Random Thoughts On The Inconsequential

A Bit of Unsolicited Advice Regarding Your Television Watching

2009-12-30T18:55:00.001-08:00

Listen, if you consider yourself to be any kind of television connoisseur (or even just someone with relatively high viewing standards and a low tolerance for the Fox network) you would be amiss to go any further in your search for truly brilliant television if you have not already watched the original UK series Life on Mars. Yes, there is an American reinterpretation of the series by the same name, but I urge you, by all that is good and proper and acceptable in polite society not to dilute this masterfully crafted experience with a counterfeit. For what is perfect in its original state needs no reinvention.

I don't know what currently rests atop your totem pole for award-winning television, but as I just finished watching the final episode of--what I now consider to be the standard by which all television must be judged--I feel compelled to declare your pole-topper rubbish.

Life on Mars first aired in the United Kingdom back in 2006-2007, but I only recently became enamored of it this year when my TV Guide, Kristi brought it to my attention. As she cautioned me, I caution you: Life on Mars will absorb you into its psychedelic mind-ride faster than you can admit to only trying meth once.

Your ears will adjust, your pupils will dilate, your heartbeat will race and over the course of 16 quick-witted, hard-hitting, socially unsettling episodes this intelligent British procedural will kick your ass and remix what you thought to be the formula for gripping TV.

I don't know what element of the show will seal the deal for you. Maybe it'll be the 1970's backdrop or the era's impeccable soundtrack. Maybe it'll just be the revival of leather jackets and broad collars. But whatever it is, it will catch you off guard. Then from the first crime scene to the last stomach-churning moments Life on Mars will take you somewhere remarkable.

Somewhere you may just spend the rest of your channel-surfing days trying to get back to.

Dear Diary, The Pigeons are Relentless

2009-08-29T17:41:00.000-07:00

So, when I was younger I kept a journal. It was an almost daily collection of my thoughts, fears, excitements, and disappointments all intermingled page by page with the clippings of Seventeen magazine and Rolling Stone.

If nothing about having filled those pages brings me a hush of pleasant reminiscing, I am at least comforted by the worthwhile and honest subject matter I covered. At fourteen, I was wrestling with the issues of nations. Debating the wilds of the human heart against the head and the little life experience I had in my--even then--chubby gut. Present day, I don't really journal. But, when I do sit down to write to blog--as I have given rare indulgence to doing--the only things I can effortlessly spout off about are usually criminal in their frivolity and likely the cause of my passing fury.

Today, it's the pigeons turn.

For the second Saturday in a row, Air-Force-trained pigeons have gunned the passenger-side of my vehicle starting at the headlights and polishing off the mess with excellent trunk coverage.

Consider this cry delivered to them: Why pigeons, WHY?!

The first time it was marginally humorous, now I'm just appalled! And yes, someone has already tried to convince me that since birds lack strong sphincter muscles that the attacks cannot be deliberate. But I know a hate crime when I see one and Lieutenant White Dung has it out for me. That's a fact.

To the Pigeons:

Listen here, flock of birds I have never seen, and your infamous leader. Your days of target pooping are numbered and I will stop at nothing to bring this fight to your doorstep, birds! NOTHING. NOTHING!!!

A little melodramatic? I didn't think so either. Besides, my attention span is far too short to allow me any sort of proper follow through on my threats. It it also guaranteed that something far more infuriating will get my goat while I'm setting up surveillance equipment for the pigeons. At least now I know that if they, the pigeons, read this blog they will find themselves formally acquainted with the depths of my wrath, and I suppose that is enough.

Also, was part of that line from The Bourne Identity? Three maybe?

Alas, unimportant. The more important thing is that I lower by blood pressure by looking on the bright side. That bright side being that at least the birdies were being mindful of their diet this time around. Last week's order was of an entirely different consistency.

Damn birds.

Does Anyone Know What 'Literally' Means Anymore?

2009-04-08T21:21:00.000-07:00

Is now a good time to rant about something of genuine non-importance? I wasn't sure. Based on my father's example growing up I am left to assume that the best times are during the 6 o'clock news and 'when-it-pertains-to-nothing-else,' but I wanted a second opinion. Too bad I can't hear you advising me not to continue. So, onward.

Recently, I have made an observation that irks me immensely. So immensely does it irk me that I would gladly have forfeited the original observation just to be rid of the damn thing altogether! I don't know if this is the fault of texting, or instant messenging or computers or Al Gore but I have noticed that people--mostly young adults--seem to have lost the original translation of the word, "literally."

Now, I'm going to make up some history to explain my point.

