Things I Don’t Understand.

There are a few things that I think are strange.  They are, in no particular order, the following:

• Middle aged men and women who go tanning.  Perhaps this is because I associate tanning with a phase that preppy high school girls (and some football players) go through.  It may just be that I think tanning in a booth is strange–just get the hell out of your house for longer than it takes to walk the 25 feet to your car and you will get color.  Trust me.  Step away from the tv or computer or whatever and take a freaking walk.  I don’t think it is that difficult.  You can even get away with going shirtless in the summer. Honestly, you can get a tan without paying the $.25 for 2 minutes.   But more importantly, stop trying to pretent that you are still 16.  You’re not fooling anyone.

• People who call me at work and have no idea why they are calling.  I get this maybe 2 times a week.  Someone will call to find out what we do, or find out about acupuncture, but when I tell them the patented “Zach’s 30 second introduction into 3000 years of traditional Chinese Medicine” they don’t have anything else to say.  They don’t know if they want to make an appointment.  They can’t tell me what they want to be treated for.  They have no idea what to say next.  Please, and I mean please, if you are going to call a place to inquire about their services, at least have a general game plan.  It’s quite helpful and makes you interupting my book reading slightly more worthwhile.  

• Billy Mays.  I know that infomercial people used to be celebraties in their own right, but this was during the days when stations would signoff at 11:30 after the news and end the brodcast day with a rendering of the national anthem.  But Billy Mays is probably one of the only strictly-infomertial actors of this era who has become famous for infomercials.  In light of this–or rather in spite of this–I offer the following video.

+5 points for the Transformers reference.

Weekend of Pie, Sushi and Gas

This past weekend was filled with all sorts of good times. Saturday was spent hanging out with my grandmother and my increasingly senile grandfather, which is both funny and tragic. He is well into his 4th year of Alzheimer’s which, as anyone who has experienced this second hand will know*, tends to be the point where everything just goes kaput.  Language goes away, short term memory is completely gone and, at least with my grandfather, confusion is the new norm.  At this stage he has a habit of doing funny things.  Like trying to drink from the salt shaker instead of his coffee cup.  Or trying to eat out of his coffee cup even though you don’t eat coffee with a fork.  It may be insensitive, but my grandmother and I had a good laugh at those.  Sometimes the only way you can deal with a terrible situation is to just laugh.

After this, I wandered on over to Shaba’s house and, like usual, drank Guinness with her parents until she got there about a half an hour later.  That is the type of family that I want when I (or, rather, if  I ever) get married.  One where I can go and just hang out with my in-laws without feeling awkward.  Shaba’s parents have been that way since the first time I met them and her dad told me, in a loud, intimidating and slightly drunk voice to “unass yourself from my wall and sit the hell down.”  

Oh yes, it was just like home.

The other highlight of my weekend was Sunday night hanging out with my college-y friends.  The following things occurred:

• AlexMac and Steph wanted me to share my sushi making expertise with them.  We made quite a bit of sushi, but there were 6 of us so it was all good.  Little did I know, however, that Steph and I were the only ones who really liked sushi as a full meal.  Also, Steph is tiny and doesn’t eat a whole lot.  The result?  Literally about 6 pounds of left over sushi which, at the current moment, is M.I.A.  And I hope to God it isn’t in the trunk of my car…
• AlexMac and I talked about eating fetuses and making spaghetti sauce from babies and other after-birth goo.  We talked about this for about 25 minutes.  This pretty much sums up our friendship.
• After Sheri attacked our Andy’s Mint pie and left a perfect hand imprint, we proceeded to eat it.  And an Oreo pie.  Apparently sushi isn’t a meal, but pie is.  And who am I to argue with that?
• A giant pillow fight thing of death involving 6 people.  Again, for about 25 minutes.  Again, very relationship summing.
• My car hates me.  Around 12:30 a.m. we decided to go to another friends house to watch MST3K.  On the trip, I was all, “Yo, my windshield is dirty.  I should totally use my wiper fluid and clean that shit off.”  So I did.  Sort of.  You know how windshield wipers are supposed to go up-down, back-forth, 0°-90°-0°?  Well, my driver’s side wiper just never stopped going up, continued for an entire 180° and went off the side of the car.  This didn’t phase me.  It has done it before.  The problem was that when I went to push it back, the thing broke off in my hand.  Like, the entire arm.  And it didn’t just come unbolted, oh no.  The effing thing sheared in half.  Awesome.

