"So I'm surfing the web, right?"
How many conversations about cool things you've found online started with that sentence? I **need** a blog, just to showcase all the eclectic crap I find that absolutely fascinates me.
Here's one for you: the Internet Anagram Server. Fascinating stuff, this. I must have played around with this site for an hour or so, until I decided to put in my own, full name. Whew! I had hoped for some kind of pithy, wise maxim or epigram that I could relate to the students in my English classes, or something (modesty is not a strong suit of mine) that I could put on a bumper sticker and change the world. I needed a phrase that would sell! So, using the "Advanced Anagramming" link I was able to separate the wheat from the chaff and find these world-changing anagrams for "bradley scott denton" :
ABSCOND TENDERLY TOT
Really, excellent advice for absconding tots across the world. Somehow, though, I doubt it will catch on as this year's catchphrase.
A BOLT CONTENTED DRYS
Doesn't this sound like the title of a Movie of the Week?
DEBACLE DON NOT TRYST
This doesn't make a lot of sense, but I love the idea of a literary character named "Debacle Don." Plus, you know he's a pretty good guy, with all his tryst rejecting.
CABLED RODENT SNOTTY
I'd be snotty too, if I were cabled. Or a rodent, for that matter.
ECTOBLAST DENTON DRY
This one frightened me. Not only did it sound like a rejected Ghostbusters script device, but it sounds like it would hurt. Towels are fine, thanks.
CARBON DOTTED YENTLS
Either a strange Barbara Streisand movie sequel or an obscure vegetable.
BLADDER CONTEST TONY
See "Debacle Don," above. "Hey -- who's that . . . OHMYGOODNESS, it's BLADDER CONTEST TONY!!!!!!"
DAYBED CONTROLS TENT
From a Sharper Image catalog, perhaps?
BLOATED CONTENTS DRY
In my case, definitely not true.
BRADLEY SCOTT TENDON
Yeah, this one felt like cheating to me, too.
BLASTED CODY TRENTON
I'm envisioning a Western scene with our hero, Blasted Cody Trenton. Is his first name descriptive, or an expletive?
BALD COTTONY TENDERS
Coming to an O'Charlie's near you.
BRANDON ELECTS DOTTY
In the parliament of his mind . . .
STANDBY CLONED OTTER
Great imperative sentence. I suppose he is to wait for orders from Central Otter Command, or the Mammal Attack Post.
STANDBY COLORED TENT
Otter's buddy.
TABLE CONDONED TRYST
I see this as a strange news headline, somewhere. All we know is that Debacle Don and Bladder Contest Tony were NOT involved.
TENTACLED BODY SNORT
Great prospective name for a band. "Hello, Grayson! We are the men of Tentacled Body Snort!!! Two nights only, no cover!!"
CONSTERNATED BY DOLT
Aren't we all? This may be the closest I've gotten to true wisdom with these.
LANCED DEBTOR SNOTTY
I would be, too -- you owe me money? You stuck a lance in me? What next?
TRANSCEND BLOTTY ODE
I'm trying. I'm really trying.
CANDY BOTTLE SNORTED
Put that down! Stop it!
DYLAN CORBETT STONED
Here is the first saga of the Corbett family . . . more to follow. I envision Dylan as the Prodigal, maybe played by Brad Pitt, returning to the Corbett family after his wild drug days. Or it could be literal, I suppose.
DANNY CORBETT OLDEST
He's the firstborn, and livid at Dylan for tarnishing the good Corbett name, of course.
DONNA CORBETT STYLED
And she looks marvelous.
DAYTON CORBETT LENDS
Here's the bank-owning Shylock of the family, always asking for his pound of flesh . . . seems like every week someone else comes along and sticks a lance in him. . .
As you can see, my name does not lend itself to wise statements guaranteed to rise the consciousness of humanity. However, it does serve to describe me pretty well:
NASTY BLOND DETECTOR
And with that, I adjure you to try the demon machine for yourself. Good luck!