You see back in uh... Egyptian times the word 'literally' meant something to the effect of, 'in a very strict sense.' This way, when the little servant dude ran into the Pharaoh's court, bowed, struck his breast and declared--

"Great Pharaoh, reign forever! Your chariot has been trampled under the hoofs of a thousand pre-historic elephants! It has literally been flattened into a single piece of iron no longer fit for your royal transport!"

--Pharaoh, time-conscious prude that he was, didn't need to be all like,

"Whaaaa? Like fo really, really?"

Cause he knew servant dude wasn't playing around. He said literally, which back then meant 'I have already qualified what I said, please continue with the appropriate emotional response.'

Today, in an effort to further waste my precious time, the people who most frequently use the word 'literally' use it with the expectation that I then should have to inquire if by 'literally' they meant 'lit-er-ally' or nothing of the sort. This is a step I find all too annoying and redundant. This is a step I find all too annoying and redundant.

See what I did there? Precisely. Now, I rant:

If you, the speaker take it upon yourself to use the word 'literally,' why is it then MY responsibility to follow up to make sure that I understand correctly what YOU meant to say? This is ridiculous. Widen your vocabulary. The movie didn't make you literally cry your eyes out. You still have your eyeballs and they are in your head. The movie made you cry a lot -- say that! This way I can go back to being genuinely enthralled in a story that utilizes a word that in short means 'THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED." Otherwise you are robbing me of the visuals that inevitably accompany your statement.

Therefore, the next time someone yells,

"Oh my god, I was so mad, I like literally-shit a brick!"

You ask that jackass for proof.

Netflix Killed the Video Store

2009-04-02T20:51:00.000-07:00

There are a number of potential blog entries that float through my mind on a daily basis. The majority of them go untapped on account of sheer laziness really. It's almost a shame that the initiating spark for unsung blog posts such as, "You--Tiny Human, to Whom do you Belong?" are given into my hands to be delivered to the world at large. But alas, a few nuggets make it through. I happened upon one such nugget on the bus today as we passed a BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO.

Now, aside from the fact that this particular location failed to replace the bulbs on a few crucial letters (the storefront actually read _LO_K_USTER __DEO) there was no real reason for it to catch my attention other than the fact that seeing it, sad and vacant as it was, made me realize that as a contemporary American consumer--the 'video store' is simply a concept I have no more use for. Commence bulldozing.

Be honest, who uses video stores? Most people who still have video store memberships are busy moving to different counties to escape the criminal fines. Let's face it, there just aren't reasons to drive to a building to rent a movie when society has declared, "Packaging be damned! Just gimme the square paper thingy with the clear plastic circle."

And I'm not saying this is anything new. I, in no way, was an early-adaptor to the online movie rental phenomenon. Yet, just a few short weeks of Netflix enrollment has restructured the entire way in which I come into contact with post-theater flicks with enthusiasm that far exceeded my expectations. "What's that Inner-Self? Time to check the mail? The movies I cued up yesterday are here? O delightful morn!"

It's magic, I tell you. Maybe evil magic.

But some critics (read as, unbelievers drowning in a sea of instant-gratification filth) will complain that it's too long to wait 24-hours to get a movie. What if you are called upon to entertain a group of unannounced slackers? You can't tell them they have to wait until tomorrow to see '27 Pounds' or whatever that new Will Smith tear-jerker is. Certainly, now one must rush to a Hollywood Movie Emporium or Mr. Filmtastic, right? Incorrect, again. While Netflix holds the 'video store' in a headlock, Redbox goes straight for the nads.

Tough, scrappy and available everywhere, the Redbox movie rental kiosk sniffs twice, wipes its upper lip and asks, "You want ya movie? I got ya movie right heera."

Though rapidly becoming a common watering hole for lowlifes and change collectors, Redbox offers the selection and the immediacy demanded by the quick-fix movie consumer. Besides, you can forgive yourself for rushing into the world's worst movie rental decision EVER if you only paid a dollar (a day) for it.

Okay, so here's the last straw. The last reason America needs video stores. Video games! Surely, the three racks of previously scratched copies of Extreme Tournament Golf will keep them coming back for more, right? O dagger in my breast! I guess now would be a bad time to bring up Game Fly dot com, where you can even rent the gaming console?

Your honor, I rest my case.

There you have it folks, a solid three-point defense. Netflix killed the Video Store. Now, give it a slap on the wrist and send it off to play with iTunes.

A pessimistic Sunday leads to pleasant memories

2009-03-22T15:30:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have those Sundays when you wake up far too late in the day to accomplish anything worthwhile? Those are exactly the kinds of Sundays I am used to having.

