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Oct. 22nd, 2002
I hate when someone forwards me a series of eighteen emails between seven people and asks, "Chris, could you help with this?" Help with what? I don't have time to parse all that shit. At least give me a sentence or two of summary so I can have something to go on before I wade into it. I forward stuff like that sometimes, but I always clearly state the question at the very top so that it can be fairly well understood without even reading all the stuff below. Then if the person really wants more details, they're there.
Jeez, I'm cranky this morning. That's what I get for getting eight hours of sleep. I'm not used to it, I guess.
Jeez, I'm cranky this morning. That's what I get for getting eight hours of sleep. I'm not used to it, I guess.
dude, where's my car?!
Oct. 22nd, 2002 12:19 pmI just went out to put money in the meter, and the fucking car wasn't there! I thought, crap, I've been TOWED, man . . . but just in case, I'll walk to the next block to see if I happened to park there this morning. Sure enough, it was there. It was YESTERDAY that I parked on the other block. Scared the shit out of me. I should be taking the bus anyway.
I sent my edited version of that goofy philosophy/hermeneutics foreword out to the author, and I'm just looking over the version he sent back. He accepted most of the changes, but of course he rejected some of the ones that would have lost some of his goofiest language. For instance, I suggested changing "the lived, human experience of the human" to "lived, human experience" (I really could have gone with just "human experience"), and he stetted it. Sheesh. The lived, human experience of the human. As opposed to the undead, human experience of the shoehorn.
Oh well--get used to it, right right? Right right. Time for a long lunch, muphukkaz.
I sent my edited version of that goofy philosophy/hermeneutics foreword out to the author, and I'm just looking over the version he sent back. He accepted most of the changes, but of course he rejected some of the ones that would have lost some of his goofiest language. For instance, I suggested changing "the lived, human experience of the human" to "lived, human experience" (I really could have gone with just "human experience"), and he stetted it. Sheesh. The lived, human experience of the human. As opposed to the undead, human experience of the shoehorn.
Oh well--get used to it, right right? Right right. Time for a long lunch, muphukkaz.
(no subject)
Oct. 22nd, 2002 03:43 pmMy brain still isn't functioning right. Yesterday I sent an email to my department reminding everyone that we had to clear out of the library at noon because of the LOC meeting. What I meant to say was PC meeting. LOC = Library of Congress; PC = publications committee. How I got these mixed up, I'll never know.
A story to redeem myself (please ignore any typos):
Farhad: So, do you smoke?
Chris: Just reefer and sometimes cigarettes. You?
Farhad: No, no. The only time I'm smoking is one time back in Bangladesh. I'm walking down the street, I'm smoking, smoking, smoking. Then I'm falling down on the sidewalk. I get up, ask my friend, I say, "What I did?!!"
*peals of laughter fill the kitchen*
Flanda: You said what?
Farhad: "What I did?!!"
Flanda: I woulda told you, "Ya fell on your damn face!" Hell!
A story to redeem myself (please ignore any typos):
Farhad: So, do you smoke?
Chris: Just reefer and sometimes cigarettes. You?
Farhad: No, no. The only time I'm smoking is one time back in Bangladesh. I'm walking down the street, I'm smoking, smoking, smoking. Then I'm falling down on the sidewalk. I get up, ask my friend, I say, "What I did?!!"
*peals of laughter fill the kitchen*
Flanda: You said what?
Farhad: "What I did?!!"
Flanda: I woulda told you, "Ya fell on your damn face!" Hell!
he tried to jack me, but homie got shot
Oct. 22nd, 2002 04:59 pmI'm going to get cold shot in the car one of these days, I swear it. And whoever does it will have a clean shot at me because of this nutty habit I've developed of hanging my head out the window to yell at people in traffic. Today at lunch someone was blocking the intersection, and there I was craning my neck out the window like a Great Dane and screaming "Good job, assneck!!!" at the poor, pathetic woman. People in this town are terrible about blocking the intersection, and they don't give a damn. They'll sit there right underneath a red light while you sit there flipping them off as you have the green light but are completely unable to move because there's a fucking Suburban in your way, and they'll look at you like they cannot possibly imagine why you're upset.
I think I'm going to take up my old habit of pelting people with tennis balls again. Normally I prey upon people who've done nothing to me, but now I'm going to do it as a strictly retaliatory measure. This started back in probably 1989 or so, when my friends and I would occasionally cruise around with tennis balls and nail people walking down the sidewalk. It's best, of course, to have someone else driving when you fling your balls, so that you can sit on the ledge of the window with your entire upper body hanging out. This way you can get maximum mustard on the throw. That is, if you're right-handed like me. I've often wished that I were left-handed so that I could zing people from the driver's side without looking like a girly man. You can also perform an underhanded shovel pass with your right hand and pitch the ball out the passenger's window, but you sacrifice a lot of velocity and accuracy.
