“As Jeffrey Hicks, the event safety coordinator for the Renaissance Festival finished posting the revised standards for weaponry, he thought of the day an unleashed dog wandered onto the jousting field, causing the rider from Indianapolis to stop short, impaling himself on the butt of his spear, and the following day’s newspaper headline which read: “Stray Injures Indy Knight, Hicks Changing Lances.”—Brad Taylor, Iowa City, IA. Runner Up in the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest (for bad writing) in the category of “Vile Puns.” But first place on my personal, aortically-located leaderboard (which ranks AMAZING PUNS). Read it aloud a few times; you’ll get it and be amazed.
I know, I know. This totally falls under "Getting Crazy." But I'm pretty sure we should be, like, BFFs. And as your would-be BFF, this is the sort of thing I have to tell you no matter what.
Dude, in so much as you actually posted my favorite song yesterday (and ceterea), I will say I’m totally on board. Let’s BFF the hell out of this.
Broken AC means work is canceled! I am going to make heatmen out of all the accumulating heat! And heat angels (this is means me passing out on the subway due to heat stroke and falling onto the tracks).
Suggested out of office replies, by Jen, our lady of post-its:
Our office is closed for the day due to being ON FIRE Our office is closed for the day because, even though we have a functioning air conditioning unit, the rest of the floor doesn’t and we are jumping on the “leaving work” bandwagon Our office is closed for the day, deal with it
When I was growing up, my family had close friends that lived in Texas. Despite our huge physical distance (it’s clear from my egregious online accent that I’m from Massachusetts, right? It’s wicked embarrassing), we saw them frequently. My parents were the godparents to their son and we related to one another like family, especially the daughter and me. I’m an only child, so I think I form sibling-esque relationships easily (family friends, personal friends, strangers, dogs). When we were young, I treated her the way any kid would treat someone only slightly younger than their immediate age group: with impatience and annoyance. My parents would tell me to be nicer to her because she looked up to me, and that she just wanted to be like me, and all of the things that you tell a child who is being a total cock to a younger child, in the hopes that inflating their ego will make them less of a total cock. We were squabbling little monsters, but my parents always tried to stress that I was the bigger kid and that she looked up to me. And seeing as that was back when I hadn’t yet squandered all of my potential, maybe that was true. Eventually because of time and distance and SATs and little leagues and moves and business dealings and colleges and life, our families didn’t see each other so much anymore. I hadn’t seen her in years in fact, but she has moved to the city for the summer for a media internship and I happened to run into her on the street. She seems to have grown from an “annoying” little kid to an interesting and self-sufficient 21 year old, with whom I probably have stuff in common etcetcetc grown-ups! Just like the movie (maybe/ maybe not in that I don’t know what it’s about other than being chocolate wasted)!! We emailed and made dinner plans for this Wednesday, and when I mentioned this to my Mom, she was extraordinarily pleased, and told me how much it would mean to my Dad.
So they’ll be suuuuuuuuuuper-duper proud and pleased to know that I just sent her an email asking for an emergency dinner rescheduling because I forgot I already had tickets to “Eclipse” for that night.
Today, a large number of people in my office and another publishing-related office in the building received copies of The Overton Window, Glenn Beck’s new novel. These copies were delivered with no accompanying note, which is not entirely uncommon but not entirely standard, implying perhaps that they spoke for themselves. This seems to me to be tantamount to taking a picture of a sizable, but deformed, penis, or of a particularly impressive shit and sending it in a mass email without commentary. “Look what I have and/or made!” “That’s disgusting, you don’t just send that to people.” “But look how big it is!”
"Skills required: Superb writer, previous ghostwriting experience a plus High energy, good mood Excellent computer skills, email, blogs, photos (Mac preferable) Great at scheduling and making travel arrangements, loves to travel Would love to spend up to a year in beautiful Hawaii No smoking, drinking or drugs”
Ghostwriting for some rich old dude’s dating profiles. Why these restrictions? Why can’t you let me be great at ghostwriting dating profiles?!?!
I’m watching Cold Case, and thinking that the weirdest TV trope is, in detective-style shows, when people tell their story to the investigator in flashback, they tell it in a suspenseful narrative form and leave the ending ambiguous, leading the investigator to declare something that sums up the situation, such as “So, it was the magician that was pregnant,” or “so, your grandma was trying to seduce you.” Who would ever talk to the police with such a strong commitment to linear story-telling? I would definitely lead with the upsetting grandma thing. I wish they would show what the questioned character was actually saying to tell these stories.
"We were all in the dressing room after the show. The air was tense; we all knew the show was cancelled. No one could look anyone else in the eye. The lock jiggled, and the magician’s assistant came out of the bathroom. She was white as a ghost. All eyes were on her, now. Quietly, she asked whose positive EPT test was sitting on the counter. The magician looked away forlornly, but said nothing." (Pause) "So, it was the magician who was pregnant." "That’s what I said." "No no, you implied it, but we need this for legal documents." "Forlornly, I said! And all that scene-setting! I mean, come on."
Blogging about dreams is like dancing about architechture. Or it's like being boring and not as clever as you think, like the movie Dancing about Architechture.
Last night I had a dream that I was dating a really well-disguised Venus Fly-trap (it was one of those dream things where he actually looked like Eric from Work of Art*, but everyone knew he was a Venus Fly-trap except for me except I also did know — dreams!). When I would introduce him to my friends they would say, “Ummmm, Meredith, I think your new boyfriend is a really well-disguised Venus Fly-trap.” And I would say, “I knowww, probably, but he thinks I’m funny!”
*He couldn’t at least look like Miles? Throw me a brain-bone, subconscious.