Overall, though, it was a good time.  Its nice to get back to town from time to time and hang out with a bunch of people that I can be myself around.  No worrying about being judged for my terrible jokes.  No worrying about finding interesting things to talk about.  Just being myself.

And, to tell you the truth, I miss the lack of gross bodily sounds down here.  Somehow, belching and farting and all that good stuff makes me feel at home.  And yes, that’s a direct shout-out to AlexMac.

 

*Second hand is the important part.  Because if you’ve experienced it first hand, chances are you won’t remember, because you have Alzheimers.  Get it? Get it?  Not funny?  Fail.

Talking in my sleep.

Last night I aparently tried to talk on AOL in my sleep.  The result?  

“unofortunatltl on… Same usual as usual”

Awesome.

Someone is gonna steal your carbon.

It is Tuesday.  3 days after the fact.  And I am still pumped.  What is it exactly that happened Saturday that has got me so excited?  Well I’ll tell you my friends.

Modest Mouse.

Now, I’ve been listening to them off and on since high school and only got really into them in the past year or so.  I was finally able to see them in concert and let me tell you, they did not disappoint.  They were probably one of the most interactive bands I have seen live.  They didn’t use a set sheet, for example.  They just kinda did whatever and played requests that were yelled at them.  Some of these were nice, polite “please play Carbon!” requests.  Most were of the “Play Float On Assholes!” variety.  And between smoking cigarettes and drinking beer, they would harass the crowd back.  

Let me tell you, the love in that place was palpable.

I think the other reason that it was so good was because of the group of people who were there to see the show.  I was a bit worried about what kind of crowd they would attract, but after going to this show I feel very confident in saying that Modest Mouse fans are very cool people.  There were no assholes in the pit; everyone was just there to listen to some good music and have a good time.  Everyone was just happy.

Definitely glad that I went, especially since I considered just blowing it off several times.  First was when I woke up Saturday morning after staying up till 4:30 a.m. and drinking the whole night.  

The second time was when 8:00 p.m. rolled around and not only was I still hungover, but I realized I had not eaten all day.  Awesome.

My fight with a GPS navigation system almost turned out to be the last straw. TomTom decided he would be a punk and give me directions through the fucking ghetto of West Philadelphia to get to the Electric Factory.  After I saw three cop cars behind one pulled-over Escalade with their hands on the butts of their guns, I was like, “TomTom.  You dick.”

But, alas, I stuck it out.  It was a good move.  I recommend it.

Just one of those days.

Today has been one of those days.

Today I came down with yet another cold.  I have been strictly adhering to Zicam’s “once every 4 hours” rule.  I have been chugging orange juice by the gallon.  I have been hoping that I don’t get sick.  Perhaps this will be a worthwhile endeavor.

Today I realized that I have been feeling sorry for myself for the past month.  All of the stress that has been in my life has been my own creation.  I need to quit being a wimp and man up.  

Today I got my last 2 rejection letters from grad schools.  Looks like I will not be getting my Ph.D. anytime soon.  I now need to figure out what I am going to do.  I will probably work my ass off and apply again.  But I need to decide on (and get) a job that will allow me to actually flourish in my life if I don’t get in again as opposed to what I am doing now–getting by.  

So, to celebrate this wonderful day, I kicked off my night with a case of beer.  I know it’s cliche to drink the worries away, but whatever.   If nothing else, it allows me to not realize how bored I am.

Remembering

Tom Hanks is probably one of my favorite actors.   Forrest Gump is probably one of my favorite movies.  And I agree with one thing–It’s strange what a person remembers.  

My earliest years seem almost a complete blur, but there are certain things that I remember very clearly.  I remember my basement flooding and all of our toys floating around in the water.  I remember my single line from one of my childhood church Christmas readings (“And the Shepard’s watched their flock by night”).  I remember one Thanksgiving when it was very warm and I was playing with my G. I. Joes outside at my grandmother’s house.  I remember playing with my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figures and accessories (and let me tell you, I had it all–from Shredder’s hideout to gallons of Ooze to an actual, function pizza-throwing-mobile) for a whole afternoon with my Dad on Christmas morning.

Perhaps one of the most disturbing things that I remember from my childhood is this story.  When I was a young kid (this happened when I was about 4 and my brother was 3) it was not uncommon for my parents to bathe my younger brother and I at the same time.  Quite frankly, I don’t blame them–we both liked baths.  If we bathed separately it would easily take 3 hours to get  us both in and out.  My parents were far too patient.

