The story of Marcus Shrenker is fascinating. Staging your own death to try to slip out the back door and try on a new life when you've fucked up the one you've got isn't a new idea. Lots of people have tried, and I'm sure plenty have pulled a fast one. But it's 2009. Hijinks like that aren't likely to succeed, what with everything being traced, tracked and recorded.
Faking your death to avoid legal, financial, social and personal troubles may not be an original solution, but Shrenker gets credit for a ballsy attempt. The whole thing makes me wonder, though, what kind of asshole does that? What was his plan? What was he going to do, mosey out to the wild west and put his stakes down on a homestead? Take a wife and work the land under an assumed name? Forge a new identity? How exactly was he going to pull it off?
While perhaps attractive to those who are as delusional as they are dedicated to their own survival, faking your own death looks like a bureaucratic nightmare. The people who go that route probably spent inordinate amounts of time and energy cheating on tests or plagiarizing term papers when they were in school. While it always seemed like more effort than it was worth, constructing elaborate schemes to cheat on homework and tests, cheating certainly doesn't require the nerve or the crazy it takes to jump out of a plane, ask the 5-0 for assistance a few hundred miles away from your crash site, go on the lam and slice up your wrists at the local KOA all in a pathetic attempt to avoid being a man and facing consequences.
What a fucking tool.
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Who's Been Reading SWC?
My friend, Lady, brought this article to my attention. Thanks, Lady! Even more documentation of the crop of prostitots being cultivated all around us.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
If the Bra Fits
Cruising the aisles of Target as I so often do, I stepped five paces past the diapers to the girls' section. What did I see?
Padded bras.
I stopped my cart and said, "Holy--" I almost finished that with, "fucking SHIT," but I saw a nice middle-aged lady who turned and looked at me. She turned her head to see why I was aghast.
"Oh, I know. It gets even worse. They sell thongs for little girls, too. Not here, I don't think, but they have them. Isn't it awful?"
Usually, my stomach doesn't churn like that when looking at items on display at Target. But as I reached out to feel the material of the tiny bra cup, surprised at the density of the padding, I shuddered. I felt a wave of sickness for not only the prepubescent girls who feel they need to appear chesty, but for the mothers who actually purchase padded bras for their little girls.
What the hell is going on?
Mitchell's boss, Cody, recently had an interesting discussion on his blog regarding an exclusive country club in Phoenix that has a men's only restaurant section. Cody's question was: Should the law legislate such a separate facility illegal? The discussion was certainly interesting, and I was the first woman to sound off on the topic.
My answer was No. The government shouldn't intervene because there are far more important gender issues to fight than whether or not rich women could have a steak with their husbands, or at all, in the restaurant. I was chastised by a few of the responders. Apparently, my answers weren't feminist enough. At first, I felt patronized and annoyed by their remarks, but after I regrouped and thought about why I answered the way I did, I realized I felt the same as I had before.
This is an example of a real battle worth fighting: making people ask why manufacturers and retail outlets would ever see fit to make lingerie whose sole purpose is to enhance a female's sexuality and then market it to children. Little girls. Making mothers ask themselves why they would ever agree to purchase items that make their daughters appear as though they had breasts when they hadn't even yet begun puberty.
Yes, I know: puberty is beginning sooner in girls. I've heard the news. I remember when JS developed boobs in third grade and had to wear a bra by fourth grade. That was a terrible time for that poor girl, but that's not my point. If you already have boobs as a little girl, then sure, you need a bra. But no child needs to accentuate what she doesn't already have for the purposes of looking older, more ripe.
Why do marketers feel the need to apply the "sex sells" theory to children? Why does a little girl need to feel less worthy and more unacceptable unless she has at least the illusion of a sexy body? What kind of parent wants their pre-teen child to exude sex appeal? These questions are at the root of gender issues and problems in our society.
I'm not going to say it's awful to be a female. I love being a woman, and I love being with other women (socially, not sexually, so quit pervin'. But, lesbians, you are all right with me, sisters). I will say, though, that the challenges that face young girls and grown women aren't getting better with time. The challenges have simply become more difficult to identify and define.
If it's ok to shill undergarments to enhance sex appeal to little girls, that indicates a fundamental problem with the way corporate America and American consumers view what females are supposed to be.
If it's ok to start poking at female body insecurity before puberty in order to increase sales, there is a fundamental problem with how females are viewed and how we view ourselves in this society.
If it's ok for girls to flaunt sex appeal before they can even truly understand its ramifications and consequences but NOT properly educate them about what sex is, there is a fundamental problem with the very weave of our society.
I had a great conversation with my friends one night about plastic surgery. We talked about some girls we know who had had "some work done" and we talked about my small-ass titties and what a drag it is trying to become ok with myself the way nature made me. They, like everyone, suggested I just get a boob-job if it's that important to me.
It's not.
It is far more important for me to try to overcome what the rest of the world sees as acceptable and desirable and love myself for who and what I am that it is for me to lie down, get gassed, and undergo a violent procedure so that guy over there will think, "Damn. Nice tits." Or so everyone will admire my rack, or so my husband will love me more.
Do I think it's wrong for other women to do it? Not at all.
But for the women who do alter themselves surgically to fit the profile of "perfect" or "sexy", are they going to look at their daughter's pleading eyes while they brandish little bras and thongs and give in because they understand the insecurities they feel? Or are they going to say, "No. That won't make you love yourself more."
My point is, I'm thirty-one years old. I've struggled my whole life to at least start loving myself for the way I was made, for who and what I am. I'm going to battle hard feelings toward myself for not being naturally tall, thin and curvy with perfect hair and teeth. I, like most other people, have good days and bad days where I accept myself as I am more or less. I'm old enough to think critically by now. I can see the difference between illusion and reality, and I know it's important to find a way to accept myself the way I am.
