The first wrestling medal I ever won was at the 1996 (or '95) East Hartford JV tournament. I took the bronze in the 140 lb. weight class. Was I happy? No. Not "no" because I of an unrelenting drive to in no circumstance accept less than first place, but instead I was mortified because in this instance I had won third place - third place out of three.
The 140 lb. mark is fairly close to the center of the bell curve of underclassman high school boys' weight distribution. Usually, it would be one of the more stocked brackets because there are so many 140 lb-ers. This day was just a fluke. I think there may have been a snowstorm, in fact. For whatever reason it ended up being just two others and myself.
This was my freshman year. That first year I only ended up winning two matches. FYI, I happened to turn that around and the very next year I only lost two...though yes, that first year was a long one. This particular tournament was in the mid-season, so my confidence had already been checked by many losses, so on seeing there were only three wrestlers and with a quick calculation understanding what that would mean with the bronze medal, I was hit with a feeling things might go sour.
The first match I did pretty well for myself at the time. I made it to the second period before I was pinned. Again, at the time it was relatively good for me to make it past the first period. The second match did not go as well. I found myself fighting to stay off my back with only a depressing 30 seconds logged on the clock, though admittedly not an unfamiliar scene that year. Soon it was over and I had two losses.
I spent the rest of the afternoon worrying about the approaching medal ceremony. I had been seen losing twice, but had anyone seen me win? Um, they didn't, 'cause I didn't. I had also been to enough tournaments already to know what was coming. As numbers of participants in these JV tournaments would fluctuate week to week depending on which schools were present, the number of matches it would take to win a medal changed each tournament. It also differed between weight classes. The wrestlers would always try to out-do each other by boasting how much tougher his own road to a medal had been. "How many matches did you have to win?...three? Psh, I won five matches for my medal!" At the medal ceremony it was revealed to my teammates that I had won a medal, so soon the questions came. "How many matches did you have to win, T.J.?" My insides were churning before, during, and after everyone would ask. I wanted to disappear. I should have lied and told them that I had won two matches or something...no one would have known. Oh, my honestly got me in trouble that day.
One could have a reasonably sized bracket and easily win two or three matches without themselves medalling. When my teammates who had a day like that found out I hadn't won any matches but still received a medal, my ticket was punched. They hated me. They hated nothing else more than me at that moment and the only way to channel that anger was to mock and ridicule me.
I kept my eyes on the floor until we left. I also kept to myself. I wanted to take off my badge of shame handing like a burning dead weight around my neck and stick it in my pocket, out of sight and mind, but everyone had already seen me receive it. My life needed a fast-forward button right then. On the bus ride home I pretended to sleep to I wouldn't have to talk to or face anyone. I listened the whole way home, and occasionally the talk would turn to T.J. "Hey Coach, how did T.J. lose twice and still get a medal!?!" I kept my eyes shut and my face buried in that school bus seat until the ride was over.
Fortunately, high school boys have short memories and it never came up again. I hated that medal because of what it represented: it was a false medal, a physical lie. I hated even looking at it, and I stuck it in a drawer. In the upcoming years, as I began to grow a collection of legitimately won medals, I took it out again just for variety to place with the other medals and trophies. I had gotten over that day and now it became a funny thought to myself. I guess I can laugh at myself now. Also, maybe more than that even, I kept it because the weight class is listed on it; it lets me remember a time when I was once at most 140 lbs.!!!
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
A love story to dream of
A TrimSpa commercial came on television last night and with what I can only describe as an "awakening" as her cleavage filled all 27 inches of my screen I was overcome with an awe for Anna Nicole Smith: She had found love in her lifetime. She had a brief yet (as told to us and the court in her inheritance battle) happy marriage to her Forbes 400 husband, J. Howard Marshall II (the middle names of the really rich are more important than their first, e.g. C. Montgomery Burns). I reflected on how she must daily mourn the passing of her late billionaire husband.
The two were meant for each other. Yet. they were star-crossed in the sense that they were born six decades apart. Both coming out of failed marriages, they found solace in each other after meeting in a Houston, um, gentleman's club where Smith was working as an, um, entertainer. Smith, once affectionately known as "Sweet Cheeks" to patrons of establishment, became "the love of my life" to Marshall. Having never met her, I can only imagine the charismatic personality that Smith must possess. Could else have drawn an almost ninety-year-old billionaire to a twenty-something stripper?
(I meant dancer, sorry)
After Smith had ascended to the apex of the modeling profession she later entered, becoming hailed not only as playmate of the month but of the year, the couple finally decided to tie the knot. Sadly, I'm sure most of all for Smith, the marriage only lasted fourteen months before Marshall's death, but the couple must have cherished every moment together.
In many ways she is stronger than most of us. While there are those among us who might find themselves unable to marry a terminally ill (or other soon to die) partner, Smith lived the life of those in love, never looking back on the reality that her husband's death could only be imminent as his age.
Shame on all of you who would call Smith a gold-digger. The marriage and the relationship were of love. True love. "The Princess Bride" kind of love. Wove. Twue wove. Deep Love. The kind of love that not even his wheelchair could contain. To those who would raise eyebrows at the age gap, as David Letterman once pointed out, "Hey, when he's 160 she'd be 101." (Mr. Letterman also suggested Smith write a book entitled "Where There's a Will, There's Me"...I'm sure about the will to love one who may soon leave you. Hurrah for you, Mr. Letterman!) It was not about the money. Not in any way. This was about love. Not money. For love or money? Love. Not money. No $$$, just <3 <3 <3. These two individuals have shown the romance, the universal bond, and yes, I'll say the holiness passed down to us in the institution of marriage. If we could only love each other in the way Anna Nicole Smith loved her ninety-year-old billionaire husband, the world would be a better place.
The two were meant for each other. Yet. they were star-crossed in the sense that they were born six decades apart. Both coming out of failed marriages, they found solace in each other after meeting in a Houston, um, gentleman's club where Smith was working as an, um, entertainer. Smith, once affectionately known as "Sweet Cheeks" to patrons of establishment, became "the love of my life" to Marshall. Having never met her, I can only imagine the charismatic personality that Smith must possess. Could else have drawn an almost ninety-year-old billionaire to a twenty-something stripper?
(I meant dancer, sorry)
After Smith had ascended to the apex of the modeling profession she later entered, becoming hailed not only as playmate of the month but of the year, the couple finally decided to tie the knot. Sadly, I'm sure most of all for Smith, the marriage only lasted fourteen months before Marshall's death, but the couple must have cherished every moment together.
In many ways she is stronger than most of us. While there are those among us who might find themselves unable to marry a terminally ill (or other soon to die) partner, Smith lived the life of those in love, never looking back on the reality that her husband's death could only be imminent as his age.
Shame on all of you who would call Smith a gold-digger. The marriage and the relationship were of love. True love. "The Princess Bride" kind of love. Wove. Twue wove. Deep Love. The kind of love that not even his wheelchair could contain. To those who would raise eyebrows at the age gap, as David Letterman once pointed out, "Hey, when he's 160 she'd be 101." (Mr. Letterman also suggested Smith write a book entitled "Where There's a Will, There's Me"...I'm sure about the will to love one who may soon leave you. Hurrah for you, Mr. Letterman!) It was not about the money. Not in any way. This was about love. Not money. For love or money? Love. Not money. No $$$, just <3 <3 <3. These two individuals have shown the romance, the universal bond, and yes, I'll say the holiness passed down to us in the institution of marriage. If we could only love each other in the way Anna Nicole Smith loved her ninety-year-old billionaire husband, the world would be a better place.
Monday, June 28, 2004
An appetite suppressant
“If lobsters looked like puppies, people could never drop them into boiling water while they're still alive. But instead, they look like science fiction monsters, so it's OK.”
-George Carlin
With planning for July 4th, today I got to thinking about hot dogs. Then I started thinking about what is actually in a hot dog. If you don't know, you don't want to. You probably wouldn’t even want to know what that skin stuff is (OK, pig intestine).
We're more or less spared the transition of the meat products we eat from the animals they once were. We know where a pork chop comes from, but somehow we ignore the more gruesome of the details as Porky gets turned into bacon. On Food Network's "Unwrapped", segment that featured hot dog making started with cuts of pork. How did the pigs get to that point? If you really want to know, you could read "A Day No Pigs Would Die" by Robert Peck, in which there are many days where pigs did in fact die.
Being spared these details is probably a good thing. It at least lets the consumers retain some sense of their innocence, or at least an ignorant bliss. As children we have lighthearted images of farm life, given to us by petting zoos and Saturday morning cartoons. It never occurs to us that most of those animals are there being raised to be eaten one day.
Again, this is probably a good thing. It's disheartening to think of Bambi as venison or Chicken Little as a Chicken McNugget. My dad said he went hunting only once and shot a bunny. After seeing it he felt so guilty he never went again (of course, this guilt must only have applied to fluffy bunnies, as he routinely salted slugs, waged a BB gun assault on all feline trespassers which entered the yard, and taught his oldest son how to gut a fish).
I'm not saying that I'm going vegetarian. I'm very much a meat and potatoes kind-a guy, but admittedly I also did not make the mental connection between Betsy the Cow and last night's steak. Potatoes are feeling-less, but if they really ran around and looked like Mr. Potatohead would we feel guilty about eating the little guys au gratin?
-George Carlin
With planning for July 4th, today I got to thinking about hot dogs. Then I started thinking about what is actually in a hot dog. If you don't know, you don't want to. You probably wouldn’t even want to know what that skin stuff is (OK, pig intestine).
We're more or less spared the transition of the meat products we eat from the animals they once were. We know where a pork chop comes from, but somehow we ignore the more gruesome of the details as Porky gets turned into bacon. On Food Network's "Unwrapped", segment that featured hot dog making started with cuts of pork. How did the pigs get to that point? If you really want to know, you could read "A Day No Pigs Would Die" by Robert Peck, in which there are many days where pigs did in fact die.
Being spared these details is probably a good thing. It at least lets the consumers retain some sense of their innocence, or at least an ignorant bliss. As children we have lighthearted images of farm life, given to us by petting zoos and Saturday morning cartoons. It never occurs to us that most of those animals are there being raised to be eaten one day.
