Is smart-assery genetic? I think it must be. While B1's picking up of sarcasm and a dry sense of humor could be attributed to watching the Master at work, B2 (who is four years old), appears to have inherited my near-innate ability to take the piss.
Case in point: Sometimes the boys will say "Hey, umm, Daddy?" when asking something -- and I'll say "What's with the 'umm?' You know who I am!" Anyway, I said that to B2 again tonight, after giving him some chocolate milk, and he said "Thanks, UMM Daddy!" And then he giggled impishly! He totally did it to get my goat! I laughed.
He did it on purpose! Lil' stinker!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Ah! Leah!
This video disappears every now and then, but then reappears. Such a great tune -- totally laden with memories for me. It's impossible not to think of things when I hear this one. The amateur nature of the video is extra-appealing, the whole "face made for radio" kind of thing with early videos. But a classic song, regardless.
Scene: Sequel
Had a bizarre moment this morning -- I was walking to the bus, trying not to get rained on too much, and got to the intersection just as that Euro-Couple did (the bearded guy and his cheek-pierced babe). They were busy hopping puddles. I didn't know they were in the area (they hadn't gotten off at my stop last night). Anyway, that was kind of shocking for me, running into them again like that. The gal's cheek-piercing runs parallel to the plane of her face (e.g., like this -- ). Such an odd place for a piercing, and it's such a tiny piercing, anyway, it's kind of like "What's the point?" I was tempted to ask them their nationality, but didn't want to pester them as we were all navigating the rain this morning.
Bunny
I saw this on Easter Sunday. Looks like the Easter Bunny is making a deal. I honked as I drove past the Bunny, who raised a fist in greeting without turning around. I liked that.
Scene: Busing
I took the bus the whole way home last night, which is sometimes its own reward, depending on the bus ride. I have to take two buses to get to and from work, or a bus and a train on the way home, if I don't want to fuss with the connecting bus on the homeward trek. But yesterday, I decided to do the bus/bus route, as it gave me more time to write -- one of the advantages of being a writer is you don't mind being stuck in traffic, as it just means more writing time!
My connecting bus was pretty packed, and it was full of curious sorts -- there was this foreign couple, I can't be sure of their ethnicity, as their language was familiarly unfamiliar, if that makes sense (like maybe Romanian? Moroccan? Portuguese? Greek? Gypsies? I don't know). The guy was pale-skinned and bearded, and looked blandly familiar in some ineffable way -- he reminded me of some actor, not a famous one, but like a character actor. His girlfriend was exotic -- lightly tanned, square-jawed (slightly cleft chin), honey-blonde hair all braided -- like frickin' cornrows, amber eyes, and a very odd tiny cheek piercing -- like just on the upper part of the cheek, the planes of her face, this little half-inch beaded piercing, like a little line. I've never seen somebody with a piercing like that (and, as far as I could tell, only on the right side of her face). Dark eyebrows, full. She had this leonine countenance, was very striking -- like a European version of a hippie chick (better-dressed -- like colorful scarf, black slacks, white shirt). They kept talking most of the time, in their odd language. Had suitcases.
Next to them was a young guy who looked like the stand-in for Christian Bateman in "American Psycho" -- he had the tousle-haired killer preppy look going something fierce.
Next to me was a gal who saw one of her friends at the front of the crowded bus, and called her on her cell phone. That was funny for me, hearing one-half of the conversation right next to me, and seeing the friend reply at the front of the bus, but not being able to hear what she was saying. Almost performance art, really.
Standing in front of me were the Three Hipster Stooges, which was amusing -- Guy 1 (Moe) had the barely-there beard, big dark shades, dove grey sweater, jeans, and hip shoes; Guy 2 (Larry) had on pinstriped pants and a vest and a button-down shirt and a tan messenger bag (and amber-hued shades); Guy 3 (Curly) had on a gray shiny shirt and charcoal grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up, worn jeans and loafers and a dark messenger bag. It was funny watching them all strike Coolio poses as they fought for balance on the swaying bus.
