’t eat eggs, would you be hypocritical if you were pro-choice?
• Toothbrushes keep getting bigger and more ergonomically designed but decorative holders have the same size holes.
• Are people who constantly think the world is going to end suicidal?
• There is nothing quite as awesome as being the first one into a jar of peanut butter. (This is not wisdom; it’s just my personal observation.)
• Sometimes the grass on the other side might be greener. That’s because it’s astro-turf.
• Have you ever seen a blue raspberry? No? Then why is it a candy and slushy flavor? Who decided that was the red fruit that had to change its color?
• I love that people don’t want to eat hot dogs and bologna because it’s “gross,” but eat honey. You know that’s bee vomit?
• The best way to get rid of Jehovah’s Witnesses is not to say you’re Jewish or Atheist, but be knowledgeable and play “stump the witness.” If you’re not polite though, I suggest buying the Satanic Bible.
• I like the idea of a remote whistle to find my lost keys. But if I can’t find my keys, what makes you think I won’t lose a whistle?
• If I say the day we are born we start dying, am I pessimistic or realistic?
• Sometimes I turn the volume up on foreign films so I can read the subtitles better.
• A disposable aluminum pan is still technically a metal pan.
• A duvet cover is the same thing as a comforter cover. The package only says “comforter cover” because associates were tired of explaining “duvet” to customers.
• Do parents who want their children to become doctors ever properly teach them how to write?
Monday, March 22, 2010
Dear Freud, Do you Have a Minute?
March 14, 2010
Last night I dreamed I had a battle of wits with Brian Williams. My friends Ashley and Kevin were there to help at a Speedway gas station in front of a Publix grocery store.
I remember pumping the gas, but don’t remember what car it was.
Brian Williams had a convertible that reminded me of a toy I once had. My Barbie rode in style in her light aqua blue convertible with pink interior.
Kevin said something clever and Brian Williams stood dumbfounded.
“See! I told you he’s nothing without his writers!” Kevin ended his input of the debate and walked off towards Publix. It was quite defiant.
“He did that the last time they talked too,” Ashley explains to me and then turns back to Brian.
I hate that I don’t remember all the lines of the debate. I just know my side won.
Last night I dreamed I had a battle of wits with Brian Williams. My friends Ashley and Kevin were there to help at a Speedway gas station in front of a Publix grocery store.
I remember pumping the gas, but don’t remember what car it was.
Brian Williams had a convertible that reminded me of a toy I once had. My Barbie rode in style in her light aqua blue convertible with pink interior.
Kevin said something clever and Brian Williams stood dumbfounded.
“See! I told you he’s nothing without his writers!” Kevin ended his input of the debate and walked off towards Publix. It was quite defiant.
“He did that the last time they talked too,” Ashley explains to me and then turns back to Brian.
I hate that I don’t remember all the lines of the debate. I just know my side won.
Thoughts While Channel Surfing
March 13, 2010
There’s a best of Ed Sullivan from the sixties on PBS.
Currently it’s Petunia Clark. She looks like she’s having seizures when singing “Downtown.”
I’ve decided the lead singer of the Four Seasons has a better range than Mariah Carey.
I think it’s funny that I don’t understand the meaning behind many of my favorite songs. I think if I knew, I might like them less.
My dad used to answer us with song lyrics.
“Dad can I have some ice cream?”
“You can’t eat your puddin’ if you don’t eat your meat!”
“Dad can I have that toy?”
“You don’t always get what you want….” When we learned, we finished this before he could.
“But if you try sometime….”
“You get what you need.”
This inevitably left us toy-less; however, if we were clever enough we might get a cherry soda.
I don’t remember what would start it but we also heard, “How come my dog don’t bark when you come around?” I think I heard this one night when my brother or I came home late after curfew.
If someone bullied you, you needed to “get a pearl handle, double edge, hollow ground, super blue blade, adjustable, stainless steel, honed edge, both blades on the same side so when I cut you once, you gonna bleed twice.” (This was paraphrased often.)
Dinner usually contained a “rubber biscuit?!” The Kinks were present for cups of tea and alcohol.
I even remember having an afternoon daycare tutor that we sand too for help.
“Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda.”
I don’t remember listening to Beach Boys then and I’m certain they weren’t still on the radio. I’ll blame Dad.
So, when he called me in college one time I don’t think he was surprised at my reply.
“When you coming home Allie?”
“Dad, I don’t know when.”
“But we’ll get together then?”
It’s weird that music played such an important role in my life and I’m now in a relationship with a slightly more ignorant – musically speaking – person.
“What do you like?”
“Not crap.”
His favorite bands include Misfits and Tool. He’s also a big fan of Dimmu Borgir, Rammstein, Otep, Apocalyptica, Stabbing Westward, Cradle of Filth, Metallica, H.I.M., and Dragon Force. He’ll listen to a Lynyrd Skynyrd album on occasion. He has Pink Floyd’s, The Wall and because of friends we’ve lost, he listens to Johnny Cash. For some unknown reason he’ll listen to Lilly Allen with me. I can only assume it’s because of the funny lyrics. He likes Greenday and No Doubt, but refuses to say he likes anything remotely punk. When I was a DJ, he’d ask me to play “that Flock of Seagulls song about the use your love or something.” (The song’s is by The Outfield.)
I enjoy most of what he listens to, but when I suggest music along the same lines, he tends to disapprove and say it sounds nothing like it. Maybe I don’t music as mush as I think I do?
I have a picture I started one year of a woman dancing. She wears a white tank, red skirt, and bandana. My own style of patterns and doodles in marker covers the entire picture. In the background, I started writing the lyrics to the soundtrack or my life. It’s not finished. The first song is one of the first I remember trying to learn the lyrics. There may have been favorites before then, but my memory’s that good. I had a white tape with “Kid’s Songs” on it. When I learned how to fast forward, it was to “The Bear Necessities.” My dad made it seem like such a profound song even before I understood what profound meant.
Still watching Ed Sullivan show.
It’s an odd concept to think “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” was raunchy at one time.
I’m really just waiting to see SNL with Jude Law and Pearl Jam. I know the skits have gone down hill significantly in the last few years, but I still like the music parts. It forces one hit wonders to actually play another song. It’s hard for me to spend money on an artist if they bomb on SNL.
It’s too bad PBS has to ruin good programming with asking for money. When I win the lottery, I’ll throw a little their way.
Does anyone know why the bird is the word? I’m hoping seeing the band perform it might answer that.
“Good Lovin’” is now ruined for me. I’m not sure about the Rascals’ outfits of, well, I guess you’d call them knickers? But I guess if they’re named after the Little Rascals the smaller pants and little ties with blouses is clever.
The Supremes’ hairdos remind me of a girl I work with at the mall. By the way, does anyone know if Ross is intentionally missing an earring?
A dog inspired “Good Vibrations.” I’m learning so much tonight. Brian Wilson said his mom told him “Dogs know a good guy from a bad guy by their vibrations.”
I’ve about decided the biggest hits in music are either inspired by love/lust or something just plain ridiculously weird. Remember “Nice to Know You” by Incubus? He said it was about his arm falling asleep while on an airplane. Another weird one about a plane trip would be Filter’s one hit “Take a Picture.” He drank too much and ran around the plane naked on a bet. I bet you’ll now search for those lyrics.
I feel Sly and the Family Stone deserves respect. You don’t have to like, love, or hate them. I just think you should respect what they did for music and culture at the time. With that said, I only listen to them at weddings and when I used to DJ. More often than not I change the station when they some on the radio.
Watching the Doors makes me think Val Kilmer peaked early in his career. I still think Jim Morrison and Madmartigan were his best roles, aside from Batman of course.
SNL is on, and it’s been longer than thirty minutes of typing.
There’s a best of Ed Sullivan from the sixties on PBS.
Currently it’s Petunia Clark. She looks like she’s having seizures when singing “Downtown.”
I’ve decided the lead singer of the Four Seasons has a better range than Mariah Carey.
I think it’s funny that I don’t understand the meaning behind many of my favorite songs. I think if I knew, I might like them less.
My dad used to answer us with song lyrics.
“Dad can I have some ice cream?”
“You can’t eat your puddin’ if you don’t eat your meat!”
“Dad can I have that toy?”
“You don’t always get what you want….” When we learned, we finished this before he could.
“But if you try sometime….”
“You get what you need.”
This inevitably left us toy-less; however, if we were clever enough we might get a cherry soda.
I don’t remember what would start it but we also heard, “How come my dog don’t bark when you come around?” I think I heard this one night when my brother or I came home late after curfew.
If someone bullied you, you needed to “get a pearl handle, double edge, hollow ground, super blue blade, adjustable, stainless steel, honed edge, both blades on the same side so when I cut you once, you gonna bleed twice.” (This was paraphrased often.)
Dinner usually contained a “rubber biscuit?!” The Kinks were present for cups of tea and alcohol.
I even remember having an afternoon daycare tutor that we sand too for help.
“Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda.”
I don’t remember listening to Beach Boys then and I’m certain they weren’t still on the radio. I’ll blame Dad.
So, when he called me in college one time I don’t think he was surprised at my reply.
“When you coming home Allie?”
“Dad, I don’t know when.”
“But we’ll get together then?”
