Wow, I'm plagued by the notion that the previous post is terribly boring and sappy. Here's a funny story to compensate.
Objectively, there is nothing special about Hawaiian Punch, if that doesn't sound too cruel. (Aside from her amazing ability to put herself to sleep when you lay her down in her crib that started instantly the first time we ever tried to put her down, awake, thanks yes, we think this makes us great parents.)
What's amazing is how enchanted and fascinated and adoring you can be, just because this particular baby is yours. I know it's obvious to say that you don't love babies because they earned your love with their hard work and clever puns. But it's still neat to observe. There's no reason to be this fond of her. I just am. (There are plenty of other things that I've invested years in while not loving. See Winter, Michigan and Dissertation, Math.)
I would love to sign up for one of those boot camp exercise programs that health clubs offer, if I had time. I love the idea of being in top physical condition. I'd love to have a boot camp style officer yelling at me to drop and give them twenty. It'd be like having a coach again, someone who will push you to work far harder than you can push yourself, and you'd get fast and strong.
I've been playing a lot of soccer lately (~4 times a week), and I have to say that I just love the feeling of exercising until you drop because your legs are all rubbery. I love the feeling of being sore the next day. I signed up for an IM team with some other faculty members and some students, and it's kind of odd to play with and against your students. But whatever.
I rarely catch television as it airs, but tonight's Parks and Recreation and 30 Rock both made references to the desirability of attending gay Halloween parties. Is this something people talk about?
I saw Mike Doughty tonight. (Yes, the Soul Coughing guy; really, he's quite good.)
I liked how he handled the inevitable appeal for an encore. He jokingly introduced the would-be penultimate song as the song before the fake last song, explaining that they would then turn around briefly before playing two more songs.
As a musician, I hate encores. As an audience member, I hate them even more. And I salute this approach to nipping the encore expectation in the bud.
I expect great, gradual luminous things from this dawn-simulating whackadoodle that came in the mail today. You plug it into the wall, you plug your incandescent lamp into the whackadoodle, you tell it when you want lamprise to be, and supposedly blam!, farewell winter blues. I should know fairly soon whether actual blam! obtains.
I have a fear of hitting a cat or dog on my way to work. If I was responsible for something as cute as a pet lying there, in pain, I think I'd have to stop. But then what the hell do you do? Run over it again to put it out of it's misery? Locate a vet, get all covered in pet guts, and miss class and meetings? Show up looking like a post-op surgeon? It all sounds like a disruptive, upsetting way to start your day and ruin your clothes.
Actually I find one of those not very cute at all.
From Bostonian Girl, a request to discuss this article on meat contamination. Upon skimming it, here are the things that stick out to me:
1. The mixing of meats is reminiscent of rebundling mortgages and all the toxic assets hocus-pocus. Especially in that, once it comes time to track down the tainted item, it's been so sliced and diced and reconfigured that you are forced to assume that pieces of it are everywhere.
2. Corporations are generally horrifying in their disregard for safety.
3. That said, not that many people are getting very sick from e. coli. This doesn't actually make me particularly worried.
4. It does get a little gross to discuss meat slabs after a while.
Did anyone else catch this past weekend's TAL piece about Hell House? It was the first time in recent memory that I can recall catching myself literally with my jaw dropped, specifically during the part at the awards ceremony (starts around minute 23, but I strongly recommend the whole thing).
"I couldn't have done it without my rapers"? Holy whoa.
If I continue to accumulate email at my current average annual rate, I will be corporeally dead before I run out of space at Prominent Webmail Provider.
I started high school in 1991, and I know that, already, it was a standard trope to make fun of the 80s. Because the 80s are funny. My first year of college, in 1995, a friend said to me, "The 80s were so ridiculous, but we dress so normal now." I rolled my eyes at the decadocentricness and assumed we'd look equally goofy to our future selves.
But now it's fourteen years later, and she's right: the 90s are not as ridiculous as the 80s were. The absurdity of 80s fashion was apparent the moment the door closed. The 90s look clearly dated, but not so flagrantly clownish.
I remember finding the 70s hideous in the mid-80s. But as soon as the 80s were over, I couldn't remember what was so awful about the 70s. I began to find the fashions quite nice, and still do. I think the 80s is a uniquely bizarre decade, fashionwise. When you're in it, your worldview is warped, and once it's over you can't quite remember why it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Also, fashion lags behind the decade that gives it its name. So the early 90s looked like the 80s, and yet, it was already a joke.
Uncomfortable fact: I suspect many Twitter memes that I find annoying (one letter off movie titles, failed children's books, etc.) would have been quite hilarious Unfogged threads.
Circumstances not meriting explanation found me this afternoon among the company of people firing weapons at a local private gun club. My first and lasting impression: holy crap, guns are loud.
I heard all manner of rifles and handguns and shotguns, and even having worn earplugs plus the over-the-ear dealies, I'm still sitting here with a headache, hours later.