So I dropped the 5-lb spinach and ricotta cheese lasagna I was struggling with and about to put in the oven and forwarded this post. Two big things that now need fixing: 1. What to have for dinner, and 2. Several large pieces of white porcelain embedded in my feet.
That lasagna is like, so totally?! Over!!??
Yes, I have too much time on my hands. But no lasagna on my hands. That cannot be ignored, not even by me, with my Ph.D. in procrastination from the University of Dave and my two-sizes-too-big terrycloth replica of Jackie Kennedy’s Dallas motorcade pink Chanel suit.
I have been accused of trolling the Innernet. Troll! Feh! Which I’m pretty sure is Latin for “well, I never!” Listen, you may call it “trolling”, my stern little mistress of the punishment ballet that is my online existence. I call it “staycation”. And what do you call a troll who trolls the trolls? Huh?
Yeah, well. Take another Vicodin and get back to me on that one, why don’t you?
Now could god skip my blessing before he kills me with his kindness and his mysterious ways and please move on to the Zika virus and trumpismus and that ferry filled with women and children that’s always sinking in the Indian Ocean.
People! god’s message is simple and totally like awesome!!?? You are being tested! Don’t get on the friggin’ ferry. OK? Don’t catch a virus and don’t add to the sum total of the world’s trumpismus.
Which are all ways of saying the same thing.
Beautiful Fluttering Butterfly Sparkly Totally Awesome??!! Thought for the day:
I could eat an entire bag of igneous rocks fresh from the volcano and still not understand people.
There is a certain type of online commentator who rears his head (and they are overwhelmingly male) on issues typically described as liberal concerns: Queer equality, Feminism, social welfare and so on.
I call them Geezer Libertarians. White, male, heterosexual; minimally educated, middle-aged, sub-clinically depressed – their characteristics can easily be read through their statements and their writing styles.
In Britain, these men are caricatured with a supposedly typical signature that might appear on a letter to the editor in The Times or The Telegraph: “Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells”; that city’s name being a byword for everything white, middle-class and complacent.
Wherever they exist, their default posture is outrage, in varying degrees; their emotional stance, scorn for anything that benefits or even pays attention to another demographic; their identifying sound, the splutter.
Their grumbling, carping responses, their symbolic pats on the back and “here here!”s, are the male bonding exercises, the tire-kicking, of men stuck at the emotional and intellectual level of alienated teenagers; the surreptitious glance at the next guy in the shower has been replaced online with a quick glance at his neighbour’s irrelevant opinions; the hope in both cases being that he will measure up, by which he really means, “belong”. At the root is self-imposed male isolation and fear.
If you read the comments to this article, you will see that heterosexual males went approximately crazy with the idea that the police should issue a formal apology for harmful actions in the past. The fact that it concerned (mostly) gay men was the cherry on the red flag – if I may mix my metaphors…
(Backgrounder: On February 5th, 1981, Toronto Police raided three bathhouses, causing substantial property damage and arresting 300 men on “bawdy house” charges. These shocking events galvanized the gay community, who staged a protest to voice their outrage. The events led to Toronto’s first Gay Pride, in June the same year. Fast-forward to June 2016, 35 years later, on the eve of Toronto Pride – now a massive and world-famous event taking place over a month, and drawing over a million people to the city – when Toronto Police Chief Mark Saunders announced that he would formally apologize to the gay community for the raids.)
My favorite comment: “How about everybody apologize for everything!” – a comment so devoid of meaning or substance, of anything except a pathetic cry of “Me too!!”, that I marveled that anyone would actually think they had contributed to an intelligent discussion by posting it. The option of saying nothing when one has nothing to say had apparently not occurred to him.
An apology? Of course. The original actions sent the message to society that gay men were not worthy of respect or dignity; that it was OK to mistreat them. The apology sends the message that it’s not OK, and that we are worthy.
It’s been common knowledge for years now that people in Kansas don’t believe in evolution and insist the earth is only 6,000 years old – (that’s younger than Cher, if you need a reference – please see conceptualization, above. I know, right??).
This raises serious scientific questions.
Thing is – doesn’t their non-belief in evolution PROVE that there’s no evolution? Or is it just Kanzanians who did not evolve?
Is there such a thing as selective evolution, you know, evolution just for smart people?
Such a variant of evolution would obviously bypass Kansas completely, if not most of the mainland U.S.A.! This could explain a lot!