They aren’t all bad news. By loosing half a day in slumber you save up on those precious calories (yes! 789 left!). But the downside is by the time you get moving everything seems dull at best. The warm sunny skies give way to a neutral weekend gloom, and every television station reminds you that unless you have an interest in golf or poorly written situation comedies you need not tune in. Even your multicolored Cap’n Crunch seem downgraded to a murky Private Chewy. The next thing you know, without your consent, it’s become Sunday Afternoon with your favorite Pessimist, you.

That could have been ‘all she wrote’ for me today, that is until an unmotivated dig through a spool of unmarked cds lead me to a rare gem: what might as well had been a musical time capsule from 2003, the year I graduated from high school.

Suddenly, instead of mindlessly populating a PHP database to the hum of my disaster-prone dishwasher, I was reliving moments from the summer I gained my independence. Musing about Commencement weekend to some poppy anthem by Vitamin C, laughing at my own embarrassment for finding the need to capture whatever drivel Vertical Horizon was putting out at that time. All at once, warm and jovial inside a bubble of melodies and memories and seventeen year old bliss.

How bright and unexpected the moments we happen upon when content to bask in mediocrity.

Presence of childen at WALL-E makes for less enjoyable viewing

2008-07-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

So, this is one of those blogs that manifested itself as a single thought only.

I wrote that sentence, the title of this blog, a few summers back when WALL E was wheeling his little treads across the hearts of Americans everywhere. The inspiration for such a comment spawned from the time I went to see the feature early on a Sunday afternoon, evidently before the bedtimes of a relatively talkative batch of tiny humans.

In general, it seems that most people are unopposed to things like "child-like wonder" and "merry-making" and what not, and let it be known that I too am in favor of those things when executed under strict supervision within the proper arena. My point? A movie theater is not the proper arena.

Also--animated classics aren't just for YOU, little people. Go find a grown-up to read this next part and listen carefully, as your tired mothers obviously neglected to tell you this:

First of all, children, not everyone likes you. In fact, there are a great many of us who find you to be selfish, abrasive, unsanitary carriers of disease and bacteria which is largely due to the fact that you are consistently covered in old food. Also, as this is really the point I'm trying to make, you really possess an air of entitlement that bypasses cocky and lands you ass-first within the realm of the just plain absurd. It's not your theater and you have no right to carry on as if it were.

Secondly, just because a movie doesn't have human beings or real sets or Keanu Reeves in, doesn't mean it was made especially for you. As a matter of fact, (and you're going to want to hold on to your Pull-Ups for this one) cartoons were never made for you. Grown-ups have been using them to talk politics, social sciences and trade sexual innuendos over your heads for decades now. Well, I would imagine since their inception in fact (look closely at the cover of The Little Mermaid when you're older). I don't care if you found something WALL E related in your cereal box. Eventually, you're going to have a conversation with some adult about landfills and recycling and Peter Gabriel and then you will know that they would have won.

Or even more likely, you won't.

There. Now, does any of that make sense to you, oh underdeveloped little being? You can send your mothers away now as I hope the rest of this tirade reaches you by the vehicle of an unsettling feeling or the urge to suck your thumb. Maybe next time you'll think twice about yammering on with your insolent questions and detracting from my enjoyment of the mute, robot lovers.

Yes. I'm OLD.

[Update: I like children now.]

my worst fears realized

2008-06-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

So, by now it should be apparent that I have some pretty irrational fears. Fear of swallowing a spider in my sleep, fear of drowning in the ball pool at Chuckie Cheese (or IKEA), fear of waking up to find I've been transformed into a giant cockroach (see Gregor Samsa via Franz Kafka's "The Metamorphosis"). But my most gruesome of attainable fears was realized last night when the cottony swab of my Q-Tip dismounted its plastic shaft and became lodged in the primary opening of my right-side hearing device.

It's the closest I've come to fainting, outside of those two times I actually fainted.

Just like that, I was made deaf and left staring at the stripped, blunt end of my now, half-naked, Q-Tip. Immediately, my head began to swim with long-lost fragments of ill-composed Biology notes and questions I could not answer: What will happen if I can't get it out? Will it eventually reach my brain? Where the hell is my Semi-Lunar Canal and shouldn't it prevent this sort of thing from happening?!

For a bit, I even had a brief spell where in mental time-lapse I witness the stinking, rotting decay of the cotton swab within my inner ear where it would remain trapped until being eaten by scavenger ear creatures. It's hard to relate clearly what happened next. Something took over. I must have (with head leaned drastically to the right) unearthed a tweezer and went to work on the matter with little regard for decency. When I awoke I was sitting on the bathroom floor tearing with nervous excitement, examining the surprisingly clean white devil.

Needless to say, I decided to forgo cleaning my left ear.

let's get up to speed, shall we?