Again, this is probably a good thing. It's disheartening to think of Bambi as venison or Chicken Little as a Chicken McNugget. My dad said he went hunting only once and shot a bunny. After seeing it he felt so guilty he never went again (of course, this guilt must only have applied to fluffy bunnies, as he routinely salted slugs, waged a BB gun assault on all feline trespassers which entered the yard, and taught his oldest son how to gut a fish).
I'm not saying that I'm going vegetarian. I'm very much a meat and potatoes kind-a guy, but admittedly I also did not make the mental connection between Betsy the Cow and last night's steak. Potatoes are feeling-less, but if they really ran around and looked like Mr. Potatohead would we feel guilty about eating the little guys au gratin?
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Cheesecake
Cheesecake, I’ve noticed, is a dessert that one can quickly become tired of. Not over time, but over the course of a slice. At the first bite your tastebuds are doing flips but all
too often by the end you’re thinking “ugh, no more”. That never happens with apple pie. In fact, with apple pie it’s un-American to not take seconds, and who wouldn’t want to? Probably a communist. Anyway, everyone loves cheesecake but no one can seem to finish it because it’s too rich (or something else) even if the first bite was drool-inducing.
Last night Becca took me out to dinner at Lauriol Plaza, a Mexican food restraunt that is one of the best I’ve been to. I took a chance on a special of the evening, a chicken dish,
and my gambit paid off as it was incredibly delicious. As we could either get dessert there or go out for ice cream (there’s always room for dessert even though I had my huge dinner
and half of Becca’s), I thought it would be a good idea to keep with the theme and get dessert there. They offered two varieties of cheesecake, and a couple varieties of ice cream. I went with the chocolate covered cheesecake.
Um, not even the first bite was OK. Well, the whole thing was just “OK”, but the first bite didn’t have my tastebuds doing the flips. It was kind of dry. Between dinner and dessert I could have died happy, but after the cheesecake I had to retract my previous statement; I couldn’t go on that note. I need to have better cheesecake than that as my last.
New York, I’m sure, will have great cheesecake. Actually, in D.C., Famous Luigi’s on 19th street has the best cheesecake in the city. With your first bite your stomach will actually free up room for it, now matter how stuffed you were.
But I shouldn’t complain about Lauriol Plaza’s cheesecake because it’s not like I could do a better job, right? Wrong:
Beat two eggs, 1 tbs.. flour, and 1/2 cup sugar until well blended. Mix in the 15 oz. ricotta cheese (unsalted), and then 1/3 cup heavy cream and 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract. Pour
into pie crust and bake at 350 degrees for 40-50 minutes. Cook on wire rack and then chill. Mangia!
too often by the end you’re thinking “ugh, no more”. That never happens with apple pie. In fact, with apple pie it’s un-American to not take seconds, and who wouldn’t want to? Probably a communist. Anyway, everyone loves cheesecake but no one can seem to finish it because it’s too rich (or something else) even if the first bite was drool-inducing.
Last night Becca took me out to dinner at Lauriol Plaza, a Mexican food restraunt that is one of the best I’ve been to. I took a chance on a special of the evening, a chicken dish,
and my gambit paid off as it was incredibly delicious. As we could either get dessert there or go out for ice cream (there’s always room for dessert even though I had my huge dinner
and half of Becca’s), I thought it would be a good idea to keep with the theme and get dessert there. They offered two varieties of cheesecake, and a couple varieties of ice cream. I went with the chocolate covered cheesecake.
Um, not even the first bite was OK. Well, the whole thing was just “OK”, but the first bite didn’t have my tastebuds doing the flips. It was kind of dry. Between dinner and dessert I could have died happy, but after the cheesecake I had to retract my previous statement; I couldn’t go on that note. I need to have better cheesecake than that as my last.
New York, I’m sure, will have great cheesecake. Actually, in D.C., Famous Luigi’s on 19th street has the best cheesecake in the city. With your first bite your stomach will actually free up room for it, now matter how stuffed you were.
But I shouldn’t complain about Lauriol Plaza’s cheesecake because it’s not like I could do a better job, right? Wrong:
Beat two eggs, 1 tbs.. flour, and 1/2 cup sugar until well blended. Mix in the 15 oz. ricotta cheese (unsalted), and then 1/3 cup heavy cream and 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract. Pour
into pie crust and bake at 350 degrees for 40-50 minutes. Cook on wire rack and then chill. Mangia!
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Who do you voodoo?
In a couple hours I’ll be going to the annual Smithsonian Folklife Festival. The idea of the festival is to highlight various cultures. Last year they featured Scotland, Mali, and the
Appalachian mountain region. This year they are featuring the Mid-Atlantic states, Latino music, and Haiti. The blurb in the newspaper advertising the festival started out by mentioning that there is to be a Voodoo Temple.
I just thought it was interesting that Haitian culture is characterized - no, summed up - by voodoo. I understand that voodoo is Haiti’s most widely known cultural aspect, and indeed it makes sense to play it as a tourist attraction/cultural export to make money. However, I’m sure that at least some Haitians wish to be known as more than “the-people-who-make-other-people-zombies”. I’m sure the Caribbean nation can boost vibrant music, unique food, and rich art. I must confess, whenever Haitian immigrant workers slipped into Creole at Stew Leonard’s while trying to talk to me, I would think, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your voodoo language!”
As I said, voodoo probably serves as something as a cash crop for the island; I bet someone is making a killing in voodoo doll exports. I’m sure there is more than that. “Come for the voodoo, stay for the other stuff” should be the country’s motto. If you did the research you’d likely learn the other aspects of the culture (which I intend to today). Voodoo simply serves as the hook. Egypt’s draw is a culture that was conquered two
millennia ago. What does Canada have besides hockey and maple syrup? It really isn’t unusual for a country’s culture to be summed up by just a few icons. While traveling in Belgium, I saw a store named “Americana” or something like it. It was a Belgian store that was advertising “American” products. I thought, “Oh good, this is a chance to see how another country views our culture! It will let me know what constitutes an ‘American’ product in their eye!” All the store sold was blue jeans and Pringles.
Haiti is getting a lot of negative press, even outside of the voodoo thing. With the uprisings against the leadership that had taken place recently, it was (and is) tough times for the country. I met a Haitian student while volunteering at CI last night, and as he was talking about all that was happening the country there was a definite sadness to his voice.
Haiti needs a comeback. My advice would be to jump on the bandwagon of most of the rest of the islands and start reeling in the spring-breakers!
Appalachian mountain region. This year they are featuring the Mid-Atlantic states, Latino music, and Haiti. The blurb in the newspaper advertising the festival started out by mentioning that there is to be a Voodoo Temple.
I just thought it was interesting that Haitian culture is characterized - no, summed up - by voodoo. I understand that voodoo is Haiti’s most widely known cultural aspect, and indeed it makes sense to play it as a tourist attraction/cultural export to make money. However, I’m sure that at least some Haitians wish to be known as more than “the-people-who-make-other-people-zombies”. I’m sure the Caribbean nation can boost vibrant music, unique food, and rich art. I must confess, whenever Haitian immigrant workers slipped into Creole at Stew Leonard’s while trying to talk to me, I would think, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your voodoo language!”
As I said, voodoo probably serves as something as a cash crop for the island; I bet someone is making a killing in voodoo doll exports. I’m sure there is more than that. “Come for the voodoo, stay for the other stuff” should be the country’s motto. If you did the research you’d likely learn the other aspects of the culture (which I intend to today). Voodoo simply serves as the hook. Egypt’s draw is a culture that was conquered two
millennia ago. What does Canada have besides hockey and maple syrup? It really isn’t unusual for a country’s culture to be summed up by just a few icons. While traveling in Belgium, I saw a store named “Americana” or something like it. It was a Belgian store that was advertising “American” products. I thought, “Oh good, this is a chance to see how another country views our culture! It will let me know what constitutes an ‘American’ product in their eye!” All the store sold was blue jeans and Pringles.
Haiti is getting a lot of negative press, even outside of the voodoo thing. With the uprisings against the leadership that had taken place recently, it was (and is) tough times for the country. I met a Haitian student while volunteering at CI last night, and as he was talking about all that was happening the country there was a definite sadness to his voice.
Haiti needs a comeback. My advice would be to jump on the bandwagon of most of the rest of the islands and start reeling in the spring-breakers!
Friday, June 25, 2004
Heaven Can Wait
My computer, my HP, died last night. It traveled down a tunnel of beautiful, bathing, white light. It saw my old calculator, TI30, and his younger brother, TI36Xa. They were calling to HP. My Nintendo was there, too. Kid Icarus was playing a golden harp. All the ducks I’d ever shot in “Duck Hunt” were flying around.
HP was five, which is ancient for a computer. We’d been through a lot. Shockwave, Napster, Bearshare, Kazaa. We had some good times. It was more faithful then a servant, always letting me make tickets, or ferrying a message to a friend. It knew Shakespeare, Aristotle, the theories of Einstein, had pictures of pretty girls, and even knew how many licks it took to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop. When I slept, it slept. It was there to great me every morning as I woke. Then suddenly, for seemingly no reason at all (or likely because I deleted something I shouldn’t have) HP froze, shutdown, and then knew no more. HP totally flat-lined, and was unable to be revived.
“It’s not your time yet!!!!!!” I shouted as I ran to tear apart my box of knick-knacks looking for my HP Pavilion recovery disks. Finding them, I shouted “clear!” and shoved them into my computers disk drive. It took four reinstalls and two calls to technical support, but needless to say, I am writing this on HP as we speak. HP’s last glimpse of Paradise was Mega Man’s grim prophesy, “you’ll be back”. Even after the computer itself began working, the precious Internet still didn’t. It was a Catch-22, as the recovery disk’s version of Internet Explorer was too old to be compatible with my Internet provider (which my tech support pal Lee told me). So then I couldn’t get online to download the newer version that would allow me to go online. I fortunately found a higher version in a windows disk I later found.
HP and I have learned that it’s not immortal. It really only has to live another few weeks, because then I’ll have my laptop. I had plans to put HP on the pasture to stud, maybe and just use for language learning software or something specific. We shall see. I will miss HP, but I will learn to love my laptop the same. For what I paid for it, I damn well better.