"And planning’s for the poor so let’s pretend that we’re rich/ And I am not my body or how I choose to destroy it." Rilo Kiley is real good at conveying what it feels like for a girla mess a girl worth knowing.
Jen showed me the Funny Translator (admittedly in need of a snappier name) this morning after a particularly incomprehensible piece of slush, but I was hoping we could use this powerful machinary for good: turning appalling statements into meaningful sentiments.
"I think it’s a tragedy of the first proportion that a private corporation can be subjected to what I would call a shakedown."
After 56 translations becomes:
"Personal tragedy that appear, the first step in this research."
Pidgin-y, sure, but actually more helpful and logical than Joe Barton. It even acknowledges the cost to regular humans and seems to encourage further inquiry. Thanks, computer! Through the power of language we can turn those lemons in semi-literate lemonade!
John McCain on Sarah Palin: “I think she’s most qualified of any that has run recently for vice president, tell you the truth. “
What's in a name? In this case, the juice of small, cherry-like fruit.
Dearest Spell Check,
I thought we were on the same team. We both get unnecessarily aggravated when people make simple mistakes, and we both frequently overlook things that should be our responsibility. If I had the capacity to underline things I didn’t like or recognize (one and the same!) you know that I would mark this world up. But now you try to tell me that my last name isn’t a word, but “Hagberry” is? That’s just insulting. And I know a certain Grizzly Adams who would disagree.
I don't have a Politics minor because I love politics; I have a Politics minor because I hate politics.
Number of hours since I decided I should know more about the world and be politically engaged: 16.
Number of rage blackout since I decided I should know more about the world and be politically engaged: 37-38, and one panic attack.
Solutions I have discussed and abandoned since I decided I should know more about the world and be politically engaged: mandatory population control, colonization of the moon, personally moving to France, personally moving to Texas to run Joe Barton out of office, creating an oil-spill all over Joe Barton’s face (abandoned for sounding ineffective and inappropriately sexual), shaking Mike Huckabee really hard, the creation of a Giver-style society, becoming a Robin Hood style vigilante, moving to someplace impoverished and giving away my relatively INSANE amount of possessions, holding up a fundraiser, a doomsday device, Marxism, prayer, Marxism where everyone gets iPads*, lying on the White House lawn and weeping.
Final Solution: Disengage, go back to reading exclusively about Khloe Kardashian’s feud with Kobe Bryant’s wife. Bitches be hatin’ each other and wearin’ big diamonds!
I know that she means because that is when the election is, but I was definitely thinking about the doomsday 2012 in which case, yes! Such a good candidate for that! This article is a must read; between this, the McChrystal and the article about Mormons and Prop 8 on the Awl yesterday, this is seriously impressive, edifying week for journalism. I’m learneding!
Watching the scene in Friday Night Lights where Landry drives with Tyra, her mom, her sister and Matt’s grandma has made me realize how castrating my mere presence must be. My whole life is a cramped car sing-along to Lady Marmalade.
I like to say that my Tumblr is all about Lady Gaga and the hundreds of cats I will someday own (when really it’s viral marketing for Netflix streaming, open your eyes people), but it’s actually a true thing that the heavily favored subjects of my Twitter are Criminal Minds, my own breasts, and jam.
Sometimes I think that I should be forced to listen to Jewel for an hour each day to atone for the sin of idolizing Jewel in my girlhood (this a situation in which the totally awkward word “girlhood” fits).
It’s clear, I assume, that when I say “should be forced to” I mean “voluntarily choose to.” She taught me so much! She has terrible taste in men (“fashionably sensitive but too cool to care”) and in artistic heroes (Anais Nin!) and absurdly simplistic views on every possible topic (“I was thinking, that it might do some good/ If we robbed the cynics and took all their food”) intertwined with adorably retarded attempts provoking thought (“You say he’s a Jew, he’ll never wear that funny hat again”) and she taught me to behave like a bleeding wound without shame. “Your philosophies on art, Baroque moved you” STOP IT JEWEL you are embarrassing me and I lovelovelove it.
“A, I couldn’t give the love I intended to give, so the fault is mine if there is any. I wish I had a more clear sense of what I wanted for us both. I need to reformulate what I want for my life and any possible relationship. I am sure it will be better for both of us in the long run. Good luck to us both.”—
A break-up text from the fading away European gentleman who is the object of affection in this week’s Sex Diary. While splitting up with a dude, I’ve had seriously lousy things said to me, and said seriously lousy things to others, but “Good luck to us both” bums me out in ways I haven’t personally experienced.
It’s always nice to know there are new things out there!
“She’s the worst. She’s the worst. Talk about setting the women’s movement back a hundred years.”—
Chelsea Handler, on Gloria Allred in The New York Times. Which is funny because this is usually what I say about Chelsea Handler (or specifically, “She’s bad for women, she’s bad for comedy, she’s bad for women who like comedy and comedy that likes women.”).
As for Gloria Allred, I feel more like this quote from Emily Bazelon of Slate, “some of her causes are incredibly worthy, but her way of going about it makes me cringe.” I think I think that, but really, I don’t totally know. I’m the kind of idiot whose opinions on Chelsea Handler are WAY more solid than my opinions on Gloria Allred.
“Mr. Bol, who, it can be safely said, was the only NBA player to have killed a lion with a spear…”—
Washington Post Obit for Manute Bol, who has died at age 47. I know negative things about sports (as in the things I do know are incorrect or made up, and are actually worse than knowing nothing) but I know that Manute Bol was a humanitarian and all around (and all up, up, up) good dude, and that his death at such a young age is a tragedy. But at least he had that sentence in his obituary, which is so much more baller than basketball could even be.