2008-06-11T11:48:00.000-07:00

So, I start blogging in 2005 not because I had anything particularly important to say, but mainly because it was easier to write it somewhere and have other people read it than it was to force people to listen to me in social settings. The blog was on Myspace, which was fine, but since I have long outgrown the joy of endangering myself for social gains, I have upgraded to Blogger (Yes, I think it's classy too.)

But don't be concerned, you can put a homeless man in Louis Vitton and he'll still dig up french fries from a trash can. I say that to say that even housed within the more elegant Blogger solution the quality of my writing is not likely to improve. It may -since you brought it up- decline under the pressure.

Anyway, I'm about to post a number of blogs previously posted on Myspace just so that I can catch you up on all the useless thoughts I have been thinking. They will look like as if no one has read them, which is true, but know that they were from a time and place forgotten and that starting from this post, the madness begins again. Just think of all the dumb things yet to be writ.

O.K. I think that's all from me. Happy reading.

Love,
Your mostly melancholic observer of life, Nita.

some misguided efforts for 2008

2008-01-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

Happy 8th Day of the New Year!

I can celebrate it, right? Of course I can. Because yes, while you all were toasting and boozing and apologizing to your significant others for making googly eyes at half-clad strangers, I rang in this New Year's with a shot of Amoxocilin and a case of influenza.

Shut up. I had a great time.

In fact, I woke up with 14 minutes to midnight, which turned out to be just long enough to suffer through another Fergie performance of "Big Girls Don't Cry." Needless to say, I was too weak to kill myself.

Then finally the ball dropped and I, with a chain-smoker's hack drug myself through a verse of Auld Lang Syne, wished the television a blessed New Year and went back to bed. But in my feverish sleep I drew the inspiration for this blog. (Hold on, I'll get to the point shortly).

As I laid in bed taking in the sounds of the South Minneapolis area I live in, sounds of police sirens and crackwhores, it was then that I decided: This new year, I'm not going to make useless resolutions for myself. No, I'm going to help others. I'm going to invent well-meaning, but misguided non-profit organizations to help inner city folk, such as the ones setting off car alarms outside my apartment building. So, I went to work on a mental list to save the world/projects. Here's what my deteriorated mind produced:

Shanita's Well Meaning But Horribly Misguided Inner-City Community Building Non-Profit Agencies for 2008:

1. Hug-A-Thug-Everybody (HATE) – Because everyone needs a little love sometimes.

Sometimes you just need to be reminded that not everyone despises you and wants you to move out of their neighborhood and stop endangering the livelihood of their children and businesses.

2. Educated Broke Folk Forever (EBFF) – Together, we can take the "Ho" out of "Homelessness."

Just because you're unsuccessful, doesn't mean you need to turn to the streets.There are lots of unsuccessful people who, because of their expensive education, feel great about themselves and their inability to make ends meet.

3. Illegal Operations Made Possible (IOMP) – You call it, "organized crime" we call it "business management."

In every gang-banger and drug dealer there's a waiting entrepreneur! With proper skills in asset/liability management, bookkeeping and fiscal responsibility there are no ends to where you can end up! (Including, but not limited to a maximum-security prison.)

4. Natural Inventions in Growing Great Agricultural Shit (NIIGGAS) – Helping you grow only the finest hemp under the pretext of medical research since just now.
Start up is easy. We work with what you already have. Transform your hoopty into a fully staffed mobile opium den! They say "You can't!" we say "You CAN(nabis)!" Financial freedom is spelled, W-E-E-D.

Two other potential organizations that didn't get properly thought through were Mothers Of Fundamentally Underachieving Kids w/o ADD (MOFUKA) a group that allows you to blame society for your children and (SHIIT) or Sex Has Its Inherent Troubles, a support group for folk who can't find they baby daddy.

So, there's the list folks. It is unlikely that Oprah will sponsor me. But then again I'm holding out for Dave Chappelle.

Donations?

a semi-comphrensive list of inconveient places to stand

2007-08-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

While I don't typically consider myself to be a reliable source of guidance, I do over time tend to collect bits of unrelated information that occasionally when mingled with boredom result in a revelation worth sharing. This is not one of those revelations. This is a blog about nothing.

It has come to my attention recently that humans regardless of intellectual education or upbringing frequently find themselves loitering (or standing and blinking) in locations that would be ideal for such behavior were it not for the fact that it is also required to facilitate needs others. Initially, this blog would have been titled, "A Comprehensive List of Inconvenient Places to Stand and Think" but it was concluded that were these individuals thinking they would have found better places to stand.

So, that said, I have taken it upon myself to begin the process of putting together a collection of places for the wandering to avoid. But ridding the world (or at least your world) of these nuisances is not a task for one person. Therefore, should you come across an offender, or discover a new and equally inconvenient location for offenders to congregate, please feel free to add it to this list then immediately fasten a copy of the list to the offender's forehead. Use double-side tape or poster putty.