(Author’s note: as I was writing this, I realized I had reached at least the sixth circle of nerdiness, which is even below the trekkies)
HP was five, which is ancient for a computer. We’d been through a lot. Shockwave, Napster, Bearshare, Kazaa. We had some good times. It was more faithful then a servant, always letting me make tickets, or ferrying a message to a friend. It knew Shakespeare, Aristotle, the theories of Einstein, had pictures of pretty girls, and even knew how many licks it took to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop. When I slept, it slept. It was there to great me every morning as I woke. Then suddenly, for seemingly no reason at all (or likely because I deleted something I shouldn’t have) HP froze, shutdown, and then knew no more. HP totally flat-lined, and was unable to be revived.
“It’s not your time yet!!!!!!” I shouted as I ran to tear apart my box of knick-knacks looking for my HP Pavilion recovery disks. Finding them, I shouted “clear!” and shoved them into my computers disk drive. It took four reinstalls and two calls to technical support, but needless to say, I am writing this on HP as we speak. HP’s last glimpse of Paradise was Mega Man’s grim prophesy, “you’ll be back”. Even after the computer itself began working, the precious Internet still didn’t. It was a Catch-22, as the recovery disk’s version of Internet Explorer was too old to be compatible with my Internet provider (which my tech support pal Lee told me). So then I couldn’t get online to download the newer version that would allow me to go online. I fortunately found a higher version in a windows disk I later found.
HP and I have learned that it’s not immortal. It really only has to live another few weeks, because then I’ll have my laptop. I had plans to put HP on the pasture to stud, maybe and just use for language learning software or something specific. We shall see. I will miss HP, but I will learn to love my laptop the same. For what I paid for it, I damn well better.
(Author’s note: as I was writing this, I realized I had reached at least the sixth circle of nerdiness, which is even below the trekkies)
Thursday, June 24, 2004
A (Deserved) Bug’s Death
I don't think bugs die of old age. I'm saying, I don't think anyone gets to go peacefully in the insect world. You're bitten by a spider and your insides turn to soup, or another bug lays its eggs on you and when the larva hatch they eat you alive, or some little boy frys you with a magnifying glass, or one certain little boy named T.J. puts sugar out on a paper towel so you and a couple hundred of your friends come and then he lights the paper towel on fire, or you get jabbed through with a metal hook and are plunged squirming into water for a fish to eat, or you are sold by the bag and fed to lizards, or you are sold by the bag but opened in a high school hallway as a senior prank and are then vacuumed up, or you are stepped on, or a long sticky tongue bursts into your home and sweeps you into a darkness of digestion, or a kitten rips to shreds just because you were a moving object, or you happened to big enough to serve as a target for a BB gun, or the female eats you after you've mated, or rainwater forces you above ground until the sun comes out and you wither and die on the sidewalk, or you can get a fungus infection and become mummified as mushrooms grow out of you - I saw a picture. You can go the way of the Venus Fly Trap, the Bug Zapper, Raid, the Army Ant swarm...the list is indefinite. Basically you're not going to go in your sleep.
I'm not trying to elicit sympathy for these creatures. Do they even deserve a peaceful death? They'd lay their eggs in your brain if they could. We all know what happens when the tarantula grows to 50 ft. - bad day for the small town. Trust me, bugs don't care about you; so don't feel too bad about them.
I'm not trying to elicit sympathy for these creatures. Do they even deserve a peaceful death? They'd lay their eggs in your brain if they could. We all know what happens when the tarantula grows to 50 ft. - bad day for the small town. Trust me, bugs don't care about you; so don't feel too bad about them.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Too much of a good thing
The problem with the gym I attended while at college was that you could look anywhere without seeing half-naked girls. Yes, I said *problem*. Let's face it, some girls are full of themselves, and so odds are someone’s gonna be in my line of sight, and then afterwards back at the room they're all, "good workout but some creep in a striped shirt was looking at me!"
"Yeah, I've seen that guy! What a freak!"
I'm innocent! In fact, I go to great lengths to not look at people. I'm quite the gentleman. Depending on how crowded the place would be, basically any which way you turned your head you you'd see someone in a sports bra. Eventually I would just give up and state at the ceiling. Even staring into the mirror isn't safe, because people could wonder if you're just checking out the room behind you...or staring at yourself, which is even weirder. Um, much weirder. I've seen people.
I tend to zone out, and when I suddenly realize where my head is turned of course there are girls there I would wonder if they just stare be blankly. Even if I'm dancing shots around the room and I catch eyes with someone for an instant, I have to wonder if she was wondering whether I looking at her for more than an instant!
I should probably relax. I think the only reason I'm worried myself is because I've heard other girls talking about guys staring that them. These particular girls would say they were freaked out but my opinion is they liked the attention, as they sounded more like they were bragging then lamenting over the lack of quality in male character at the university.
For all girls that read this, I do try to not look at you. If it looks like I'm looking at girls, I'm not. I'm actually there just to work out. Feel free to stare at me, though.
There are now women’s’-only gyms to prevent women from being uncomfortable with a bunch of guys around. I might have to go to a men's only gym to spare myself the worry of discomforting anyone else.
Probably when I'm seventy and playing BINGO with the old ladies I'll look back and regret partaking in the visual feast when I had the chance. I'll be able to say I was polite, at least. Also, eh, I'd rather just exercise. Some of these girls are probably just trying for attention, anyway. They just try to hard...I mean, makeup done just for the elliptical machine? Come on, now!
"Yeah, I've seen that guy! What a freak!"
I'm innocent! In fact, I go to great lengths to not look at people. I'm quite the gentleman. Depending on how crowded the place would be, basically any which way you turned your head you you'd see someone in a sports bra. Eventually I would just give up and state at the ceiling. Even staring into the mirror isn't safe, because people could wonder if you're just checking out the room behind you...or staring at yourself, which is even weirder. Um, much weirder. I've seen people.
I tend to zone out, and when I suddenly realize where my head is turned of course there are girls there I would wonder if they just stare be blankly. Even if I'm dancing shots around the room and I catch eyes with someone for an instant, I have to wonder if she was wondering whether I looking at her for more than an instant!
I should probably relax. I think the only reason I'm worried myself is because I've heard other girls talking about guys staring that them. These particular girls would say they were freaked out but my opinion is they liked the attention, as they sounded more like they were bragging then lamenting over the lack of quality in male character at the university.
For all girls that read this, I do try to not look at you. If it looks like I'm looking at girls, I'm not. I'm actually there just to work out. Feel free to stare at me, though.
There are now women’s’-only gyms to prevent women from being uncomfortable with a bunch of guys around. I might have to go to a men's only gym to spare myself the worry of discomforting anyone else.
Probably when I'm seventy and playing BINGO with the old ladies I'll look back and regret partaking in the visual feast when I had the chance. I'll be able to say I was polite, at least. Also, eh, I'd rather just exercise. Some of these girls are probably just trying for attention, anyway. They just try to hard...I mean, makeup done just for the elliptical machine? Come on, now!
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
"My only regret is that I got caught"
Not only do I want to follow the law because it's the right thing to do, but I also wouldn't want anything catching up with me if I ever ran for office.
Not that I have any plans, but who knows. Reporters can dig deep. I don't want anyone finding out I stepped in dog-doo on the walk to school one 6th grade morning.
Well, that might get me a laugh. I wouldn't want them finding out I was a tax cheat, or stock cheat, or even a mini-golf cheat. That kind of stuff always comes out. Look how many have been hit by bribery charges or accusations of extramarital affairs. More often than not, the accusations that were originally denied by the politician eventually yield admittance. These guys are crooks!
This is all coming up because Connecticut's Governor John G. Rowland just resigned over a scandal he had originally denied. I think he was using money he shouldn't have to fix up his summer home or something.
Oh, but is any of this new? No, it's been going on as long as government has. In this country, certainly, there's a definite distrust of those in office. Of course, that prejudice is constantly reinforced. What draws these corrupt people? I certainly think many who run, if not all, generally want to do good. Maybe they start out innocent but getting into a position of power offers itself to both new opportunities and temptations, or perhaps those seeking to exploit (say through tax fraud) are also they same who desire an office of authority. Could an honest candidate even win? You can't please all the people. The honest would probably fair better on the local-political circuit. I would just like to say that if I ever run for office, local or national, I'm going to be clean as a preacher's sheets.
But would anyone even believe I was, anyway?
Not that I have any plans, but who knows. Reporters can dig deep. I don't want anyone finding out I stepped in dog-doo on the walk to school one 6th grade morning.
Well, that might get me a laugh. I wouldn't want them finding out I was a tax cheat, or stock cheat, or even a mini-golf cheat. That kind of stuff always comes out. Look how many have been hit by bribery charges or accusations of extramarital affairs. More often than not, the accusations that were originally denied by the politician eventually yield admittance. These guys are crooks!
This is all coming up because Connecticut's Governor John G. Rowland just resigned over a scandal he had originally denied. I think he was using money he shouldn't have to fix up his summer home or something.
Oh, but is any of this new? No, it's been going on as long as government has. In this country, certainly, there's a definite distrust of those in office. Of course, that prejudice is constantly reinforced. What draws these corrupt people? I certainly think many who run, if not all, generally want to do good. Maybe they start out innocent but getting into a position of power offers itself to both new opportunities and temptations, or perhaps those seeking to exploit (say through tax fraud) are also they same who desire an office of authority. Could an honest candidate even win? You can't please all the people. The honest would probably fair better on the local-political circuit. I would just like to say that if I ever run for office, local or national, I'm going to be clean as a preacher's sheets.
But would anyone even believe I was, anyway?
Monday, June 21, 2004
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Father's Day
Today is Father’s Day. I won’t be celebrating again until I myself am a father. At least once, though, on every Father’s Day, I still think, “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”
The stereotyped gifts of today are neckties and golf equipment. I hope I’m never starch-shirt enough to want either of these gifts. If any of my children ever read this, breakfast in bed and/or preferably ‘and’!!!) will give me a perfect day.
I’m off to church now, the only place I still call anyone “father”.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
The stereotyped gifts of today are neckties and golf equipment. I hope I’m never starch-shirt enough to want either of these gifts. If any of my children ever read this, breakfast in bed and/or preferably ‘and’!!!) will give me a perfect day.