Finally, there was this beautiful woman with dark brown hair, long, and a long face, lightly tanned, ice blue eyes, dressed in stylish preppy fashions (yellow Wellies, worn jeans, button-down and a rain jacket, worn leather bag) -- she was truly beautiful, looked like she could've been an airline stewardess -- like that kind of good-looking gal, like "trophy wife" kind of thing. One curious feature (hence me mentioning her at all) was that she had a scar on the left side of her face, just past the mouth, on her cheek. Who knows the story of that -- auto accident? Skiing mishap? Who knows? It probably drove her bananas, though, because she really was beautiful, and to have that amazing face scarred had to have been a real shocker -- but it was an old enough scar that she'd obviously gotten long past it. Just a curious little detail, the scarred beauty. Oh, and I think her name was Anne. I saw because she was two-fisting her telecommunication -- like an iPhone in one hand and a QWERTY cell in the other hand, and she kept alternating between them, texting on both. I saw her name on one as she was switching between communicators.
I always notice when people walk around with their ID badges hanging from their belts, too. I'd never do that, wouldn't want people knowing my name. It's like "Hey, Kevin. Howdy, Jason. Hiya, Jennifer! What's happening, Stanley?" (and their last names, too, and lord knows what else is on those photo IDs) People don't think about that, I guess. For them, it's just an ID badge. Maybe I'm just very paranoid (well, yeah), but I'd keep my ID badge out of sight until I needed it. Seeing those, I often wonder what they're doing that requires that ID badge (to his credit, Hipster Moe had his in his pocket, although the lanyard for it said TRIBUNE so the poor sod apparently works at the Trib, at least he's smart enough to keep his ID concealed). Also, as I look for new work, I wonder "Christ, am I gonna have to be sporting an ID badge on a chain, too?"
My connecting bus was pretty packed, and it was full of curious sorts -- there was this foreign couple, I can't be sure of their ethnicity, as their language was familiarly unfamiliar, if that makes sense (like maybe Romanian? Moroccan? Portuguese? Greek? Gypsies? I don't know). The guy was pale-skinned and bearded, and looked blandly familiar in some ineffable way -- he reminded me of some actor, not a famous one, but like a character actor. His girlfriend was exotic -- lightly tanned, square-jawed (slightly cleft chin), honey-blonde hair all braided -- like frickin' cornrows, amber eyes, and a very odd tiny cheek piercing -- like just on the upper part of the cheek, the planes of her face, this little half-inch beaded piercing, like a little line. I've never seen somebody with a piercing like that (and, as far as I could tell, only on the right side of her face). Dark eyebrows, full. She had this leonine countenance, was very striking -- like a European version of a hippie chick (better-dressed -- like colorful scarf, black slacks, white shirt). They kept talking most of the time, in their odd language. Had suitcases.
Next to them was a young guy who looked like the stand-in for Christian Bateman in "American Psycho" -- he had the tousle-haired killer preppy look going something fierce.
Next to me was a gal who saw one of her friends at the front of the crowded bus, and called her on her cell phone. That was funny for me, hearing one-half of the conversation right next to me, and seeing the friend reply at the front of the bus, but not being able to hear what she was saying. Almost performance art, really.
Standing in front of me were the Three Hipster Stooges, which was amusing -- Guy 1 (Moe) had the barely-there beard, big dark shades, dove grey sweater, jeans, and hip shoes; Guy 2 (Larry) had on pinstriped pants and a vest and a button-down shirt and a tan messenger bag (and amber-hued shades); Guy 3 (Curly) had on a gray shiny shirt and charcoal grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up, worn jeans and loafers and a dark messenger bag. It was funny watching them all strike Coolio poses as they fought for balance on the swaying bus.
Finally, there was this beautiful woman with dark brown hair, long, and a long face, lightly tanned, ice blue eyes, dressed in stylish preppy fashions (yellow Wellies, worn jeans, button-down and a rain jacket, worn leather bag) -- she was truly beautiful, looked like she could've been an airline stewardess -- like that kind of good-looking gal, like "trophy wife" kind of thing. One curious feature (hence me mentioning her at all) was that she had a scar on the left side of her face, just past the mouth, on her cheek. Who knows the story of that -- auto accident? Skiing mishap? Who knows? It probably drove her bananas, though, because she really was beautiful, and to have that amazing face scarred had to have been a real shocker -- but it was an old enough scar that she'd obviously gotten long past it. Just a curious little detail, the scarred beauty. Oh, and I think her name was Anne. I saw because she was two-fisting her telecommunication -- like an iPhone in one hand and a QWERTY cell in the other hand, and she kept alternating between them, texting on both. I saw her name on one as she was switching between communicators.