And now on to the list...

1) In between your shopping cart and the opposing wall of cake frosting.
I would go to the right but your cart is there, I would go to the left but there you are. Listen, lady, it's you or the peanut butter. Choose wisely.

2) Casually, with your back to the ATM machine.
You're obviously here to try and steal my pin number so stop trying to look like you didn't see the cash machine sitting there. Take fifteen paces to your left and turn yourself in to the proper officials.

3) At the BOTTOM of an in-service escalator.
The escalator hasn't stalled, why have you? See that line of men, women and children spilling off to the left and right of you as you search through your purse? Yeah, they all want your head on a spike.

4) At the TOP of an in-service escalator.
See 3.

5) In an unoccupied parking space outside of the bank.
Wow, I wouldn't have had to park all the way over here by this tree if you hadn't been laughing on your cell phone in the vacant space right next to the bank door. Creep.

6) Immediately outside of a public washroom.
Did you pee and then forget where you were going? Keep moving, I will hit you with the door.

7) Sitting on top of / standing in front of someone else's washing machine / dryer.
Since you're in a public laundry, am I wrong to assume that you have your OWN machine to be sitting on or blinking in front of? Go away.

8) With your back to the Light Rail train door.
There's only a limited amount of time to enter the car before the automatic doors close and no one can get in when your fat head is blocking the entrance.
....

So, now that I have gotten the proverbial ball rolling, I encourage you to go, identify and violently purge such offenders from the face of the earth. Or if you are the offender, go lie down since this has probably been a lot for you to read and you may not fully understand what's going on yet.

Lastly, keep in mind that I am indeed a fan of senseless lollygagging but only when it doesn't come at the expense of others. Or really just me.

Alas, farewell and happy non-intrusive loitering.

gay and from utah

2007-01-17T12:49:00.000-08:00

So, as I often do, I am using myspace as a means of communicating with the world at large. Is the world listening? Of course you're not. I do this strictly to make myself feel valued. This and the medications. I digress.

This blog goes out to a dear and personal friend of mine, Matt Something-Something. I met Matt Something...oh... say five days ago? Yes, we were friends from Spokane WA, to Denver CO, on my return flight after New Years. Best friends for two hours and six minutes plus turbulance.

Matt held my hand figuratively (and literally) through take off since I at the time was convinced I was going to die. But aside from displaying life saving techniques, helping me find my seat adjustment button, and showing me how to activate my seat to be a floatation device (in the event of a water landing) Matt was also a hilarious and charming seat-mate who entertained me and calmed much for my fear and for that I am grateful.

So grateful, I misplaced the paper he gave me with his myspace address. Hence why this blog goes out to "Gay-And-From-Utah" (which is how Matt described himself).

Therefore, if you have seen Matt, or know Matt, or perhaps ARE Matt and haven't realized yet that I am talknig about you, DROP ME A LINE. Thanks for letting me hide my face in your arm during take off and I hope you had an awesome time protesting sexual discrimination in uptight colleges and universities. Hope we meet up on a boeing 433 somewhere again.

Cheers.

Ps. Have you seen my Chapstick? Thanks.

i changed my status

2006-12-17T12:47:00.000-08:00

Yes, that's right. I did it. I had to. There was little other way to let the world know that I was starting a new page, turning a new leaf. After all, in today's semi-voyeuristic social networking cult that I like to call "life," how else would the waiting public know that "oh-girl" broke up with "what's-his-dick?" That "Rudeboi999" is now practicing a form of religion known only as "Other," that "Hotstuff00" is confused about his/her/its gender again? Or more commonly that "you-know-who" is really a closet alcoholic so she really just needs to click Yes and get it over with because everyone already knows she's in rehab again? It's obvious, we all know that the truth lies in the Status.

Therefore, as is necessary when announcing any major life change or reconstructive gender operation to your closest 1,875 friends, I, Shanita "McNita" John, have changed my Status. I have change Myspace Education Status from "In College" to "College Graduate." Yes, I have changed Graduated In from "N/A" to "2006." And then finally, I have changed my STD Status to Chlamydia, just to keep people guessing.

I kid.

But for the first two status changes I am genuine. Even though it hasn't sunk in yet, I have indeed graduated from the Minneapolis College of Art & Design. The ceremony was on December 15 in the Year of Our Lord 2006. By the way, is it still the Year of Our Lord? I don't have a problem with this, I just could have sworn it was the Year of Our Lord last year and at least in 1997 too. Just checking.

So what does this mean for the future? Well, for the immediate future, it means that I'm going to continue to sit here in my pajamas and Santa hat eating mushy Cocoa Puffs dribbling Soy milk onto my shirt wondering if we had another time change no one told me about because I just woke up and it's after 1:00PM. (I digress, do we ever move time forward more than an hour? Say by 3 or 4 hours? No? Ok.)