But what about tiny little girls who haven't even learned long division? They haven't even learned what a uterus IS, let alone what it does. And we promote their desire to mimic sexy women by masquerading their prepubescent, non-existent breasts with padded bras? And accentuate their asses in thong underwear?
How is that alright? And what are we going to do with this burgeoning generation of women who view themselves in the ways we're currently teaching them to? To me, this is a big deal. To me, this indicates that the girls who are up and coming in this society are going to be even more confused and self-hating that I was at that age, in junior high, in high school and college. In grad school, when I got married, when I became a mother ...
Do I think the law should legislate against designing sexy lingerie for children? People would have to notice and care before that even became an issue. While this topic is enough to raise my ire, I don't really see a whole lot of people caring about whether or not retail outlets sell kiddie lingerie. What I do think is important is to make other people aware of it. My part in that will be to tell everyone who will listen what I saw, why I think it's wrong and of the multitude of levels that it sickens me. And you can bet your sweet collective ass Target Corp. is getting a letter from yours truly.
This is a tumultuous time to be a female, especially a child or someone who doesn't care to think critically, and instead absorbs the messages fed to us by the media and perpetuated by people who either don't know that the messages are contradictory or are just plain wrong. While it appears that women today have power in education, the workforce, and in society in general, it also appears that we're still supposed to be ready to demonstrate our sex appeal by age seven. How far have we really come?
Who is going to teach little girls to develop their intellects and personalities, their "selves", which go far beyond how they look and how attractive they are, how close they can get to reaching the physical ideal. Who is going to teach and reinforce the apparently ridiculous and fantastical notion that they are so much more than tits and ass?
Padded bras.
I stopped my cart and said, "Holy--" I almost finished that with, "fucking SHIT," but I saw a nice middle-aged lady who turned and looked at me. She turned her head to see why I was aghast.
"Oh, I know. It gets even worse. They sell thongs for little girls, too. Not here, I don't think, but they have them. Isn't it awful?"
Usually, my stomach doesn't churn like that when looking at items on display at Target. But as I reached out to feel the material of the tiny bra cup, surprised at the density of the padding, I shuddered. I felt a wave of sickness for not only the prepubescent girls who feel they need to appear chesty, but for the mothers who actually purchase padded bras for their little girls.
What the hell is going on?
Mitchell's boss, Cody, recently had an interesting discussion on his blog regarding an exclusive country club in Phoenix that has a men's only restaurant section. Cody's question was: Should the law legislate such a separate facility illegal? The discussion was certainly interesting, and I was the first woman to sound off on the topic.
My answer was No. The government shouldn't intervene because there are far more important gender issues to fight than whether or not rich women could have a steak with their husbands, or at all, in the restaurant. I was chastised by a few of the responders. Apparently, my answers weren't feminist enough. At first, I felt patronized and annoyed by their remarks, but after I regrouped and thought about why I answered the way I did, I realized I felt the same as I had before.
This is an example of a real battle worth fighting: making people ask why manufacturers and retail outlets would ever see fit to make lingerie whose sole purpose is to enhance a female's sexuality and then market it to children. Little girls. Making mothers ask themselves why they would ever agree to purchase items that make their daughters appear as though they had breasts when they hadn't even yet begun puberty.
Yes, I know: puberty is beginning sooner in girls. I've heard the news. I remember when JS developed boobs in third grade and had to wear a bra by fourth grade. That was a terrible time for that poor girl, but that's not my point. If you already have boobs as a little girl, then sure, you need a bra. But no child needs to accentuate what she doesn't already have for the purposes of looking older, more ripe.
Why do marketers feel the need to apply the "sex sells" theory to children? Why does a little girl need to feel less worthy and more unacceptable unless she has at least the illusion of a sexy body? What kind of parent wants their pre-teen child to exude sex appeal? These questions are at the root of gender issues and problems in our society.
I'm not going to say it's awful to be a female. I love being a woman, and I love being with other women (socially, not sexually, so quit pervin'. But, lesbians, you are all right with me, sisters). I will say, though, that the challenges that face young girls and grown women aren't getting better with time. The challenges have simply become more difficult to identify and define.
If it's ok to shill undergarments to enhance sex appeal to little girls, that indicates a fundamental problem with the way corporate America and American consumers view what females are supposed to be.
If it's ok to start poking at female body insecurity before puberty in order to increase sales, there is a fundamental problem with how females are viewed and how we view ourselves in this society.
If it's ok for girls to flaunt sex appeal before they can even truly understand its ramifications and consequences but NOT properly educate them about what sex is, there is a fundamental problem with the very weave of our society.
I had a great conversation with my friends one night about plastic surgery. We talked about some girls we know who had had "some work done" and we talked about my small-ass titties and what a drag it is trying to become ok with myself the way nature made me. They, like everyone, suggested I just get a boob-job if it's that important to me.
It's not.
It is far more important for me to try to overcome what the rest of the world sees as acceptable and desirable and love myself for who and what I am that it is for me to lie down, get gassed, and undergo a violent procedure so that guy over there will think, "Damn. Nice tits." Or so everyone will admire my rack, or so my husband will love me more.
Do I think it's wrong for other women to do it? Not at all.
But for the women who do alter themselves surgically to fit the profile of "perfect" or "sexy", are they going to look at their daughter's pleading eyes while they brandish little bras and thongs and give in because they understand the insecurities they feel? Or are they going to say, "No. That won't make you love yourself more."
My point is, I'm thirty-one years old. I've struggled my whole life to at least start loving myself for the way I was made, for who and what I am. I'm going to battle hard feelings toward myself for not being naturally tall, thin and curvy with perfect hair and teeth. I, like most other people, have good days and bad days where I accept myself as I am more or less. I'm old enough to think critically by now. I can see the difference between illusion and reality, and I know it's important to find a way to accept myself the way I am.
But what about tiny little girls who haven't even learned long division? They haven't even learned what a uterus IS, let alone what it does. And we promote their desire to mimic sexy women by masquerading their prepubescent, non-existent breasts with padded bras? And accentuate their asses in thong underwear?