It’s weird that music played such an important role in my life and I’m now in a relationship with a slightly more ignorant – musically speaking – person.
“What do you like?”
“Not crap.”
His favorite bands include Misfits and Tool. He’s also a big fan of Dimmu Borgir, Rammstein, Otep, Apocalyptica, Stabbing Westward, Cradle of Filth, Metallica, H.I.M., and Dragon Force. He’ll listen to a Lynyrd Skynyrd album on occasion. He has Pink Floyd’s, The Wall and because of friends we’ve lost, he listens to Johnny Cash. For some unknown reason he’ll listen to Lilly Allen with me. I can only assume it’s because of the funny lyrics. He likes Greenday and No Doubt, but refuses to say he likes anything remotely punk. When I was a DJ, he’d ask me to play “that Flock of Seagulls song about the use your love or something.” (The song’s is by The Outfield.)
I enjoy most of what he listens to, but when I suggest music along the same lines, he tends to disapprove and say it sounds nothing like it. Maybe I don’t music as mush as I think I do?
I have a picture I started one year of a woman dancing. She wears a white tank, red skirt, and bandana. My own style of patterns and doodles in marker covers the entire picture. In the background, I started writing the lyrics to the soundtrack or my life. It’s not finished. The first song is one of the first I remember trying to learn the lyrics. There may have been favorites before then, but my memory’s that good. I had a white tape with “Kid’s Songs” on it. When I learned how to fast forward, it was to “The Bear Necessities.” My dad made it seem like such a profound song even before I understood what profound meant.
Still watching Ed Sullivan show.
It’s an odd concept to think “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” was raunchy at one time.
I’m really just waiting to see SNL with Jude Law and Pearl Jam. I know the skits have gone down hill significantly in the last few years, but I still like the music parts. It forces one hit wonders to actually play another song. It’s hard for me to spend money on an artist if they bomb on SNL.
It’s too bad PBS has to ruin good programming with asking for money. When I win the lottery, I’ll throw a little their way.
Does anyone know why the bird is the word? I’m hoping seeing the band perform it might answer that.
“Good Lovin’” is now ruined for me. I’m not sure about the Rascals’ outfits of, well, I guess you’d call them knickers? But I guess if they’re named after the Little Rascals the smaller pants and little ties with blouses is clever.
The Supremes’ hairdos remind me of a girl I work with at the mall. By the way, does anyone know if Ross is intentionally missing an earring?
A dog inspired “Good Vibrations.” I’m learning so much tonight. Brian Wilson said his mom told him “Dogs know a good guy from a bad guy by their vibrations.”
I’ve about decided the biggest hits in music are either inspired by love/lust or something just plain ridiculously weird. Remember “Nice to Know You” by Incubus? He said it was about his arm falling asleep while on an airplane. Another weird one about a plane trip would be Filter’s one hit “Take a Picture.” He drank too much and ran around the plane naked on a bet. I bet you’ll now search for those lyrics.
I feel Sly and the Family Stone deserves respect. You don’t have to like, love, or hate them. I just think you should respect what they did for music and culture at the time. With that said, I only listen to them at weddings and when I used to DJ. More often than not I change the station when they some on the radio.
Watching the Doors makes me think Val Kilmer peaked early in his career. I still think Jim Morrison and Madmartigan were his best roles, aside from Batman of course.
SNL is on, and it’s been longer than thirty minutes of typing.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Precious Thursday
March 11, 2010
It’s not that I’m not in the mood to write. It’s there. The thoughts are there. I just can’t focus. Everything wants to come out at the same time. Watching Precious brings up an old idea. I want to try teaching adults with literacy issues. At least you know when they’re that old they want to learn when they come to you. Half of the kids at public schools don’t seem to want to hear you talk. I’ve never been there, but from what I hear from my teacher friends, I don’t want to be.
I want to like this film. The Oscars and other film awards tell me I should. It’s just that is has two people I’m not a huge fan of, Monique and Tyler Perry. I don’t find either funny. I also don’t think either help in the bettering of a race as they seem to think. Sometimes I think that’s a silly statement, “bettering a race.” Saying that makes it seem like you need to better your race. Don’t you just need to change the opinions of ignorant fools? Changing someone else’s minds doesn’t better a race. The race is still the same; it’s everyone else who’s better. I’m not trying to get deep or political. It's just a silly statement.
I will say one thing for this movie. Mariah Carey with a mustache is somewhat funny. I’m not a big fan of her either. Someone once told me I should respect her because “she has a range higher than a grand piano.” I might be tone deaf, but I don’t know that I agree with that statement. Just because you can squeal out a high note, does not mean you can sing a high note.
I can’t imagine the frustration of not being able to write and suddenly having too. Your hand never moves fast enough for you brain. I assume my first journal in elementary school was similar. I imagine half-written words in scribbled handwriting that only I could understand. I still have journal from first grade. Thank you Miss Alexander. I think that was her name. I’m sure if it was that important I could look it up my year book. What does an elementary school need with a year book? It’s smaller than a magazine.
It’s not that I’m not in the mood to write. It’s there. The thoughts are there. I just can’t focus. Everything wants to come out at the same time. Watching Precious brings up an old idea. I want to try teaching adults with literacy issues. At least you know when they’re that old they want to learn when they come to you. Half of the kids at public schools don’t seem to want to hear you talk. I’ve never been there, but from what I hear from my teacher friends, I don’t want to be.
I want to like this film. The Oscars and other film awards tell me I should. It’s just that is has two people I’m not a huge fan of, Monique and Tyler Perry. I don’t find either funny. I also don’t think either help in the bettering of a race as they seem to think. Sometimes I think that’s a silly statement, “bettering a race.” Saying that makes it seem like you need to better your race. Don’t you just need to change the opinions of ignorant fools? Changing someone else’s minds doesn’t better a race. The race is still the same; it’s everyone else who’s better. I’m not trying to get deep or political. It's just a silly statement.
I will say one thing for this movie. Mariah Carey with a mustache is somewhat funny. I’m not a big fan of her either. Someone once told me I should respect her because “she has a range higher than a grand piano.” I might be tone deaf, but I don’t know that I agree with that statement. Just because you can squeal out a high note, does not mean you can sing a high note.
I can’t imagine the frustration of not being able to write and suddenly having too. Your hand never moves fast enough for you brain. I assume my first journal in elementary school was similar. I imagine half-written words in scribbled handwriting that only I could understand. I still have journal from first grade. Thank you Miss Alexander. I think that was her name. I’m sure if it was that important I could look it up my year book. What does an elementary school need with a year book? It’s smaller than a magazine.
Just Another Wednesday and Jungle Jim's
March 10, 2010
Cheese and crackers, warm plum Saki and a lap top at my fingertips. Yes, there could be better combinations. But it’s Wednesday, I don’t think you should expect much on such a day. On a side note, I don’t think there is a cracker or cheese best suited for Saki. If there is, it’s not in my house. I don’t remember too many recipes in any Asian cooking that uses cheese. I’m also unfortunately drinking cheap Saki, which is not remotely a go to for knowing what mixes with Saki well. I live in a town that reminds me of My Cousin Vinny. “I bet their Chinese is terrrrible.” The Chinese isn’t horrible, but I haven’t seen a Japanese restaurant in even a 30 mile radius.
It’s sad that one of the more exciting things Andy and I did one weekend was to go to a grocery store. Near Dayton, Ohio lives a massive, and I do mean massive, grocery store. I had first heard about Jungle Jim’s when I was working for a food distribution center, NashFinch. I thought it was a joke. Who would name a grocery store Jungle Jim’s? Apparently, they had awesome deals on different canned soups and Faygo. I had to check their pallets before they were packed into the trucks.
Later Jungle Jim’s showed itself again. Since moving to Lima, I have become addicted to a particular website, RoadSideAmerica.com. It is quite possibly the best go to site for any oddity of tourism in any state. I hear things by word of mouth too. RoadSideAmerica.com just gives me that much more to look forward too. It even has sites on there that locals don’t seem to know about. Jungle Jim’s was supposed to be one the stops.
Jungle Jim’s claim to fame is its extensive selection and decorations. On the windows is a sign “No Camera’s or Video.” Upon entering the main entrance, a singing voice and a familiar jingle greets you. In front of you is the basic canned goods aisle. Above though is a large Campbell’s chicken noodle soup can swinging on a piece of wood singing away. It’s motion activated and greets you as you walk down the aisle. Like a kid, I walked in and out of the aisle to see what he would say next.
Andy and I are fat foodie kids thankfully trapped in smaller bodies. We get excessively excited about different foods. Andy almost danced to see the olive and pickle bar and squealed in delight at a dairy and cheese section larger than your basic shoe store. I had only heard about half those cheeses on episodes of Frasier.
The produce section reminded me what life could be like if we actually had a farmer’s market year round. They had some root vegetables I'm still trying to understand and find recipes for.
Around the corner started the best part. Aisles upon aisles devoted to specific regions and countries. Are you in the mood for Indian? There’s an aisle for that. Missing the taste of a certain British early grey tea? There’s a whole room to look in. The decorations followed through each country. Tea and biscuits were under Robin Hood and his merry men. Hanging clogs point the way to Danish cookies and linden berries.