But for the "future-future," it means that I will cherish my accomplishments, fondly recall my experiences, embrace my new horizons, and heed the words of Bill Rude my rockin rockabilly commencement speaker (throws up horns) and "Don't Stop Believin'."

It means I will climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every—wait. I have to go Spongebob just came on.

to the owner of the toned and tanned midsection

2006-06-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

Two days ago I shamed my gender and myself and now I am determined to set the wrong right. While running errands in St. Louis Park I accidentally stared down a perfectly tanned shirtless young man walking down the sidewalk. Normally, I try to control these sorts of things, but this time, I was overcome. I stared and I knew he saw me but I could not turn my head. THEN, to make matters worse, about ten minutes later while dropping off some criminally overdue books at the St. Louis Park public library I ran into the SAME extremely tanned mid section a little later in his journey and again, this time with jaw dropped, I stared! Dammit!

Now, I have taken it upon myself as my solemn duty to apologize to this young man. Since I do not know his name, and remembering his face would be like trying to identify a gnat in a sandstorm, I have turned to Myspace as the appropriate vehicle to share my regret. So here goes my apology to the Owner of the painfully toned and perfectly tanned middle section:

Dear Tanned Mid Section,

Two days ago while you were talking down Minnetonka blvd, minding your own business carrying a gallon bottle of water, your white cotton shirt draped over your broad shoulders, I brazenly sexually harassed you with my prolonged disbelieving stares. For this I am very sorry. If this is working correctly, you should be receiving the subliminal message I am sending you, learned from the book, How to Send Subliminal Messages in Text. Meet me by the tennis courts. Ill bring the satchel of raw Chamomile, you bring the pitcher of scalding water and the Geoffrey Chaucer.

Furthermore, I would like to state that I am a totally opposed to the objectification of men in general and believe that it is your right to be able to walk down a suburban boulevard in whatever state of undress you please without the piercing eyes of ill mannered strangers.

Secondly, while I too think it was strange (and by strange I mean destiny) that we ran into each other again so quickly, I must state firmly that I was NOT following you. Though in the brief moments when our paths first crossed I did consider swerving off the road and crashing into a nearby light pole in hopes that you would come to my rescue, to follow you would have been absolutely reckless and irresponsible and I want you to be confident that at no point did I consider it.

Lastly, as a punishment for treating your firm bronzed torso as a packaged piece of dark meat based to perfection, I have placed myself on a strict diet of nuts and berries until I have curbed my carnal cravings.

Please forgive me. It is my earnest hope that your day wasnt ruined by thoughts of stalking and unwanted sexual advances.

With deepest humiliation,

The girl driving the green Dodge Intrepid with the missing hubcaps on the right side.

something mushy about friendship

2006-06-10T12:42:00.000-07:00

I'm in the mood to write. Why? Cause I'm thinking too much to talk.

You know, even if they aren't called Friends , good sitcoms are about friends. We watch them. Follow the story lines and then in our minds play out our lives according to these thirty-minute recreations of what we're supposedly, yet obviously not, living ourselves. Maybe its the anonymous downtown apartment with its light speckled skyline bright enough to be New York, but just ambiguous enough to pass for that other city you went to once and liked better.

But wherever, it's all about the that cast of characters. You've had them hand picked from high school. You imagine the story of your freshman flubs becoming recurring themes throughout the seasons of maturity. But then, they all move away. Take two: College. You're on your own now, doing more sitcom worthy things. Sure its not the same kind of drama as high school, but this is good too. People have STDs here! So you mope about the cast revision for a little bit and promise yourself that there will be plenty of high school cameos.

Years go by and finally the hour is ripe: you've graduated! Here comes the condo and the social life unimpeded by class work! Even the cast you once thought as second string are headliners! Hell! You're even sitcom age! And then just when you least expect it, your best friend, your supporting actress moves away, jobs cause fragmentation: The show is cancelled.

WHAT THE HELL KINDA SHOW IS THIS?!

After years of envisioning this time of your life the stage is set, but the actors are on strike. Now, like it did at the beginning of high school and college, though you're ready to settle down, shit is new and unfamiliar. Now you're the new person at work and there are no school functions to force socialization and all of a sudden you face that fact that THERE IS NO SITCOM LIFE. Because if there were, you'd get to choose the people you share it with.

Yep. Joey and Chandler didn't go to college together. They have cubicles next to each other and met at work. Ross and Rachel are really just friends through other people. Phoebe just moved to the state and wants to go home. And no one knows that Monica used to be fat in high school, not even Ross, because brothers and sisters don't stick around each other that long.