So one night, my brother and I were in the bath along with about 30 Ninja Turtles  and 10 inches of bubbles.  We were just chillin, planning an secret attack on the Shredder like always.   It was a good night.  

After a while my dad got sick of sitting on the sink making sure we didn’t drown and told us that it was time to get out.  Not wanting to quit the war we had going on, I instinctively grabbed for Leonardo–he was totally bad ass.  My brother had already gotten out, so my hand dove under the bubbles to grab my toy.

This is not what ended up in my hand.

No.  Instead, I pulled up my arm only to find that I had grabbed a handful of shit.  As I looked around in confusion, I realized that I was surrounded by a bathtub full of these brown torpedoes.  So I did what any 4 year old would do–I started to scream.

Apparently somewhere between drowning Donatello and making a bubble beard, my brother thought it would be a good idea to take a dump in the tub.  Good plan.  

The sad thing is that this is probably one of my earliest childhood memories.  And I still can’t take bubble baths.

Thinking.

So I’ve been all like, “Yo. Um, I haven’t done this silly thing in like a month.  Should I shut it down and just give up? Or should I just write what I am actually thinking about even though no one will really care?”  

And then I answer, “Good question.”

I mean, I’m not good at anticdotal stories or funny things that happened to me at the bar or poems or political commentary.  I am obviously not going to write stories about my non-existant children or the non-existant problems I have with co-workers or the amazing lack of my social life.  

The problem is that I am kind of a nerd.  And so, being a special kind of nerd, namely the philosophy nerd, I just want to write about that.  Partly to get it out there, but mostly to get my thoughts straight.  

The question is:  Does anyone really want to read about my latest philosophical pursuits? As an example: right now I am reading Heidegger and his theory of being-in-the-world which has to do with the nature of the different kinds of ‘being,’ how they exist in relation to one another, how they exist in the external world and how all of this relates to temporality.  

Anyone interested?  I thought not.

Blech.  How lame am I?

Or, how dedicated?

The One Where I Become A True 20-Something

Walking to work this morning, I felt very cosmopolitian.  Not because I live in a suburb of Philadelphia.  Not because of my clothes.  Not even because I spent the hour before work listening to NPR.  Nay, I felt this way because, on my way to work, I was listening to Interpol (the band, not to be confused with the police force that goes after the likes of Mr. Ocean and his natorious ‘11′).

Yes, I finally broke down and became a true member of my generation.  I bought an iPod.  I know what you are thinking:  Surely you jest!  Indeed, I do not.  And don’t call me Sherley.  Even more amazingingly, not only did I finally break down and get an iPod, but it is one of the fancy new iPod Touches (What it touch-es, though, I do not yet know…).   Yes, it seems that the world will come to an end now that I have done what I swore I would never do.  But it seems that I ought to finally come clean with my little secret–like any guy, I have a soft spot in my heart for gadgets.  Aside from my new investment, the coolest thing that I own is one of these.  Yes, I am a nerd.  But it shoots fire! And crawls! Over things!

At this point you are probably overwhelmed–two bombs dropped in a single 500 word confession!  The world is, without a doubt, doomed.  You may rest assured, though, that when the Earth splits open and fire and brimstone rain from the sky,  I will meet my doom the only way that I know how–rockin’.

Holiday Hangover

As much as I am trying to ignore it, it seems that it is finally the “Holiday Season.”  No matter how hard I try, I keep getting blasted with Christmas music, blinded by the big-dick competitions of ‘my house has 129 thousand lights and yours only has 128.9 thousand!’ and stuffed full of free cookies and candy canes.  Yes, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas which, in my mind, means only one thing–booze.

Before you start being all, “How can you think about booze when there’s so much holiday cheer and love and ponies and fluffy clouds during Christmas?!”  First, if you get that excited about Christmas and you are older than 10, you need to stop living in your parent’s basement, sell your teddy bear collection and move on with your life.  Or at least stop snorting your little brother’s  Ritalin.  Second, I am not a complete grinch.  I dig the holidays.  Kind of.  But my association of Christmas and being drunk is for two reasons–first and foremost, Christmas means booze because it means going Christmas shopping with my father.  And, if you know my dad, right now you’re probably thinking, “What?”  You see, while Christmas shopping for most people is going to the mall, fighting with bitchy, rich middle-aged housewives and spending upwards of an hour trying to leave the parking lot without committing genocide, for my father it is more accuriately called “Christmas shopping,” which, loosely translated means “spending 10 hours of the Saturday night before Christmas going around town to bars with ‘the boys’ and getting my son as drunk as humanly possible.”   Which he did.  Or, rather, he watched me do.    