There was even a Hawaiian section. I quickly bought macadamia nuts and a juice I’ve been missing for years, Aloha Maid. I bought a case. Andy also found a bottled tea that he last had while in Iraq.
It’s the small things that make you happy.
When we showed up to Jungle Jim’s it was light outside. We left in darkness. We may have spent 3 hours in there. There was no way we were going to cook after all that. But with the hors d’oeuvres available, why should we? When we got home, we unwrapped all the goodies of cheese, crackers, veggies, fruit, olives, and pickles. Now I’m not one for cheese balls, but their “home made” cheese balls may make me change my mind. We lounged and ate like Romans for the night.
Cheese and crackers, warm plum Saki and a lap top at my fingertips. Yes, there could be better combinations. But it’s Wednesday, I don’t think you should expect much on such a day. On a side note, I don’t think there is a cracker or cheese best suited for Saki. If there is, it’s not in my house. I don’t remember too many recipes in any Asian cooking that uses cheese. I’m also unfortunately drinking cheap Saki, which is not remotely a go to for knowing what mixes with Saki well. I live in a town that reminds me of My Cousin Vinny. “I bet their Chinese is terrrrible.” The Chinese isn’t horrible, but I haven’t seen a Japanese restaurant in even a 30 mile radius.
It’s sad that one of the more exciting things Andy and I did one weekend was to go to a grocery store. Near Dayton, Ohio lives a massive, and I do mean massive, grocery store. I had first heard about Jungle Jim’s when I was working for a food distribution center, NashFinch. I thought it was a joke. Who would name a grocery store Jungle Jim’s? Apparently, they had awesome deals on different canned soups and Faygo. I had to check their pallets before they were packed into the trucks.
Later Jungle Jim’s showed itself again. Since moving to Lima, I have become addicted to a particular website, RoadSideAmerica.com. It is quite possibly the best go to site for any oddity of tourism in any state. I hear things by word of mouth too. RoadSideAmerica.com just gives me that much more to look forward too. It even has sites on there that locals don’t seem to know about. Jungle Jim’s was supposed to be one the stops.
Jungle Jim’s claim to fame is its extensive selection and decorations. On the windows is a sign “No Camera’s or Video.” Upon entering the main entrance, a singing voice and a familiar jingle greets you. In front of you is the basic canned goods aisle. Above though is a large Campbell’s chicken noodle soup can swinging on a piece of wood singing away. It’s motion activated and greets you as you walk down the aisle. Like a kid, I walked in and out of the aisle to see what he would say next.
Andy and I are fat foodie kids thankfully trapped in smaller bodies. We get excessively excited about different foods. Andy almost danced to see the olive and pickle bar and squealed in delight at a dairy and cheese section larger than your basic shoe store. I had only heard about half those cheeses on episodes of Frasier.
The produce section reminded me what life could be like if we actually had a farmer’s market year round. They had some root vegetables I'm still trying to understand and find recipes for.
Around the corner started the best part. Aisles upon aisles devoted to specific regions and countries. Are you in the mood for Indian? There’s an aisle for that. Missing the taste of a certain British early grey tea? There’s a whole room to look in. The decorations followed through each country. Tea and biscuits were under Robin Hood and his merry men. Hanging clogs point the way to Danish cookies and linden berries.
There was even a Hawaiian section. I quickly bought macadamia nuts and a juice I’ve been missing for years, Aloha Maid. I bought a case. Andy also found a bottled tea that he last had while in Iraq.
It’s the small things that make you happy.
When we showed up to Jungle Jim’s it was light outside. We left in darkness. We may have spent 3 hours in there. There was no way we were going to cook after all that. But with the hors d’oeuvres available, why should we? When we got home, we unwrapped all the goodies of cheese, crackers, veggies, fruit, olives, and pickles. Now I’m not one for cheese balls, but their “home made” cheese balls may make me change my mind. We lounged and ate like Romans for the night.
On the Oscars
March 7, 2010
This Sunday it seems the easy thing to write about for a blog has to be the Oscars. I kept notes and waited for my neighbors router to work properly again. What follows are said notes while watching. (Of course, I edited a bit, because I’m not sure anyone can understand my short hand.)
Oscar night is something I use to live for. I dreamed I would be there one day holding my own little golden man. I know it’s not going to happen now, but I’ll still watch happily. Hopefully this year movies I like might actually pull through. One can only hope that the Cohen’s don’t make out with another one.
To Alec Baldwin and Steve on the opening number: Your words aren’t too shabby but the timing is way off.
I love when the camera scans over the crowds. They always seem to have dumbfounded looks on their faces. Some seem to read “I don’t want to be here, get on with it.” I can’t imagine anyone really wants to sit at a reward show for 4 hours. The actors’ expressions remind me of what people do in cars at red lights when they think no one is looking.
The sound is already messing up. Didn’t this happen last year too?
Pixar wins best animated, what a surprise. I remember one year Jack Black saying something like “I do voice acting for a DreamWorks film but always bet on the Pixar for the win.” Up was amazing though. If you haven’t seen it, you should.
The song “Take it All” from Nine is up for best original song. Does that really count since it’s a Broadway musical? I’ll have to look this up. (Update – I haven’t)
I have to say District 9 really wasn’t the best film of the year and I'm not even sure it should be nominated. One of the best things it has going for it is the obvious allegory to apartheid. My hope is it reminds people of the past and maybe makes a younger generation want to learn more. Need to know your history so you don’t repeat your past. That’s the saying right? It’s hard though to describe something like apartheid to someone who wasn’t there. I may know the facts, but I can’t begin to comprehend the event.
Tina Fey and Robert Downy Jr. announce the best screen play nominees. I love the script for the two of them, the banter of what an actor wants in a screen play and what a writer wants in an actor. I especially love that when Tina Fey says “A writer likes an actor who’s not afraid to adlib,” the cameras coincidently move to Robin Williams.
I wonder if Hollywood types practice their “gracious loser” expression in the mirror before showing up.
Molly Ringwald and Matthew Broderick come out to do a special piece for the late John Hughes. All my note says is “Why didn’t Molly wear pink?”
Watching the montage of John Hughes films, I’m reminded of everything and everyone he’s touched. Maybe we should change the game to “Six Degrees of John Hughes” instead of Kevin Bacon.
Music of Prudence wins for best short documentary. All I can say is who is the red head in purple?? She was like the Kanye of the Oscars with a speech impediment. I saw a preview for David Lettermen where it looks like they were making fun of her too. I couldn’t bring myself to watch that episode though.
Does anyone know where to rent the short nominees? I hate that they usually show up at film festivals and then disappear or wind up on YouTube.
I Oprah touches it, it seems to win. What will the public do when she stops being in the public eye. They won’t know what to read or who to watch or maybe even whom to elect.
By the way, I am in no way a fan of Tyler Perry. I feel in a cage match Cosby would smack him down for his increase of stereotypes and attempt to create “black films” as opposed to just films. Put the two of them in a room and see who comes out crying. I bet he won’t be wearing an awesome sweater.
I love when they show briefly the picture of all the SciTech awards. They sadly look like a group of virgins in tuxedos holding plaques. (I think I’m just jealous because I love all the work they do but don’t have nearly enough patients to join them in their craft.)
I’m not sure where they got the TV announcer for this event. They just went to commercial break and she tried to tease the viewer by saying “Who will win best director, the first woman, the first African American or James Cameron?” Really?
I think I must have had my hands more full with food than the pen by the end of the show because my notes stop about at best actor and actress. One of my final notes was “Go Dude.” If you understand that, awesome, if not, don’t worry about it.
Obviously by the time I get to post this everyone will have already had an Oscars' recap, but this is what we get when borrowing internet from the neighbor.
I do feel though that I should at least leave with a few words on the winner of the best film. First of all, I’m thrilled Avatar didn’t win. I haven’t seen the film yet, but even in the previews, it just seems like a fascinating experiment with special effects. I had a friend who said “It’s Fern Gully, but longer and more expensive.” I finally saw Precious the other night and wasn’t thrilled. I hear the book is amazingly disturbing. I believe it; however, the movie didn’t live up to the hype for me. The acting was fabulous and the directing seemed good too. It didn’t move me though nearly as much as The Hurt Locker. I was waiting for these films as soon as NPR hinted at them. Hands down, Hurt Locker lives up to all its hype. It’s honest and has a bit of a cathartic feel to it. But it doesn’t leave you hating the situation like Valley of Ellah. (If you’ve seen Valley of Ellah, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t seen this film, I suggest seeing it when you’re in a good state of mind.)
By far not a structured post but it is what it is.
This Sunday it seems the easy thing to write about for a blog has to be the Oscars. I kept notes and waited for my neighbors router to work properly again. What follows are said notes while watching. (Of course, I edited a bit, because I’m not sure anyone can understand my short hand.)
Oscar night is something I use to live for. I dreamed I would be there one day holding my own little golden man. I know it’s not going to happen now, but I’ll still watch happily. Hopefully this year movies I like might actually pull through. One can only hope that the Cohen’s don’t make out with another one.
To Alec Baldwin and Steve on the opening number: Your words aren’t too shabby but the timing is way off.
I love when the camera scans over the crowds. They always seem to have dumbfounded looks on their faces. Some seem to read “I don’t want to be here, get on with it.” I can’t imagine anyone really wants to sit at a reward show for 4 hours. The actors’ expressions remind me of what people do in cars at red lights when they think no one is looking.
