Friday, June 04, 2004
Hair, handholding, swords that aren't too phallic. |11:53 AM| My hair, which was too long 3 weeks ago, ridiculously long a week ago, and job-damaging bad 2 days ago has finally reached a new level. Fashionable rebellion. Instead of looking like I have been neglecting a haircut due to laziness or lack of motivation, my hair has the unkempt-by-choice. How do I know that I have reached this point? The people in the hallway no longer look at me like a bum that sneaked in the door. Women my age with whom I make eye contact no longer look away with a frown, instead they give that half smile of "Oh, I'm not allowed to talk to you....you rebel.
Too bad I'm just being a slob.
Correction: I will be probably writing about the whole handholding thing on the next entry.
For those of you looking for a Gladius, here is one from a respectable sword maker. The gladius is not overtly phallic, is not a hundred goddamn feet long, and still crushes your enemies, drives them before you, and helps you hear the lamentation of their women.
(0) comments
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Dignity for sale. Cheap. |11:29 AM| As far as I the search feature tells me, I've never written about the blood plasma incident in this blog. I'm sure anyone who has known me for a while is familiar with it, but perhaps you are not. Edited down a bit, here is the true tale.
The year is 1999. The moon has not been blown away from the Earth by atomic war and crappy special effects.I am working at CompUSA, which is at the best of times poorly run. This is not one of the better times, and I'm being shorted on a paycheck. My manager explains that since there were 3 paycheck days in one month, the company couldn't afford to pay all the commision to the salesman, so we got our hourly and that's all. My reaction involved a lot of cursing. My sales manager, Robert, that was his name, he had scarred hands that he'd never explain. Sorry, random memory. Anyhow, I needed food and I was very broke. Desperate for some source of funds, I remembered that there was a plasma center on campus. In fact, I think I brought this up while speaking to Robert.
"You'll get the rest of your money on the next check."
"Well, fine, guess I'll go sell some blood plasma for FOOD MONEY!"
After work I head on over to the center, and start having second and third thoughts. You know those bums that are so weird and creepy you won't get close enough to give them spare change? This waiting room was apparently their employee break area. Ancient, rotting jackets were wrapped around guys that would make you consider walking rather than sharing the same bus. As a guy in khakis and a full set of teeth I stood out quite a bit.
The walls were that cheap green color shitty hospitals always paint stuff, and the lighting was a dim, oyster-ish color. I began filling out the release and medical forms, of which their were piles. I soon had a question, and spoke to one of the medical technicians about it.
"Hey, what's this here about air embolism? That's an air bubble in my blood, that's really bad, how likely is that?"
The tech, looking at me like I was that cartoon frog that could sing and dance started to say something like "You know what that means?" but stopped and instead showed me all the sensors and how unlikely it was. Realizing I didn't really have much of a choice if I wanted to eat, I resigned myself to the possibility of a very painful death.
Me: "Well, just unplug me if I start to seize, alright?"
Tech: "Sure, man, sure."
Whenever you hear about a doctor graduating at the top of their class, do you ever wonder where the people who graduated at the bottom go? I mean, they're still doctors, they just aren't very good at it. Well, it's clear that some end up working for blood plasma centers, as this woman was a doctor, but only in the loosest sense of the word. I'll spare you the details of the physical (miserable bedside manner, no intellect behind the glasses and jacket, etc), though I did get to keep my clothes on, but that was the only comfortable thing about it.
Finally the time came to get tapped. Once again, they complimented me on my veins, and I spent an hour hooked up to the vampire machine. It would suck out a shitload of my blood, remove the plasma, introduce some water and pump everything back in. They told me "Get a ride home, don't walk in this sun" and "Don't run, or move quickly. Drink a lot of juice"
They finally gave me my money. I ran across the street to Conan's Pizza, ate, and then ran home. I've always had a high tolerance for blood loss. I promised I'd never sell blood plasma again after that day, and I've kept that promise so far. (Despite offers of bonus cash if I sell my oh-so-rare O+ blood)
(0) comments
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Ken Carter |3:15 PM| I got this trailer from the Alamo Drafthouse's website. It's the trailer for a documentary I truly wish to see.
The Trailer
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Monday, May 31, 2004
Goddamn Vorpal I'm not calling it Saddam Cecil |12:31 AM| How do I explain the seven and a half foot tall painting in my living room?
This story starts out a semester ago.
My girlfriend was in the first painting class of the year at her college. She, along with her classmates, were brainstorming for/discussing ideas for paintings to be done that year. One of my girlfriend's ideas was a painting of the Joseph Campbell "Hero with a thousand faces", a painting with as generic a hero figure as possible. Joseph Campbell's book outlined the repeating themes of the archetypal hero, using examples of several culture's big hero/messiah myths.
