I am hardly a victim of the writer's strike, as I neither write for the film industry nor am fiending for new material (Well, I must say I do miss the Colbert Report and The Daily Show). But, thanks to a massive store of unwatched programs, most of which are documentaries, I'm not too bothered by any of it. (This is not to say I don't sympathize with the strikers, though.)
One show I like to watch is The Universe. It's a fun show, although in order to make principles of physics and astronomy more understandable, the writers will come up with an analogy and run with it as far as it can go. Usually these analogies seem to pertain to some hobby of the astronomer being interviewed. Say one astronomer really likes fishing. The programmers will then show the astronomer casting the reel, all the while explaining some concept. "Landing on the surface of Venus would be a lot like fishing for trout." And you're sitting there and listening to this analogy, and thinking, "Huh? What? Well... maybe a little... I guess."
But, it's a good program and fairly spot on.
Now to the subject at hand. They did a bit on black holes. Apparently there are two classifications. There's a Stellar Black Hole (which is just a collapsed star...ho-hum). And now they've discovered a new classification that lies at the center of the galaxy. It's enormous, so logically, it's called the "Super Massive Black Hole".
I don't know. It just sounds so ridiculous. It reminds me of South Park for some reason. Like when someone is making up some new name for an organization that's an obvious cover-up for something else--like the Super Adventure Club that Chef joins, which is really an organization for pederasts.
Anyway, I can't understand lack of creativity some physicists display when the naming new things. I mean, isn't there someone they can name it after? A Steven Hawking-class black hole (since he wrote the book on the subject)? Or couldn't they give it some silly child's name, like "google" or "quark" or "charm" or "strange"? Something a little more creative than "Super Massive".
It's like the "Great Barrier Reef." Sure, that's what it is, a great barrier reef, but certainly you could give it a prettier name, like "Giovanni" or "Rice Pudding".
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
A clever comic I found
I found this the other day and love it. It's so New Yorker Magazine, but also very 1950s Charlie Brown-ish.
It is emblematic of something. It shall be a representation of my personal philosophy, to be emblazoned upon my coat of arms (which happens presently to look like an actual coat made of human arms...our ancestors were cannibals).
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
No more work!
I am on strike.
I have very little desire to grade papers, teach, or prepare food. Instead, I want to do the following:
1. Nothing
2. Sleep
3. Toss and turn
4. Write a bit
5. Have a drink or ten
6. More nothing
7. Take a long aimless walk until I'm sick and tired of walking and my feet can't carry me any further
8. Sleep
9. More tossing and turning
10. More Drinking
11. More writing
12. Pacing
13. Pick up a nasty habit
But under no condition do I want to work. Oh, the kids I teach are fine and all that. That's not the problem, but where is the time for me? That's what I want to know. And I've been sick for nearly over a year, and hopefully if the doctor is right I'm all better now and can have a life and maybe even a sexlife.
I correspond with a guy online. But he lives in Brooklyn! Oh, he seems so clever, and flattering (and I love being flattered), and he loves the way I write (which I love), and intelligent, but not stuck up the way intellectuals can be. And I imagine myself not so much with him (I'm not in love with him, per se), but with someone like him, and how wonderful it might be.
Right now I'd like to live in Berlin. So does he. I could imagine ourselves (or someone like him and me) at the cafes, chatting over coffee, doing whatever it is that Berliners find themselves doing, and I don't know... not working. We wouldn't work. Just sex and cafes and the city and maybe some writing or something like that. But no work. I'm fed up with it.
I want money with no strings attached. I want to be an aristocrat. I'd like to teach, but only for pleasure. Not for pay. And not so many classes, please. And I want to write some more. It drives me nuts when I'm not being creative. I feel so pent up. So bloody annoying. My system shuts down. It's horrible.
Oh, I feel so pathetic when I compare myself to factory workers in sweatshops who do this day in and day out. How do they do it? How can they do it? I can't keep a regular job without complaining.
I have very little desire to grade papers, teach, or prepare food. Instead, I want to do the following:
1. Nothing
2. Sleep
3. Toss and turn
4. Write a bit
5. Have a drink or ten
6. More nothing
7. Take a long aimless walk until I'm sick and tired of walking and my feet can't carry me any further
8. Sleep
9. More tossing and turning
10. More Drinking
11. More writing
12. Pacing
13. Pick up a nasty habit
But under no condition do I want to work. Oh, the kids I teach are fine and all that. That's not the problem, but where is the time for me? That's what I want to know. And I've been sick for nearly over a year, and hopefully if the doctor is right I'm all better now and can have a life and maybe even a sexlife.
