Wow, didn't think I was gonna miss that many days. Work got all kinds of crazy and I wasn't paying as much attention to this blog as I told myself I would, you see. I had a choice between sleep and updating this blog, and being the lazy bastard I am I chose sleep.
Anyway...
So, it's St. Patrick's Day. Woo-hoo, I guess? It's kinda silly this is a high-profile holiday at all. Not many saint's days are, apart from St. Valentine's Day (in honor of the saint who discovered a heretofore-unknown scriptural passage specifically allowing the exchange of chocolate for sex--that the passage was in handwriting closely resembling his own is universally considered irrelevant), Halloween (named of course after the Hallowed St. Ween, who forbade the practice of putting razorblades in children's apples unless you really, REALLY want the little fucker dead), and of course today. And at least you get candy out of the former examples, unlike on St. Patrick's Day. So why, then, did it take off?
As with so many other things in life, we can blame this on the damn Irish. This country is home to many a long-distant descendant of those potato-snarfing bastards, many of whom think being one-eighth Irish is their most interesting personality trait. Most of them are right. So, come St. Pat's they celebrate by congregating in urine-soaked bars, getting piss-drunk on watery Guinness (sorry for the redundancy), loudly complaining about the blacks, watching The Boondock Saints (the alcohol having dulled their sense of artistic taste to an appropriately low level) and staggering home to beat their fat crucifix-fondling wives, bellowing like the damned every step of the way. You know, the same thing they do every Saturday. You'd think they'd switch things up a bit for the occasion--getting piss-drunk on watery Killian's Irish Red, watching Leprechaun: In The Hood (too many black people?), walking home quietly and beating their numerous children, for example.
Oh, and somewhere in all that there's something about wearing green, on pain of getting pinched. Not being one to kowtow to the Paddy O'Furniture I of course refuse such nonsense, indeed going out of my way to not wear green that day. This year I'm going one better--I have successfully developed the "anti-green", a hue which is the exact opposite and antithesis of green. It turns out to be a sort of brownish-pink color, like the stuff that comes out of a cyst. I plan to slather myself head-to-toe with anti-green paint before I head out to work today. Sure, it might be frowned upon, but it's not specifically prohibited in the employee dress code...on account of it being insane, but the point still stands I think.
Unlike every other holiday observed by the American public at large, St. Patrick's Day has resisted the encroachment of the greeting-card industry with surprising irascibility. I mean, you see green paper plates and crepe streamers, along with the odd leprechaun-festooned party favor, but they're usually pushed into one lonely cardboard display rack shoved in wherever there's space between the Easter candy. No, the real money in the holiday has always gone, and no doubt always shall go, directly into the pockets of producers and purveyors of alcoholic beverages. Because the Irish and all their half-blood ilk are all filthy, irresponsible drunks and inordinately proud of the fact. Did I mention that yet? I keep getting the feeling I forgot something.
And the leprechaun--Stickly, there's something else. Has any mythological creature undergone quite so much badass decay as the Fair Folk? Back in the day they were some nightmarish combination of Cthulhu and Johnny the Homicidal Maniac--now they hang around pools waiting to refill your life hearts. (A similar point can be made concerning the modern-day depiction of angels versus how they were portrayed in the actual Bible, but that's neither here nor there.) What, you think I'm making shit up? You ever see Darby O'Gill And The Little People? That movie scared the piss out of me as a kid, and not just because Sean Connery sings in it. I never cease to be amazed by the human race's tendency to reduce mythological pants-shitting horror to children's entertainment (i.e. fairy tales. Yes, all of them).
You ever think that's gonna happen to us? Like, centuries from now they'll be making animated movies featuring Freddy Krueger breakdancing and singing about friendship? Actually, that sounds kind of awesome. Never mind.
Couldn't suck as much as the Irish, anyway.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
This one takes a very weird turn near the end
I used to love Marshmallow Peeps.
Couldn't get enough of them. Every year when Easter season rolled around, there I'd be at the store, snapping them up. I must have been eating something like three boxes a week back then, that time of year. The Bunnies were my favorite--'cuz of the texture, you see.
This wasn't always the case. When I was younger the very idea of Peeps revolted me. I'd never actually tried any--it was the very concept of the thing I found so off-putting. At some point my parents got me a single, giant Peep one Easter as a joke. I figured "what the hell", ate it--and discovered I actually enjoyed it. From then on, I was hooked.