That’s how I spent my weekend, Saturday night getting drunk to the point that when I went to Copilots parents’ house afterwards, I apparently left a trail of clothing from the garage to the bedroom which included my coat, both shoes and quite possibly my socks.  Needless to say, I spend all of my Sunday recovering, highlights of which would be sleeping until about noon, sleeping some more after my breakfast of Ramen, and, 18 hours after my last drink (about 8:30 pm on Sunday night) vomiting with my face buried in the handicap toilet at our local WalMart.   Not only did I feel like complete white trash, throwing up in a WalMart for God’s sake, but throughout the duration I had adequate time to reflect on the fact that I don’t think the toilet had been cleaned since the store opened 15 years ago.  It was that dirty.  So, I resumed vomiting.

Now, as I said, there are two reasons I equate Christmas with booze.  The second reason is, as much as I hate to admit it, I like getting drunk before I have to go to my Grandparent’s house on Christmas day.  I’m not talking black-out drunk or incoherent-drunk, but just drunk enough that I can sit and have a heated argument about abortion with my grandparents and their friends for an extended period of time without wanting to jump off the roof.  And that is how I spent last Christmas–arguing about abortion, not jumping off the roof.  To be completely honest, I was the one who brought this subject up and started the argument, a skill that I pride myself at.  And it was more of my youngest brother and I arguing with one of my Grandmother’s friends.  But whatever.

And, while I’m on the subject, it was a bottle of red wine and a bottle of rum that enabled me to call Shaba last Christmas at about 3:30 am (on Christmas day, mind you) and convince her that it would be a cool idea to go driving around NEPA for about 3 hours.   

Which we did.

Is it such a bad thing that some of my fondest memories of the holidays include me being relatively drunk?  I, for one, don’t think so.

Why Chrome is a bad browser to have at work.

I consider myself a pretty well informed kind of guy.  I read many books, glance at the news at least once a day and try to keep up with the latest computer-music-technology fads and such.  This being the case, when I found out about Google’s new internet browser Chrome, I installed it and tried it out.

I was immediately impressed and decided definitively that one day, Google will rule the world.  They already have YouTube, now Chrome… Tomorrow they’ll be releasing their own OS and destroy Microsoft once and for all.

Anyway, the coolest feature that Chrome offers is the homepage.*  It automatically generates 9 bookmarks with screenshots of the websites that you visit the most, giving you access to them at the click of a mouse.  

 

Screenshot!

I have come to rely on this so extensively that I cannot remember the URL for my email account.  Okay, I can remember it, but haven’t typed it in a few months.  

I have, however, found one drawback to this automatic feature of Chrome–my work computer.  I work at an acupuncture school.  Usually we have patients and I have stuff to do.  However, we are currently on winter break.  We have few patients and I have very little to do.  This being the case, I play on the internet.  

Chrome knows this.  It keeps track.  It makes sure to tell my homepage that www.runnersworld.com is one of my top 9 most visited websites.  This list also includes a number of other blogs.  Cool, right?  Yeah, until my boss tries to get on the internet and is all “Oh, I see you spend an exorbatantly large amount of time on completely un-work-related websites” and I’m like “No, that wasn’t me.  Those automatically load based upon the most common sites for users with in my demographic” and then he’s like “It says ‘Most Visited’ at the top of the page, genius” and I’m like “Crap.”

At least, that is what it would be like if I let him on my computer.  But I don’t. Everytime he comes near, I go to the BBC site or something equally unreprochable to hide what I am really doing, which is either reading offensive blogs or playing Spider Solitare.  Although, as laid back as he is he probably won’t care anyway, but that would make this a very lame story.  And my name is not Steph.**

But other than that, I like it a lot.  You should get it.  It’s pretty cool.

 

* This is actually the second coolest.  The coolest is “Incognito Mode.”  I will not even try to give a dignified explination as to why I like this so much–to do so would be impossible.  I mean, at least the ‘dignified’ part would be.

**I have a friend.  Her name is Steph.  She likes to get really excited and tell lame stories, leaving us all “Like, WTF?”