The class loved the idea, and agreed that any such painting would have to be big in order to impress people. How big? Oh, about seven and a half feet tall.
About halfway through the semester or so, she starts work on this project. Where, oh where, can I find a guy willing to model for this painting, someone willing to sit still for long amounts of time? Oh, perhaps that guy I'm dating!
Her: "I just need you to model. I'll make the face generic"
Me: "That's good, I was going to insist on that"
A couple months of work later, she tells me of the problem, that she can't change the face and make it look right. The angle of the subject's face is such that she can't quite alter it and not make it look really weird. She's also running out of time before the critique of the work, so it continues to be re-altered back to looking like me.
No problem, I think. She's got time.
I want to make something perfectly clear, my girlfriend is not out of her mind, she's far saner than just about all of the folks with whom I associate. With this warning, I suppose you know where the story is going.
As the critique approaches, she tells me she's given up, the rest of the painting needs more work so she can't change the face anymore. There are too many details that are problematic on the rest of the painting, like the horse's hooves.
Oh, did I not mention that? It's an equestrian painting. The hero is on a horse. With a sword.
me: "Oh hell, if the damn thing still looks like me, people are going to think I'm an egomaniac and you're an obsessed stalker!"
Her: "I know, I know, but luckily no one knows what you look like. With any luck no one will ever know it's you"
This presents a problem as I meet friends of hers from the painting class. "Hey there! You look awfully familiar! Have I seen you somewhere?" (What the hell am I going to say "Oh, yes you have, but the last time you saw me I was seven feet tall and giving you a welcoming gesture from the back of a goddamn HORSE)
The semester ends, the painting has been critqued, and the studio is closing. A place must be found to store the monument my girlfriend has made, and my apartment is the only one big enough to store the painting that still looks an awful lot like me. That's right, I now have a seven and a half foot tall painting of me in my living room. Luckily, it's just on loan, it still belongs to the artist.
"I can't keep that in the living room! I could only show it to people if I was going to fire them or invade their tiny neighboring country!"
What the hell am I supposed to do with a gargantuan, equestrian painting that just happens to look like me? I'm not THAT much of an egomaniac, and my girlfriend is quite far from crazy and obsessed with me, so those are not the impressions I want to give to visitors.
Do not get me wrong, I love this painting. I really don't have the proper words to describe how...flattering? Stunning? it all is. It just makes my living room more complicated.
The picture
(0) comments
Hair, handholding, swords that aren't too phallic. |11:53 AM| My hair, which was too long 3 weeks ago, ridiculously long a week ago, and job-damaging bad 2 days ago has finally reached a new level. Fashionable rebellion. Instead of looking like I have been neglecting a haircut due to laziness or lack of motivation, my hair has the unkempt-by-choice. How do I know that I have reached this point? The people in the hallway no longer look at me like a bum that sneaked in the door. Women my age with whom I make eye contact no longer look away with a frown, instead they give that half smile of "Oh, I'm not allowed to talk to you....you rebel.
Too bad I'm just being a slob.
Correction: I will be probably writing about the whole handholding thing on the next entry.
For those of you looking for a Gladius, here is one from a respectable sword maker. The gladius is not overtly phallic, is not a hundred goddamn feet long, and still crushes your enemies, drives them before you, and helps you hear the lamentation of their women.
Labels: Expanded
(0) comments
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Dignity for sale. Cheap. |11:29 AM| As far as I the search feature tells me, I've never written about the blood plasma incident in this blog. I'm sure anyone who has known me for a while is familiar with it, but perhaps you are not. Edited down a bit, here is the true tale.
The year is 1999. The moon has not been blown away from the Earth by atomic war and crappy special effects.I am working at CompUSA, which is at the best of times poorly run. This is not one of the better times, and I'm being shorted on a paycheck. My manager explains that since there were 3 paycheck days in one month, the company couldn't afford to pay all the commision to the salesman, so we got our hourly and that's all. My reaction involved a lot of cursing. My sales manager, Robert, that was his name, he had scarred hands that he'd never explain. Sorry, random memory. Anyhow, I needed food and I was very broke. Desperate for some source of funds, I remembered that there was a plasma center on campus. In fact, I think I brought this up while speaking to Robert.
"You'll get the rest of your money on the next check."
"Well, fine, guess I'll go sell some blood plasma for FOOD MONEY!"
After work I head on over to the center, and start having second and third thoughts. You know those bums that are so weird and creepy you won't get close enough to give them spare change? This waiting room was apparently their employee break area. Ancient, rotting jackets were wrapped around guys that would make you consider walking rather than sharing the same bus. As a guy in khakis and a full set of teeth I stood out quite a bit.
The walls were that cheap green color shitty hospitals always paint stuff, and the lighting was a dim, oyster-ish color. I began filling out the release and medical forms, of which their were piles. I soon had a question, and spoke to one of the medical technicians about it.