I correspond with a guy online. But he lives in Brooklyn! Oh, he seems so clever, and flattering (and I love being flattered), and he loves the way I write (which I love), and intelligent, but not stuck up the way intellectuals can be. And I imagine myself not so much with him (I'm not in love with him, per se), but with someone like him, and how wonderful it might be.
Right now I'd like to live in Berlin. So does he. I could imagine ourselves (or someone like him and me) at the cafes, chatting over coffee, doing whatever it is that Berliners find themselves doing, and I don't know... not working. We wouldn't work. Just sex and cafes and the city and maybe some writing or something like that. But no work. I'm fed up with it.
I want money with no strings attached. I want to be an aristocrat. I'd like to teach, but only for pleasure. Not for pay. And not so many classes, please. And I want to write some more. It drives me nuts when I'm not being creative. I feel so pent up. So bloody annoying. My system shuts down. It's horrible.
Oh, I feel so pathetic when I compare myself to factory workers in sweatshops who do this day in and day out. How do they do it? How can they do it? I can't keep a regular job without complaining.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
"How to Properly Fold a Cat"
It is now nearly a month since Tracey's (my friend) birthday has passed, and I had promised to send her a birthday card, having already explained how I would be unable to attend her birthday party because I was teaching. In truth, I suppose I could have made it to her party. I've made it to her parties before and had a not-so-bad time. But, to be quite honest, we're both not very much alike, but having attended the same school, having spent time going to the same bar, socializing with the same group of friends, having made similar drunk confessions to one another, I suppose we're connected in some ways as friends.
Tracey was also one of the first persons I came out to (Not really, though. Actually, I came out to another friend, Sue, but being aware that it is impossible for Sue to keep a secret, I figured that by telling her I was pretty much telling everyone I knew that I was gay). And, I suppose by associating with one another, each of us is sort of borrowing the image of scandal and decadence that each of us supposedly possesses, she because of her fabulous inheritance, her cocaine-snorting boyfriend, and her ability to go on couples' cruises at a whim and really live it up. I, on the other hand, have my sexual preference to offer her.
The latter bit has always puzzled me because, really, between the two of us, she is by far the more adventurous. Moreover, if I was straight and was dating a girl, she'd merely say, "Oh, that's interesting," but because my interest is in men, she finds the need to speak in a conspiratorial tone, adding "oohs" and "ahs" to the end of every statement I make. As it is, I'm not a particularly fascinating study of the gay male and fag hags could probably do better than to mingle with me. All the same, I am flattered by this and the occasional "Hey, sexy" she'll throw out to me.
Anyway, the birthday card..."
Part of the reason why I have not gotten her a greeting card is because I accidentally put it off. This is true. I have procrastinated and forgot. But, the other, and more significant and hopefully excusable reason is that I tend to be fairly obsessive about the greeting cards I pick out. I tend to either pick them out at bookstores (where blank cards are sold at an abundance), Papayrus (not because the cards are that hot, but the store gives you these cool gold hummingbird stickers you can put on the envelopes), and Hallmark, just because it has a huge selection. Sometimes I'll go to a drug store because every once and a while, there'll be something pithy and ironic worth buying.
Searching for the ideal greeting card is a task and a half and usually takes about an hour of staring at the wall of cards, reading each message, and quietly mocking the sort of person who might purchase each ones. "The fire department has been alerted that its your birthday" reads one with a picture of a cake ablaze with candles. I imagine this being purchased by the same people who make clip-art posters that read "It's time to get on the choo-choo express to success!" Then, there are the cards that bitchy women send one other, usually featuring pictures of Cosmos, shoes, or sepia-tinted photos of little girls who even at a nubile age possess remarkable fashion sense, etc. I imagine if I was more of the Sex in the City type of fag I could see myself purchasing these for someone. Then, there are the religious cards, the inspirational cards, and the ethnic pride cards. I've often considered purchasing these for family members, but restrain myself because I doubt they'd see the irony, instead believing that I suddenly became deep and found Jesus.
I've managed to memorize most of the cards. I can't cite any of them off the top of my head, but I can recognize them instantly and know which store to go to for each occasion. I'm a hunter and I know where to seek my prey.
This time around, because I got a cat, I thought it'd be clever to announce this fact and say happy birthday all at the same time, but short of getting a card with googley eyes (which, I admit, can be fun), I am forced to buy something cutesy. But, I remember seeing this card a long time ago:
I remember seeing this card at a Sav-on (now CVS) and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Part of the reason was because I had been on the hunt for two hours and hadn't eaten anything and my blood sugar was low. Today, I look at it and think: "Hmph. This is kind of funny, I guess." But, at the same time, there's the larger part of me that believes in this card and sincerely thinks it's the best card in the world (that is, for this particular occasion). I mean parents go on and on about how much more valuable a homemade card is than a store-bought one, but I disagree. Considering the expense of time and energy I put into searching for these cards, and considering that I choose them not only with myself in mind, but the person and the occasion, I think my cards are just as meaningful--if not more--than anything some six-year-old could construct with dry macaroni and glue.