I’m off to church now, the only place I still call anyone “father”.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Color me bad
I’m always hearing how “blue is the new black” or even “pink is the new black”. Is black even the old black? Pretty soon they’ll be saying “black is the new pink”.
Because of my olive skin, I’m supposedly a “winter”, which means the colors that look best on me are black, white, grey…all the colors of a color-blind person, basically. If I’m really in a kinky mood I can wear blue, allegedly. That’s about as colorful as it gets. Honestly I don’t care. Really.
Actually, it’s good to know what colors I can and can’t wear. I’m not color-blind, but very non-fashionable. Many times I would come down dressed for school and my mother would give me a gagging look. My regular outfits because those that didn’t get The Look. I don’t know. I’m clueless. I still have Becca “OK” any shirt and tie outfits the night before whenever I want to try something new.
It’s hard to match, even with colors like black and blue. One comedian said, “black is the color that matches everything except itself...oh no, my jet-black jacket doesn’t match my coal-black pants…” White isn’t just white, as I’ve learned from my painter-father’s color charts. There’s china white, off-white, eggshell white, dove white, cream…
Any, that’s a summary of my fashion clueless-ness. Thanks to all the girls who have helped me sport matching ensembles!
Because of my olive skin, I’m supposedly a “winter”, which means the colors that look best on me are black, white, grey…all the colors of a color-blind person, basically. If I’m really in a kinky mood I can wear blue, allegedly. That’s about as colorful as it gets. Honestly I don’t care. Really.
Actually, it’s good to know what colors I can and can’t wear. I’m not color-blind, but very non-fashionable. Many times I would come down dressed for school and my mother would give me a gagging look. My regular outfits because those that didn’t get The Look. I don’t know. I’m clueless. I still have Becca “OK” any shirt and tie outfits the night before whenever I want to try something new.
It’s hard to match, even with colors like black and blue. One comedian said, “black is the color that matches everything except itself...oh no, my jet-black jacket doesn’t match my coal-black pants…” White isn’t just white, as I’ve learned from my painter-father’s color charts. There’s china white, off-white, eggshell white, dove white, cream…
Any, that’s a summary of my fashion clueless-ness. Thanks to all the girls who have helped me sport matching ensembles!
Friday, June 18, 2004
Ultra-Sonicus Ad Infinitum
On the subject of said coyote, those unfamiliar may recognize the various Latin names:
Carnivorous Vulgaris
Road-Runnerus Digestus
Eatibus Anythingus
Famishus-Famishus
Eatibus Almost Anythingus
Eatius Birdius
Famishius Fantasticus
Eternalii Famishiis
Famishus Vulgarus
Famishius Vulgaris Ingeniusi
Famishius-Famishius
Eatius-Slobbius
Famishius-Famishius
Hardheadipus Oedipus
Carnivorous Slobbius
Hard-Headipus Ravenus
Evereadii Eatibus
Apetitius Giganticus
Hungrii Flea-Bagius
Overconfidentii Vulgaris
Caninus Nervous Rex
Grotesques Appetitus
Nemesis Riduclii
One cannot discuss the coyote without a look at his prey, the Road Runner, which the learned taxonomists refer to as:
Accelleratti Incredibus
Velocitus Tremenjus
Hot-Roddicus Supersonicus
Speedipus Rex
Velocitus Delectiblus
Delicius-Delicius
Dig-Outius Tid-Bittius
Tastyus Supersonicus
Birdibus Zippibus
Birdius High-Ballius
Burnius-Roadibus
Digoutius-Unbelieveus
Super-Sonicus-Tonicus
Batoutahelius
Velocitus Incalculus
Speedipus-Rex
Digoutius-Hot-Rodis
Fastius Tasty-us
Tid-Bittius Velocitus
Disappearialis Quickius
Burn-em Upus Asphaltus
Semper Food-Ellus
Ultra-Sonicus Ad Infinitum
PS - The taxonomists who are even *more* learned refer to the coyote and roadrunner as canis latrans and geococcyx californianus, respectively.
Carnivorous Vulgaris
Road-Runnerus Digestus
Eatibus Anythingus
Famishus-Famishus
Eatibus Almost Anythingus
Eatius Birdius
Famishius Fantasticus
Eternalii Famishiis
Famishus Vulgarus
Famishius Vulgaris Ingeniusi
Famishius-Famishius
Eatius-Slobbius
Famishius-Famishius
Hardheadipus Oedipus
Carnivorous Slobbius
Hard-Headipus Ravenus
Evereadii Eatibus
Apetitius Giganticus
Hungrii Flea-Bagius
Overconfidentii Vulgaris
Caninus Nervous Rex
Grotesques Appetitus
Nemesis Riduclii
One cannot discuss the coyote without a look at his prey, the Road Runner, which the learned taxonomists refer to as:
Accelleratti Incredibus
Velocitus Tremenjus
Hot-Roddicus Supersonicus
Speedipus Rex
Velocitus Delectiblus
Delicius-Delicius
Dig-Outius Tid-Bittius
Tastyus Supersonicus
Birdibus Zippibus
Birdius High-Ballius
Burnius-Roadibus
Digoutius-Unbelieveus
Super-Sonicus-Tonicus
Batoutahelius
Velocitus Incalculus
Speedipus-Rex
Digoutius-Hot-Rodis
Fastius Tasty-us
Tid-Bittius Velocitus
Disappearialis Quickius
Burn-em Upus Asphaltus
Semper Food-Ellus
Ultra-Sonicus Ad Infinitum
PS - The taxonomists who are even *more* learned refer to the coyote and roadrunner as canis latrans and geococcyx californianus, respectively.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Smarter than they look (and sometimes dumber)
While watching a profile of professional skateboarder Tony Hawk on 60 Minutes II last night, it was mentioned in passing that in high school he measured with an IQ of 144. I did a double-take.
I think many would be surprised to hear that. Many would associate him with the world of punk music, chains, and spiked hair. There is no association of him with any of those things, yet there is a simple prejudice that lends itself to being involved with skateboards. The punk-skater image is already receding as skateboarding becomes more mainstream, but I think the "60 Minutes II" spot gave Hawk a positive plug with the audience who would likely lease know him: the "60 Minutes II" audience. I doubt anyone using anything more than common knowledge of Hawk would have guessed he was so bright.
Marilyn Manson is another who I suspect is smarter than he looks. I remember watching interviews with him shortly after the Columbine incident (his music was blamed as a bad influence on the killers), and to me he came across and very articulate and intelligent. He's doing something smart. The people he urinates on in concert are making him millions.
I also believe I may be smarter than I look (or, more accurately look dumber that I am). In high school during band concerts the director would name various sports teams, extracurricular activities, etc., to show we were a well-rounded group. Of course, I would stand when he named the National Honor Society or asked the students to stand that achieved high honors. My band-mates who didn't share classes (and thus didn't know my grades) always looks surprised and said "psh, yeah right, T.J.!...sit down!!!".
Conversely, there are people who are dumber than they look. I never thought Jessica Simpson had forgone Harvard for her music career, but before "The Newlyweds" would anyone have guessed she was that stupid? College professors always seem to have mastered the material. True they make a living of the material they present, but many will prepare lectures ahead of time, and so presenting the lectures they always come out looking like a wiz. Maybe it's not fair to say they are "stupider" than they look, but all I'm pointing out ist hat they're human and probably have to review the basics, too.
Lastly, I neglected to mention earlier another individual who has intelligence far beyond appearance. Though he appears bumbling, always falling off cliffs and getting squashed by boulders and exploded and falling off more cliffs some more and then falling off cliffs and having two boulders squash you in midair and then again at the bottom, Wile E. Coyote has an IQ of 207, super-genius.
I think many would be surprised to hear that. Many would associate him with the world of punk music, chains, and spiked hair. There is no association of him with any of those things, yet there is a simple prejudice that lends itself to being involved with skateboards. The punk-skater image is already receding as skateboarding becomes more mainstream, but I think the "60 Minutes II" spot gave Hawk a positive plug with the audience who would likely lease know him: the "60 Minutes II" audience. I doubt anyone using anything more than common knowledge of Hawk would have guessed he was so bright.
Marilyn Manson is another who I suspect is smarter than he looks. I remember watching interviews with him shortly after the Columbine incident (his music was blamed as a bad influence on the killers), and to me he came across and very articulate and intelligent. He's doing something smart. The people he urinates on in concert are making him millions.
I also believe I may be smarter than I look (or, more accurately look dumber that I am). In high school during band concerts the director would name various sports teams, extracurricular activities, etc., to show we were a well-rounded group. Of course, I would stand when he named the National Honor Society or asked the students to stand that achieved high honors. My band-mates who didn't share classes (and thus didn't know my grades) always looks surprised and said "psh, yeah right, T.J.!...sit down!!!".
Conversely, there are people who are dumber than they look. I never thought Jessica Simpson had forgone Harvard for her music career, but before "The Newlyweds" would anyone have guessed she was that stupid? College professors always seem to have mastered the material. True they make a living of the material they present, but many will prepare lectures ahead of time, and so presenting the lectures they always come out looking like a wiz. Maybe it's not fair to say they are "stupider" than they look, but all I'm pointing out ist hat they're human and probably have to review the basics, too.
Lastly, I neglected to mention earlier another individual who has intelligence far beyond appearance. Though he appears bumbling, always falling off cliffs and getting squashed by boulders and exploded and falling off more cliffs some more and then falling off cliffs and having two boulders squash you in midair and then again at the bottom, Wile E. Coyote has an IQ of 207, super-genius.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
The way things work in government
There are two ways to meet a goal: Do the work so that you've "met" it, or change the "goal" so that you've met your (new) goal without doing any work. In my one year of experience in federal employment, I have seen countless examples of this.
We're not going to meet the deadline? Fine, just move the deadline back. No sweat. I seem to be in the minority of people that have a problem with this.
I always have less work than I think I do. That's because I stress to get my work pushed to even be discussed at meetings, but then am informed that we simply won't be handling what I was working on anymore. This is often to meet a deadline. As my work is often forgotten about, the team moves towards making a goal on a certain day. Then I say, "what about me?!?" This would mean it would be more difficult to make that date. One solution is to work harder, and work with me. Their solution is to not include my piece in the bundle that is due by the deadline. That way, the deadline is made.