How is that alright? And what are we going to do with this burgeoning generation of women who view themselves in the ways we're currently teaching them to? To me, this is a big deal. To me, this indicates that the girls who are up and coming in this society are going to be even more confused and self-hating that I was at that age, in junior high, in high school and college. In grad school, when I got married, when I became a mother ...
Do I think the law should legislate against designing sexy lingerie for children? People would have to notice and care before that even became an issue. While this topic is enough to raise my ire, I don't really see a whole lot of people caring about whether or not retail outlets sell kiddie lingerie. What I do think is important is to make other people aware of it. My part in that will be to tell everyone who will listen what I saw, why I think it's wrong and of the multitude of levels that it sickens me. And you can bet your sweet collective ass Target Corp. is getting a letter from yours truly.
This is a tumultuous time to be a female, especially a child or someone who doesn't care to think critically, and instead absorbs the messages fed to us by the media and perpetuated by people who either don't know that the messages are contradictory or are just plain wrong. While it appears that women today have power in education, the workforce, and in society in general, it also appears that we're still supposed to be ready to demonstrate our sex appeal by age seven. How far have we really come?
Who is going to teach little girls to develop their intellects and personalities, their "selves", which go far beyond how they look and how attractive they are, how close they can get to reaching the physical ideal. Who is going to teach and reinforce the apparently ridiculous and fantastical notion that they are so much more than tits and ass?
Thursday, July 3, 2008
CTW, OCD and Me
Kenny recently broke his miraculous "sleep in til 9 a.m. streak", which means I find myself watching children's programming earlier than I'd like. But when it comes to PBS's offerings, I can't help but love Arthur.
Today's episode featured Buster the bunny getting called out by the rest of the gang for less-than-stellar hygiene. The smelly little rabbit was unaware of just how many germs seethed upon every surface, and didn't prioritize washing his hands or his trademark harmonica. His friends had an intervention before his much anticipated pool party, in hopes that he would shape up and not be a dirty bunny who pees in the pool or blows his nasty harmonica spit everywhere.
In an effort to educate him, one of his egg-head buddies showed him a microscope slide with germs, showing Buster that they do indeed exist, even if they're not visible to the naked eye. He laughed it off, commenting that the germs looked like "wild rice". That night he began to dream of germs. The reality that they are everywhere, but unseen, settled into his consciousness.
This dream kicked off a mighty spell of OCD. It was awesome.
Homeboy went to school wearing hockey mitts. All he could see was hallucinations of germ-clouds on every surface. He went totally insane, washing his hands every three seconds, avoiding touching anything in his path. He resorted to wearing a gas mask to his own pool party and even chucked out his treasured harmonica. Finally, his friends were able to chill him out without the benefits of pharmacology. It is a cartoon, after all.
It brings me back to my own childhood, and my own foray into the world of OCD. Strangely enough, it was another woodland creature that brought about my episode: the raccoon. My mother had read somewhere that raccoon shit had roundworm larvae in it that, if accidentally ingested by, say, a careless kid in a sandbox, could invade the bloodstream and eat brain tissue. I lost my fucking mind. Sandboxes were my favorite thing ever, and I lived in an area with plenty of raccoons.
All my mom wanted me to do was wash my hands when I came in from playing. That's all.
Instead, I launched into my own little world of paranoia, which could only be assuaged through obsessive and compulsive hand washing. The mere though of a raccoon had me standing before the sink, scrubbing away at my poor baby mitts. I washed my hands so much the skin cracked, thereby allowing all manner of germs entry to my system. Oh, how the irony of that was lost on me.
Fortunately, like Buster, I finally found the shit that I had lost. Somewhere between my ninth and tenth birthdays, I finally realized that I had taken my irrational fear of accidentally ingesting raccoon shit to a crazy level. And, as most fears that I eventually face tend to do, I became inured to the terror or germs. I mean, I'm all about a good hand-washing (another bit of irony that was lost on me: my nemesis, the raccoon, also likes the whole hand-washing bit), but the idea of rogue germs invading my body and eating my brain lost its power. Well, that's not entirely true: I have a justifiable terror of MRSA. But come on; no one can blame me for that.
I suppose the lesson in all of this is if your kid or a kid you know ever goes batshit crazy and becomes an OCD handwasher, eh, don't worry about it. Buster came to his senses in about ten minutes, thanks to his meddling friends. It took me a few months to outgrow my fear of death by raccoon shit, but I got there eventually, and without the help of modern psychology or pharmaceuticals.
What's my advice? Be careful how you expose the truth of germs to kids. You think you're just trying to be helpful and informative, but you just never know what's going to set someone off on their own neurotic little path.
Today's episode featured Buster the bunny getting called out by the rest of the gang for less-than-stellar hygiene. The smelly little rabbit was unaware of just how many germs seethed upon every surface, and didn't prioritize washing his hands or his trademark harmonica. His friends had an intervention before his much anticipated pool party, in hopes that he would shape up and not be a dirty bunny who pees in the pool or blows his nasty harmonica spit everywhere.
In an effort to educate him, one of his egg-head buddies showed him a microscope slide with germs, showing Buster that they do indeed exist, even if they're not visible to the naked eye. He laughed it off, commenting that the germs looked like "wild rice". That night he began to dream of germs. The reality that they are everywhere, but unseen, settled into his consciousness.
This dream kicked off a mighty spell of OCD. It was awesome.
Homeboy went to school wearing hockey mitts. All he could see was hallucinations of germ-clouds on every surface. He went totally insane, washing his hands every three seconds, avoiding touching anything in his path. He resorted to wearing a gas mask to his own pool party and even chucked out his treasured harmonica. Finally, his friends were able to chill him out without the benefits of pharmacology. It is a cartoon, after all.