Strange thing, though--even once they started selling holiday-appropriate Peeps more or less year-round, I still only ate them around Easter. Any other time just felt like cheating--spoiled the magic, if you will. Same reason people only eat candy corn around Halloween (apart from candy corn tasting like pre-chewed Tootsie rolls, that is)--it just isn't done.
Somewhere along the way, though, it all changed. I remember I was halfway through a box of Peeps when a sudden realization struck me like a DU round:
This is the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted.
This is not the only time something like this has happened. My once all-encompassing addiction to Mountain Dew Code Red was broken in a similar fashion, by the abrupt (and, again, mid-consumption) epiphany that its taste resembled nothing so much as cough syrup.
The difference in these two cases lies in the completeness of the break. While I haven't so much as touched Code Red since that fateful day, the benighted Peep still, somehow, maintains a vestigial hold on me. Every year, sometime during Easter season, I find myself compelled to purchase and eat a single box of the blasted bunnies. Some kind of bizarre tribute to the Gods of Confection, perhaps, or a twisted feeling of holiday spirit, Easter never having held any meaning to me beyond dyed eggs and piles of candy nestled in Astroturf-lined baskets. Now that I think of it, the latter explanation seems more likely--I plan to feed my next batch of hard-boiled eggs through the Paas machine, same as last year. I even plan to make yet another annual attempt to drink the contents of one of the cups of dye. I may even succeed this time, obviating the need for any further attempts.
But that's besides the point. The point is, I got my Peeps quota out of the way this morning.
They were the bunnies, of course--always the bunnies. Pink ones. I'd hoped to find season-appropriate green ones, but no such luck. I noticed they're not holding the sugar so well anymore--the pink shit got everywhere, including my eyes (I'd rather not talk about that). Somebody's getting sloppy. Probably me.
About the eyes on those things--man, even when I actually liked these things the eyes always bugged me. What are they made of? They don't taste like anything. Actually, come to think of it that's not true. They taste like old scabs (or, uh, so I'd imagine). Appropriate I guess, since that's what they look like.
How were they? About as awful as I remembered. I didn't think it was possible to fuck up a marshmallow, but somehow Peeps manage it. Leaving the sugar-shit coating aside, they just taste...flattened. If there's such a thing as unleavened marshmallows, Peeps would be they. And the sugar coating just makes it worse--they use way too much of it, always have. It's like eating a marshmallow cocooned in fine-grain sandpaper.
So, yeah, pretty awful. Plus I think they've upped the dye content or something--when I went to brush my teeth I noticed the toothpaste suds were all pink. I never noticed that before. It makes sense--why go for quality when you can get vibrancy at a fraction of the price? All you need do is get beleaguered mothers to toss the product in the shopping cart to quell their screaming brats--then the money's in the register, regardless of whether anyone eats them or not.
What is it about these things, anyway? Did I ever really like them per se, or was I just so surprised by their failure to be sublimely horrid I convinced myself such? Despite what I said above, Peeps aren't the worst thing I've ever eaten, not by far. It just happened to be the worst thing in my mouth right at that moment. And I had a great many things in my mouth just then--I'm still compiling a list. Certainly I don't maintain a ritualistic relationship with any of the other appallingly unhealthy foodstuffs I've sworn off over the years. I don't, say, walk into McDonald's on the anniversary of my first viewing of Super Size Me and order the #3 combo. Nor do I mainline Mountain Dew Code Red when I get a cold. You get the idea.
Perhaps I should find a healthier, thematically similar substitute. Like say, every year around Easter I find a warren full of baby rabbits and swallow them all whole. Good source of protein, baby rabbits. Plus the fur is great for scouring out your colon--each one's like a little scrub brush! Oh, don't look at me that way--they're rabbits, notorious for their fecundity. It's not like I'm going to swallow a baby rabbit only to belatedly realize it was the last rabbit on earth. Actually, in that situation I might go ahead and do it anyway. It's not like the little squirt's going to singlehandedly refresh the lagomorph population or anything. Plus I imagine being the last rabbit on earth would suck. What's worse--suffocating in gastric juices or dying of a loneliness-induced broken heart?
Which, I ask? Which?
Couldn't get enough of them. Every year when Easter season rolled around, there I'd be at the store, snapping them up. I must have been eating something like three boxes a week back then, that time of year. The Bunnies were my favorite--'cuz of the texture, you see.
This wasn't always the case. When I was younger the very idea of Peeps revolted me. I'd never actually tried any--it was the very concept of the thing I found so off-putting. At some point my parents got me a single, giant Peep one Easter as a joke. I figured "what the hell", ate it--and discovered I actually enjoyed it. From then on, I was hooked.