On one hand there's never and (real) pressure on me. On the other hand, anyone could say I'm wasting my life away. The saddest part about leaving is that if I'm ever in a position of power, all the people here I'd currently fire will have already retired.
We're not going to meet the deadline? Fine, just move the deadline back. No sweat. I seem to be in the minority of people that have a problem with this.
I always have less work than I think I do. That's because I stress to get my work pushed to even be discussed at meetings, but then am informed that we simply won't be handling what I was working on anymore. This is often to meet a deadline. As my work is often forgotten about, the team moves towards making a goal on a certain day. Then I say, "what about me?!?" This would mean it would be more difficult to make that date. One solution is to work harder, and work with me. Their solution is to not include my piece in the bundle that is due by the deadline. That way, the deadline is made.
On one hand there's never and (real) pressure on me. On the other hand, anyone could say I'm wasting my life away. The saddest part about leaving is that if I'm ever in a position of power, all the people here I'd currently fire will have already retired.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Moms aren't cool
There were so many times I would run home to my mom after a day of working at Stew Leonard's Ice Cream parlor and say, "thank you for dressing like a mom." There were daily examples of 30-40-somethings wearing capri pants, tube tops, and midriffs. That's what girls my age wear.
I think such clothing is inappropriate outside of the generation. Look, power to you if you have a body for it. If you saw "The Thomas Crown Affair" you know that Rene Russo was smokin'. She was 45. I haven't seen her in a midriff though. Not only is it important to act your age, I believe you need to dress your age. I believe some people don't want to admit the fact that they're aging. Dressing like their daughters may help them to feel young, or feel "cool".
News Flash: 'Mom' and 'coolness' are antonyms. There's no intersect. Being a mom disqualifies you from being cool. When you first give birth, the doctor tears up your Cool Card.
I hate it when people say, "I'm a cool mom." (More generally, I hate it when anyone says "I'm a cool ____", or "I'm a laid-back ____") The #1 rule of being cool is that if you have to tell people you're cool, you're not. Even I know that, and I thought calculus homework was fun.
Old people rarely cool. They are a scare group. Frank Sinatra was. The guys from Aerosmith are, though truly only Joe Perry and Steven Tyler. Notice I put Joe Perry's name first. He's cooler.
Some parents consider themselves friends of their kids. They shouldn't be friends, they should be parents. There's a difference, and the attitude of my-kid-is-my-"friend" attitude will cause problems when the child needs to be disciplined. I'm sure there is a correlation with this and undisciplined children. Children need parents, they already have friends.
Parents, have class. Dress like a parent. No midriffs, Ma. Please no pants with writing on the butt.
Honestly, what's "cool" is defined by the current young generation. They're going to give the most meaningful label of cool to whomever. You don't get to call yourself cool. Sorry. If your kids think you are now, that will probably change when they hit 13. Even if you're not cool to them, you can still be a good, classy person. That's pretty cool.
Grandpa Simpson in a flashback told Homer: I used to be with it, but then they changed what 'it' was. Now what I'm with isn't 'it' anymore and what's 'it' seems weird and scary. I'll happen to you...
Homer said, No way man, I'm gonna rock forever...but then it flashed forward to the present day, and he wasn't rocking anymore.
That’s a bit depressing I know, but not for me. Personally, I’m going to rock forever.
I think such clothing is inappropriate outside of the generation. Look, power to you if you have a body for it. If you saw "The Thomas Crown Affair" you know that Rene Russo was smokin'. She was 45. I haven't seen her in a midriff though. Not only is it important to act your age, I believe you need to dress your age. I believe some people don't want to admit the fact that they're aging. Dressing like their daughters may help them to feel young, or feel "cool".
News Flash: 'Mom' and 'coolness' are antonyms. There's no intersect. Being a mom disqualifies you from being cool. When you first give birth, the doctor tears up your Cool Card.
I hate it when people say, "I'm a cool mom." (More generally, I hate it when anyone says "I'm a cool ____", or "I'm a laid-back ____") The #1 rule of being cool is that if you have to tell people you're cool, you're not. Even I know that, and I thought calculus homework was fun.
Old people rarely cool. They are a scare group. Frank Sinatra was. The guys from Aerosmith are, though truly only Joe Perry and Steven Tyler. Notice I put Joe Perry's name first. He's cooler.
Some parents consider themselves friends of their kids. They shouldn't be friends, they should be parents. There's a difference, and the attitude of my-kid-is-my-"friend" attitude will cause problems when the child needs to be disciplined. I'm sure there is a correlation with this and undisciplined children. Children need parents, they already have friends.
Parents, have class. Dress like a parent. No midriffs, Ma. Please no pants with writing on the butt.
Honestly, what's "cool" is defined by the current young generation. They're going to give the most meaningful label of cool to whomever. You don't get to call yourself cool. Sorry. If your kids think you are now, that will probably change when they hit 13. Even if you're not cool to them, you can still be a good, classy person. That's pretty cool.
Grandpa Simpson in a flashback told Homer: I used to be with it, but then they changed what 'it' was. Now what I'm with isn't 'it' anymore and what's 'it' seems weird and scary. I'll happen to you...
Homer said, No way man, I'm gonna rock forever...but then it flashed forward to the present day, and he wasn't rocking anymore.
That’s a bit depressing I know, but not for me. Personally, I’m going to rock forever.
Monday, June 14, 2004
The Christman Coat-of-Arms
Today is Flag Day and I thought of all the flags in the world, particularly America's. For whatever reasons my thoughts then drifted to those of a medieval coat of arms, a "personal" flag, if you will. We had been asked to design our own in middle school history projects, though I cannot recall how mine looked. If I had one now of my choosing, what would it be?
I am as uncreative as I am lucky enough to make up for it. Traditionally, the oldest of brothers inherits the family coat of arms unchanged (while younger brothers would have to change it slightly). Score!
The Internet has come a long way since I was a lad in middle school. Now you can actually search online for the coat of arms associated with various surnames. There's just one personal problem. "Christian" isn't my true family name. It's just a product of Ellis Island immigration clerks giving my Polish family a more "American" name. I've long said I should take the example of Malcolm X, who changed his slave-owner-given name to "X'. I should be T.J. X. "Christian" is the name the white man has given to me. On the other hand, “T.J. X” is too many letters. I also have gotten used to and like the name "Christian", and it makes all the old church ladies think I'm saintly. Which I am.
But I digress. My mother's maiden name is Agresta, which is certainly authentic Italian, but I couldn't seem to locate the Agresta coat of arms. I'll leave its design as an exercise for my cousins. Although I couldn't locate "Christian", what I did find is the coat of arms for the family "Christman". Pretty close. The name originated in the 12th century; it was derived from the name "Christianus". Now we're cooking! That's "Christian" Romani-style! It's also good enough.
Without pasting a picture, I'll give the German-to-English translated description of the coat of arms: "The shield is gold. On a green three-top hill a man, clothed blue with a blue hat, holding a torch in his right hand." Not awe-inspiring, I'll admit. Fortunately for my ego, I'm just using it as a proxy. I am assured my actual coat of arms is much more manly.
According to heraldic descriptions, the colors represent:
Gold - Splendor and wealth (I hope so!)
Blue - Reputation and kindness (I do what I can)
Green - Love, honor, and courtesy (and you know what I think of green!)
From my youth I do recall a coat of arms stored perhaps down cellar. I think it was red and white (Polish colors) with a lion on it. That's a very reassuring thought that one exists. Next time I'm home, I'll try and find that coat of arms, in case it is still there. It will be exciting to discover my roots.
I am as uncreative as I am lucky enough to make up for it. Traditionally, the oldest of brothers inherits the family coat of arms unchanged (while younger brothers would have to change it slightly). Score!
The Internet has come a long way since I was a lad in middle school. Now you can actually search online for the coat of arms associated with various surnames. There's just one personal problem. "Christian" isn't my true family name. It's just a product of Ellis Island immigration clerks giving my Polish family a more "American" name. I've long said I should take the example of Malcolm X, who changed his slave-owner-given name to "X'. I should be T.J. X. "Christian" is the name the white man has given to me. On the other hand, “T.J. X” is too many letters. I also have gotten used to and like the name "Christian", and it makes all the old church ladies think I'm saintly. Which I am.
But I digress. My mother's maiden name is Agresta, which is certainly authentic Italian, but I couldn't seem to locate the Agresta coat of arms. I'll leave its design as an exercise for my cousins. Although I couldn't locate "Christian", what I did find is the coat of arms for the family "Christman". Pretty close. The name originated in the 12th century; it was derived from the name "Christianus". Now we're cooking! That's "Christian" Romani-style! It's also good enough.
Without pasting a picture, I'll give the German-to-English translated description of the coat of arms: "The shield is gold. On a green three-top hill a man, clothed blue with a blue hat, holding a torch in his right hand." Not awe-inspiring, I'll admit. Fortunately for my ego, I'm just using it as a proxy. I am assured my actual coat of arms is much more manly.
According to heraldic descriptions, the colors represent:
Gold - Splendor and wealth (I hope so!)
Blue - Reputation and kindness (I do what I can)
Green - Love, honor, and courtesy (and you know what I think of green!)
From my youth I do recall a coat of arms stored perhaps down cellar. I think it was red and white (Polish colors) with a lion on it. That's a very reassuring thought that one exists. Next time I'm home, I'll try and find that coat of arms, in case it is still there. It will be exciting to discover my roots.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
And Sold on a Sunday?!?
Plumcots are a sin against nature. They look like off-colored plums. Who got the idea to put those two together? That's the stuff of mad scientist movies. "Igor! Bring me some plums...and apricots!!! Mwuhahahaha!!!..."
I wasn't feeling particularly brave this morning, or I would have tried them. Actually, I was feeling brave, but not brave enough to overcome the feelings of being low on money. I'll put them on my future shopping list. Maybe they're an improvement on nature, like seedless watermelons.
That gives me an idea. I'll invent seedless plumcots. Those have to be better than plumcots are now. "New and Improved" always sells. Then I can carry on my own mad scientist type experiments...and make seedless strawberries!!!
Mwuhahahaha!!!