It brings me back to my own childhood, and my own foray into the world of OCD. Strangely enough, it was another woodland creature that brought about my episode: the raccoon. My mother had read somewhere that raccoon shit had roundworm larvae in it that, if accidentally ingested by, say, a careless kid in a sandbox, could invade the bloodstream and eat brain tissue. I lost my fucking mind. Sandboxes were my favorite thing ever, and I lived in an area with plenty of raccoons.
All my mom wanted me to do was wash my hands when I came in from playing. That's all.
Instead, I launched into my own little world of paranoia, which could only be assuaged through obsessive and compulsive hand washing. The mere though of a raccoon had me standing before the sink, scrubbing away at my poor baby mitts. I washed my hands so much the skin cracked, thereby allowing all manner of germs entry to my system. Oh, how the irony of that was lost on me.
Fortunately, like Buster, I finally found the shit that I had lost. Somewhere between my ninth and tenth birthdays, I finally realized that I had taken my irrational fear of accidentally ingesting raccoon shit to a crazy level. And, as most fears that I eventually face tend to do, I became inured to the terror or germs. I mean, I'm all about a good hand-washing (another bit of irony that was lost on me: my nemesis, the raccoon, also likes the whole hand-washing bit), but the idea of rogue germs invading my body and eating my brain lost its power. Well, that's not entirely true: I have a justifiable terror of MRSA. But come on; no one can blame me for that.
I suppose the lesson in all of this is if your kid or a kid you know ever goes batshit crazy and becomes an OCD handwasher, eh, don't worry about it. Buster came to his senses in about ten minutes, thanks to his meddling friends. It took me a few months to outgrow my fear of death by raccoon shit, but I got there eventually, and without the help of modern psychology or pharmaceuticals.
What's my advice? Be careful how you expose the truth of germs to kids. You think you're just trying to be helpful and informative, but you just never know what's going to set someone off on their own neurotic little path.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
A Few Things
Let's get a few things straight: the Sex and the City movie was for shit, wine cubes are Tits and Ass Part 7 and this YouTube video sent to me by my dear friend, Season, is too funny not to share.
Let me elaborate.
I went to see the SatC movie knowing full well it was going to be an overlong episode that never needed to be made in the first place. Of course it was going to suck, but I was compelled to see for myself, having thought the show was the ultimate brain candy. Besides, I cannot resist an outing with my Greek Girls.
I'll lay it out to you: the movie distilled all of the cliches, puns, over-the-top fashion, vast shortage of character development and weak plot/subplots into a liqueur of total and complete schlock. All the same, cracking jokes, chowing on smuggled candy and criticizing the movie equaled a fun night out. My verdict? Rent it when you're hung over, smoke a joint, drink cheap champagne mimosas and let your brain cells die a glorious death. *Spoiler alert!
Second on the agenda is my new friend, Wine Cube. I can't even tell you the name brand because it's all the way in the fridge and I'm all the way in my brown chair, but I can tell you the concept if you're not already familiar: it's box of wine of the future. Little juiceboxes for mommy. Nice. Four "single" servings of the wine of your choice. And let me tell you, it's a big pour.
Finally, I encourage you to check out the link. It wasn't just because I had consumed one "single" serving of my wine cube. It's not even because I became 70% stupider (more stupid?) after watching the Sex in the City movie. It's just a fine parody of a popular R&B song, and anyone with a sense of humor can appreciate it.
That's it. That's all I got. Thanks for letting me purge my estrogen-fueled demons. Not like you had any choice.
*Charlotte shits her pants.
PS: Buzzed blogging may result in nonsense and typographical errors.
Let me elaborate.
I went to see the SatC movie knowing full well it was going to be an overlong episode that never needed to be made in the first place. Of course it was going to suck, but I was compelled to see for myself, having thought the show was the ultimate brain candy. Besides, I cannot resist an outing with my Greek Girls.
I'll lay it out to you: the movie distilled all of the cliches, puns, over-the-top fashion, vast shortage of character development and weak plot/subplots into a liqueur of total and complete schlock. All the same, cracking jokes, chowing on smuggled candy and criticizing the movie equaled a fun night out. My verdict? Rent it when you're hung over, smoke a joint, drink cheap champagne mimosas and let your brain cells die a glorious death. *Spoiler alert!
Second on the agenda is my new friend, Wine Cube. I can't even tell you the name brand because it's all the way in the fridge and I'm all the way in my brown chair, but I can tell you the concept if you're not already familiar: it's box of wine of the future. Little juiceboxes for mommy. Nice. Four "single" servings of the wine of your choice. And let me tell you, it's a big pour.
Finally, I encourage you to check out the link. It wasn't just because I had consumed one "single" serving of my wine cube. It's not even because I became 70% stupider (more stupid?) after watching the Sex in the City movie. It's just a fine parody of a popular R&B song, and anyone with a sense of humor can appreciate it.
That's it. That's all I got. Thanks for letting me purge my estrogen-fueled demons. Not like you had any choice.
*Charlotte shits her pants.
PS: Buzzed blogging may result in nonsense and typographical errors.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I Say Tomato, You Say Ralph
What in the ever loving hell is going on with agriculture? I'm willing to take my chances with a rare cut of beef--everyone knows it's a gamble. But now we have to worry about rare beefsteak tomatoes giving us a bad case of salmonella?
I know I promised a return of the paranoid rants, but I didn't think that the news would hand over such an easily feared topic. A man in Texas, who was already sick with cancer, was done in by some pico de gallo. Where is the justice?
Last year, it was the Case of the Shitty Spinach that freaked everyone out. A rash of illness from the e. coli laced leaves had grocery stores and restaurants pulling fresh spinach off the shelves and off menus with a quickness. What's next? And furthermore, how do they trace the origin of foodborne illnesses?
I've seen hidden-camera shows about the nasty doings going on in restaurants, and I've heard horror stories from people who've worked in food service. Hell, in my not-so-illustrious career path, food service represents the bulk of my experience. I know that eating in restaurants is always a gamble. But guess what? So is eating at home.