This card is the card. I know it. I can sense it. And when I finally find it, either tomorrow or two years from now, I'm going to buy two. One for me. I'm going to frame it and hang mine on the wall and claim it as my personal philosophy. The other, I'll purchase for Tracey and tell her how long and hard I searched for it and prey upon her sense of guilt and gratitude. After all, this is not just any card, but my card. The best card. When you think about it, she should send me a thank you card for it. And, if she doesn't know which thank you card to buy, I have a few in mind that I could suggest to her.
Tracey was also one of the first persons I came out to (Not really, though. Actually, I came out to another friend, Sue, but being aware that it is impossible for Sue to keep a secret, I figured that by telling her I was pretty much telling everyone I knew that I was gay). And, I suppose by associating with one another, each of us is sort of borrowing the image of scandal and decadence that each of us supposedly possesses, she because of her fabulous inheritance, her cocaine-snorting boyfriend, and her ability to go on couples' cruises at a whim and really live it up. I, on the other hand, have my sexual preference to offer her.
The latter bit has always puzzled me because, really, between the two of us, she is by far the more adventurous. Moreover, if I was straight and was dating a girl, she'd merely say, "Oh, that's interesting," but because my interest is in men, she finds the need to speak in a conspiratorial tone, adding "oohs" and "ahs" to the end of every statement I make. As it is, I'm not a particularly fascinating study of the gay male and fag hags could probably do better than to mingle with me. All the same, I am flattered by this and the occasional "Hey, sexy" she'll throw out to me.
Anyway, the birthday card..."
Part of the reason why I have not gotten her a greeting card is because I accidentally put it off. This is true. I have procrastinated and forgot. But, the other, and more significant and hopefully excusable reason is that I tend to be fairly obsessive about the greeting cards I pick out. I tend to either pick them out at bookstores (where blank cards are sold at an abundance), Papayrus (not because the cards are that hot, but the store gives you these cool gold hummingbird stickers you can put on the envelopes), and Hallmark, just because it has a huge selection. Sometimes I'll go to a drug store because every once and a while, there'll be something pithy and ironic worth buying.
Searching for the ideal greeting card is a task and a half and usually takes about an hour of staring at the wall of cards, reading each message, and quietly mocking the sort of person who might purchase each ones. "The fire department has been alerted that its your birthday" reads one with a picture of a cake ablaze with candles. I imagine this being purchased by the same people who make clip-art posters that read "It's time to get on the choo-choo express to success!" Then, there are the cards that bitchy women send one other, usually featuring pictures of Cosmos, shoes, or sepia-tinted photos of little girls who even at a nubile age possess remarkable fashion sense, etc. I imagine if I was more of the Sex in the City type of fag I could see myself purchasing these for someone. Then, there are the religious cards, the inspirational cards, and the ethnic pride cards. I've often considered purchasing these for family members, but restrain myself because I doubt they'd see the irony, instead believing that I suddenly became deep and found Jesus.
I've managed to memorize most of the cards. I can't cite any of them off the top of my head, but I can recognize them instantly and know which store to go to for each occasion. I'm a hunter and I know where to seek my prey.
This time around, because I got a cat, I thought it'd be clever to announce this fact and say happy birthday all at the same time, but short of getting a card with googley eyes (which, I admit, can be fun), I am forced to buy something cutesy. But, I remember seeing this card a long time ago:
I remember seeing this card at a Sav-on (now CVS) and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Part of the reason was because I had been on the hunt for two hours and hadn't eaten anything and my blood sugar was low. Today, I look at it and think: "Hmph. This is kind of funny, I guess." But, at the same time, there's the larger part of me that believes in this card and sincerely thinks it's the best card in the world (that is, for this particular occasion). I mean parents go on and on about how much more valuable a homemade card is than a store-bought one, but I disagree. Considering the expense of time and energy I put into searching for these cards, and considering that I choose them not only with myself in mind, but the person and the occasion, I think my cards are just as meaningful--if not more--than anything some six-year-old could construct with dry macaroni and glue.
This card is the card. I know it. I can sense it. And when I finally find it, either tomorrow or two years from now, I'm going to buy two. One for me. I'm going to frame it and hang mine on the wall and claim it as my personal philosophy. The other, I'll purchase for Tracey and tell her how long and hard I searched for it and prey upon her sense of guilt and gratitude. After all, this is not just any card, but my card. The best card. When you think about it, she should send me a thank you card for it. And, if she doesn't know which thank you card to buy, I have a few in mind that I could suggest to her.
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