Saturday, April 24, 2004
I had planned yet another over-the-top, literary name-dropping extravaganza
("OH RALLLY? Yew haven't yet read Borges? In the original -Spanish-? Dear me, yew ahre not as smart as I am, now are yew?" It works better if you imagine it in a foppish Bostonian drawl mixed with upper-crust British tones; kind of like that odd accent Madonna has been affecting in her recent interviews. NOT THAT I WATCH MTV -- I'M TOO BUSY TRANSLATING DANTE FOR FUN! I'M REALLY, REALLY SMART!!! SWEAR TO GOD, I AM!!!! EVERYONE REVEL IN MY INTELLIGENCE . . . BWA-HA-HAHA!!!!!!! Ahem. Sorry.) but I ran out of time . . . tomorrow (today! I must sleep!) my JV Academic Team journeys to Gray, GA, south of Macon, to compete in the JV GATA State Tournament. So I don't have time for an original posting.
I know . . . I'll give you some Seanbaby. Seanbaby is one of my favorite finds of the last year or so; he's a Gen X freelance writer who writes some of the funniest (and, occasionally, some of the most obscene -- be careful) magazine articles I have ever read about various aspects of popular culture. The setup for this article: his current hometown of San Francisco was experiencing a mugging epidemic, and the mayor advocated that each citizen should insure that they had some form of protection. Seanbaby's answer? Use those leftover defense guides published during the "kung-fu boom" of the 1970's to arm the citizenry. This from his bi-weekly article in The Wave:
The Complete Guide to Self-Defense Guides
Bringing you the hottest, most high-flying non-stop, commercial-free face rocking since the invention of the groin attack.
By Seanbaby
To survive the streets, you’ve got to turn your hands and feet into deadly weapons. No other form of self-defense can be trusted. Pepper spray has a better chance at making your taco delicious than taking down a mugger; a simple mirror can turn any of your laser weapons against you, and the ladies know what I’m talking about when I say that shotgun holsters don’t go with ANYTHING.
The following books teach the street smarts and deadly attacks that will transform you from a clueless victim wandering into dark alleys counting your money to a barely-contained whirlwind of death. Please be careful with the knowledge gained from this article, and use it only for justice. You see, every day, karate kills 87,000 people around the world.* Some experts say that this number may balloon to as high as a million billion before the year 2000, and that men, women, and children alike will soon only be categorized in two ways: “Karate Star” and “Hold on, what’s that in the bucket?” Do your part.
*This figure is based entirely on speculation by the author and the awesomeness of karate, which sounds a lot like this: “WaoooOOWATA!”
FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE! The Secrets of Street Fighting, 1982, By Dr. Ted Gambordella
In his foreword, Dr. Ted says that he does not advocate killing people, and his techniques are not to be used for murder. With that out of the way, he really lets you know how to turn someone’s crotch into oatmeal. And while I admit my street fighting experience is limited, a lot of Dr. Ted’s advice seems difficult to apply. For example, his defense against someone punching you in a parking lot is kicking them in the face, giving them a complicated judo throw and tearing their eyeballs out. If I could do all of that, I think I’d be a little too busy infiltrating Baron Von Terror’s satellite bunker to be reading a self-defense book. Maybe I’m thinking too much with my brain here, but it seems a little irresponsible to encourage a casual karate enthusiast into thinking he or she has the option to spinning-heel-kick the guns out of a team of ninjas’ hands and exploding their throats with a backflip fireball.
When Can You Apply It?
All of Dr. Ted’s situations take place in a strip mall parking lot where one or more people totally hate you. He shows you how to break someone’s knees or pubic bones during many types of attacks, and is thoughtful enough to end most of his advice with something like, “Stomp on their groin while waiting for help to arrive.” Dr. Ted hates groins – HATES them. If his book taught me one thing, it’s that you should never run away from a deadly situation when you have the option of maiming someone’s crotch.
Defense Example:
If a thug grabs for your briefcase, pull him in and elbow him in the jaw. Then (and you probably knew this was coming) “smash a knee into his groin, knocking him into the ground, where you finish him off with a smashing heel stomp to his groin.” It ends there, but my own experimentation has found that opening and closing your briefcase on his groin while he’s unconscious keeps the attack light-hearted.
Looking Forward to Being Attacked, 1977, By Lt. Jim Bullard
Policeman Jim Bullard teaches that the key to self-defense is to love getting attacked. In fact, the title of his first chapter is, “You’ll Never Enjoy Being Attacked If You Don’t Change Your Attitude!” So get out there and really get excited about violent assault! He often refers to crippling combat maneuvers as “fun” or “cute.” His chapter, “Life Affords Few Pleasures That Can Equal The Striking of Vulnerable Areas!” will change the way you giggle when you put your fingers in people’s eyes. Not that you need me to point it out, but Mr. Bullard sounds a bit like a lunatic.