The sound is already messing up. Didn’t this happen last year too?
Pixar wins best animated, what a surprise. I remember one year Jack Black saying something like “I do voice acting for a DreamWorks film but always bet on the Pixar for the win.” Up was amazing though. If you haven’t seen it, you should.
The song “Take it All” from Nine is up for best original song. Does that really count since it’s a Broadway musical? I’ll have to look this up. (Update – I haven’t)
I have to say District 9 really wasn’t the best film of the year and I'm not even sure it should be nominated. One of the best things it has going for it is the obvious allegory to apartheid. My hope is it reminds people of the past and maybe makes a younger generation want to learn more. Need to know your history so you don’t repeat your past. That’s the saying right? It’s hard though to describe something like apartheid to someone who wasn’t there. I may know the facts, but I can’t begin to comprehend the event.
Tina Fey and Robert Downy Jr. announce the best screen play nominees. I love the script for the two of them, the banter of what an actor wants in a screen play and what a writer wants in an actor. I especially love that when Tina Fey says “A writer likes an actor who’s not afraid to adlib,” the cameras coincidently move to Robin Williams.
I wonder if Hollywood types practice their “gracious loser” expression in the mirror before showing up.
Molly Ringwald and Matthew Broderick come out to do a special piece for the late John Hughes. All my note says is “Why didn’t Molly wear pink?”
Watching the montage of John Hughes films, I’m reminded of everything and everyone he’s touched. Maybe we should change the game to “Six Degrees of John Hughes” instead of Kevin Bacon.
Music of Prudence wins for best short documentary. All I can say is who is the red head in purple?? She was like the Kanye of the Oscars with a speech impediment. I saw a preview for David Lettermen where it looks like they were making fun of her too. I couldn’t bring myself to watch that episode though.
Does anyone know where to rent the short nominees? I hate that they usually show up at film festivals and then disappear or wind up on YouTube.
I Oprah touches it, it seems to win. What will the public do when she stops being in the public eye. They won’t know what to read or who to watch or maybe even whom to elect.
By the way, I am in no way a fan of Tyler Perry. I feel in a cage match Cosby would smack him down for his increase of stereotypes and attempt to create “black films” as opposed to just films. Put the two of them in a room and see who comes out crying. I bet he won’t be wearing an awesome sweater.
I love when they show briefly the picture of all the SciTech awards. They sadly look like a group of virgins in tuxedos holding plaques. (I think I’m just jealous because I love all the work they do but don’t have nearly enough patients to join them in their craft.)
I’m not sure where they got the TV announcer for this event. They just went to commercial break and she tried to tease the viewer by saying “Who will win best director, the first woman, the first African American or James Cameron?” Really?
I think I must have had my hands more full with food than the pen by the end of the show because my notes stop about at best actor and actress. One of my final notes was “Go Dude.” If you understand that, awesome, if not, don’t worry about it.
Obviously by the time I get to post this everyone will have already had an Oscars' recap, but this is what we get when borrowing internet from the neighbor.
I do feel though that I should at least leave with a few words on the winner of the best film. First of all, I’m thrilled Avatar didn’t win. I haven’t seen the film yet, but even in the previews, it just seems like a fascinating experiment with special effects. I had a friend who said “It’s Fern Gully, but longer and more expensive.” I finally saw Precious the other night and wasn’t thrilled. I hear the book is amazingly disturbing. I believe it; however, the movie didn’t live up to the hype for me. The acting was fabulous and the directing seemed good too. It didn’t move me though nearly as much as The Hurt Locker. I was waiting for these films as soon as NPR hinted at them. Hands down, Hurt Locker lives up to all its hype. It’s honest and has a bit of a cathartic feel to it. But it doesn’t leave you hating the situation like Valley of Ellah. (If you’ve seen Valley of Ellah, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t seen this film, I suggest seeing it when you’re in a good state of mind.)
By far not a structured post but it is what it is.
Pulled like a Bird Fed Cat
Written from notes on March 6, 2010
I decided to adopt the “why not?” attitude, especially since moving to this Bean Town. It seems the best way to enjoy a stay in an unfortunate town is to go at it like a tourists. So when Andy came to me last week and said “Frank invited me to a truck pull. Wanna go?” I shrugged my shoulders and agreed.
“I really have no clue what that is, but ok.”
To be honest I though we were going to what I now know as a Tug-a-Truck. It’s basically tug of war with tractors, trucks and what look like semis. The commercials here are so outrageous I’d have to go at least once.
“No not that. Those are just some stupid Ohio thing,” Frank informed me when we got to the Eaton Fairgrounds. Apparently, a truck pull takes more skill.
“I bet this is the most redneck thing you’ve been to.” He surmised as we were buying tickets.
“Me?” Andy asked. “Maybe, but not her.” He tilted his head at me.
I enjoy moonshine and have been to a few concerts in cow pastures. I don’t think this makes me queen of redneck events though. However, I will be adding truck pull to my belt with massive buckle.
This truck pull was indoors and I wouldn’t begin to understand how odd and maybe stupid this was until the end of the night when the air was thick. I didn’t know what to expect in the “arena.” When we took our seats, poor Frank had to answer loads of questions. Andy and our new friend, Beaner Andy asked lost of transmission and engine questions. All three of them attend the local mechanics school. My questions were obviously more girly, but I did get better as the night progressed.
“I don’t get it. So is there really any sport in this?” “Do they make any money?” “How much does this cost?” “Are there any girl drivers?” “So what has more skill, this or NASCAR?”
All the vehicle does is try it’s hardest to pull a sled of weight down a dirt path. The sled moves forward on a mechanical track as the truck progresses and puts pressure on it. Who ever drives the furthest with said weight wins.
The runs themselves are quick, but getting through all the drivers takes a while.
“How long does this usually last?”
“Depends on how organized they are. We went to one pull that was supposed to start around five. We didn’t get out ‘til around six am the next morning.”
The announcers made most of the down time fly. I wish I had had a tape recorder just for the two of them. I’ll remember next time to at least bring in my note book. They looked to be in their late forties or early fifties and rarely stopped talking. They were quick witted and had more excitement in their voices than seemed necessary for the event. It reminded me of every cliché, archetype sport’s announcer in the media.
A truck would stall and one announcer yelled, “Come on crowd let’s give him an ‘aawww shuuuucksss’ on the count of three”
One of the female drivers would fall a little short of the line and you’d hear jokingly “Well see now, she just drove like a woman.” Soprano “boos” would reply to his jabbing.
The next driver would pull ahead and measure one inch in the lead. “Now that inch isn’t something to sneeze at!” or “See, one little inch does matter.”
My favorite (or at least favorite I remember) was when one of the diesel trucks pulled ahead and into the dirt pile. “Looks like we got a new leader. He pulled like a bird fed cat!”
They definitely kept the momentum going all day with their antics. Between the announcers and people watching, I was kept entertained even without the trucks. We decided the only thing missing was a wet t-shirt contest, or at the very least a potato cannon with novelty shirts. The announcers did throw out caps to the crowd. Frank was even able to intercept one with cat like reflexes. Though it may be a special hat, we don’t see it replacing the well worn Ford cap any time soon. You had the choice of two sponsor caps. There was Dekalb (Georgia peeps this is pronounced dee-cawl-b) and Asgrow seeds (yes, ass-grow).
There was even a charity fifty-fifty raffle. However, the cause seemed a bit ironic: Children’s Lung Association and Asthma.
I have to say – as cliché as it may sound – it really was an event for all the senses. Sight wise there was of course the trucks, jail bait, men with large belt buckles and jeans with round imprints on their back pockets, and the ever rewarding mullet hunt. The burning alcohol and concessions made it smell oddly like grape kool-aid and barbeque. The trucks left your ears screaming for ear plugs. Every smell left a taste in your mouth that you could easily cover up with a trip to the concessions. Oil stained hands held the foil wrapped goodness of a quarter pound friend German bologna sandwich. Or you could brave the Texas Tenderloin booth and get a fried tenderloin sandwich. Andy came back with one near the end of the night and even the people sitting next to us had to ask “What the hell is that?!”
I assume to make this interesting treat you start with a pork tenderloin cut. You then proceed to beat the crap out of it until it resembles a massive pancake. It gets battered and friend and placed on a comically too small bun. If you want cheese, they put on an American slice leaving it even more awkward looking. The entire thing took up a whole paper plate. Instructions should come with this meal.
The afternoon session may have been fun, but it was only a training session for the night runs. The real people watching began then. Apparently, for the locals, this is more fun than going to a mall or coffee house. There were a myriad of high school students sitting around chatting away as if they were at a coffee house or sitting in the mall food court. Other girls came in looking like they expected to pick up a man at this event the same way they would at a bar. It may be just me, but I didn’t think a truck pull was the ultimate singles event.
“Oh it’s worse in the summer outdoors. They’re running around in Daisy Duke’s then.” Frank taught me while I helped him pick out the good looking ones.