"Hey, what's this here about air embolism? That's an air bubble in my blood, that's really bad, how likely is that?"
The tech, looking at me like I was that cartoon frog that could sing and dance started to say something like "You know what that means?" but stopped and instead showed me all the sensors and how unlikely it was. Realizing I didn't really have much of a choice if I wanted to eat, I resigned myself to the possibility of a very painful death.
Me: "Well, just unplug me if I start to seize, alright?"
Tech: "Sure, man, sure."
Whenever you hear about a doctor graduating at the top of their class, do you ever wonder where the people who graduated at the bottom go? I mean, they're still doctors, they just aren't very good at it. Well, it's clear that some end up working for blood plasma centers, as this woman was a doctor, but only in the loosest sense of the word. I'll spare you the details of the physical (miserable bedside manner, no intellect behind the glasses and jacket, etc), though I did get to keep my clothes on, but that was the only comfortable thing about it.
Finally the time came to get tapped. Once again, they complimented me on my veins, and I spent an hour hooked up to the vampire machine. It would suck out a shitload of my blood, remove the plasma, introduce some water and pump everything back in. They told me "Get a ride home, don't walk in this sun" and "Don't run, or move quickly. Drink a lot of juice"
They finally gave me my money. I ran across the street to Conan's Pizza, ate, and then ran home. I've always had a high tolerance for blood loss. I promised I'd never sell blood plasma again after that day, and I've kept that promise so far. (Despite offers of bonus cash if I sell my oh-so-rare O+ blood)
(0) comments
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Ken Carter |3:15 PM| I got this trailer from the Alamo Drafthouse's website. It's the trailer for a documentary I truly wish to see.
The Trailer
Labels: Broken Links
(0) comments
Monday, May 31, 2004
Goddamn Vorpal I'm not calling it Saddam Cecil |12:31 AM| How do I explain the seven and a half foot tall painting in my living room?
This story starts out a semester ago.
My girlfriend was in the first painting class of the year at her college. She, along with her classmates, were brainstorming for/discussing ideas for paintings to be done that year. One of my girlfriend's ideas was a painting of the Joseph Campbell "Hero with a thousand faces", a painting with as generic a hero figure as possible. Joseph Campbell's book outlined the repeating themes of the archetypal hero, using examples of several culture's big hero/messiah myths.
The class loved the idea, and agreed that any such painting would have to be big in order to impress people. How big? Oh, about seven and a half feet tall.
About halfway through the semester or so, she starts work on this project. Where, oh where, can I find a guy willing to model for this painting, someone willing to sit still for long amounts of time? Oh, perhaps that guy I'm dating!
Her: "I just need you to model. I'll make the face generic"
Me: "That's good, I was going to insist on that"
A couple months of work later, she tells me of the problem, that she can't change the face and make it look right. The angle of the subject's face is such that she can't quite alter it and not make it look really weird. She's also running out of time before the critique of the work, so it continues to be re-altered back to looking like me.
No problem, I think. She's got time.
I want to make something perfectly clear, my girlfriend is not out of her mind, she's far saner than just about all of the folks with whom I associate. With this warning, I suppose you know where the story is going.
As the critique approaches, she tells me she's given up, the rest of the painting needs more work so she can't change the face anymore. There are too many details that are problematic on the rest of the painting, like the horse's hooves.
Oh, did I not mention that? It's an equestrian painting. The hero is on a horse. With a sword.
me: "Oh hell, if the damn thing still looks like me, people are going to think I'm an egomaniac and you're an obsessed stalker!"
Her: "I know, I know, but luckily no one knows what you look like. With any luck no one will ever know it's you"
This presents a problem as I meet friends of hers from the painting class. "Hey there! You look awfully familiar! Have I seen you somewhere?" (What the hell am I going to say "Oh, yes you have, but the last time you saw me I was seven feet tall and giving you a welcoming gesture from the back of a goddamn HORSE)
The semester ends, the painting has been critqued, and the studio is closing. A place must be found to store the monument my girlfriend has made, and my apartment is the only one big enough to store the painting that still looks an awful lot like me. That's right, I now have a seven and a half foot tall painting of me in my living room. Luckily, it's just on loan, it still belongs to the artist.
"I can't keep that in the living room! I could only show it to people if I was going to fire them or invade their tiny neighboring country!"
What the hell am I supposed to do with a gargantuan, equestrian painting that just happens to look like me? I'm not THAT much of an egomaniac, and my girlfriend is quite far from crazy and obsessed with me, so those are not the impressions I want to give to visitors.
Do not get me wrong, I love this painting. I really don't have the proper words to describe how...flattering? Stunning? it all is. It just makes my living room more complicated.
The picture
Labels: Favorite, Mariko, Vorpal
(0) comments
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