I always notice when people walk around with their ID badges hanging from their belts, too. I'd never do that, wouldn't want people knowing my name. It's like "Hey, Kevin. Howdy, Jason. Hiya, Jennifer! What's happening, Stanley?" (and their last names, too, and lord knows what else is on those photo IDs) People don't think about that, I guess. For them, it's just an ID badge. Maybe I'm just very paranoid (well, yeah), but I'd keep my ID badge out of sight until I needed it. Seeing those, I often wonder what they're doing that requires that ID badge (to his credit, Hipster Moe had his in his pocket, although the lanyard for it said TRIBUNE so the poor sod apparently works at the Trib, at least he's smart enough to keep his ID concealed). Also, as I look for new work, I wonder "Christ, am I gonna have to be sporting an ID badge on a chain, too?"
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
A Pict Picking Pix
So, I went through some of my pictures, narrowed my selection to about 60 pictures, then culled down to 34, then 29, then 10, then six, and now have my top four selected for the competition. I think they're all strong shots, have a good chance of advancing (?) -- although we'll see. With my luck, I don't know. Truly cannot get my hopes up, but I'm going to try, anyway.
Gonna get a haircut sometime this week -- my springtime ritual, shedding my wintertime locks. My hair's not long, as I've said; it's just shaggy. Getting some white hairs creeping into my generally auburn sideburns! Hey! That's alright. It works. It's all good.
10 days until I turn 40. Ooooh! Truly, I'm about twice as happy at 40 as I was at 38, or 36, or even 27 -- not precisely where I need to be, but I'd like to think I'm on the on-ramp to Happy.
I have a lot to say about that -- life, love, love of life, a life of love, all of that -- but I'm at work ("Where Fun Comes to Die"), so I'll get to that later. I'm thinking a bit about the "Bohemian values" articulated in "Moulin Rouge"(of all places) -- Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love, and what that means, exactly. Is all love that you feel true love? Are there shades of it? Degrees? It seems contrary to the idea of True Love for it to be a matter of degree -- like you're filling a tub with water, a little hot, a little cold, getting the temperature just right. That doesn't seem at all romantic. I don't think True Love can be controlled -- you either know True Love, or you don't. I have known people who are honestly "love-avoidant" -- like it's an alien idea to them. Or they love/hate themselves too much to actually open their hearts to True Love. Too much of either can blind you to it. But enough yammering for now.
Gonna get a haircut sometime this week -- my springtime ritual, shedding my wintertime locks. My hair's not long, as I've said; it's just shaggy. Getting some white hairs creeping into my generally auburn sideburns! Hey! That's alright. It works. It's all good.
10 days until I turn 40. Ooooh! Truly, I'm about twice as happy at 40 as I was at 38, or 36, or even 27 -- not precisely where I need to be, but I'd like to think I'm on the on-ramp to Happy.
I have a lot to say about that -- life, love, love of life, a life of love, all of that -- but I'm at work ("Where Fun Comes to Die"), so I'll get to that later. I'm thinking a bit about the "Bohemian values" articulated in "Moulin Rouge"(of all places) -- Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love, and what that means, exactly. Is all love that you feel true love? Are there shades of it? Degrees? It seems contrary to the idea of True Love for it to be a matter of degree -- like you're filling a tub with water, a little hot, a little cold, getting the temperature just right. That doesn't seem at all romantic. I don't think True Love can be controlled -- you either know True Love, or you don't. I have known people who are honestly "love-avoidant" -- like it's an alien idea to them. Or they love/hate themselves too much to actually open their hearts to True Love. Too much of either can blind you to it. But enough yammering for now.
Stormbringer
We've been getting a lot of storms lately. Very classic Spring weather (in general), although for Chicago, I can't remember, to be honest. Spring is such a brief season in Chicago, land of short Summer, fleeting Fall, and lengthy Winter.
I kept hammering away on the screenplay this morning -- I'm also still working on the six-week book, mind you; I'm just multi-tasking. Since the deadline for the screenplay is in June, I'm trying to get a first draft (and then a revised draft) for it done in advance of that deadline so I can get it to readers and get their input with enough time for additional revisions, as needed.
I'm going to send some pix to a photography competition, too; I have tons of pix shot, and am pretty good with a camera. Odds are nothing will come of it, but I'm going to try, anyway.
Eating spaghetti and (turkey) meatballs for lunch. I made it over the weekend. Did I mention that I love cooking? Hahah!
I kept hammering away on the screenplay this morning -- I'm also still working on the six-week book, mind you; I'm just multi-tasking. Since the deadline for the screenplay is in June, I'm trying to get a first draft (and then a revised draft) for it done in advance of that deadline so I can get it to readers and get their input with enough time for additional revisions, as needed.