What, do you think those shipping containers, trucks and warehouses are pristine and sterile environments? Remember hearing how a certain amount of rodent and insect ... bits ... are allowed in our food? It's a filthy business all around. Unless I plan to get all crazy and plant all of my own food, there's nothing but luck and a little obsessive compulsive behavior preventing me from clutching the toilet, begging for mercy after one bad salad or fish sandwich. If you're anything like me, though, readers, a little information can act as a talisman.
Here's a link to the FDA's Bad Bug Book. Try not to freak out. And tell the waitress to hold the tomato.
I know I promised a return of the paranoid rants, but I didn't think that the news would hand over such an easily feared topic. A man in Texas, who was already sick with cancer, was done in by some pico de gallo. Where is the justice?
Last year, it was the Case of the Shitty Spinach that freaked everyone out. A rash of illness from the e. coli laced leaves had grocery stores and restaurants pulling fresh spinach off the shelves and off menus with a quickness. What's next? And furthermore, how do they trace the origin of foodborne illnesses?
I've seen hidden-camera shows about the nasty doings going on in restaurants, and I've heard horror stories from people who've worked in food service. Hell, in my not-so-illustrious career path, food service represents the bulk of my experience. I know that eating in restaurants is always a gamble. But guess what? So is eating at home.
What, do you think those shipping containers, trucks and warehouses are pristine and sterile environments? Remember hearing how a certain amount of rodent and insect ... bits ... are allowed in our food? It's a filthy business all around. Unless I plan to get all crazy and plant all of my own food, there's nothing but luck and a little obsessive compulsive behavior preventing me from clutching the toilet, begging for mercy after one bad salad or fish sandwich. If you're anything like me, though, readers, a little information can act as a talisman.
Here's a link to the FDA's Bad Bug Book. Try not to freak out. And tell the waitress to hold the tomato.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
My Name Is Nora and I Know Nothing
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed." Albert Einstein
Recently, Mitchell's bossman, Cody, hosted a quote contest on his blog. It was a good time, seeing all the participants present their favorite quotes and explain why they chose them. As I searched for good quotes, I came across some beauties from one of my all time favorite thinkers, Albert Einstein. When I was first introduced to quantum theory, I realized it was going to take a minor miracle to get my brain wrapped around the fundamentals, but that's never stopped me from trying. And once I became familiar with some of Einstein's thoughts about the world, I began to see that he viewed "absolute truths" of science with flexibility and humor, frequently referencing his perceived connections between the mysteries of the physical world and the divine.
I've had some experiences with people who have no interest in even considering the limitations of their own perspectives. Who hasn't? While it's easy to take certain things for granted, the physical agreements that bind molecules, atoms, the very subatomic particles making up what we think of as real isn't something that can be seen or held. It's energy. That's all anything is, right? Energy held together by more energy. Obviously, that's not going to be the title of a groundbreaking scientific paper, but that's about as far as my understanding has taken me. And it begs the question: what is real?
Normally, when I try to conceptualize something that escapes my pea-brain's abilities, I'm inclined to give up and pick up the nearest copy of US Weekly to soothe my battered gray matter. But I keep trying to understand physics because it is fundamentally the edge of understanding the mystery of all that is and all that might be. Einstein was smart enough to grasp that his profound understanding of the physical world and all that lies within and beyond it was limited. He was famous for looking at his advances as stepping-stones for greater understanding and welcomed revisions to his theories. Why can't the average person admit that what we tend to take as hard truth is just another version of the stories people have been telling themselves and each other since cave painting? What we "know" might be disproven at any time. Why is it so hard to accept that our "knowledge" has boundaries and open our minds to possibility?
I'm not really sure what it is that I'm trying to say. I think I've just experienced some frustration with narrow-minded perspectives and I'm trying to get past it. Instead of feeling the terror that sometimes accompanies my recognition that control is but an illusion, I feel almost a sense of comfort that the basic truth of what reality is exists, even if it's beyond me. I can try all I like to understand; no one at FermiLab is depending on my ability to grasp the concepts. I can contemplate the mysteries of the universe at my leisure, confident that I don't know shit about shit.
I really didn't have to write all this. I should just let Einstein do all of the talking for me from now on:
"A human being is a part of a whole, called by us 'universe', a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest... a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty."
Recently, Mitchell's bossman, Cody, hosted a quote contest on his blog. It was a good time, seeing all the participants present their favorite quotes and explain why they chose them. As I searched for good quotes, I came across some beauties from one of my all time favorite thinkers, Albert Einstein. When I was first introduced to quantum theory, I realized it was going to take a minor miracle to get my brain wrapped around the fundamentals, but that's never stopped me from trying. And once I became familiar with some of Einstein's thoughts about the world, I began to see that he viewed "absolute truths" of science with flexibility and humor, frequently referencing his perceived connections between the mysteries of the physical world and the divine.
I've had some experiences with people who have no interest in even considering the limitations of their own perspectives. Who hasn't? While it's easy to take certain things for granted, the physical agreements that bind molecules, atoms, the very subatomic particles making up what we think of as real isn't something that can be seen or held. It's energy. That's all anything is, right? Energy held together by more energy. Obviously, that's not going to be the title of a groundbreaking scientific paper, but that's about as far as my understanding has taken me. And it begs the question: what is real?
Normally, when I try to conceptualize something that escapes my pea-brain's abilities, I'm inclined to give up and pick up the nearest copy of US Weekly to soothe my battered gray matter. But I keep trying to understand physics because it is fundamentally the edge of understanding the mystery of all that is and all that might be. Einstein was smart enough to grasp that his profound understanding of the physical world and all that lies within and beyond it was limited. He was famous for looking at his advances as stepping-stones for greater understanding and welcomed revisions to his theories. Why can't the average person admit that what we tend to take as hard truth is just another version of the stories people have been telling themselves and each other since cave painting? What we "know" might be disproven at any time. Why is it so hard to accept that our "knowledge" has boundaries and open our minds to possibility?