If I had known we could bring alcohol, it may have been even more entertaining. Younger guys came in with six packs tucked under arms. The veterans came in with all manner of cleverness. There was the basic beaten up cooler to double as a seat. Then there were case of beer with triple thick duct tape handles. And I could be mistaken, but I swear I thought I saw a Gatorade bottle filled with a light brown liquid that didn’t resemble any flavor I know. The announcers’ favorite though seemed to be the group on the other side of the track. In the afternoon, they had boxes of wine. By dusk, they had funnels.
I promise I did watch the trucks too.
Between sets, we walked around the pit/parking lot to find our favorites to root for.
There was a modified blue tractor, Blue Blazin’. Frank pointed it out, “That tractor’s pissed.” He had seen it before. When Blue Blazin’ did finally pull, I understood what he meant. It came out screaming, put its nose in the air, and landed in a dirt pile at the end of the track. Once the nose touched down, fire shot out from the top. He placed and made all the “green tractors” jealous. (We learned that the color of your tractor is just as important as whether your truck has an oval or a cross)
We also saw a red GMC truck named Flamin’. Hands down, this seems like one of the worst names possible for a truck in a predominately male spot. It was slightly redeeming to find out its driver was a young woman wearing a pink jersey. She was the only GMC in the blower class and proved that maybe it should be left to just the Chevys and Fords. She went about 150 feet and then her truck bed went one direction while the cab went in the opposite. All were safe and the truck seemed okay. This of course justified the AV people need to replay Flamin’s run repeatedly in reverse and slow-mo.
Other favorites of ours included the Bean Bandit, a Studebaker named Chili Town Hustler, Deere Replacement II (we didn’t find the first replacement), Dark Side Tractor, and once named Second Chance. The name Second Chance wasn’t really very odd and would have gone unnoticed with out our all too well informed announcer.
“Now coming up is an orange tractor, Second Chance. I want you to pay attention to this guy. He’s one armed. They modified his tractor to have the clutch, gear shift, brake, and gas all as different foot pedals.”
“He’s like the Def Leppard dude,” Andy says before we can.
“What an odd name for it.” I thought he would have done something a little less depressing.
“What about Left Turn Only?” We bean coming up with other possible names and I cried I was laughing so hard at the sick humor. I wish we remembered enough of them. The only ones we can remember include Cost me an Arm (not a leg) and One Down one to Go.
The blower category was mine, and probably the crowd’s favorite by far. Helen Keller could even enjoy it. Sitting on metal folding chairs your butt goes numb. Then the blower trucks drive past and everything vibrates from the noise and energy.
“I think I felt my hair move.”
Large industrial lights shook overhead, and dust and soot no one could reach to clean fell down on us. They pull with so much force that dirt spits up in all directions. Most of it leaves a large – sometimes even three feet high – mound behind the truck’s tires. A fork lift would drive in to save these buried beasts. It was fun to see something so powerful be so vulnerable.
We finally left the arena around two in the morning. I want to say my ears popped somewhere on the ride home. When we got to the house I discovered we had what my mom likes to call “Pool hall Syndrome.” When we were there, I didn’t think we smelled that bad, because everyone did. When we were home, I couldn’t sleep for the small of my hair and skin. The next morning I sneezed black and was reminded of all my adventures the night before.
When all is said and done, I think I’d go again. It is in no way high class entertainment. But as far as breathing bad fumes, losing hearing and people watching goes, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
I decided to adopt the “why not?” attitude, especially since moving to this Bean Town. It seems the best way to enjoy a stay in an unfortunate town is to go at it like a tourists. So when Andy came to me last week and said “Frank invited me to a truck pull. Wanna go?” I shrugged my shoulders and agreed.
“I really have no clue what that is, but ok.”
To be honest I though we were going to what I now know as a Tug-a-Truck. It’s basically tug of war with tractors, trucks and what look like semis. The commercials here are so outrageous I’d have to go at least once.
“No not that. Those are just some stupid Ohio thing,” Frank informed me when we got to the Eaton Fairgrounds. Apparently, a truck pull takes more skill.
“I bet this is the most redneck thing you’ve been to.” He surmised as we were buying tickets.
“Me?” Andy asked. “Maybe, but not her.” He tilted his head at me.
I enjoy moonshine and have been to a few concerts in cow pastures. I don’t think this makes me queen of redneck events though. However, I will be adding truck pull to my belt with massive buckle.
This truck pull was indoors and I wouldn’t begin to understand how odd and maybe stupid this was until the end of the night when the air was thick. I didn’t know what to expect in the “arena.” When we took our seats, poor Frank had to answer loads of questions. Andy and our new friend, Beaner Andy asked lost of transmission and engine questions. All three of them attend the local mechanics school. My questions were obviously more girly, but I did get better as the night progressed.
“I don’t get it. So is there really any sport in this?” “Do they make any money?” “How much does this cost?” “Are there any girl drivers?” “So what has more skill, this or NASCAR?”
All the vehicle does is try it’s hardest to pull a sled of weight down a dirt path. The sled moves forward on a mechanical track as the truck progresses and puts pressure on it. Who ever drives the furthest with said weight wins.
The runs themselves are quick, but getting through all the drivers takes a while.
“How long does this usually last?”
“Depends on how organized they are. We went to one pull that was supposed to start around five. We didn’t get out ‘til around six am the next morning.”
The announcers made most of the down time fly. I wish I had had a tape recorder just for the two of them. I’ll remember next time to at least bring in my note book. They looked to be in their late forties or early fifties and rarely stopped talking. They were quick witted and had more excitement in their voices than seemed necessary for the event. It reminded me of every cliché, archetype sport’s announcer in the media.
A truck would stall and one announcer yelled, “Come on crowd let’s give him an ‘aawww shuuuucksss’ on the count of three”
One of the female drivers would fall a little short of the line and you’d hear jokingly “Well see now, she just drove like a woman.” Soprano “boos” would reply to his jabbing.
The next driver would pull ahead and measure one inch in the lead. “Now that inch isn’t something to sneeze at!” or “See, one little inch does matter.”
My favorite (or at least favorite I remember) was when one of the diesel trucks pulled ahead and into the dirt pile. “Looks like we got a new leader. He pulled like a bird fed cat!”
They definitely kept the momentum going all day with their antics. Between the announcers and people watching, I was kept entertained even without the trucks. We decided the only thing missing was a wet t-shirt contest, or at the very least a potato cannon with novelty shirts. The announcers did throw out caps to the crowd. Frank was even able to intercept one with cat like reflexes. Though it may be a special hat, we don’t see it replacing the well worn Ford cap any time soon. You had the choice of two sponsor caps. There was Dekalb (Georgia peeps this is pronounced dee-cawl-b) and Asgrow seeds (yes, ass-grow).
There was even a charity fifty-fifty raffle. However, the cause seemed a bit ironic: Children’s Lung Association and Asthma.
I have to say – as cliché as it may sound – it really was an event for all the senses. Sight wise there was of course the trucks, jail bait, men with large belt buckles and jeans with round imprints on their back pockets, and the ever rewarding mullet hunt. The burning alcohol and concessions made it smell oddly like grape kool-aid and barbeque. The trucks left your ears screaming for ear plugs. Every smell left a taste in your mouth that you could easily cover up with a trip to the concessions. Oil stained hands held the foil wrapped goodness of a quarter pound friend German bologna sandwich. Or you could brave the Texas Tenderloin booth and get a fried tenderloin sandwich. Andy came back with one near the end of the night and even the people sitting next to us had to ask “What the hell is that?!”
I assume to make this interesting treat you start with a pork tenderloin cut. You then proceed to beat the crap out of it until it resembles a massive pancake. It gets battered and friend and placed on a comically too small bun. If you want cheese, they put on an American slice leaving it even more awkward looking. The entire thing took up a whole paper plate. Instructions should come with this meal.
The afternoon session may have been fun, but it was only a training session for the night runs. The real people watching began then. Apparently, for the locals, this is more fun than going to a mall or coffee house. There were a myriad of high school students sitting around chatting away as if they were at a coffee house or sitting in the mall food court. Other girls came in looking like they expected to pick up a man at this event the same way they would at a bar. It may be just me, but I didn’t think a truck pull was the ultimate singles event.
“Oh it’s worse in the summer outdoors. They’re running around in Daisy Duke’s then.” Frank taught me while I helped him pick out the good looking ones.
If I had known we could bring alcohol, it may have been even more entertaining. Younger guys came in with six packs tucked under arms. The veterans came in with all manner of cleverness. There was the basic beaten up cooler to double as a seat. Then there were case of beer with triple thick duct tape handles. And I could be mistaken, but I swear I thought I saw a Gatorade bottle filled with a light brown liquid that didn’t resemble any flavor I know. The announcers’ favorite though seemed to be the group on the other side of the track. In the afternoon, they had boxes of wine. By dusk, they had funnels.
I promise I did watch the trucks too.
Between sets, we walked around the pit/parking lot to find our favorites to root for.
There was a modified blue tractor, Blue Blazin’. Frank pointed it out, “That tractor’s pissed.” He had seen it before. When Blue Blazin’ did finally pull, I understood what he meant. It came out screaming, put its nose in the air, and landed in a dirt pile at the end of the track. Once the nose touched down, fire shot out from the top. He placed and made all the “green tractors” jealous. (We learned that the color of your tractor is just as important as whether your truck has an oval or a cross)
We also saw a red GMC truck named Flamin’. Hands down, this seems like one of the worst names possible for a truck in a predominately male spot. It was slightly redeeming to find out its driver was a young woman wearing a pink jersey. She was the only GMC in the blower class and proved that maybe it should be left to just the Chevys and Fords. She went about 150 feet and then her truck bed went one direction while the cab went in the opposite. All were safe and the truck seemed okay. This of course justified the AV people need to replay Flamin’s run repeatedly in reverse and slow-mo.