I'm going to send some pix to a photography competition, too; I have tons of pix shot, and am pretty good with a camera. Odds are nothing will come of it, but I'm going to try, anyway.
Eating spaghetti and (turkey) meatballs for lunch. I made it over the weekend. Did I mention that I love cooking? Hahah!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Daffodildo
I overheard a coworker (I'll christen her "Serpentina") talking to another (in the kitchenette) about how lovely the smell of a clutch of daffodils were -- somebody had brought'em in, put them in a vase. Well and good, but you know what? Daffodils don't smell nice. They have a sharp, acrid scent. They're pretty to look at, but clearly, Serpentina was smelling them with her eyes. It was a weird thing to say, because they're funkifying the kitchenette as I type this.
*snicker* -- "daffodildo" -- I'm pleased with that new word. I'm going to refer to it as somebody who wrongly thinks stinky flowers smell nice just because they're nice to look at. THAT is a daffodildo. You read it here first.
*snicker* -- "daffodildo" -- I'm pleased with that new word. I'm going to refer to it as somebody who wrongly thinks stinky flowers smell nice just because they're nice to look at. THAT is a daffodildo. You read it here first.
Cackle
Having drunk my share of absinthe over the years, I can honestly say that it really does make me cackle like they do in this little clip...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lqa62iiUwUI
I don't know of any other spirit that makes me cackle/carry on quite like absinthe, although no visual hallucinations, alas. But the cackling, most definitely. The very first time I tried it, I blogged about it (sorry, a long-extinct blog), and I was sitting there at the keyboard, cackling, trying to type. Oh, what a sight!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lqa62iiUwUI
I don't know of any other spirit that makes me cackle/carry on quite like absinthe, although no visual hallucinations, alas. But the cackling, most definitely. The very first time I tried it, I blogged about it (sorry, a long-extinct blog), and I was sitting there at the keyboard, cackling, trying to type. Oh, what a sight!
Hipster extinction...
I've thought about this for some time. When one would see "hipsters" in Indianapolis and Cincinnati and Youngstown and Pittsburgh, it was clear that the meme was spread far too widely to really have any weight, anymore. It's like when you see some kid completely decked out in Punk regalia, the whole works -- in 2010, right? You're like "Wow, 1977 called, they want their affectation back."
http://www.salon.com/books/nonfiction/index.html?story=/books/feature/2010/04/01/look_at_this_hipster_book
http://www.salon.com/books/nonfiction/index.html?story=/books/feature/2010/04/01/look_at_this_hipster_book
So what is a hipster, exactly?
It's a broad term, but I consider it to be rich white trash -- or people trying to stretch out adolescence as far as it'll go. It has to do with a person's attitude, and lifestyle choice, but it's also about fashion. They wear skinny jeans and ironic facial hair, and handlebar mustaches and V-neck shirts and dumb hats. They wear big glasses -- that's a key thing usually -- asymmetrical haircuts, wool caps in the summer, Yasser Arafat scarves [kaffiyehs], American spirit cigarettes, and drink Pabst Blue Ribbon or cheap beer. It's all about people trying so hard to look like they're not trying hard.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Dishing
A couple of food places -- well, treat-making places, anyway -- you should support -- I'm shamelessly plugging them because they're very good and are in a very economically-depressed area (Youngstown, Ohio) and any support they get is a good thing...
Handel's Ice Cream.
Their Chocolate Pecan ice cream is great stuff! Truly tops! They've got a ton of flavors. You won't be disappointed. Get a quart (or three); you'll need it!
Butter Maid Bakery.
They make great sweets! Uniquely delicious chocolate chip cookies (seriously, and awesome kolachi, too, and elephant ears, and bear claws, and these walnut cookies they used to make but likely only make on special order, now). Their chocolate chip cookies, however, are a breed apart -- I've never had ones like theirs.
Handel's Ice Cream.
Their Chocolate Pecan ice cream is great stuff! Truly tops! They've got a ton of flavors. You won't be disappointed. Get a quart (or three); you'll need it!
Butter Maid Bakery.
They make great sweets! Uniquely delicious chocolate chip cookies (seriously, and awesome kolachi, too, and elephant ears, and bear claws, and these walnut cookies they used to make but likely only make on special order, now). Their chocolate chip cookies, however, are a breed apart -- I've never had ones like theirs.
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