I wasn't feeling particularly brave this morning, or I would have tried them. Actually, I was feeling brave, but not brave enough to overcome the feelings of being low on money. I'll put them on my future shopping list. Maybe they're an improvement on nature, like seedless watermelons.
That gives me an idea. I'll invent seedless plumcots. Those have to be better than plumcots are now. "New and Improved" always sells. Then I can carry on my own mad scientist type experiments...and make seedless strawberries!!!
Mwuhahahaha!!!
Saturday, June 12, 2004
I Spy With My Little Eye...
My trip the International Spy Museum was enlightening in that I learned to trust nothing. There must have been much espionage that went on discovered. They were hiding things in hollowed-out nails! Geez!
It wasn't until the museum gift store that the Bond girls were given the credit they had due. Who else made such a monumental contribution to espionage as Octopussy, Miss Mary Goodnight, Dr. Holly Goodhead, Kissy Suzuki, Plenty O'Toole, Honey Ryder (and with only like six lines of dialouge!) or Pussy Galore?
By the way, if anyone asks, my name is Gary Wozniak. I am a 25 year old Canadian citizen, where I teach school. I will be traveling to Singapore to make contacts for a foreign-exchange program there. I expect to be in the country for 90 days.
Afterwards we got lunch in Chinatown for under $5. That’s very cheap, but you get what you pay for, and I may have gotten food poisoning. I should have gone to Hooters.
It wasn't until the museum gift store that the Bond girls were given the credit they had due. Who else made such a monumental contribution to espionage as Octopussy, Miss Mary Goodnight, Dr. Holly Goodhead, Kissy Suzuki, Plenty O'Toole, Honey Ryder (and with only like six lines of dialouge!) or Pussy Galore?
By the way, if anyone asks, my name is Gary Wozniak. I am a 25 year old Canadian citizen, where I teach school. I will be traveling to Singapore to make contacts for a foreign-exchange program there. I expect to be in the country for 90 days.
Afterwards we got lunch in Chinatown for under $5. That’s very cheap, but you get what you pay for, and I may have gotten food poisoning. I should have gone to Hooters.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Me-OWWW!!!
Me-OWWW!!!
The new “Catwoman” movie staring Halle Berry is totally unnecessary.
Also, I was just walking down the street and saw an ad for the film on the side of a bus. It’s coming out July 23rd!!! That far away?!? I’m already sick of it! Your advertising blitz has failed this time, Hollywood.
I think it has bomb written all over it. I think the premise of the picture was to give Berry a vehicle to strut around in skimpy clothing. However (and I say this even as a warm-blooded all-American boy) she looks like a clown in that outfit. The mask is the worst.
As I was saying, there is no reason for this film. Michelle Pfeiffer is the real Catwoman, as we all know. Even before she perfected (purr-fected…boom-boom, crash!…‘thanks, I’m here all week, folks!!!!’) the role, there was Eartha Kitt, Julie Newmar or Lee Meriwether from the 60’s TV show.
Wow. To paraphrase Adam West: “That’s fourty-five lives, baby…”.
The new “Catwoman” movie staring Halle Berry is totally unnecessary.
Also, I was just walking down the street and saw an ad for the film on the side of a bus. It’s coming out July 23rd!!! That far away?!? I’m already sick of it! Your advertising blitz has failed this time, Hollywood.
I think it has bomb written all over it. I think the premise of the picture was to give Berry a vehicle to strut around in skimpy clothing. However (and I say this even as a warm-blooded all-American boy) she looks like a clown in that outfit. The mask is the worst.
As I was saying, there is no reason for this film. Michelle Pfeiffer is the real Catwoman, as we all know. Even before she perfected (purr-fected…boom-boom, crash!…‘thanks, I’m here all week, folks!!!!’) the role, there was Eartha Kitt, Julie Newmar or Lee Meriwether from the 60’s TV show.
Wow. To paraphrase Adam West: “That’s fourty-five lives, baby…”.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Death of a President
The big story of the week has been the death and funeral ceremonies of former President Ronald Regan. He died 93 years young from pneumonia, a complication of his Alzheimer’s disease.
His own death in its own way made me feel older. Reagan was president when I was born, and indeed, throughout the majority of my childhood. Thus, his passing indicates to me how long I’ve been around. Unfortunately, I know there will be many more such passings.
I attended the procession of his casket down Constitution Avenue towards the U.S. Capitol Building yesterday. There were an estimated 100,000 who braved the heat to watch the ceremony. It was above 90 degrees, and some 100 people had to be treated. What most impressed me were the soldiers lining the streets, standing at perfect attention before, during, and after the ceremony, in clearly less comfortable clothing than the rest of us. The procession had a number of bands and divisions from all braches of the military. It was an interesting display of pomp. On our walk back we saw a 21-jet flyover tribute.
I had planned to go to the Capitol today to visit his casket in the Rotunda. The line this morning, however, was about 30,000 long and expected to take 4-6 hours, according to the news. So, we decided to pass. The latest reports are saying just under a two hour wait, so I still may get down there, but I’m not sure if it’s necessary. The procession was moving enough. If I do go, it will be my third “wake” (or viewing), after Peter Hwang’s and my father’s. We shall see what the day brings.
His own death in its own way made me feel older. Reagan was president when I was born, and indeed, throughout the majority of my childhood. Thus, his passing indicates to me how long I’ve been around. Unfortunately, I know there will be many more such passings.
I attended the procession of his casket down Constitution Avenue towards the U.S. Capitol Building yesterday. There were an estimated 100,000 who braved the heat to watch the ceremony. It was above 90 degrees, and some 100 people had to be treated. What most impressed me were the soldiers lining the streets, standing at perfect attention before, during, and after the ceremony, in clearly less comfortable clothing than the rest of us. The procession had a number of bands and divisions from all braches of the military. It was an interesting display of pomp. On our walk back we saw a 21-jet flyover tribute.
I had planned to go to the Capitol today to visit his casket in the Rotunda. The line this morning, however, was about 30,000 long and expected to take 4-6 hours, according to the news. So, we decided to pass. The latest reports are saying just under a two hour wait, so I still may get down there, but I’m not sure if it’s necessary. The procession was moving enough. If I do go, it will be my third “wake” (or viewing), after Peter Hwang’s and my father’s. We shall see what the day brings.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
False Advertising
A bureau-wide announcement came out today about a gentleman's retirement luncheon. Being hungry as usual, I eyeballed the menu options. Lunch entree #6 was:
Pasta alla Veneziana
Filet of fish, gulf shrimp, bay scallops, lobster, penne rigatte & fussilli pasta sautéed in a light cream sauce garnished with fresh broccoli flowerettes
Yummy. Now, being an Alexandria, VA restaurant, I'm assuming those are [G]ulf (of Mexico) shrimp and (Chesapeake) [B]ay scallops. I doubt either of those specific ingredients is a characteristic element of traditional northern Italian cuisine. I don't think to myself, "Chesapeake Bay scallops!...mmm, Venice...{gurgle}."
With the global economy and all nowadays, it's possible. Still, I doubt this and think a more appropriate title would be "Pasta alla Veneziana - with a mid-Atlantic twist". On the other hand again, pretty much all ethnic food we know in the states is "Americanized". Chinese food as we know it isn't what they eat in China. The one exception is the exclusive restaurants of which are certainly out of this particular establishment's caliber. There the food is usually the real thing (or so those exclusive restaurants tell me).
If Taco Bell doesn't lie (or do they?), neither should these guys. They try and impress us by giving the order an Italian name, yet they’re using some all-American ingredients. It's a bit inconsistent.
Pasta alla Veneziana
Filet of fish, gulf shrimp, bay scallops, lobster, penne rigatte & fussilli pasta sautéed in a light cream sauce garnished with fresh broccoli flowerettes
Yummy. Now, being an Alexandria, VA restaurant, I'm assuming those are [G]ulf (of Mexico) shrimp and (Chesapeake) [B]ay scallops. I doubt either of those specific ingredients is a characteristic element of traditional northern Italian cuisine. I don't think to myself, "Chesapeake Bay scallops!...mmm, Venice...{gurgle}."
With the global economy and all nowadays, it's possible. Still, I doubt this and think a more appropriate title would be "Pasta alla Veneziana - with a mid-Atlantic twist". On the other hand again, pretty much all ethnic food we know in the states is "Americanized". Chinese food as we know it isn't what they eat in China. The one exception is the exclusive restaurants of which are certainly out of this particular establishment's caliber. There the food is usually the real thing (or so those exclusive restaurants tell me).
If Taco Bell doesn't lie (or do they?), neither should these guys. They try and impress us by giving the order an Italian name, yet they’re using some all-American ingredients. It's a bit inconsistent.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
A Lesson (Hopefully) Learned
I felt more guilty this morning that I have in a long time.
The subway reached my stop, and I got up and turned around towards the door, as I was riding backwards. As I began walking towards the open door, the man directly in front of me was barely (underscore "barely") moving towards the door. He was moving so S-L-O-W-L-Y. I was frustrated at having to wait, only being able to stare at his back as it slowly receded from me. He was a roadblock in the isle. I was at the instant of saying something harshly when I looked down and saw the white stick poking out at the ground in front of him, previously blocked to me by the angle at which I was standing. I then leaned slightly forward and caught a sideways glimpse, confirming what was already obvious, that this man was blind.
I was heavy with guilt the entire walk to work. My feelings of frustration instantly evaporated (and were replaced with ashamed ones) the instant I saw the explanation for the man's slowness. I thought, "what if I had said something?" "Hey, hurry up!" "I haven't got all day!" "Today, please!" I would have looked like a jerk. I would have been a jerk. And I thought, "does not saying anything make me not a jerk?" No, it just saves me from letting the people in the immediate area know what a jerk I was.
OK, enough self-bashing. I'm not a jerk ALL the time. I'm not even sure I was a jerk then, as I didn't know he was blind. A REAL jerk would have saw he was blind and THEN said something. However, "jerk" probably wouldn't be the most fitting word in that scenario.
No, I was impatient. It's worst because I had no reason to be. I wasn't in a hurry to get to work. No one was missing me there. Even if the closed before I got out, the ride to the next stop, a place I'd never gone, would have been an adventure.
