n. someone with a habit of overthinking the simplest of concepts—who reads the phrase “girls drinking cosmos” and imagines female astronauts slurping intergalactic ether through bendy straws—which is a symptom of an educational overdose, whose only known cure is the ’90s teen sitcom Saved By The Bell.
adj. hearing a person with a thick accent pronounce a certain phrase—the Texan “cooler,” the South African “bastard,” the Kiwi “thirty years ago”—and wanting them to repeat it over and over until the vowels pool in the air and congeal into a linguistic taffy you could break apart and give as presents.
"In other words, most of us sacrifice our present-day enjoyment for the sake of a future that may never really arrive, as a set of studies by Kivetz and Keinan showed. "
in a nutshell, this is the motivating force behind an argument laid out by a friend five years ago for why he started smoking out of the blue. to my memory—which, as has become apparent to me in recent weeks, is pretty good—his line of thinking was as follows:
"present tyler pays his bills on time, got a college degree, shows up to work, all for the sake of future tyler. but present tyler wants a cigarette even though it’s bad for future tyler. so smoking this cigarette is kind of a small "fuck you" to future tyler.
i’m taking one back for the moment, since the future gets to win so much of the time.”
regardless of smoking arguments, “the art of giving up” proved to be a pretty reaffirming article in terms of recent choices i’ve made. definitely worth the read.
acronym [“when you think about it”] a feature of modern society that suddenly strikes you as absurd and grotesque—from zoos and milk-drinking to organ transplants, life insurance and fiction—part of the faint background noise of absurdity that reverberates from the moment our ancestors first crawled out of the slime but could not for the life of them remember what they got up to do.
It’s 3 p.m., time for a makeshift happy hour in the parking lot of Value Place, an extended-stay motel here in town and a haven for those who have been foreclosed upon. No background check is required; no credit card needed. It’s the housing equivalent of a throwaway cellphone. “And that,” says Elliot Abrams, Room 318, “is why it’s the bomb.”
another thing i enjoy has been made douchey… exhibit a:
"They’re fetishizing old Underwoods, Smith Coronas and Remingtons, recognizing them as well designed, functional and beautiful machines, swapping them and showing them off to friends. At a series of events called “type-ins,” they’ve been gathering in bars and bookstores to flaunt a sort of post-digital style and gravitas, tapping out letters to send via snail mail and competing to see who can bang away the fastest."
“I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it’s these things I’d believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn’t all she should be. I love her and it is the beginning of everything.”—Scott Fitzgerald (via pattymumu)
in the beginning, i was hungover and void of energy.
which was remedied by a trip to the triple rock before heading to work a mere 10.5 hours after leaving the shift before. the food and “half” bloody awaiting me were delicious, partner-in-crime excellent, and conversation potentially even better.
work was work, albeit full of more-charming-than-usual interactions with customers. …until i received a swift kick in the gut. all of a sudden, regardless of what my very rational mind had articulated mere hours earlier, i was reminded i have feelings. and feelings are a bitch. i wanted to puke. and maybe cry. but i only do one in the women’s bathroom of the seventh street entry and the other when no one except my cat can see me. (i kid. mostly.)
then, j mascis entered my evening. sitting with my back against the entry’s stage — just listening, and literally feeling the music in my rib cage — i was reminded of what had initially convinced me to take a serving job at a night club known for courting such amazing musicians. i mean, i hate crowds. and loud noises. but i do like… tonight. the sound matched my non-verbal emotions to a “t.”
in short: everything came full-circle.
later, i got to watch a table of mid-thirties men (whom i may or may not have served far too many beverages earlier) basically get down on one knee and profess their undying love for the former lead singer of dinosaur jr. it’s not every day that dudes-dudes show such emotion… or are given a safe venue in which to do so. meanwhile i’m standing there, arm’s length from the man who just played the best show i’ve seen since starting at the club nearly a year ago (5 nights/week x 2-3 venues x nearly 365 days = a serious compliment), staring at the back of j mascis’ head and wondering whether he really intended on gracing the proletariat with his presence, or if they were merely blocking his way to the privy…
consequently i seek refuge in which to finish my beverage without interrupting the evening’s nigh onto holy aura that had fallen into my lap. while doing so, i come face to “face” with a kid in a full-body banana suit. no really.
retreat was imminent. i headed for my safe haven, albeit the place where i’d just been punched-in for seven hours. a seriously healing back rub was lying in wait.
the only possible answer was to make my way home on my swifter-than-remembered bicycle, through a refreshing april night air, where i sit now, recording the evening’s too dynamic, too frequent (in the peak/trough sense) pitch changes, listening to a stranger walk down the alley while whistling better than i could ever hope to.
Commas, semicolons, periods…goodness, even dashes! Where have you all gone? Dear apostrophes, you used to represent ownership, possession. Yet you’ve disappeared, gone the way of the dodo and yielding to pedestrians.
I think that’s plenty. I’ll admit it: I’ve had a bum day. So I’m resorting to this slight venting of frustration on Craigslist. Sad. Self-aware though, at least? Anyway, I’ve thought for a while that craigslist posters could use a little reminder that this isn’t like newspaper classifieds—you don’t get charged by the character in your ads, in fact, you don’t get charged at all. So, for the love of God, try to slow down and at least use a fraction of what you were taught in grammar school about, well, you know, punctuation, grammar and the like. You might stand a better chance at snagging that unrealistically specific ideal of a man or woman you’ve been looking for.
“I just received the news that I’ve once again been elected Chair of Faculty Council for next year… and even worse, the other members of Council are, in fact, a pretty sorry lot of people to have to “manage” in the tasks that will lie ahead. I am not too happy with the way all of this is shaping up. I tell you, this is what happens to people who spent too much time being an Eagle Scout! That sense of “duty” or responsibility… answering the call, as it were… it runs deep. I should just tell the university to shove it…”—my father, eagle scout.
“L’esprit de escalier: (French) The feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said. Translated it means “the spirit of the staircase.”—words that don’t exist in the english language