And now you know why there are sitcoms in the first place. Because once your life long pals have been gone long enough, you'll need a distant reminder of what it could have been like.

~ For My Twin Who Moved Away

(*And the sitcoms I accidently cancelled everytime I moved away.)

it's not you, it's me

2006-04-26T12:37:00.000-07:00

Many of you have on multiple occasions, inquired about the seemingly lengthy time gaps between my blogs. I write. Disappear for a period of about thirty days. And then return with some proudly accomplished feat of unparalleled ignorance, and then I disappear again. Reasons for this are unclear, I realize. And I am not insensitive to your needs to embrace the self depreciating acts of one less aware.

But, could it possibly be that other than these occasional onsets of curbside proposals and sexual propositions made by cross-dressing hermaphrodites at the local supermarket (wait, I didn't tell you about that? Never the you mind then) that my life may just actually be (despite being the Divine Cartoon Network) normal?

I too am flabbergasted. However:

See, if I wrote on a more regular basis, when compelled by the everyday beauties and follies of life, then blogging for my sake would become presently more incomprehensible; and reading, for your own would be intolerable and border on the down right inhumane. Instead of "Humans are disgusting," a recent not so in depth look at bus terminal mating procedures, titles would become mundane and more like this: "The copy machine is resilient" and "Peeing: the understated pleasure."

Alas, not that these are anything other than the senseless, unedited ramblings of an addled mind. I simply, however, wish that above all else that your ventures into addled mind readings, be pleasant.

So, to put it more clearly, and to humorously echo a particularly familiar line indicative of a relationship soon to be weighed down by the burden of one or both of the party's excrement: it's not you ... it's me.

Until later. Cheers.

humans are disgusting

2006-02-09T12:26:00.000-08:00

Last night was cold, this morning was cold. I was dodging ice patches and hair balls on my way to catch the 8:20 bus downtown while wondering out loud why it wasn't spring yet. You might think it strange to mutter loudly into ones scarf while in public, but I find it helpful. It clears the mind, and keeps the crazies at bay.

Anyway, I am inside the bus shelter now, hiding from the cold air. Normally, I stand outside the shelter chastising traffic with my presence, but I'm just now getting over the sniffles so I decide to take a chance on the public transportation hut, this decision quickly reminds me why I often avoid these friendly looking cesspools.

So I huddle behind the plexiglass and wait. Brr. Cold. Then for some reason, I look down at my feet. I'm standing on something like a candy wrapper. It's bright green and shiny, and because I like shiny things I look a little closer to examine what "flavor" it is. It reads:

LifeStyles
Assorted Colors
Lubricated

I snicker. Am I ten years old? No, but it's still funny. I imagine it must have fallen out of someone's pocket or bag. Though its just an empty wrapper I picture someone's twinge of concern to find out they dropped it. I mean, it's random yes, to find a condom wrapper at a bus stop, but not unheard of, right? Okay, jokes over. I'm about to move my attention back outside to the street traffic but something else stops me. "Is that...nuh-uh..." To my horror, my eyes move about three feet over and there it is. Red. Twisted. Elongated. Used. Its contents in a stiff wad frozen to the concrete.

Sweet Jesus.

It didn't fall out from a bag, I now realize. It was used. There. In that bus stop. Where I was standing? Probably not. I cringe anyway and tell myself something rational,

My bus comes. I leave. I disinfect. Humans are disgusting.

he popped the question

2006-01-10T12:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my 21st birthday. It was also the day that every girl dreams of from the time she first sees a wedding happen. Before she dreams of the dress, or the flowers, or the violinists playing a french lullaby, she dreams of this moment. When he looks her in the eyes, and she knows. She just knows. She can already feel the heat in her face and the tears pushing past the corners of her eyes. She knows, because he's holding her hand so tight, and his palms are moist. Because he won't break her gaze. It's going to happen. He's going to ask her to marry him. My God. He's going to propose.

For me, because I'm shanita (and because God thinks it's funny) it was slightly different. I was standing in the freezing cold in south minneapolis, in a metro transit stop that smelt of urine and ciggies. And the groom? Oh, we hadn't previously met but he was a handsome chap. About 5' 6'', mexican, mustache el grande. He began the conversation with these words. "Hey senorita? Ch'ou gotta daller?" Immediately, I searched my pockets. I am one of those people who gives money (call it ignorant). This day however, I only had a bus pass, and sadly, I explained this to my new friend. Understandingly, he nodded and muttered about my generousity, and how the Lord should bless me, but then, he got another idea. A brighter one. "Hey, ch'ou wanna marry me?"