Other favorites of ours included the Bean Bandit, a Studebaker named Chili Town Hustler, Deere Replacement II (we didn’t find the first replacement), Dark Side Tractor, and once named Second Chance. The name Second Chance wasn’t really very odd and would have gone unnoticed with out our all too well informed announcer.
“Now coming up is an orange tractor, Second Chance. I want you to pay attention to this guy. He’s one armed. They modified his tractor to have the clutch, gear shift, brake, and gas all as different foot pedals.”
“He’s like the Def Leppard dude,” Andy says before we can.
“What an odd name for it.” I thought he would have done something a little less depressing.
“What about Left Turn Only?” We bean coming up with other possible names and I cried I was laughing so hard at the sick humor. I wish we remembered enough of them. The only ones we can remember include Cost me an Arm (not a leg) and One Down one to Go.
The blower category was mine, and probably the crowd’s favorite by far. Helen Keller could even enjoy it. Sitting on metal folding chairs your butt goes numb. Then the blower trucks drive past and everything vibrates from the noise and energy.
“I think I felt my hair move.”
Large industrial lights shook overhead, and dust and soot no one could reach to clean fell down on us. They pull with so much force that dirt spits up in all directions. Most of it leaves a large – sometimes even three feet high – mound behind the truck’s tires. A fork lift would drive in to save these buried beasts. It was fun to see something so powerful be so vulnerable.
We finally left the arena around two in the morning. I want to say my ears popped somewhere on the ride home. When we got to the house I discovered we had what my mom likes to call “Pool hall Syndrome.” When we were there, I didn’t think we smelled that bad, because everyone did. When we were home, I couldn’t sleep for the small of my hair and skin. The next morning I sneezed black and was reminded of all my adventures the night before.
When all is said and done, I think I’d go again. It is in no way high class entertainment. But as far as breathing bad fumes, losing hearing and people watching goes, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Jesus are you sending me a sign??
March 3, 2010
9:30 pm
I love signs. I know it sounds silly, but small town, locally owned stores with funny religious signs make me happy. Church marquees are the easy way out. Besides after habitual driving past the clever ones, I’ve decided there must be a website for pastors or a book, “What to put on Your Sign Preacher.” I should find that book. Pages of clever sayings too lure me in to the building, but really just make me smile instead. I wish I remembered enough of the ones I’ve seen. “You better get right, before you get left.” “God is my co-pilot. Whose yours?” “ Jesus always accepts knee-mail.”
My new favorite though is the local Royal Cellular store down the street. I don’t even really know what all they sell, but Jesus is all up in their business. When we first moved here the sign always had at the top “Jesus Saves” followed by the weekly special. If Jesus saves with a new blackberry why shouldn’t we all? Jesus stopped saving for a little while. I was almost upset by this. I mean if Jesus isn’t saving, does that mean he’s wasting money some where else? I don’t want our savior scammed. Just the other day though I passed the Royal Cellular. Jesus isn’t saving anymore, but he is still shopping there. Now the sign says “Jesus is Greater Now with one year contracts.” It seems Jesus is better than Verizon.
9:30 pm
I love signs. I know it sounds silly, but small town, locally owned stores with funny religious signs make me happy. Church marquees are the easy way out. Besides after habitual driving past the clever ones, I’ve decided there must be a website for pastors or a book, “What to put on Your Sign Preacher.” I should find that book. Pages of clever sayings too lure me in to the building, but really just make me smile instead. I wish I remembered enough of the ones I’ve seen. “You better get right, before you get left.” “God is my co-pilot. Whose yours?” “ Jesus always accepts knee-mail.”
My new favorite though is the local Royal Cellular store down the street. I don’t even really know what all they sell, but Jesus is all up in their business. When we first moved here the sign always had at the top “Jesus Saves” followed by the weekly special. If Jesus saves with a new blackberry why shouldn’t we all? Jesus stopped saving for a little while. I was almost upset by this. I mean if Jesus isn’t saving, does that mean he’s wasting money some where else? I don’t want our savior scammed. Just the other day though I passed the Royal Cellular. Jesus isn’t saving anymore, but he is still shopping there. Now the sign says “Jesus is Greater Now with one year contracts.” It seems Jesus is better than Verizon.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Those Pesky Birds and Bees
March 2, 2010
10:30 pm
“You’ll never forget this for the rest of you life.” If she hadn’t said that, I may have forgotten. I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation. There we were sitting near the back of the theatre watching movie trivia before the feature presentation. Waiting for Beverly Hillbillies to start, my mom came at me with the sex talk. We had various talks through the years. There were the vague ones to start teaching me the basic vagina versus penis, and later when I was older more detailed sometimes TMI conversations. Bit the theatre held the all encompassing, important, lay it on the line, ins and outs of being a woman.
No one likes the “birds and the bees” talk. And can I just say I hate that phrase? I know it’s supposed to relate to pollinating flowers and such but I don’t like it. The only flowers that remind me of lady parts are ones painted by O’Keefe. I’m not sure I like the idea either of a man “watering my garden.” But back to the critters. Male birds come by, peck the shit out of a hen, and then fly off not thinking twice about the new mother bird. I don’t think I want to teach my nonexistent children that. I may scare them with the bee story though. The poor male bee works and works to be the best for his queen. Then when he catches the awesome queen and has the first sex of his little bee life, he dies. How horrible is that? “Son, I want you to take care of women. You should respect them, do as they wish and possibly chase them. And if you’re lucky enough to find your soul mate you can be a martyr for her.” That sounds awesome. I hope they come back their next life as something amazing.
All of this was sparked by a moment at work today.
“Guess what I got to do before work on Saturday?” Amy asks starting the conversation. Her daughter apparently entered the wonderful world of adult hood.
“Of course I didn’t really have anything in the house. She got some ‘sample pack thing’ from school 2 years ago. So I pulled that out and she says to me ‘Mom that has DUST on it.’ I told her ‘yeah, it’s been waiting on you’.” We all of course laughed. Amy and her daughter always have stories of quick witty jabs. After he daughter had her bathroom moment she apparently came out singing “I’m a big girl now,” like the old Pull-Up commercials.
We all then reminisced about our own “first times” with Aunt Flo. Like always, my mom knew what has happening before I did. Mothers and teachers tell the girls “You’ll just know. A cramp is a different feeling than a stomach ache.” Yeah well, the first one is just straight pain and your first instinct is to go to the bathroom.
After about my third time to the little girl’s room at El Azteca, my mother followed me.
“Um, Allie, you sure you haven’t um… started?”
“Started?” I pondered. She waited a second for me to understand. “Oh!” And yes, there it was, that pesky surprise into “woman hood.” I just want to know why? I’m glad my mom was there, but really did it have to be during my brother’s birthday lunch?
Sadly, you do remember that first time, and the talk for the rest of you life. Thanks mom.
10:30 pm
“You’ll never forget this for the rest of you life.” If she hadn’t said that, I may have forgotten. I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation. There we were sitting near the back of the theatre watching movie trivia before the feature presentation. Waiting for Beverly Hillbillies to start, my mom came at me with the sex talk. We had various talks through the years. There were the vague ones to start teaching me the basic vagina versus penis, and later when I was older more detailed sometimes TMI conversations. Bit the theatre held the all encompassing, important, lay it on the line, ins and outs of being a woman.
No one likes the “birds and the bees” talk. And can I just say I hate that phrase? I know it’s supposed to relate to pollinating flowers and such but I don’t like it. The only flowers that remind me of lady parts are ones painted by O’Keefe. I’m not sure I like the idea either of a man “watering my garden.” But back to the critters. Male birds come by, peck the shit out of a hen, and then fly off not thinking twice about the new mother bird. I don’t think I want to teach my nonexistent children that. I may scare them with the bee story though. The poor male bee works and works to be the best for his queen. Then when he catches the awesome queen and has the first sex of his little bee life, he dies. How horrible is that? “Son, I want you to take care of women. You should respect them, do as they wish and possibly chase them. And if you’re lucky enough to find your soul mate you can be a martyr for her.” That sounds awesome. I hope they come back their next life as something amazing.
All of this was sparked by a moment at work today.
“Guess what I got to do before work on Saturday?” Amy asks starting the conversation. Her daughter apparently entered the wonderful world of adult hood.
“Of course I didn’t really have anything in the house. She got some ‘sample pack thing’ from school 2 years ago. So I pulled that out and she says to me ‘Mom that has DUST on it.’ I told her ‘yeah, it’s been waiting on you’.” We all of course laughed. Amy and her daughter always have stories of quick witty jabs. After he daughter had her bathroom moment she apparently came out singing “I’m a big girl now,” like the old Pull-Up commercials.
We all then reminisced about our own “first times” with Aunt Flo. Like always, my mom knew what has happening before I did. Mothers and teachers tell the girls “You’ll just know. A cramp is a different feeling than a stomach ache.” Yeah well, the first one is just straight pain and your first instinct is to go to the bathroom.