I think I was lucky in not saying anything. I was shown what the error of my ways could have been. It was a wake-up call, and I am now resolving to keep my cool until I know the full side of the story. This should apply to not only strangers, but friends as well (to expand the lesson). I think I could learn much from the parable of the impatient fool who almost derided the blind man.
The subway reached my stop, and I got up and turned around towards the door, as I was riding backwards. As I began walking towards the open door, the man directly in front of me was barely (underscore "barely") moving towards the door. He was moving so S-L-O-W-L-Y. I was frustrated at having to wait, only being able to stare at his back as it slowly receded from me. He was a roadblock in the isle. I was at the instant of saying something harshly when I looked down and saw the white stick poking out at the ground in front of him, previously blocked to me by the angle at which I was standing. I then leaned slightly forward and caught a sideways glimpse, confirming what was already obvious, that this man was blind.
I was heavy with guilt the entire walk to work. My feelings of frustration instantly evaporated (and were replaced with ashamed ones) the instant I saw the explanation for the man's slowness. I thought, "what if I had said something?" "Hey, hurry up!" "I haven't got all day!" "Today, please!" I would have looked like a jerk. I would have been a jerk. And I thought, "does not saying anything make me not a jerk?" No, it just saves me from letting the people in the immediate area know what a jerk I was.
OK, enough self-bashing. I'm not a jerk ALL the time. I'm not even sure I was a jerk then, as I didn't know he was blind. A REAL jerk would have saw he was blind and THEN said something. However, "jerk" probably wouldn't be the most fitting word in that scenario.
No, I was impatient. It's worst because I had no reason to be. I wasn't in a hurry to get to work. No one was missing me there. Even if the closed before I got out, the ride to the next stop, a place I'd never gone, would have been an adventure.
I think I was lucky in not saying anything. I was shown what the error of my ways could have been. It was a wake-up call, and I am now resolving to keep my cool until I know the full side of the story. This should apply to not only strangers, but friends as well (to expand the lesson). I think I could learn much from the parable of the impatient fool who almost derided the blind man.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Green
On a Semester at Sea voyage previous to mine, the ship docked in Cuba. The story was often told of the opportunity students had for Q&A with Fidel Castro. It was said he would ramble on so much that only three questions where asked. "What is your favorite color" was asked and drew a two-hour response (though possibly exaggerated by the story-teller). While I could not being to approach such a feat, I would like to share thought on my favorite color:
My favorite color is green.
It's always been. It may have started because I liked being outdoors, with hiking and running through the woods when I was younger. I associated the color with the color of the outdoors, and as I loved the outdoors, I loved green as well.
Pistachio is my favorite ice cream flavor. Although it wasn't a regular flavor at Stew Leonard's ice cream parlor (our usual ice creamery), I would always get it when I could. I first got it simply because it was the "green" flavor. Then, it became my favorite.
In Connecticut, May is the month where the spring is most realized in the full leaves of the trees. It is yet another reason why May became my favorite month.
The May birthstone is the emerald.
Kermit the Frog said that it wasn't easy being green. He thought it might have been better to be red, or yellow, or gold, or something much more colorful like that. Thankfully, he soon realizes green is beautiful, that it's what he wants to be.
Driving around Norwalk one would often see signs urging citizens to "keep Norwalk clean green". I pledged to do my part.
Norwalk High School's colors are white, black, and green. West Rocks and not Nathan Hale Middle School's color is green...I wish I went there.
Of all the lucky charms, green clovers are the most "magically delicious".
The green Carebear was Good Luck Bear.
Pidge piloted the green lion that was called upon with the other four lions to form Voltron.
My mother always instructed me to wear green on St. Patrick's Day or my "great-grandfather Ryan would roll over in his grave". Poor Great-Granddaddy Ryan would also await a similar fate if I didn't eat the cabbage I was served for dinner.
Green Day made numerous pop hits in the 90s. Band members said that a "green day" was one spent high.
Tom Green is a Canadian comedian who made many bad movies but showed me cancer could be funny.
Greenpeace members often annoy me when they ask me for a moment of my time on the street.
Everyone knows who the Jolly Green Giant is but I would bet few know the name of his midget little admirer.
Vermont comes from "Verd Mont", the name given to the Green Mountains in 1761 by the Rev. Dr. Peters.
Green condiments include relish, guacamole, and Heinz EZ squirt Blastin Green green ketchup.
"Greenbacks" are US paper currency. Green was chosen because the pigment was ready available at the time of the introduction of small-time notes in 1929.
Baron Silas Greenback was DangerMouse's main adversary.
Green comes from the old english "grOwan," meaning "to grow".
Chlorophyll is the chemical that gives plants their green pigment. It acts as a catalyst when plants perform photosynthesis. 6CO2 + 6H20 --(chlorophyll and sunlight)--> C6H1206 + 6O2. Plant life, and thus animal life, could not exist without it.
Sam-I-am's nuisanced acquaintance finally exclaimed:
"I do so like green eggs and ham!
Thank you! Thank you, Sam-I-am!"
"O! Beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on." Othello, Act III, Scene 3.
In Celtic Myths the Green man was the God of fertility. Brides often wore green dresses for this reason, until Christians later banned the color due to its pagan origins. The association continues in some respect, including the meaning of the green M&M, which in a silly adolescent game carries a sexual connotation.
Green was a sacred color to the Ancient Egyptians, representing the hope and Joy of Spring.
Green is sacred to the Muslims.
It is said green is the most restful color for the human eye. Green has great healing power. It can soothe pain. People who work in green environments have fewer stomachaches. Green is beneficial around teething infants. Suicides dropped 34% when London's Blackfriar Bridge was painted green.
Japanese Emperor Hirohito's birthday (April 29th) was celebrated as "Green Day" because he loved to garden.
Perhaps next year I'll celebrate.
My favorite color is green.
It's always been. It may have started because I liked being outdoors, with hiking and running through the woods when I was younger. I associated the color with the color of the outdoors, and as I loved the outdoors, I loved green as well.
Pistachio is my favorite ice cream flavor. Although it wasn't a regular flavor at Stew Leonard's ice cream parlor (our usual ice creamery), I would always get it when I could. I first got it simply because it was the "green" flavor. Then, it became my favorite.
In Connecticut, May is the month where the spring is most realized in the full leaves of the trees. It is yet another reason why May became my favorite month.
The May birthstone is the emerald.
Kermit the Frog said that it wasn't easy being green. He thought it might have been better to be red, or yellow, or gold, or something much more colorful like that. Thankfully, he soon realizes green is beautiful, that it's what he wants to be.
Driving around Norwalk one would often see signs urging citizens to "keep Norwalk clean green". I pledged to do my part.
Norwalk High School's colors are white, black, and green. West Rocks and not Nathan Hale Middle School's color is green...I wish I went there.
Of all the lucky charms, green clovers are the most "magically delicious".
The green Carebear was Good Luck Bear.
Pidge piloted the green lion that was called upon with the other four lions to form Voltron.
My mother always instructed me to wear green on St. Patrick's Day or my "great-grandfather Ryan would roll over in his grave". Poor Great-Granddaddy Ryan would also await a similar fate if I didn't eat the cabbage I was served for dinner.
Green Day made numerous pop hits in the 90s. Band members said that a "green day" was one spent high.
Tom Green is a Canadian comedian who made many bad movies but showed me cancer could be funny.
Greenpeace members often annoy me when they ask me for a moment of my time on the street.
Everyone knows who the Jolly Green Giant is but I would bet few know the name of his midget little admirer.
Vermont comes from "Verd Mont", the name given to the Green Mountains in 1761 by the Rev. Dr. Peters.
Green condiments include relish, guacamole, and Heinz EZ squirt Blastin Green green ketchup.
"Greenbacks" are US paper currency. Green was chosen because the pigment was ready available at the time of the introduction of small-time notes in 1929.
Baron Silas Greenback was DangerMouse's main adversary.
Green comes from the old english "grOwan," meaning "to grow".
Chlorophyll is the chemical that gives plants their green pigment. It acts as a catalyst when plants perform photosynthesis. 6CO2 + 6H20 --(chlorophyll and sunlight)--> C6H1206 + 6O2. Plant life, and thus animal life, could not exist without it.
Sam-I-am's nuisanced acquaintance finally exclaimed:
"I do so like green eggs and ham!
Thank you! Thank you, Sam-I-am!"
"O! Beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on." Othello, Act III, Scene 3.
In Celtic Myths the Green man was the God of fertility. Brides often wore green dresses for this reason, until Christians later banned the color due to its pagan origins. The association continues in some respect, including the meaning of the green M&M, which in a silly adolescent game carries a sexual connotation.
Green was a sacred color to the Ancient Egyptians, representing the hope and Joy of Spring.
Green is sacred to the Muslims.
It is said green is the most restful color for the human eye. Green has great healing power. It can soothe pain. People who work in green environments have fewer stomachaches. Green is beneficial around teething infants. Suicides dropped 34% when London's Blackfriar Bridge was painted green.
Japanese Emperor Hirohito's birthday (April 29th) was celebrated as "Green Day" because he loved to garden.
Perhaps next year I'll celebrate.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
D-Day: 60 years later...
Today is the 60th anniversary of D-Day. This was supposed to be a big celebration but already it seems the death of former president Ronald Reagan is going to grab media coverage in the way Princess Diana's death overtook Mother Teresa's.
I will celebrate if I can, by watching "Saving Private Ryan" if it's on TV, or going to the World War II memorial. I'm sure there will be at least some special on TV tonight.
I thought I'd share the thought of one solider going in. Lieutenant Tom Meehan, a company commander of paratroopers, before he got on his plane scribbled a note to his wife and passed it on to be sent to her. His plane was shot down by antiaircraft fire before he ever parachuted.
"Dearest Anne: In a few short hours I'm going to take the best company of men in the world into France. We'll give the bastards hell. Strangely I'm not particularly scared but in my heart is a terrific longing to hold you in my arms.
I love you Sweetheart-forever. Your Tom."
I will celebrate if I can, by watching "Saving Private Ryan" if it's on TV, or going to the World War II memorial. I'm sure there will be at least some special on TV tonight.
I thought I'd share the thought of one solider going in. Lieutenant Tom Meehan, a company commander of paratroopers, before he got on his plane scribbled a note to his wife and passed it on to be sent to her. His plane was shot down by antiaircraft fire before he ever parachuted.