---stunned silence---

What? The question came again. "Ch'ou wanna marry me? you know? Marry me?" I had no words. Blink Blink. My fiance, smiling from mustache curl to mustache curl starts to walk away backwards, down the icy street. "Ch'ou so beautiful!" He yells getting further and further away. "We get married!...... [unclear, possibly spanish] .....babies!"

And just like that, gone. The bus came. I got on. Rode home. Sigh. Yesterday was my 21st birthday. It was also the day I got proposed to for the first time. I didn't even get to answer...

no, i do not know what kwanzaa is

2005-12-29T12:24:00.000-08:00

Okay. I need to be perfectly clear about this as not to offend, cause confusion, or get bitched out by somebody. I'm not a person who thinks alot about race. I don't think about mine, much less if i don't walk by a mirror. I love everyone. That said, STOP ASKING ME ABOUT KWANZAA!!!!

Great God Almighty!!! I may be black (and that is even disputed by black people) but I am under no obligation to observe, celebrate or even KNOW what kwanzaa is all about! I mean, i love you all, i really do. And I have no problem being your token black friend, i really don't! But STOP, PLEASE STOP, requesting my knowledge concerning this holiday.

I'm in Best Buy, and a very large pseudo tribal looking gentleman from Nigeria, I later learn, follows me around the store for almost thirty minutes! Why? you ask? Because I'm supposed to know about Kwanzaa!! arrrrragh!

So please, this is my earnest request. If you would like to know more about kwanzaa, don't ask me, google it. If that's too impersonal for you, there's a large fellow at the Best Buy in st. louis park. I'm sure he would love to help you.

here's to you (and me) but mostly you.

2005-12-20T12:22:00.000-08:00

I'm happy. It's been a while since I could say that I was happy. JUST HAPPY. I haven't been depressed, but rare are the moments when I can take a deep breath, think about my life and still smile. I'm in my pjs, I'm listening to The Honorary Title's cd, I'm looking at a sunny sky with sparkling packages of white wandering past my window. I'm content. Without all the things I thought it would take for me to be content. After everything, I'm here. And I was supposed to be here. Happy. And here. I don't know why things work out the way they do, but it's nice to know that where ever i end up, is exactly where i was meant to be. Happy. Eggnog. Christmas. I may not know you, but I love you, and if I know you, well, then you can feel additional fuzzies because it's true. I don't know how long this will last - so i gotta share it while its here, right?

So here's to everyone whose gonna have a beautiful Christmas/New Year/ Haunukkah, whatever. And to those who are happy because they're here. Right. Where. You. Need. Be.

*Cheers*

the perfect end to a lousy week, life whatev

2005-11-22T12:16:00.000-08:00

Okay - so i'm not really going to kill myself. not right now. i don't have anything nearby that would do the trick anyway. that, and my parents are coming to visit me for thankgs and i don't want to ruin the weekend with a suicide. that said, i'll wait till next week, and here's why i want to die.

computers are of the devil. satan created them, then he sent them out into the world to work their evil ways by doing things like, "simplifying" and "multitasking" and "enhancing" mankind's fragile existence until the time they are ready to combust. then like suicide bomers, they go off. taking with them everything you entrusted to them like, say two and a half years worth of stuff, and anything of any importance to this semester. riiiiiiiight. last night, Max R. Swell, my hard drive (aka, satanic nymph) decided it was time to detonate. now he holds my files, life, education, whatev- hostage in his binary little grip. and then the apple people, the other imps of the dark one, are further offering to help me recover my files for a casual $800. Helpful bastards aren't they? So, yes. this is where i am. PRAYING for some relief. alright AAer's, this is time to prove God with me. I need a miracle. I need 55gbs of stuff back, or some of you will be buying indulgences to get me outta purgatory. Oh, wait. we don't believe in that. riiiiiight. k, then i'm just screwed.

good driver + bad pedestrian = me

2005-11-21T12:13:00.000-08:00

Monday, November 21, 2005

Okay, so this is my first blog entry and while it should be something thoughtful, rather i have chosen to reflect on my new found realization of how thoughtless i am when meandering through traffic . . .on foot.

So my car is having difficulties. Blackbilly (my blk chevy blazer who i bought from a hill billy - get it?) decided this week that he wasn't going to start up in the mornings. this of course, coincides with the first snow fall. either way, he is forcing me to now be among other things, (like an angry little girl), a bus rider (yay!) and a pedestrian (boo!).

In the course of this week (really last week) I have nearly been hit by a car thrice, narrowly missed walking into one twice, and have fallen in front of, behind or beside one at least once . . .daily. this brings me to the conclusion that driving has spoiled me. i can operate a motor vehicle, but apparently at the cost of knowing how to operate my appendages.

So, if perchance you see me this week, walking obliviously, you may just want to stop and pick me up and deposit me where i need to be. think about it. you might be saving my life.