When Can You Apply It?
According to Jim, almost any time is a good time to jam your keys into someone’s throat. Of the dozens of situations he teaches you how to demolish your way out of, I’d say about three would be considered “attacks.” He shows you how to deal with a stranger choking you during a tennis game, grabbing hands that shoot out of men’s rooms, and people who sit too close to you at church. I can see how quick, decisive karate is the only option when faced with those horrors. But when Jim showed me how to break someone’s kneecap for standing in my sun while I’m on vacation, I thought that might be excessive. Plus, the four pages on how to kill your dentist should he ever turn evil could be a case of simple insanity – but after he mentions fighting off your dentist twice more in the book, that’s a little... let’s just say I’ll have a lead suspect should there ever be a series of missing dentists.
Defense Example:
If you’re at your favorite department store and a man starts hitting on you, Jim’s advice is, “Bend your knee against the back of his knee to break his balance while throwing your arm into his chest. He will go down with a bang and probably remain there in a crumpled heap. Off you go into the store screaming at the top of your voice.” I’m so glad I read this. I thought I was going to go crazy trying to figure out why every woman I flirt with flings me into the ground and tells nearby shoppers, “AAAAGHHHHHHH!”
Instant Self-Defense, 1965, By Bruce Tegner
Bruce Tegner is a holder of “The Black Belt” in Judo and Karate. He’s probably written at least three books about every martial art on the planet, but if you ask any serious martial artist, they’ll tell you these are terribly inaccurate. This is moot, though, since if you’re really talking to a serious martial artist, then by now he’s punched your heart out and, with a primal scream, sacrificed it to his savage karate gods.
When Can You Apply It?
Bruce’s techniques seem useful no matter where or how you’re attacked, but I especially liked Chapter 3: DEFENSES AGAINST ANNOYING ATTACK. It’s a series of painful holds and attacks you can use against your friends if they annoy you. Like if someone slaps you on the back to say hello, Bruce shows you how to break his arm. He’s even smart enough to suggest that you pretend you didn’t mean to, in case you want to remain friends with the person who used to be attached to the arm you’re holding.
Defense Example:
If one of your pals is leaning on you, Bruce suggests, “Next time he leans, dig into the side of his body just below the last rib, using the extended knuckle in a grinding motion. Grin as you grind – you are not trying to start a fight.” I assume that if my friend was to try for a full hug, I should jam a switchblade between his third and fourth ribs. This would puncture his lung and prevent him from screaming. Then I’d gently caress his hair as he bleeds out – I don’t want him to think I’m angry with him. Thanks, Bruce!
("OH RALLLY? Yew haven't yet read Borges? In the original -Spanish-? Dear me, yew ahre not as smart as I am, now are yew?" It works better if you imagine it in a foppish Bostonian drawl mixed with upper-crust British tones; kind of like that odd accent Madonna has been affecting in her recent interviews. NOT THAT I WATCH MTV -- I'M TOO BUSY TRANSLATING DANTE FOR FUN! I'M REALLY, REALLY SMART!!! SWEAR TO GOD, I AM!!!! EVERYONE REVEL IN MY INTELLIGENCE . . . BWA-HA-HAHA!!!!!!! Ahem. Sorry.) but I ran out of time . . . tomorrow (today! I must sleep!) my JV Academic Team journeys to Gray, GA, south of Macon, to compete in the JV GATA State Tournament. So I don't have time for an original posting.
I know . . . I'll give you some Seanbaby. Seanbaby is one of my favorite finds of the last year or so; he's a Gen X freelance writer who writes some of the funniest (and, occasionally, some of the most obscene -- be careful) magazine articles I have ever read about various aspects of popular culture. The setup for this article: his current hometown of San Francisco was experiencing a mugging epidemic, and the mayor advocated that each citizen should insure that they had some form of protection. Seanbaby's answer? Use those leftover defense guides published during the "kung-fu boom" of the 1970's to arm the citizenry. This from his bi-weekly article in The Wave:
The Complete Guide to Self-Defense Guides
Bringing you the hottest, most high-flying non-stop, commercial-free face rocking since the invention of the groin attack.