"Dearest Anne: In a few short hours I'm going to take the best company of men in the world into France. We'll give the bastards hell. Strangely I'm not particularly scared but in my heart is a terrific longing to hold you in my arms.
I love you Sweetheart-forever. Your Tom."
Saturday, June 05, 2004
Arnold-isms
I had meaning to compile a list at some point and found the following (already compiled for me!) on another website yesterday. I think the webpage was entitled "Arnold's Greatest Hits". It begins as follows (minor edits):
Here are some Arnold Schwarzenegge's "impressive " lines usually after he shows the bad guy a lesson.
[after splitting the bad guy in half]
He had to split.
[after decapitating bad guy]
He was a real pain in the neck.
[while throwing bad guy over a rail]
Let me give you a lift.
[after throwing a knife into the bad guy pinning him to a wall]
Stick around.
[after holding a bad guy over a cliff and then dropping him]
I let him go.
[before throwing a flare at the bad guy who’s covered in gasoline]
How about a light.
[after throwing bad guy onto a soda billboard]
That hit the spot.
[after shooting some bad alligators]
You’re luggage.
[right before firing a missile that the bad guy is hanging on to]
You’re fired.
[after hurling a pole through the bad guy and into the furnace behind him causing steam to shoot out of his body]
Let off some steam Bennet!
[after killing a bad guy and putting his hat over his face to make it look like he’s sleeping]
Don’t disturb my friend. He’s dead tired.
[after dropping bad guy’s severed thumb]
I’m all thumbs today.
[After putting bad guy’s head in a urinal and flushing it]
Cool off!
[after shooting wife in the head]
Consider that a divorce.
[after he created accident where bad guys were stuck in a car on a railroad and the train smashed them]
They caught a train.
and of course...
HASTA LA VISTA,...BAY-BEE!
(All these reasons why I love action movies -T.J)
Here are some Arnold Schwarzenegge's "impressive " lines usually after he shows the bad guy a lesson.
[after splitting the bad guy in half]
He had to split.
[after decapitating bad guy]
He was a real pain in the neck.
[while throwing bad guy over a rail]
Let me give you a lift.
[after throwing a knife into the bad guy pinning him to a wall]
Stick around.
[after holding a bad guy over a cliff and then dropping him]
I let him go.
[before throwing a flare at the bad guy who’s covered in gasoline]
How about a light.
[after throwing bad guy onto a soda billboard]
That hit the spot.
[after shooting some bad alligators]
You’re luggage.
[right before firing a missile that the bad guy is hanging on to]
You’re fired.
[after hurling a pole through the bad guy and into the furnace behind him causing steam to shoot out of his body]
Let off some steam Bennet!
[after killing a bad guy and putting his hat over his face to make it look like he’s sleeping]
Don’t disturb my friend. He’s dead tired.
[after dropping bad guy’s severed thumb]
I’m all thumbs today.
[After putting bad guy’s head in a urinal and flushing it]
Cool off!
[after shooting wife in the head]
Consider that a divorce.
[after he created accident where bad guys were stuck in a car on a railroad and the train smashed them]
They caught a train.
and of course...
HASTA LA VISTA,...BAY-BEE!
(All these reasons why I love action movies -T.J)
Friday, June 04, 2004
See you in 17!
94: the number of cicadas I counted from leaving work to the getting on the subway last week.
The great cicada invasion of '04 is winding down, however; there just aren't as many. You see the occasional, but by next week they should all be gone.
In all, it was an expirience, abit a media-overhyped one. The swarming insects didn't block out the sun, or carry away small children. In short, the event didn't reach the forecasted plauge of biblical proportions.
The next time Brood X comes around, I'll be 40. Wow. Little T.J. Jr. will be able expirience the joy of chocolate covered cicada chunks. I'll be able to look at the bugs and wonder if I knew their parents.
And the sickest part is, everytime I look at a tree, will I consider if there are tiny larva manifesting into a future swarm?
Eh, probably not.
On a side note, I saw a guy dive for and remove a cockroach from a meeting room today with his bare hands. He gets my medal for the day. Now all I have to do is top that, symbolically striking down this alpha male that in his own symbolic way struck the rest of us down with his feat of daring. I guess I'll have to eat a bug.
Look out for THAT in a future post!
(Though it might not happen in the upcoming year...you'll just have to wonder...)
The great cicada invasion of '04 is winding down, however; there just aren't as many. You see the occasional, but by next week they should all be gone.
In all, it was an expirience, abit a media-overhyped one. The swarming insects didn't block out the sun, or carry away small children. In short, the event didn't reach the forecasted plauge of biblical proportions.
The next time Brood X comes around, I'll be 40. Wow. Little T.J. Jr. will be able expirience the joy of chocolate covered cicada chunks. I'll be able to look at the bugs and wonder if I knew their parents.
And the sickest part is, everytime I look at a tree, will I consider if there are tiny larva manifesting into a future swarm?
Eh, probably not.
On a side note, I saw a guy dive for and remove a cockroach from a meeting room today with his bare hands. He gets my medal for the day. Now all I have to do is top that, symbolically striking down this alpha male that in his own symbolic way struck the rest of us down with his feat of daring. I guess I'll have to eat a bug.
Look out for THAT in a future post!
(Though it might not happen in the upcoming year...you'll just have to wonder...)
Thursday, June 03, 2004
What's up, Doc?
Today, a Washington Post reporter was mentioning that old Looney Toons cartoons are going to be played at the National Gallery of Art this Saturday morning (appropriately). Among others, there will be Duck Dogers (of the 24th and a half century), the Michigan J. Frog one, and "What's Opera, Doc?"...remember? (Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit!!!....my spear and magic helmet!!!)
Towards the end of the article, the write mentioned his distaste for modern cartoons, i.e., the anime and such. He said the bland dialogue just wasn't fitting for a cartoon. He closed his article with what I think was the most intelligent thing I've heard all week:
"...if someone adoringly croons 'Oh, Bwunhilde, you're so wovewy,' and you don't know enough to toss your locks and brassily respond, 'Yes, I know it. I can't help it,' your education is sorely lacking."
Amen.
Towards the end of the article, the write mentioned his distaste for modern cartoons, i.e., the anime and such. He said the bland dialogue just wasn't fitting for a cartoon. He closed his article with what I think was the most intelligent thing I've heard all week:
"...if someone adoringly croons 'Oh, Bwunhilde, you're so wovewy,' and you don't know enough to toss your locks and brassily respond, 'Yes, I know it. I can't help it,' your education is sorely lacking."
Amen.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
(Not) Happy One Year
At approximately 8:30am this morning, my professional career at the Census reached the one-year mark. I think I didn't even notice its passing. There's not much to celebrate about today.
I don't think that I've come far in the last year. I am still waiting to be "trained" on a job. What happened is, I just sat around long enough until someone said "hey, T.J. has been around a while, let's give him some work!"...I never had any work experience or guidance. I still don't. Most of my day is spent staring off into space. The only real skill I may have acquired is from the StEPS User Group meetings I've run, being able to lead a meeting. Actually, I'm still nervous when I have to do those, especially with speaking, so perhaps the only real skill I am now able to do is the skill of writing down on a resume that I've run a regular meeting.
Financially I'm not much better, either. I could always balance a budget, some I didn't make any contribution to my learning in that sense. I did technically save some money, but the new computer I just purchased took a huge bite out of that.
This job was not what I thought it would be. My boss told me I'd be working on a survey, but that hasn't happened even though I've been told that since last summer. I learned to stop asking about it. I was also told that with my TA experience they would be asking me to help teach, though that fizzled out as well. I am given no guidance. I didn't have a computer for the first couple weeks and just sat at my desk looking at insurance information. No one cared. I feel like my boss was not looking out for me. It was often the case that he just wouldn't be at meetings we had arranged. No explanation or "I'm sorry"s, either. I am worried my automatic one-year GS-9 promotion won't get put in because it's forgotten about. Although I am too much of a softie to think I can quit, once I do it will be nice to do other things.
I think my biggest gain from this experience has been that. The experience. Now I can say I've been in the real world. I can also I've had a bad job. At least, I hope it's a bad job...it would be depressing if they were all like this. No, I'm sure it's a bad job.
Rather than celebrate a year here, today I am celebrating 50 days left in this place. My happiest thought of the day was looking at the calendar and seeing there's only two more months until I give my notice. Maybe next year I'll be celebrating one year of having left this job. Hopefully it will be at a good job. :)
I don't think that I've come far in the last year. I am still waiting to be "trained" on a job. What happened is, I just sat around long enough until someone said "hey, T.J. has been around a while, let's give him some work!"...I never had any work experience or guidance. I still don't. Most of my day is spent staring off into space. The only real skill I may have acquired is from the StEPS User Group meetings I've run, being able to lead a meeting. Actually, I'm still nervous when I have to do those, especially with speaking, so perhaps the only real skill I am now able to do is the skill of writing down on a resume that I've run a regular meeting.
Financially I'm not much better, either. I could always balance a budget, some I didn't make any contribution to my learning in that sense. I did technically save some money, but the new computer I just purchased took a huge bite out of that.
This job was not what I thought it would be. My boss told me I'd be working on a survey, but that hasn't happened even though I've been told that since last summer. I learned to stop asking about it. I was also told that with my TA experience they would be asking me to help teach, though that fizzled out as well. I am given no guidance. I didn't have a computer for the first couple weeks and just sat at my desk looking at insurance information. No one cared. I feel like my boss was not looking out for me. It was often the case that he just wouldn't be at meetings we had arranged. No explanation or "I'm sorry"s, either. I am worried my automatic one-year GS-9 promotion won't get put in because it's forgotten about. Although I am too much of a softie to think I can quit, once I do it will be nice to do other things.
I think my biggest gain from this experience has been that. The experience. Now I can say I've been in the real world. I can also I've had a bad job. At least, I hope it's a bad job...it would be depressing if they were all like this. No, I'm sure it's a bad job.
Rather than celebrate a year here, today I am celebrating 50 days left in this place. My happiest thought of the day was looking at the calendar and seeing there's only two more months until I give my notice. Maybe next year I'll be celebrating one year of having left this job. Hopefully it will be at a good job. :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)