The best throw I ever got off with my left hand was several years ago when I was driving down Russell Street in Starkville in my pickup truck, right around the abandoned creamery building. I saw some joker coming the opposite way on a bicycle, so I grabbed a tennis ball and threw a perfect, surprisingly fast, bounce pass across the four-lane road and hit that bastard right in the chest. It was truly Beautiful. I'll bet I couldn't do that again if I tried for a hundred years. I mean, it would have been one thing to get him on the fly, but a bounce pass? That's a 9.8 on the difficulty scale. And one of the best things about it (next to the satisfying "ping" from the ball hitting the pavement) was looking in my rear-view mirror and seeing that guy stopped on the side of the road, looking back toward my truck, and obviously thinking "What the FUCK?!?" Beautiful, I tell you.
I think I'll listen to Cypress Hill again tonight, 'cuz that's just the O.G. kinda thug-ass criminal I am.
I think I'm going to take up my old habit of pelting people with tennis balls again. Normally I prey upon people who've done nothing to me, but now I'm going to do it as a strictly retaliatory measure. This started back in probably 1989 or so, when my friends and I would occasionally cruise around with tennis balls and nail people walking down the sidewalk. It's best, of course, to have someone else driving when you fling your balls, so that you can sit on the ledge of the window with your entire upper body hanging out. This way you can get maximum mustard on the throw. That is, if you're right-handed like me. I've often wished that I were left-handed so that I could zing people from the driver's side without looking like a girly man. You can also perform an underhanded shovel pass with your right hand and pitch the ball out the passenger's window, but you sacrifice a lot of velocity and accuracy.
The best throw I ever got off with my left hand was several years ago when I was driving down Russell Street in Starkville in my pickup truck, right around the abandoned creamery building. I saw some joker coming the opposite way on a bicycle, so I grabbed a tennis ball and threw a perfect, surprisingly fast, bounce pass across the four-lane road and hit that bastard right in the chest. It was truly Beautiful. I'll bet I couldn't do that again if I tried for a hundred years. I mean, it would have been one thing to get him on the fly, but a bounce pass? That's a 9.8 on the difficulty scale. And one of the best things about it (next to the satisfying "ping" from the ball hitting the pavement) was looking in my rear-view mirror and seeing that guy stopped on the side of the road, looking back toward my truck, and obviously thinking "What the FUCK?!?" Beautiful, I tell you.
I think I'll listen to Cypress Hill again tonight, 'cuz that's just the O.G. kinda thug-ass criminal I am.
(no subject)
Oct. 22nd, 2002 06:04 pmI've never quite known what kind of cliché to be. I grew up predominantly headbanger, but I've always had at least a couple of dashes of punk and hippie in me. I have a suspicion that I'm a hesher, but Ive never been exactly sure what that means. I tend to think of a hesher as the sort who hangs out in parking lots, smokes weed, and listens to Black Sabbath. Sort of like a burnout. But I've never even considered putting glass packs in my car, and I'm violently opposed to the wearing of sleeveless T-shirts. So I'm not sure.
If you need evidence of just how confused I am, take a look at the back of my car. If that isn't the mark of a mixed-up kid with a sad identity crisis, I don't know what is. (You probably can't make them out, but that's a Minutemen sticker on the left of the license plate and a Slayer "Root of All Evil" one on the right.) Just today I was driving around at lunch and listening to my homemade '80s compilation, which features the Eurhythmics' "Sweet Dreams," Motorhead's "Ace of Spades," Thomas Dolby's "She Blinded Me with Science," and Quiet Riot's "Metal Health." So, needless to say, I don't have to wonder what people are laughing at when I'm singing along to "Don't Fear the Reaper" and happen to look in the rearview.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going down to the square dance to see if I can rustle up a mosh pit.
If you need evidence of just how confused I am, take a look at the back of my car. If that isn't the mark of a mixed-up kid with a sad identity crisis, I don't know what is. (You probably can't make them out, but that's a Minutemen sticker on the left of the license plate and a Slayer "Root of All Evil" one on the right.) Just today I was driving around at lunch and listening to my homemade '80s compilation, which features the Eurhythmics' "Sweet Dreams," Motorhead's "Ace of Spades," Thomas Dolby's "She Blinded Me with Science," and Quiet Riot's "Metal Health." So, needless to say, I don't have to wonder what people are laughing at when I'm singing along to "Don't Fear the Reaper" and happen to look in the rearview.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going down to the square dance to see if I can rustle up a mosh pit.