Strange thing, though--even once they started selling holiday-appropriate Peeps more or less year-round, I still only ate them around Easter. Any other time just felt like cheating--spoiled the magic, if you will. Same reason people only eat candy corn around Halloween (apart from candy corn tasting like pre-chewed Tootsie rolls, that is)--it just isn't done.
Somewhere along the way, though, it all changed. I remember I was halfway through a box of Peeps when a sudden realization struck me like a DU round:
This is the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted.
This is not the only time something like this has happened. My once all-encompassing addiction to Mountain Dew Code Red was broken in a similar fashion, by the abrupt (and, again, mid-consumption) epiphany that its taste resembled nothing so much as cough syrup.
The difference in these two cases lies in the completeness of the break. While I haven't so much as touched Code Red since that fateful day, the benighted Peep still, somehow, maintains a vestigial hold on me. Every year, sometime during Easter season, I find myself compelled to purchase and eat a single box of the blasted bunnies. Some kind of bizarre tribute to the Gods of Confection, perhaps, or a twisted feeling of holiday spirit, Easter never having held any meaning to me beyond dyed eggs and piles of candy nestled in Astroturf-lined baskets. Now that I think of it, the latter explanation seems more likely--I plan to feed my next batch of hard-boiled eggs through the Paas machine, same as last year. I even plan to make yet another annual attempt to drink the contents of one of the cups of dye. I may even succeed this time, obviating the need for any further attempts.
But that's besides the point. The point is, I got my Peeps quota out of the way this morning.
They were the bunnies, of course--always the bunnies. Pink ones. I'd hoped to find season-appropriate green ones, but no such luck. I noticed they're not holding the sugar so well anymore--the pink shit got everywhere, including my eyes (I'd rather not talk about that). Somebody's getting sloppy. Probably me.
About the eyes on those things--man, even when I actually liked these things the eyes always bugged me. What are they made of? They don't taste like anything. Actually, come to think of it that's not true. They taste like old scabs (or, uh, so I'd imagine). Appropriate I guess, since that's what they look like.
How were they? About as awful as I remembered. I didn't think it was possible to fuck up a marshmallow, but somehow Peeps manage it. Leaving the sugar-shit coating aside, they just taste...flattened. If there's such a thing as unleavened marshmallows, Peeps would be they. And the sugar coating just makes it worse--they use way too much of it, always have. It's like eating a marshmallow cocooned in fine-grain sandpaper.
So, yeah, pretty awful. Plus I think they've upped the dye content or something--when I went to brush my teeth I noticed the toothpaste suds were all pink. I never noticed that before. It makes sense--why go for quality when you can get vibrancy at a fraction of the price? All you need do is get beleaguered mothers to toss the product in the shopping cart to quell their screaming brats--then the money's in the register, regardless of whether anyone eats them or not.
What is it about these things, anyway? Did I ever really like them per se, or was I just so surprised by their failure to be sublimely horrid I convinced myself such? Despite what I said above, Peeps aren't the worst thing I've ever eaten, not by far. It just happened to be the worst thing in my mouth right at that moment. And I had a great many things in my mouth just then--I'm still compiling a list. Certainly I don't maintain a ritualistic relationship with any of the other appallingly unhealthy foodstuffs I've sworn off over the years. I don't, say, walk into McDonald's on the anniversary of my first viewing of Super Size Me and order the #3 combo. Nor do I mainline Mountain Dew Code Red when I get a cold. You get the idea.
Perhaps I should find a healthier, thematically similar substitute. Like say, every year around Easter I find a warren full of baby rabbits and swallow them all whole. Good source of protein, baby rabbits. Plus the fur is great for scouring out your colon--each one's like a little scrub brush! Oh, don't look at me that way--they're rabbits, notorious for their fecundity. It's not like I'm going to swallow a baby rabbit only to belatedly realize it was the last rabbit on earth. Actually, in that situation I might go ahead and do it anyway. It's not like the little squirt's going to singlehandedly refresh the lagomorph population or anything. Plus I imagine being the last rabbit on earth would suck. What's worse--suffocating in gastric juices or dying of a loneliness-induced broken heart?
Which, I ask? Which?
Gyaahhhh...
Well.
I know I said yesterday how my mind was clear for the second half-hour, and I might well write about pretty much anything. I was even formulating a humorous short piece--a re-telling of St. Patrick expelling the snakes from Ireland, utilizing several Irish ethnic stereotypes for comedic effect, if you must know.