There is, it seems, a huge gap in the fossil record, where – if evolution were true – there should be any number of prominent Kanzanians. I’m thinking Amelia Earhart, Bob Dole, Arlen Specter, Marlin Fitzwater – of course, this being Kansas, some of their fossils are probably still walking around. Except Amelia, who, along with fictional character and fellow Kanzanian Dorothy Gale¹, was just kind of embarrassed about the whole Kansas thing and “disappeared”.
Yeah, and her stupid little dog, too. Absolutely.
Anyhoo, all of this hard evidence leads experts in Kanzology to postulate that god, when he, like, created everything all at once, reserved a special lineage for Kansas apart from regular humans.
So god’s schedule was like, for example: All the lakes, all the mountains, all the meadows, all the squirrels, all the cows, all the dogs, all the trees – then probably a coffee break! Jeez! and maybe a light snack like pizza poppers or even a Happy Meal –
THEN – back to work on day two: All the flowers, all the oceans, all the giraffes, all the insects, all the spiders, all the mushrooms. And so forth.
Then human beings. Then Kanzanians. You get the idea? Separate.
So Kanzanians are like god’s chosen, unless god was having one of his “moods” or actually just forgot and stuck them in at the end.
You know, and can I just say, seriously. It’s a conundrum.
Re: The conceptualization, see above, which is just a fancy moniker for, like, a crude Photoshop composite.
As likely as the creationist thing sounds, I have some timing issues, and Cher, see above, is the spanner in the gears.
Honestly. Take a look at the fake conceptualization. Can you REALLY picture Cher riding a dinosaur, see above? I mean, I grant you, this is someone who wears her pubes as a red carpet ensemble with her armpit hair as a wrap, so sure, the fashion adds up – but basically the idea is ludicrous!
And secondly, check out her face, once again see above. Her fake birth certificate, see below, gives a date 8,000 years ago, so her face, see above, would be, like, MUCH more haggard and wrinkled by the time she’d lived those 2,000 years before the formation of the earth! Right?
Like, has this not OCCURRED to anyone before?
And yet another mystery, what did she eat, I ask you, in the frozen wastes of space and time before the almighty got his shit together? Not even a microwave to defrost a Bird’s Eye TV dinner! Which were probably not even invented yet, so let’s say, Swanson.
OK, whichever TV dinner was around, she could toss it into a quasar, maybe, but the cooking time of one-trillionth of a trillionth of a nanosecond as compared to the conventional oven or microwave methods is tricky to manoeuvre at the best of times, without, you know, the floating-totally-weightless thing which puts the kibosh on getting your bearings with regular space-time coordinates.
And don’t even THINK about if she like, got impatient and leaned over the quasar surface to see if the Salisbury steak was done before the apple crisp.
Holy anomalous mother of christ! A lifetime of hair abuse up the big ol’ dippity do! FOOM!
I rest my case. This is the kind of rigorously scientific fake conceptualization based entirely on made-up data and laughably preposterous biblical hogwash that gets young-earthers where they live.
When I first visited New York City, in 2012, I went by bus, and distinguished myself at the end of the 10-hour journey, as we prepared to plunge into the Lincoln Tunnel, by hyperventilating noisily on my first sight of the glittering Manhattan skyline.
This, I reminded myself, was what I had been waiting for all my life: my homecoming to the city that had never been my home, my “Midnight Cowboy” moment. It was merely a passing inconvenience that, to any casual observer, I was apparently in the throes of a psychotic meltdown or expiring from anaphylactic shock.
Luckily I was in New York City, and no one paid me the least attention.
I stayed in a hotel on the Lower East Side, Chinatown to be precise – I had chosen only the price range on a website that for some peculiar reason made hotel choosing into a kind of location lottery – a hotel whose rundown façade filled me with alarm, yet which, once I’d settled in and gotten my New York legs on, turned out to be not only acceptable, but charming.
This alarm-to-charm switchover was a metaphor for the city itself, and an apt first lesson for a New York neophyte, namely: That anywhere else, a scary, too-small, sub-standard living unit might be a slum, but in The Big Apple it was a find.
For the next five days I set about living the way I fancied a real New Yorker lived, under the bemused, expert guidance of my friend, John, and heartened by the Looney Tunes capering of his fox terrier, Flora.
I brazened through Manhattan as though it were my private estate; traveled to Brooklyn on the subway (a quick and merciless ad hoc training session, consisting of a demonstrated swipe and a raised eyebrow, both administered by a real New Yorker in under five seconds, took place at my first, unsuccessful, attempt to mate MTA card and turnstile); and refused to be a tourist, to gawk at Times Square, slouch around in trainers, or purchase tickets to some Broadway show.