By Seanbaby
To survive the streets, you’ve got to turn your hands and feet into deadly weapons. No other form of self-defense can be trusted. Pepper spray has a better chance at making your taco delicious than taking down a mugger; a simple mirror can turn any of your laser weapons against you, and the ladies know what I’m talking about when I say that shotgun holsters don’t go with ANYTHING.
The following books teach the street smarts and deadly attacks that will transform you from a clueless victim wandering into dark alleys counting your money to a barely-contained whirlwind of death. Please be careful with the knowledge gained from this article, and use it only for justice. You see, every day, karate kills 87,000 people around the world.* Some experts say that this number may balloon to as high as a million billion before the year 2000, and that men, women, and children alike will soon only be categorized in two ways: “Karate Star” and “Hold on, what’s that in the bucket?” Do your part.
*This figure is based entirely on speculation by the author and the awesomeness of karate, which sounds a lot like this: “WaoooOOWATA!”
FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE! The Secrets of Street Fighting, 1982, By Dr. Ted Gambordella
In his foreword, Dr. Ted says that he does not advocate killing people, and his techniques are not to be used for murder. With that out of the way, he really lets you know how to turn someone’s crotch into oatmeal. And while I admit my street fighting experience is limited, a lot of Dr. Ted’s advice seems difficult to apply. For example, his defense against someone punching you in a parking lot is kicking them in the face, giving them a complicated judo throw and tearing their eyeballs out. If I could do all of that, I think I’d be a little too busy infiltrating Baron Von Terror’s satellite bunker to be reading a self-defense book. Maybe I’m thinking too much with my brain here, but it seems a little irresponsible to encourage a casual karate enthusiast into thinking he or she has the option to spinning-heel-kick the guns out of a team of ninjas’ hands and exploding their throats with a backflip fireball.
When Can You Apply It?
All of Dr. Ted’s situations take place in a strip mall parking lot where one or more people totally hate you. He shows you how to break someone’s knees or pubic bones during many types of attacks, and is thoughtful enough to end most of his advice with something like, “Stomp on their groin while waiting for help to arrive.” Dr. Ted hates groins – HATES them. If his book taught me one thing, it’s that you should never run away from a deadly situation when you have the option of maiming someone’s crotch.
Defense Example:
If a thug grabs for your briefcase, pull him in and elbow him in the jaw. Then (and you probably knew this was coming) “smash a knee into his groin, knocking him into the ground, where you finish him off with a smashing heel stomp to his groin.” It ends there, but my own experimentation has found that opening and closing your briefcase on his groin while he’s unconscious keeps the attack light-hearted.
Looking Forward to Being Attacked, 1977, By Lt. Jim Bullard
Policeman Jim Bullard teaches that the key to self-defense is to love getting attacked. In fact, the title of his first chapter is, “You’ll Never Enjoy Being Attacked If You Don’t Change Your Attitude!” So get out there and really get excited about violent assault! He often refers to crippling combat maneuvers as “fun” or “cute.” His chapter, “Life Affords Few Pleasures That Can Equal The Striking of Vulnerable Areas!” will change the way you giggle when you put your fingers in people’s eyes. Not that you need me to point it out, but Mr. Bullard sounds a bit like a lunatic.
When Can You Apply It?
According to Jim, almost any time is a good time to jam your keys into someone’s throat. Of the dozens of situations he teaches you how to demolish your way out of, I’d say about three would be considered “attacks.” He shows you how to deal with a stranger choking you during a tennis game, grabbing hands that shoot out of men’s rooms, and people who sit too close to you at church. I can see how quick, decisive karate is the only option when faced with those horrors. But when Jim showed me how to break someone’s kneecap for standing in my sun while I’m on vacation, I thought that might be excessive. Plus, the four pages on how to kill your dentist should he ever turn evil could be a case of simple insanity – but after he mentions fighting off your dentist twice more in the book, that’s a little... let’s just say I’ll have a lead suspect should there ever be a series of missing dentists.
Defense Example:
If you’re at your favorite department store and a man starts hitting on you, Jim’s advice is, “Bend your knee against the back of his knee to break his balance while throwing your arm into his chest. He will go down with a bang and probably remain there in a crumpled heap. Off you go into the store screaming at the top of your voice.” I’m so glad I read this. I thought I was going to go crazy trying to figure out why every woman I flirt with flings me into the ground and tells nearby shoppers, “AAAAGHHHHHHH!”