After about my third time to the little girl’s room at El Azteca, my mother followed me.
“Um, Allie, you sure you haven’t um… started?”
“Started?” I pondered. She waited a second for me to understand. “Oh!” And yes, there it was, that pesky surprise into “woman hood.” I just want to know why? I’m glad my mom was there, but really did it have to be during my brother’s birthday lunch?
Sadly, you do remember that first time, and the talk for the rest of you life. Thanks mom.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Just call me Sid-Knee Vicious
March 2, 2010
8:00 pm
I’ve had many goals in my life. Some I’ve reached while others I quit half way through like marathon runner who didn’t stretch. I know that sounded odd, but just stay with me.
Two weeks ago a co-worker invited me to her five year anniversary of turning twenty five. I was hesitant because I knew the party would involve other co-workers and their children I wasn’t sure yet if I had been accepted as a friend and those small things have a way of squealing and being well, children. The temptation of other co-workers bested me, and I found myself following a caravan of cars to the local skating rink.
Now in earlier years of my life, I though myself quite the skater. I was in no way graceful of course. My parents’ may have given me my beauty but poise and grace disappeared somewhere else in another gene pool. I dreamed of being in the X-games. I knew of course that this would never happen. Jumping curbs and flying down a neighborhood hill hardly qualifies as talent. I still loved it though.
At some point in high school, roller derby returned to TV. I’m sure it was on TNT “late nite” after wresting (or Law and Order) and before the “set it and forget it!” rotisserie.
“Oh my god, I use to watch this all the time,” my mom’s excitement comes from the kitchen.
I turn and smile, “What is this?” I was fascinated. They even made quads look better than my inlines.
“It’s stupid,” Dad’s mocking voice chimes in. “It’s like wrestling on wheels. Most of it’s staged. Change the channel.”
If I was smarter at the time, I would have turned to Beavis and Butthead and judged his reaction on which was better. Instead, I stored it away with other shows I would watch at friends’ houses or when the parents weren’t home.
My friends fell out of skating, and I too boxed up the wheels for Goodwill. Off to college I went, and slowly each year, I didn’t even watch the X-Games.
So when I found myself in front of the skating rink two weeks ago, it ALL came flooding back. Would it be like riding a bike? Should I have worn more socks? Am I even fit enough to get on these things again?
Four of us walked in at once.
“You gonna skate?” Betty – swear to god her name was actually Betty – the elderly woman behind the counter asked with a massive roll of tickets.
We stared at each other, at the tickets, at Betty, at each other.
“No,” we all cowardly mumbled.
The anticipation grew as we sat there watching others shuffle around uneasily.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“Well if you go I’ll follow.”
“Okay … maybe after some pizza.”
...
“Shit, let’s just do it. Where’s Betty?”
After helping my friends strap themselves into the inlines, I laced up my own skates. I was one of the brave ones to get the old school quads. There is definitely something nostalgic and yet scary about those tan, well worn, renter skates. They all seem to have the same small. I cautiously stood, remembering I had not been on a pair since I was eight or so. I think Salt N’ Pepper still played on the radio.
I offer one note to those wanting to return to wheels. Skating on that industrial carpet is nothing like skating on the waxed floor. In fact, it’s harder.
My co-workers shuffled along to the rink and started a slow circle. I figured if I was going to fall, might as well fall big. I went out with a fake confidence and took long strides, gliding unintentionally past the co-workers. You know who fell that night? NOT ME.
I think I had more fun weaving in and out of people than actually staying with them to talk. I was no speed demon, mind you. A six year old with a wide stance and danger in his eyes beat me there. Not to mention, there were three or four people with their own skates. I learned my lesson in pool halls; you don’t mess with the ones that have their own equipment.
Coincidently, when I returned home Andy had a particular movie waiting on me. I’m a bit of an Ellen Page and Brew Barrymore fan. The Whip It DVD menu stared at me when I walked into the living room.
“Hell yeah,” I exclaimed kissing Andy hello.
“Any bruises?” he questioned.
“Not a one.’
“We’ll see if you’re lying tomorrow.”
Now if you haven’t figured out from the title of the blog, I fell in love with roller derby again. Yes, I know, it’s just a movie. All I could think though was “I could SO do that.” And it wasn’t because I connected with any of the characters. In fact, it’s not really that type of movie. It was cute, funny, enjoyable, but not awe-inspiring.
“I’m going to be a Roller Derby Star,” I announced the next day at work.
“I could see that.”
“Did you see the movie?”
“You’d be good at it.”
“Yeah you would.”
“I wanna join too.”
What was awkward was I kept hearing “You’d be so good at it!” I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not. It’s similar to saying “You’d be awesome at beating the shit out of someone on skates.” Because let’s face it, that’s what most people think it is. Well, it’s not. I now know this.
After enough compliments, I started taking it seriously. I went to the fabulous internet and searched for a league. Wouldn’t you know it? There are four, each no more than two hours away!
This last Sunday, Andy and I packed into the car and headed west to New Haven, Indiana to see the Fort Wayne Derby Girls and Derby Brats. They are the first all women flat track derby team in Indiana. In fact, their creator just recently received an award for outstanding women in business for the county. Go figure. And here they were doing a charity bout in a tiny skating rink for $5 a ticket. Why shouldn’t we go? I really just wanted to see if after watching a match in person, would I still want to join?
Even more so! That would be my answer.
On the way there, I pondered like a silly girl. “Do you think we’re about to enter some weird underground? Will we stick out like sore thumbs?”
Andy shrugged, “Maybe. But I think we can handle it.”
The building was barely marked, but a small marquee said it all. “Derby Girl Bout tonight,” it read as we passed. The lot next to the grey dingy building mimicked the feel. It was more of a mud lot than a parking lot. All the snow had melted for a mushy mess.
We pulled a u-turn. (Which I cheered for because I hate the Ohio banned them) We circled the lot a few times and judged the crowd entering. It was so strange. There were a few of what I assumed would be the classic fans, punkster teens, biker dad, and people who could pass as Pat or Chris. And then, to my confusion, I saw soccer moms with kids in tow.
“I think we’re good,” Andy said pointing to the kids.
“Does that mean there won’t be beer?” Seriously, we thought drinking and derby should go together.
Inside we finally figured out what a “Derby Brat” was. I thought they were just Derby girls in training. I was wrong. Rainbow Brat skated past me in her jersey, pink two-two, and multi colored socks. I think she was a little taller than my waist. Other pink and purple jerseys came out of the wood work. About four looked like they were in high school, but then again you never know. At first, I hoped the petite Rainbow Brat wasn’t going up against the mammoth child, KillHer Bee. Then they hit the rink. She weaved in and out of the girls and snuck behind KillHer Bee throwing hard pointy elbows. Don’t let the princess pink wheels confuse you. She was bad ass, and serious. I think the younger ones were more hardcore on skates than anyone else was.
Near the last jam someone hipped checked my new little hero. She went sliding across the floor and stopped near a referee. Instead of jumping right up, (or even pouting) she quickly and firmly put her hands on her hips and glared at the blocker. The whistle blew and Bad Kitty unwillingly skated to the penalty box.
Andy even got into the game, cheering the half pints on. He doesn’t watch any sports. Of course, he may have been watching the adults warm up more than the kids.
Two or three of the Derby Girls, I must say, were quite hot. Yes, many are stocky and should be. You need weight to thro around when blocking. Some of our favorites of the night included Darc Vader, DOA, and the shorter, stockier Babydoll Beatdown. We were sitting next to the latter’s boyfriend and it was hard not to help in cheering with him. “You got it BB!!”
Before the girls hit the floor the cheesy announcer comes on the speakers, “We have suicide sears tonight ladies and gentlemen. Right there behind the blue lines. We only ask that you’re 18 years or older to sit in the front. It’s insurance reasons kids.”
In front of us, I saw the dreaded blue line about four feet from the “out-of-bounds” line. If you’re sitting there and a girl falls, you will be hit. I’d also keep my hands to myself.
Whether staged or not, the final minutes, nay seconds, relied on one jammer cycle and one point. It was like a basketball game. The last seconds can last FOREVER. Red team had come back from being under 20 points to being one point shy of beating the Black team.
The crowd stood, on the floor, folding chairs, and picnic tables. The teams took their places on the line. First whistle signaled the pack to start. The second whistle released the jammers and they were off, grinding into the floor. In the battle for lead Jammer, DOA and Bone Crusher forced through the first blockers. Suddenly a loud long whistle came from Bad Reputation, the referee, and he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Oh no! I can’t believe this! Bone Crusher to the penalty box! DOA just has to make it through to win! Can black hold her off??”
You can’t help but cheer.
“116 to 114! Red team wins! Red team wins! Rosemary’s Baby, I’m sorry. Red team wins!” By the way, how great of a name is that for the Black team coach?
“When can I buy skates?” I asked when we got back to the car. Andy smiled.
“You still want to do it?”
“Mhmmm.” In my head, I was screaming “Towanda!!” But being that Andy is not a fan of Fried Green Tomatos, I thought “mhmm,” was affirmation enough.