I did, on the other hand, at 611 Broadway and purely by accident, find a branch of Crate and Barrel, where I bought two beautiful, perfect, plain and pure white cups and saucers from a deliciously snarky saleslady.
Everything about this saleslady was New York to me, from the nonchalant elegance of her outfit and the asymmetric perfection of her haircut, to her perfectly deployed daytime makeup and important yet self-deprecating jewellery; when she greeted me with, “Can I help you?”, it was impossible to miss her silky undertone of Let me save you from yourself.
She had the air that working at Crate and Barrel was somewhat beneath her, but that just for my sake she would conquer her distaste and make a noticeable effort. I indicated the pure white cups and saucers I wanted, and to her credit, she whisked them off the display for wrapping as though no other selection would have pleased her quite as much. It was an admirable performance that somewhat mitigated my failure to have purchased tickets to anything at the Harold Clurman Theatre.
Everyone in New York, or so it seemed, dressed to impress; walked, talked and ate to impress. To step out of my alarming-then-charming hotel was to make an entrance, and god help you if you ended up on that stage in sweat pants and Crocs, with sticky palms and searching for your lines like an actors’ nightmare. I soon understood that no effort I could yet make, no straining at fashion, or feigned worldliness or fast talking, would make the grade; I would never, not yet anyway, pass. The best I could hope for was not to be instantly labelled an out-of-towner.
For my first attempt, that would do.
Five days later, happier and wiser, I was no longer a New York virgin. My budget was blown; I’d seen the Monet waterlilies and Picasso’s “Le Desmoiselles d’Avignon”; I had shopped for food, been asked for directions, and made dinner for John; I’d been to Flatbush and, by the time I’d seen a guy jerking off at 23rd Street Station at four A.M., I felt reasonably confident that I’d covered all of the key New York experiences. And I had acquired absolutely nothing that could be called a souvenir.
Nothing except those two beautiful, perfect, plain and pure white cups and saucers.
That evening I packed them with care for the bus ride home, taping the tissue paper in place and nestling them in the folds of a sweater so they wouldn’t be jostled. On the Megabus, all through the night, I checked on them hourly, as though I feared they might spontaneously crack and disintegrate as Egyptian relics are supposed to. Sometime around Rochester I awoke with a start, believing that I’d only dreamed I’d packed them; that I’d actually abandoned them in the Chinatown hotel room.
Once installed in my Toronto apartment, my cups exerted a special power. They created a morning ritual around themselves, made the mundane fact of caffeine addiction into a Zen ceremony. I loved the dark reflective pool of steaming coffee held in the thin circle of white porcelain, loved how the cup felt in my hand, how well balanced, how perfectly it met my lips. I loved that we, the cups and saucers and I, had finally met, that we shared our secret of New York.
The cups and saucers began to relax, let their hair down, so to speak. The newness and optimism dissipated, and they became subtly but unmistakably aloof—
so that you felt they’d let you drink out of them, but would be hyper-vigilant for any rude noises you might make, and they’d watch to make sure you always used the saucer, so you shouldn’t dribble on your nice pants— klutz! –
– yet they were no less dear to me for all their little foibles.
I cherished those cups for the next four years; I guarded them like a father guards his nubile fifteen-year-old daughter. Not everyone got to drink out of those cups. Sometimes I would use one myself, but give my guest a two-dollar President’s Choice mug, just to make my position on their status clear, vis-à-vis my good dishes.
Sometime during the last reign of roommate terror, both the saucers got smashed in the Great Late Night Dishwashing Debacle, a tale too bloody to recount today. I must emphasize: Both saucers.
But I still had the cups.
Now it was like I’d bought my daughter a sports car and she was staying out late driving around with boys and getting home JUST in time so I couldn’t say anything about it.
Then one day — a day like any other day— I was in the kitchen and lo! the spirit of my mother shone round about me and I was sore afraid, and my arm made a great sweeping mother-movement and clattered through the stack of dishes like the rampaging hand of god and swept one of the cups off the draining board.
I actually cried out: “NOOOOOO!” A great big werewolf howl. As though howling could arrest the fall. As though how I felt could change anything.
After all those weeks and months, after four years of caring for and protecting and chaperoning that cup, it was, in the end, me that broke it. Little old careless mother- distracted me.
This is the way the world ends. Love, life, your white cups, your nice pants. Your marriage, your job, your great-aunts and your grandsons. All the things you care for.
Everything: All the people you mistrusted! All your wariness and boundaries and push-backs! And then it’s you that messes up! You!
I actually contemplated smashing the other cup deliberately, right then, just to get it over with. You know what I’m saying?
You only ever see the Chrysler Building once for the first time.