Instant Self-Defense, 1965, By Bruce Tegner
Bruce Tegner is a holder of “The Black Belt” in Judo and Karate. He’s probably written at least three books about every martial art on the planet, but if you ask any serious martial artist, they’ll tell you these are terribly inaccurate. This is moot, though, since if you’re really talking to a serious martial artist, then by now he’s punched your heart out and, with a primal scream, sacrificed it to his savage karate gods.
When Can You Apply It?
Bruce’s techniques seem useful no matter where or how you’re attacked, but I especially liked Chapter 3: DEFENSES AGAINST ANNOYING ATTACK. It’s a series of painful holds and attacks you can use against your friends if they annoy you. Like if someone slaps you on the back to say hello, Bruce shows you how to break his arm. He’s even smart enough to suggest that you pretend you didn’t mean to, in case you want to remain friends with the person who used to be attached to the arm you’re holding.
Defense Example:
If one of your pals is leaning on you, Bruce suggests, “Next time he leans, dig into the side of his body just below the last rib, using the extended knuckle in a grinding motion. Grin as you grind – you are not trying to start a fight.” I assume that if my friend was to try for a full hug, I should jam a switchblade between his third and fourth ribs. This would puncture his lung and prevent him from screaming. Then I’d gently caress his hair as he bleeds out – I don’t want him to think I’m angry with him. Thanks, Bruce!
Thursday, April 15, 2004
I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work -- a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
This is William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech -- I have no words to describe it, elucidate it, or even desecrate it. I think it would survive even an attack from my carefully disaffected irony.
Faulkner's a favorite. How could he not be, after reading the speech? To paraphrase a story told by Raymond Carver: "I was taking a class in the short story that year, from the (eventual) novelist John Gardner. We were assigned the story "Blackberry Winter" written by Robert Penn Warren. I read it, but did not enjoy it, so I went to the next class and told him so. His exact, shocked response was 'Read it again.' He was not kidding."
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
This is William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech -- I have no words to describe it, elucidate it, or even desecrate it. I think it would survive even an attack from my carefully disaffected irony.
Faulkner's a favorite. How could he not be, after reading the speech? To paraphrase a story told by Raymond Carver: "I was taking a class in the short story that year, from the (eventual) novelist John Gardner. We were assigned the story "Blackberry Winter" written by Robert Penn Warren. I read it, but did not enjoy it, so I went to the next class and told him so. His exact, shocked response was 'Read it again.' He was not kidding."
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
There are sports guys out there, of every flavor and disposition. Football guys, basketball guys, baseball guys (and I must admit, I'm kind of a baseball guy myself.)
You've also got your car guys (and I dabble in that one, too, though I really lack the resources to indulge in collecting classic cars, or even indulge in gasoline purchases for my '97 Sentra.) Computer guys -- technology guys -- scare me a little. Was I the only person to see the original Terminator?
My dad was a hunting/outdoorsman guy. My paternal grandfather was a gun guy . . . and a suit guy, strangely enough. He didn't get much of a chance to wear them at the Ridgely City Gin, but he sure bought them in record numbers. (He founded three chapters of Alcoholics Anonymous in West Tennessee . . . his set piece was a hilarious retelling of the time my grandmother found his cache in the attic where he kept the suits, guns, and whiskey he spent his paychecks on, instead of food. She found 31 long guns, 12 handguns, 42 three-piece suits, and 35 bottles of George Dickel.)
My maternal grandfather? DeeDee was a reader. And here's where I am, really. I'm a reader, myself. I'm a book guy. I like to think of myself as an iconoclast, but I'm really just kind of dorky.
I'm a book guy. Favorites to follow, in a later post.
You've also got your car guys (and I dabble in that one, too, though I really lack the resources to indulge in collecting classic cars, or even indulge in gasoline purchases for my '97 Sentra.) Computer guys -- technology guys -- scare me a little. Was I the only person to see the original Terminator?