But that shall have to wait. It's now abundantly clear that there's only one thing on my mind, and therefore only one thing I could possibly write about:
This. Fucking. Headache.
It feels like I'm being shot between the eyes in slow motion. It feels like someone was running a jackhammer in my skull, dropped it and now it's pounding away at the back of my brow. It feels like the pile of wasp eggs nested in my cranium are hatching and the larvae are chewing their way out.
It feels, as I mentioned on Facebook, like God shit in my brain.
What did I ever do to him? Questions I know the answers to I don't need to ask, I guess.
I just wish I knew where it came from. The last time something like this happened I was hung over, but I don't have that excuse this time, sadly enough--then at least I'd have enjoyed the lead-up. Right now I'm guessing a combination of stress, fatigue, the change in weather, several hours of listening to fire alarms, paint fumes, and a recent reduction in caffeine intake. At least, that's what I hope it is. High on my very long list of things I really, really don't need is a brain tumor.
There must be an upside. I have to see an upside. Luckily, there is an upside. Damn, I'm going all optimistic.
I now have something to write about.
I started this, the first day of my new writing regimen, somewhat at a loss for material. Hell, you saw the last post--I was reduced to wittering on about squirrels and how I revel in tormenting my stupid cat. But now? Now I'm good and worked up. Now I can sit here merrily tapping away about how it feels like I'm trying to sprout a third eye (having seemingly chosen to interpret Eastern mysticism a tad too literally) whilst cursing myself for never getting around to buying ibuprofen.
And it could be worse, as it always can be. It no longer hurts to breathe through my nose. Much. Getting some dinner down my throat seems to be helping (now, ironically, I begin to worry I'm not eating enough). And standing upright merely brings about a dull pounding, as opposed to a full-on horse's hoof to the face.
What's really odd about all this is how my Pandora station doesn't seem to bother me one bit. You'd think if fire alarms make it worse, Hate Eternal certainly would. Seems not to be the case, though. If this is cancer it might actually be helping--I'm pretty sure the music I listen to is capable of beating tumors to death with its metaphorical bare fists.
You know, I wasn't even gonna do this tonight. I thought the headache was the perfect excuse for getting out of this. But nope, here I am. Maybe I'm more of a writer than I thought. Well, I have always enjoyed complaining.
I know I said yesterday how my mind was clear for the second half-hour, and I might well write about pretty much anything. I was even formulating a humorous short piece--a re-telling of St. Patrick expelling the snakes from Ireland, utilizing several Irish ethnic stereotypes for comedic effect, if you must know.
But that shall have to wait. It's now abundantly clear that there's only one thing on my mind, and therefore only one thing I could possibly write about:
This. Fucking. Headache.
It feels like I'm being shot between the eyes in slow motion. It feels like someone was running a jackhammer in my skull, dropped it and now it's pounding away at the back of my brow. It feels like the pile of wasp eggs nested in my cranium are hatching and the larvae are chewing their way out.
It feels, as I mentioned on Facebook, like God shit in my brain.
What did I ever do to him? Questions I know the answers to I don't need to ask, I guess.
I just wish I knew where it came from. The last time something like this happened I was hung over, but I don't have that excuse this time, sadly enough--then at least I'd have enjoyed the lead-up. Right now I'm guessing a combination of stress, fatigue, the change in weather, several hours of listening to fire alarms, paint fumes, and a recent reduction in caffeine intake. At least, that's what I hope it is. High on my very long list of things I really, really don't need is a brain tumor.
There must be an upside. I have to see an upside. Luckily, there is an upside. Damn, I'm going all optimistic.
I now have something to write about.
I started this, the first day of my new writing regimen, somewhat at a loss for material. Hell, you saw the last post--I was reduced to wittering on about squirrels and how I revel in tormenting my stupid cat. But now? Now I'm good and worked up. Now I can sit here merrily tapping away about how it feels like I'm trying to sprout a third eye (having seemingly chosen to interpret Eastern mysticism a tad too literally) whilst cursing myself for never getting around to buying ibuprofen.
And it could be worse, as it always can be. It no longer hurts to breathe through my nose. Much. Getting some dinner down my throat seems to be helping (now, ironically, I begin to worry I'm not eating enough). And standing upright merely brings about a dull pounding, as opposed to a full-on horse's hoof to the face.