“Roller Derby is our calling in life.” My co-worker reassured me. She was really just bragging to someone else, but it still made me feel good. Yes, it is my latest calling.
Just call me Sid-Knee Vicious.
Screw bringing “sexy back.” I’m bringing skating back. Yes, I know that was lame. I’m keeping it though. I needed to bring it back around full circle to something lame. Yeah, it’s staying.
8:00 pm
I’ve had many goals in my life. Some I’ve reached while others I quit half way through like marathon runner who didn’t stretch. I know that sounded odd, but just stay with me.
Two weeks ago a co-worker invited me to her five year anniversary of turning twenty five. I was hesitant because I knew the party would involve other co-workers and their children I wasn’t sure yet if I had been accepted as a friend and those small things have a way of squealing and being well, children. The temptation of other co-workers bested me, and I found myself following a caravan of cars to the local skating rink.
Now in earlier years of my life, I though myself quite the skater. I was in no way graceful of course. My parents’ may have given me my beauty but poise and grace disappeared somewhere else in another gene pool. I dreamed of being in the X-games. I knew of course that this would never happen. Jumping curbs and flying down a neighborhood hill hardly qualifies as talent. I still loved it though.
At some point in high school, roller derby returned to TV. I’m sure it was on TNT “late nite” after wresting (or Law and Order) and before the “set it and forget it!” rotisserie.
“Oh my god, I use to watch this all the time,” my mom’s excitement comes from the kitchen.
I turn and smile, “What is this?” I was fascinated. They even made quads look better than my inlines.
“It’s stupid,” Dad’s mocking voice chimes in. “It’s like wrestling on wheels. Most of it’s staged. Change the channel.”
If I was smarter at the time, I would have turned to Beavis and Butthead and judged his reaction on which was better. Instead, I stored it away with other shows I would watch at friends’ houses or when the parents weren’t home.
My friends fell out of skating, and I too boxed up the wheels for Goodwill. Off to college I went, and slowly each year, I didn’t even watch the X-Games.
So when I found myself in front of the skating rink two weeks ago, it ALL came flooding back. Would it be like riding a bike? Should I have worn more socks? Am I even fit enough to get on these things again?
Four of us walked in at once.
“You gonna skate?” Betty – swear to god her name was actually Betty – the elderly woman behind the counter asked with a massive roll of tickets.
We stared at each other, at the tickets, at Betty, at each other.
“No,” we all cowardly mumbled.
The anticipation grew as we sat there watching others shuffle around uneasily.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“Well if you go I’ll follow.”
“Okay … maybe after some pizza.”
...
“Shit, let’s just do it. Where’s Betty?”
After helping my friends strap themselves into the inlines, I laced up my own skates. I was one of the brave ones to get the old school quads. There is definitely something nostalgic and yet scary about those tan, well worn, renter skates. They all seem to have the same small. I cautiously stood, remembering I had not been on a pair since I was eight or so. I think Salt N’ Pepper still played on the radio.
I offer one note to those wanting to return to wheels. Skating on that industrial carpet is nothing like skating on the waxed floor. In fact, it’s harder.
My co-workers shuffled along to the rink and started a slow circle. I figured if I was going to fall, might as well fall big. I went out with a fake confidence and took long strides, gliding unintentionally past the co-workers. You know who fell that night? NOT ME.
I think I had more fun weaving in and out of people than actually staying with them to talk. I was no speed demon, mind you. A six year old with a wide stance and danger in his eyes beat me there. Not to mention, there were three or four people with their own skates. I learned my lesson in pool halls; you don’t mess with the ones that have their own equipment.
Coincidently, when I returned home Andy had a particular movie waiting on me. I’m a bit of an Ellen Page and Brew Barrymore fan. The Whip It DVD menu stared at me when I walked into the living room.
“Hell yeah,” I exclaimed kissing Andy hello.
“Any bruises?” he questioned.
“Not a one.’
“We’ll see if you’re lying tomorrow.”
Now if you haven’t figured out from the title of the blog, I fell in love with roller derby again. Yes, I know, it’s just a movie. All I could think though was “I could SO do that.” And it wasn’t because I connected with any of the characters. In fact, it’s not really that type of movie. It was cute, funny, enjoyable, but not awe-inspiring.
“I’m going to be a Roller Derby Star,” I announced the next day at work.
“I could see that.”
“Did you see the movie?”
“You’d be good at it.”
“Yeah you would.”
“I wanna join too.”
What was awkward was I kept hearing “You’d be so good at it!” I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not. It’s similar to saying “You’d be awesome at beating the shit out of someone on skates.” Because let’s face it, that’s what most people think it is. Well, it’s not. I now know this.
After enough compliments, I started taking it seriously. I went to the fabulous internet and searched for a league. Wouldn’t you know it? There are four, each no more than two hours away!
This last Sunday, Andy and I packed into the car and headed west to New Haven, Indiana to see the Fort Wayne Derby Girls and Derby Brats. They are the first all women flat track derby team in Indiana. In fact, their creator just recently received an award for outstanding women in business for the county. Go figure. And here they were doing a charity bout in a tiny skating rink for $5 a ticket. Why shouldn’t we go? I really just wanted to see if after watching a match in person, would I still want to join?
Even more so! That would be my answer.
On the way there, I pondered like a silly girl. “Do you think we’re about to enter some weird underground? Will we stick out like sore thumbs?”
Andy shrugged, “Maybe. But I think we can handle it.”
The building was barely marked, but a small marquee said it all. “Derby Girl Bout tonight,” it read as we passed. The lot next to the grey dingy building mimicked the feel. It was more of a mud lot than a parking lot. All the snow had melted for a mushy mess.
We pulled a u-turn. (Which I cheered for because I hate the Ohio banned them) We circled the lot a few times and judged the crowd entering. It was so strange. There were a few of what I assumed would be the classic fans, punkster teens, biker dad, and people who could pass as Pat or Chris. And then, to my confusion, I saw soccer moms with kids in tow.
“I think we’re good,” Andy said pointing to the kids.
“Does that mean there won’t be beer?” Seriously, we thought drinking and derby should go together.
Inside we finally figured out what a “Derby Brat” was. I thought they were just Derby girls in training. I was wrong. Rainbow Brat skated past me in her jersey, pink two-two, and multi colored socks. I think she was a little taller than my waist. Other pink and purple jerseys came out of the wood work. About four looked like they were in high school, but then again you never know. At first, I hoped the petite Rainbow Brat wasn’t going up against the mammoth child, KillHer Bee. Then they hit the rink. She weaved in and out of the girls and snuck behind KillHer Bee throwing hard pointy elbows. Don’t let the princess pink wheels confuse you. She was bad ass, and serious. I think the younger ones were more hardcore on skates than anyone else was.
Near the last jam someone hipped checked my new little hero. She went sliding across the floor and stopped near a referee. Instead of jumping right up, (or even pouting) she quickly and firmly put her hands on her hips and glared at the blocker. The whistle blew and Bad Kitty unwillingly skated to the penalty box.
Andy even got into the game, cheering the half pints on. He doesn’t watch any sports. Of course, he may have been watching the adults warm up more than the kids.
Two or three of the Derby Girls, I must say, were quite hot. Yes, many are stocky and should be. You need weight to thro around when blocking. Some of our favorites of the night included Darc Vader, DOA, and the shorter, stockier Babydoll Beatdown. We were sitting next to the latter’s boyfriend and it was hard not to help in cheering with him. “You got it BB!!”
Before the girls hit the floor the cheesy announcer comes on the speakers, “We have suicide sears tonight ladies and gentlemen. Right there behind the blue lines. We only ask that you’re 18 years or older to sit in the front. It’s insurance reasons kids.”
In front of us, I saw the dreaded blue line about four feet from the “out-of-bounds” line. If you’re sitting there and a girl falls, you will be hit. I’d also keep my hands to myself.
Whether staged or not, the final minutes, nay seconds, relied on one jammer cycle and one point. It was like a basketball game. The last seconds can last FOREVER. Red team had come back from being under 20 points to being one point shy of beating the Black team.
The crowd stood, on the floor, folding chairs, and picnic tables. The teams took their places on the line. First whistle signaled the pack to start. The second whistle released the jammers and they were off, grinding into the floor. In the battle for lead Jammer, DOA and Bone Crusher forced through the first blockers. Suddenly a loud long whistle came from Bad Reputation, the referee, and he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Oh no! I can’t believe this! Bone Crusher to the penalty box! DOA just has to make it through to win! Can black hold her off??”
You can’t help but cheer.
“116 to 114! Red team wins! Red team wins! Rosemary’s Baby, I’m sorry. Red team wins!” By the way, how great of a name is that for the Black team coach?
“When can I buy skates?” I asked when we got back to the car. Andy smiled.
“You still want to do it?”
“Mhmmm.” In my head, I was screaming “Towanda!!” But being that Andy is not a fan of Fried Green Tomatos, I thought “mhmm,” was affirmation enough.
“Roller Derby is our calling in life.” My co-worker reassured me. She was really just bragging to someone else, but it still made me feel good. Yes, it is my latest calling.
Just call me Sid-Knee Vicious.
Screw bringing “sexy back.” I’m bringing skating back. Yes, I know that was lame. I’m keeping it though. I needed to bring it back around full circle to something lame. Yeah, it’s staying.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)