My dad was a hunting/outdoorsman guy. My paternal grandfather was a gun guy . . . and a suit guy, strangely enough. He didn't get much of a chance to wear them at the Ridgely City Gin, but he sure bought them in record numbers. (He founded three chapters of Alcoholics Anonymous in West Tennessee . . . his set piece was a hilarious retelling of the time my grandmother found his cache in the attic where he kept the suits, guns, and whiskey he spent his paychecks on, instead of food. She found 31 long guns, 12 handguns, 42 three-piece suits, and 35 bottles of George Dickel.)
My maternal grandfather? DeeDee was a reader. And here's where I am, really. I'm a reader, myself. I'm a book guy. I like to think of myself as an iconoclast, but I'm really just kind of dorky.
I'm a book guy. Favorites to follow, in a later post.
Monday, April 12, 2004
FEAR. Random, heart-racing fear: adrenalin kicking my heartrate to tachycardia.
Momentary pause. Mild consternation by the realization that I don't really know how to spell "tachycardia."
Return to fear. FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
I am twenty-eight years old.
I have been married for six years.
I have world-record credit card debt, and a student loan balance that only nine years of dabbling in graduate school can explain. Okay, maybe not -explain-. Had I been attending graduate school in Micronesia and paying weekly airfare using my loans, that might -explain- my balance.
FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
Jami and I put a contract offer on a house last Saturday. A house. A HOUSE. A backyard-havin', roof-and-everything-included, mortgage-payment-please, oh-dear-golly-how-much-do-I-need-to-borrow? HOUSE.
I get the shakes from clipping coupons. It freaks me out; there's too much pressure. You're tellin' me I've only got NINE days to cash in on Palmolive? I can't handle -- LITERALLY CANNOT HANDLE -- the fiscal responsibility that comes with saving forty-one cents. $ 0.41.
But $140,000? Oh, heck yeah . . . sign me up for two hunnert grand. I'm ready, buddy-o. Bring it on!
(I may have just wet myself. Why lie? I've been wet ever since noon on Saturday . . . selective service, take notice! I AM NOT TO BE TRUSTED IN THE SERVICE OF MY COUNTRY! I CANNOT HANDLE BECOMING A HOMEOWNER! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
In other news, Jami is excited by the possibility of painting, refinishing, remodeling. She has these, these, whattayacallems, these -- is it -- swatches? She's been calculating the combinations and permutations on those suckers nonstop. It's like watching an insurance actuary take my height, weight, and family history and extrapolate my lifespan. Only, here's the deal: Jami frightens me more. And improvements? I honestly never saw the dozens of subtle improvements that could be made in the home requiring only 1.) every second of my time up until September 2009 and 2.) a small investment of $650,000.00.
I'm married to Bob Vila.
Momentary pause. Mild consternation by the realization that I don't really know how to spell "tachycardia."
Return to fear. FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
I am twenty-eight years old.
I have been married for six years.
I have world-record credit card debt, and a student loan balance that only nine years of dabbling in graduate school can explain. Okay, maybe not -explain-. Had I been attending graduate school in Micronesia and paying weekly airfare using my loans, that might -explain- my balance.
FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR
Jami and I put a contract offer on a house last Saturday. A house. A HOUSE. A backyard-havin', roof-and-everything-included, mortgage-payment-please, oh-dear-golly-how-much-do-I-need-to-borrow? HOUSE.
I get the shakes from clipping coupons. It freaks me out; there's too much pressure. You're tellin' me I've only got NINE days to cash in on Palmolive? I can't handle -- LITERALLY CANNOT HANDLE -- the fiscal responsibility that comes with saving forty-one cents. $ 0.41.
But $140,000? Oh, heck yeah . . . sign me up for two hunnert grand. I'm ready, buddy-o. Bring it on!
(I may have just wet myself. Why lie? I've been wet ever since noon on Saturday . . . selective service, take notice! I AM NOT TO BE TRUSTED IN THE SERVICE OF MY COUNTRY! I CANNOT HANDLE BECOMING A HOMEOWNER! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
In other news, Jami is excited by the possibility of painting, refinishing, remodeling. She has these, these, whattayacallems, these -- is it -- swatches? She's been calculating the combinations and permutations on those suckers nonstop. It's like watching an insurance actuary take my height, weight, and family history and extrapolate my lifespan. Only, here's the deal: Jami frightens me more. And improvements? I honestly never saw the dozens of subtle improvements that could be made in the home requiring only 1.) every second of my time up until September 2009 and 2.) a small investment of $650,000.00.
I'm married to Bob Vila.
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