What's really odd about all this is how my Pandora station doesn't seem to bother me one bit. You'd think if fire alarms make it worse, Hate Eternal certainly would. Seems not to be the case, though. If this is cancer it might actually be helping--I'm pretty sure the music I listen to is capable of beating tumors to death with its metaphorical bare fists.
You know, I wasn't even gonna do this tonight. I thought the headache was the perfect excuse for getting out of this. But nope, here I am. Maybe I'm more of a writer than I thought. Well, I have always enjoyed complaining.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Nothing worth telling Facebook about
What does it mean when the name of the record label is printed in larger text than the name of the band? Lack of support? That can't be it in this case--they were a pretty big name back then. Mere carelessness? More likely--labels aren't known for their consideration of such matters.
An explanation. I was trying to think of something to write just now, happened to glance over at a CD laying on my desk and noticed that detail. You find inspiration in the strangest places.
I shouldn't leave that CD just lying out like that, actually. It's liable to get scratched up, and even with the album safely ensconced within my iPod it's always nice to have a hard-copy backup. I know where the case is--I'll get up and put it in there. One of these days. Probably. Pretty much my default attitude to any housekeeping.
I did at least get around to throwing away some of these surplus phone books, at least. Seems like every other week some phone company is dumping one or two on my doorstep. Like my bookshelves aren't warped enough from my horribly unfair insistence that they do the job for which they were constructed. I don't know why they even bother--they're probably all the same numbers and anyone I might want to call is in my cellphone already.
Nothing in my chosen profession on Craigslist today. I really need to just find another line of work. I want a change of pace, so why only go halfway? But doing what, exactly? Crap. I should've stayed in college.
The cat's staring out the front window, on the lookout for squirrels. Meanwhile she misses the squirrel scampering around the backyard...
Arrgh, this isn't working. I came here to write and I'm turning this blog into a glorified Twitter account. I think I'll cut this session short to half an hour. I'll do the other half when I get home tonight.
Still, this is something, right? On an ordinary day I'd write, let's see, nothing, and here I've gone and written something. I mean far as I'm concerned it's nothing, but it's a more substantial nothing than usual. A warm-up, if you will. Plus now I've cleared my head to think about what I'll write tonight. Maybe I'll work on one of those projects I've had piling up.
Ooh, the sun's coming out now! It's still early enough in the year I'm actually happy to see it. Of course I'll have changed my tune by about mid-July when I'm well and truly turned into living bacon. Even then I doubt I'll miss rain. I really did move to the wrong city.
The cat's washing herself on top of my monitor again. I keep telling her it's not a bathtub. She refuses to listen, no matter how many times I fill the actual tub with ice-cold water and chuck her in.
An explanation. I was trying to think of something to write just now, happened to glance over at a CD laying on my desk and noticed that detail. You find inspiration in the strangest places.
I shouldn't leave that CD just lying out like that, actually. It's liable to get scratched up, and even with the album safely ensconced within my iPod it's always nice to have a hard-copy backup. I know where the case is--I'll get up and put it in there. One of these days. Probably. Pretty much my default attitude to any housekeeping.
I did at least get around to throwing away some of these surplus phone books, at least. Seems like every other week some phone company is dumping one or two on my doorstep. Like my bookshelves aren't warped enough from my horribly unfair insistence that they do the job for which they were constructed. I don't know why they even bother--they're probably all the same numbers and anyone I might want to call is in my cellphone already.
Nothing in my chosen profession on Craigslist today. I really need to just find another line of work. I want a change of pace, so why only go halfway? But doing what, exactly? Crap. I should've stayed in college.
The cat's staring out the front window, on the lookout for squirrels. Meanwhile she misses the squirrel scampering around the backyard...
Arrgh, this isn't working. I came here to write and I'm turning this blog into a glorified Twitter account. I think I'll cut this session short to half an hour. I'll do the other half when I get home tonight.
Still, this is something, right? On an ordinary day I'd write, let's see, nothing, and here I've gone and written something. I mean far as I'm concerned it's nothing, but it's a more substantial nothing than usual. A warm-up, if you will. Plus now I've cleared my head to think about what I'll write tonight. Maybe I'll work on one of those projects I've had piling up.
Ooh, the sun's coming out now! It's still early enough in the year I'm actually happy to see it. Of course I'll have changed my tune by about mid-July when I'm well and truly turned into living bacon. Even then I doubt I'll miss rain. I really did move to the wrong city.
The cat's washing herself on top of my monitor again. I keep telling her it's not a bathtub. She refuses to listen, no matter how many times I fill the actual tub with ice-cold water and chuck her in.
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