I'm not really sure what it is that I'm trying to say. I think I've just experienced some frustration with narrow-minded perspectives and I'm trying to get past it. Instead of feeling the terror that sometimes accompanies my recognition that control is but an illusion, I feel almost a sense of comfort that the basic truth of what reality is exists, even if it's beyond me. I can try all I like to understand; no one at FermiLab is depending on my ability to grasp the concepts. I can contemplate the mysteries of the universe at my leisure, confident that I don't know shit about shit.
I really didn't have to write all this. I should just let Einstein do all of the talking for me from now on:
"A human being is a part of a whole, called by us 'universe', a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest... a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty."
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Chicago Style Hot Dog: A Critical Analysis
I think it really is true what they say. Girls grow up to become their mothers. In my case, that's not a bad thing. Juderonomy is a great role model, and one of the things she always did that I've adapted into my own housekeeping style is generally keeping junk food out of the house. My husband thinks eating right means having iceberg lettuce once a month, and I know that the lack of junk food in the house has driven him to our neighbor's stocked pantry more than once. In fact, I know "I gotta go to Kevin's for a bit" is code for "I hope they aren't out of Doritos."
Anyone who knows me knows I am passionate about food. I love to cook, I love to try exotic and even disgusting foods of the world. There are few foods that I don't like, and I'll even try them again periodically, hoping to overcome my aversions so I can truly become omnivorous. I'm not a strict eater, despite my tendency to keep junk out of my house. I'm a foody, not a moron. I know there's definitely a time and a place for processed, artificially delicious snacks. I like to eat right, but every now and then I have to submit to one of my guilty pleasures: Chicago-style hot dogs.
I'm going to say right now that my critical analysis of a proper Chicago-style hot dog (and if you are a true Chicagoan, you say "haht dahg") is not open for discussion or argument. Just like certain features must be present for a particular vehicle to be called an airplane, certain ingredients are necessary for a true Chicago-style hot dog. It goes a little something like this: A steamed bun (poppy seeds are a fantastic detail and score major points, but are negotiable), the hot dog, of course (which doesn't have to be a Vienna Beef, but it doesn't hurt. And if it's deep fried or grilled, so as to give the dog an intestinal-casing-licious pop when bitten into, all the better. The Wiener's Circle on the North side of the city is competitive in that field), diced white onion, yellow mustard, two wedges of tomato, pickle relish (the bright green kind is preferred), a dill pickle spear, sport peppers (and they must be sport peppers) and a generous sprinkling of celery salt.
Most importantly, there must be not a trace of ketchup on a Chicago-style hot dog. It is blasphemy, culinary sacrilege to put ketchup on any sausage product at all within the confines of Cook County unless you are younger than five years old. It may be a misdemeanor. Let me research that and get back to you.
Anyway, today I gave into my urge and I feel guilty on a variety of levels. First of all, I went for convenience, not quality. Mickey's of Tinley Park can turn out a mean rack of ribs, a tasty gyro and a decent Polish. But I knew better, and instead of going twenty minutes out of my way to go to my friends' restaurant, Windy City Subs, I did the Mickey's run, and here's why I'm disappointed:
Yeah, I ate two of them. So what? Focus on what's important here. What's missing from that picture? Tomato and celery salt. I don't even particularly like tomato, but celery salt makes it taste like something heaven sent. Windy City Subs would never, ever forget those key ingredients. Granted, they don't do the poppy seed buns at either place, but Windy City has the Chicago dog down to such a science, they don't need a trace of opiates to make their dogs more divine than they already are.
And I had to ask for the sport peppers. I'd be happy to pay for extra peppers, and often do. But they should come standard with every Chicago dog. It's a birthright. Again, something you'd never have to worry about at WCS. Mickey's is a hair's breadth from losing me, here. Fortunately for them, I didn't find that hair on my hot dogs.
I will say this: the problem with trying to eat right and occasionally falling off the wagon is that now I don't feel well at all. I knew getting into this little adventure was going to hurt. Mickey's ain't a bad joint, but the next time I feel that need surfacing and I start to itch for a Chicago-style hot dog, I'm going out of my way for the Windy City. It's worth the trip and definitely worth the pain. Back to salads and whole wheat pasta for me, kids, but stay tuned. The infinite mystique of sausage is a life-long passion of mine. I'll be back to wax poetic about the marvels of Maxwell Street Polish soon enough. Peace out.
Anyone who knows me knows I am passionate about food. I love to cook, I love to try exotic and even disgusting foods of the world. There are few foods that I don't like, and I'll even try them again periodically, hoping to overcome my aversions so I can truly become omnivorous. I'm not a strict eater, despite my tendency to keep junk out of my house. I'm a foody, not a moron. I know there's definitely a time and a place for processed, artificially delicious snacks. I like to eat right, but every now and then I have to submit to one of my guilty pleasures: Chicago-style hot dogs.
I'm going to say right now that my critical analysis of a proper Chicago-style hot dog (and if you are a true Chicagoan, you say "haht dahg") is not open for discussion or argument. Just like certain features must be present for a particular vehicle to be called an airplane, certain ingredients are necessary for a true Chicago-style hot dog. It goes a little something like this: A steamed bun (poppy seeds are a fantastic detail and score major points, but are negotiable), the hot dog, of course (which doesn't have to be a Vienna Beef, but it doesn't hurt. And if it's deep fried or grilled, so as to give the dog an intestinal-casing-licious pop when bitten into, all the better. The Wiener's Circle on the North side of the city is competitive in that field), diced white onion, yellow mustard, two wedges of tomato, pickle relish (the bright green kind is preferred), a dill pickle spear, sport peppers (and they must be sport peppers) and a generous sprinkling of celery salt.
Most importantly, there must be not a trace of ketchup on a Chicago-style hot dog. It is blasphemy, culinary sacrilege to put ketchup on any sausage product at all within the confines of Cook County unless you are younger than five years old. It may be a misdemeanor. Let me research that and get back to you.
Anyway, today I gave into my urge and I feel guilty on a variety of levels. First of all, I went for convenience, not quality. Mickey's of Tinley Park can turn out a mean rack of ribs, a tasty gyro and a decent Polish. But I knew better, and instead of going twenty minutes out of my way to go to my friends' restaurant, Windy City Subs, I did the Mickey's run, and here's why I'm disappointed:
Yeah, I ate two of them. So what? Focus on what's important here. What's missing from that picture? Tomato and celery salt. I don't even particularly like tomato, but celery salt makes it taste like something heaven sent. Windy City Subs would never, ever forget those key ingredients. Granted, they don't do the poppy seed buns at either place, but Windy City has the Chicago dog down to such a science, they don't need a trace of opiates to make their dogs more divine than they already are.
And I had to ask for the sport peppers. I'd be happy to pay for extra peppers, and often do. But they should come standard with every Chicago dog. It's a birthright. Again, something you'd never have to worry about at WCS. Mickey's is a hair's breadth from losing me, here. Fortunately for them, I didn't find that hair on my hot dogs.
I will say this: the problem with trying to eat right and occasionally falling off the wagon is that now I don't feel well at all. I knew getting into this little adventure was going to hurt. Mickey's ain't a bad joint, but the next time I feel that need surfacing and I start to itch for a Chicago-style hot dog, I'm going out of my way for the Windy City. It's worth the trip and definitely worth the pain. Back to salads and whole wheat pasta for me, kids, but stay tuned. The infinite mystique of sausage is a life-long passion of mine. I'll be back to wax poetic about the marvels of Maxwell Street Polish soon enough. Peace out.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
"Friends" Like These Are Even Worse
It's no longer news that police in Florida apprehended a gang of rabid cheerleaders after they beat down one of their own. It defies all reason that these girls would be not only so vicious, but so stupid. They were conscious enough to premeditate an ambush, videotape the assault and upload the beating for all to see on the Internet. How could they think there would be no consequences for their behavior?
The world is looking toward Lakeland, Florida in horror, fascination, amusement. I Googled "cheerleader beatdown" and the first link is the video listed like so:
Humor. Comedy. Hot chicks and pictures for guys? I'm sure that's an accident.
The cheerleader beat down is but a symptom. Violence isn't new or special, but understanding what it's born of is crucial. How could this group of even reasonably educated teen-agers possibly say they had no idea what they were doing was not just terribly wrong, but illegal? They had two scrawny punks on look-out detail--they knew. But what? They didn't want to get caught until they dropped their new video on MySpace and You Tube?
What was their motivation? How did not even one of them feel even a stirring of empathy or even common sense through the whole process? If they were hoping to send a message, the message I got is: "Yes. It really has come to this."
The victim of the beating had apparently been talking smack about some people, and this is the way they chose to deal with it. That's heartbreaking and all, but the complete lack of awareness of the consequences of their actions is what terrifies me. Even while being hauled in by the sheriff, one of the girls asked if she'd be sprung in time for cheerleading practice the next day. There is a total dissociation there, a fundamental lack of understanding and remorse. It's terrifying.
That story is newsworthy: a bunch of brain-dead cheerleaders (you want a copy-selling archetype, that's it right there) turn on one of their own. Story at eleven. But it's happening all over, and it's not just the kids.
About a year ago, a woman I know was in the bathroom at a local bar, just a quiet place attached to a family restaurant--hardly Roadhouse material. She overheard some girls talking shit on one of their friends. One of them discussed the possibility of having casual sex with the other girl's boyfriend just to, you know, stick it to her.
When my friend left her stall, she piped up with, "sisters before misters," thinking to remind these other women that we should stick together. She got jumped by three of the four girls for her trouble. They got her on the floor and started kicking her, whaling on her. Finally when she cried out that she just wanted to go home to her baby, the fourth girl awakened to the reality of the situation. She tried to get the other girls to lay off while my friend crawled off trying to assess the physical damage.
Pack mentality isn't new and it's amazing how little it takes to spark not only a violent reaction, but a contagious one. It makes me sick to think how easy it is to forget what we owe each other as fellow human beings, how detached from love or even basic human decency we are becoming. Better not mouth off, ladies--a bunch of your fellow women might ambush and beat the shit out of you.
No, it's not us; it's them, right? They're the ones who are all fucked up. Right? Not so much. These isolated events are not isolated at all; this type of blatant antisocial behavior is just one manifestation of how far away from psychologically okay people are becoming overall. Even the once-innocent image of an American cheerleader has been reduced to violent and criminal.
There is no they. We're all together and responsible for the breakdown of society. These girls serve as the opposite end of the angry teenager spectrum. Isolated, marginalized, "antisocial" males who take out their victims in public places with guns have their female counterpart: packs of girls who couldn't be more in the fold, socially speaking, who draw another girl into a private place and beat her with their bare hands. Or, my friend who got beaten in a women's bathroom, another place that's symbolic of privacy.
Looking at the continuum like that seems just like a twisting up and perverting of all my traditional associations of gender and society. And it reminds me of something Mitchell said in regards to what "fucked up" means to him. He said, "When everyone is fucked up, fucked up just shifts a level down. It's relative. [What used to be] fucked up becomes normal."
It seems that the relativity of fucked up formula applies to this situation. If the Cheerleader Beat-Down is the new standard bearer for how dissociated from reality and humanity people are becoming, the next generation is certain to bring the level of fucked up down to unthinkable levels. And my bet is you're sure to see it on the internet. But look around: it's happening all around us.
The world is looking toward Lakeland, Florida in horror, fascination, amusement. I Googled "cheerleader beatdown" and the first link is the video listed like so:
Myspace Cheerleaders Beat-Down Video
Free videos, humor, comedy, hot chicks & pictures for guys.
www.break.com/index/myspace-girl-beaten-by-cheerleaders_1.html - 64k - Cached - Similar pages - Note this
www.break.com/index/
Humor. Comedy. Hot chicks and pictures for guys? I'm sure that's an accident.
The cheerleader beat down is but a symptom. Violence isn't new or special, but understanding what it's born of is crucial. How could this group of even reasonably educated teen-agers possibly say they had no idea what they were doing was not just terribly wrong, but illegal? They had two scrawny punks on look-out detail--they knew. But what? They didn't want to get caught until they dropped their new video on MySpace and You Tube?
What was their motivation? How did not even one of them feel even a stirring of empathy or even common sense through the whole process? If they were hoping to send a message, the message I got is: "Yes. It really has come to this."
The victim of the beating had apparently been talking smack about some people, and this is the way they chose to deal with it. That's heartbreaking and all, but the complete lack of awareness of the consequences of their actions is what terrifies me. Even while being hauled in by the sheriff, one of the girls asked if she'd be sprung in time for cheerleading practice the next day. There is a total dissociation there, a fundamental lack of understanding and remorse. It's terrifying.
That story is newsworthy: a bunch of brain-dead cheerleaders (you want a copy-selling archetype, that's it right there) turn on one of their own. Story at eleven. But it's happening all over, and it's not just the kids.
About a year ago, a woman I know was in the bathroom at a local bar, just a quiet place attached to a family restaurant--hardly Roadhouse material. She overheard some girls talking shit on one of their friends. One of them discussed the possibility of having casual sex with the other girl's boyfriend just to, you know, stick it to her.
When my friend left her stall, she piped up with, "sisters before misters," thinking to remind these other women that we should stick together. She got jumped by three of the four girls for her trouble. They got her on the floor and started kicking her, whaling on her. Finally when she cried out that she just wanted to go home to her baby, the fourth girl awakened to the reality of the situation. She tried to get the other girls to lay off while my friend crawled off trying to assess the physical damage.
Pack mentality isn't new and it's amazing how little it takes to spark not only a violent reaction, but a contagious one. It makes me sick to think how easy it is to forget what we owe each other as fellow human beings, how detached from love or even basic human decency we are becoming. Better not mouth off, ladies--a bunch of your fellow women might ambush and beat the shit out of you.
No, it's not us; it's them, right? They're the ones who are all fucked up. Right? Not so much. These isolated events are not isolated at all; this type of blatant antisocial behavior is just one manifestation of how far away from psychologically okay people are becoming overall. Even the once-innocent image of an American cheerleader has been reduced to violent and criminal.
There is no they. We're all together and responsible for the breakdown of society. These girls serve as the opposite end of the angry teenager spectrum. Isolated, marginalized, "antisocial" males who take out their victims in public places with guns have their female counterpart: packs of girls who couldn't be more in the fold, socially speaking, who draw another girl into a private place and beat her with their bare hands. Or, my friend who got beaten in a women's bathroom, another place that's symbolic of privacy.
Looking at the continuum like that seems just like a twisting up and perverting of all my traditional associations of gender and society. And it reminds me of something Mitchell said in regards to what "fucked up" means to him. He said, "When everyone is fucked up, fucked up just shifts a level down. It's relative. [What used to be] fucked up becomes normal."
It seems that the relativity of fucked up formula applies to this situation. If the Cheerleader Beat-Down is the new standard bearer for how dissociated from reality and humanity people are becoming, the next generation is certain to bring the level of fucked up down to unthinkable levels. And my bet is you're sure to see it on the internet. But look around: it's happening all around us.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Conshus(sp?) about my spelling
I was doing some "research" at work today (looking at cool sites). If you haven't gone to messinwithsasquatch.com yet, I recomend it, It's a pretty badass site. I almost didn't get to see it today when I had a sudden mental collapse. For some reason, I couldn't spell sasquatch for the life of me. Saskwatch. What the fudgesickle?
I've noticed a decline in my spelling abillities. I used to do spelling bees and things like that when I was a kid, and I was pretty good. Never won one, but I did OK. Now I get tripped up with the most basic words. I spelled maintenance wrong for like two weeks straight at work. I just couldn't get it right.
The wierd thing is that I'm writing more than ever, yet I can never remember if there are two p's in apologize, or just one.
My stuff genarally goes out right, though. Well, close. How can it not when you've got spell check in nearly every word processing application that exists. But I think that's the problem. With automatic spell check following you around fixing you boo-boos like an attentive owner walking his dog with a plastic sack in his hand, who really even needs to try anymore?
I've long settled into the habit of just typing in an approxemation of the word I intend and see what spell check has to say about it. Virtually no thought is put into the process. Convienience begets laziness begets stupidity.
Will I avoid this convienience now that I'm consious of it? Not likely. It's nice to know the reason for the problem, though.
Well ... it's either that or the drinking.
I've noticed a decline in my spelling abillities. I used to do spelling bees and things like that when I was a kid, and I was pretty good. Never won one, but I did OK. Now I get tripped up with the most basic words. I spelled maintenance wrong for like two weeks straight at work. I just couldn't get it right.
The wierd thing is that I'm writing more than ever, yet I can never remember if there are two p's in apologize, or just one.
My stuff genarally goes out right, though. Well, close. How can it not when you've got spell check in nearly every word processing application that exists. But I think that's the problem. With automatic spell check following you around fixing you boo-boos like an attentive owner walking his dog with a plastic sack in his hand, who really even needs to try anymore?
I've long settled into the habit of just typing in an approxemation of the word I intend and see what spell check has to say about it. Virtually no thought is put into the process. Convienience begets laziness begets stupidity.
Will I avoid this convienience now that I'm consious of it? Not likely. It's nice to know the reason for the problem, though.
Well ... it's either that or the drinking.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
