Tuesday, November 23, 2010
No matter what
I've often wondered why people care more about animals than people. I mean, I'm sure as a whole, this isn't true. But doesn't it seem like people get more emotional whenever animals are involved? I feel like I've cried more watching stuff like Old Yeller, Milo & Otis, and Homeward Bound than My Sister's Keeper or The Notebook.
I know a man who did not cry at his own father's funeral or when he was forced to kick his son out of the house, but did when he put his dog down.
Is it because animals love you no matter what?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Failbook
You've probably visited Failbook. I love the site but it wasn't until today that I encountered a Facebook interaction worthy of it for myself. Behold, my first ever Failbook submission. I hope it gets published. In all likelihood, it won't, and I'll forget about it. Which is why I want to share it here, for posterity.
That is all.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Would YOU have a drink with you?
 |
| Julia Styles shares a drink with Julia Styles. |
This commercial provokes my thoughts.
"Would you have a drink with you?"
Weh-heh-ell! That's something to think about. But I cannot answer the question without first asking a series of seemingly related yet equally unnecessary ones. As a student in the fine field of journalism, I must whip out the WHO, WHAT, WHERE, WHEN, WHY, and HOWs:
Who is going to pay the tab-- me or me?
Who is going to believe me when I tell them about this later?
What am I going to talk about with myself?
What should I both wear?
Where am I going to go?
When is this little date going to go down?
When should we conclude this creepy rendezvous?
Why should I attempt such an unusual out of body experience?
How will I get back into one body afterwards?
Nevermind. This question is obviously way too involved for any one person to figure out by themselves. It's actually almost outrageous enough to be something that I could only discuss with another me... over drinks.
I'll give you a good question. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood? Riddle me that, Stoli Vodka.
I win. You can put it on the booooard...YES!
Despite this victory, in the grand scheme of things, the score is still something like
Carsten- 1
Vodka- 1,485
But that's neither here nor th-- Oh, forget it. I need a drink.*
*Please resist the urge to conclude that this post was written after or during the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol. Everything written here was done so under wholly sober conditions. Believe it. Don't believe it. It's your life.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Run, sentence! Run!
Who doesn't love a good run-on sentence every now and then? Nobody I know. I'm starting a collection. Here's a recent favourite of mine:
"So the other day my chiropractor shoved his hand up my mouth and readjusted my brain because my eyes were popping out of their sockets and now I can concentrate better." --My sister
I told her that her chiropractor was surely being facetious. She told me nobody ever believes this story. Do you blame them? Where I'm from, throats travel from north to south, rendering the act of shoving a hand UP a mouth blatantly mythological, or, at the very least, pretty ding-dang-dong dangerous.
But that's neither here nor there. Next run-on:
"Somebody wrote 'honk if you're horny' on our car after we got married but only one person honked because I accidentally cut them off because there was so much freaking paint on our windows." --A coworker
I told him that that was one of the best run-ons I'd ever heard. He told me that run-ons are his literary strength. Also, that his wife's spiritual gifts are cooking and bocce ball.
Liz Danzico on Merlin Mann on Anne Lamott on Haruki Murakami on great sentences:
"So the other day my chiropractor shoved his hand up my mouth and readjusted my brain because my eyes were popping out of their sockets and now I can concentrate better." --My sister
I told her that her chiropractor was surely being facetious. She told me nobody ever believes this story. Do you blame them? Where I'm from, throats travel from north to south, rendering the act of shoving a hand UP a mouth blatantly mythological, or, at the very least, pretty ding-dang-dong dangerous.
But that's neither here nor there. Next run-on:
"Somebody wrote 'honk if you're horny' on our car after we got married but only one person honked because I accidentally cut them off because there was so much freaking paint on our windows." --A coworker
I told him that that was one of the best run-ons I'd ever heard. He told me that run-ons are his literary strength. Also, that his wife's spiritual gifts are cooking and bocce ball.
Liz Danzico on Merlin Mann on Anne Lamott on Haruki Murakami on great sentences:
"I couldn’t really place the sentence on my great sentences list because while it’s mostly grammatically sound and includes words and punctuation, it did not meet my own requirements of having a large foam cowboy hat, nor was it about how broccoli looks like little trees, nor did it create a fort made of sofa cushions in which I could enjoy the sentences included in my proper list of great sentences."
Sunday, November 7, 2010
A Trip Down Memory Lane
When I was younger I watched too many movies. Well, not too many movies per se; just the same movies too often.One Christmas Eve, I watched Dr. Seuss's "How The Grinch Stole Christmas" (the cartoon version) nine, I repeat: nine times in a row. ALONE! After the ninth time, I went and asked my mother how the deuce the narrator had so much stamina to repeat the same story to me over and over again. How did he do it so perfectly and with such consistency? I was legitimately impressed. This was a large part of the reason why I watched it so many times in a row. I was waiting for him to mess up. (Then what, I don't know.)
 |
| How is this "woman" not HORRIFYING? |
When I was even younger than that, circa three or four, (back when film was still magical) I watched The Little Mermaid every single day for at least a year. This is not an exaggeration. Consequently, I developed a deep fear of the antagonist, Ursula aka "The Sea Witch." Every night before going to bed, I would beg my parents to thoroughly check my closet to make sure she wasn't lurking around in there. For some reason, unbeknownst to me to this day, they decided to tell me:
"Carst, don't be afraid of the Sea Witch. She is a sea creature. She can't come into your room. She has to stay in water!"
Great... so.... now instead of telling me the truth (that she was fictional) you've just given me cause for concern when approaching water. Awesome.
 |
| The murderous Mr. McGregor chasing sweet and innocent Peter Cottontail. |
SWEET, MOM! Why couldn't you have just told me that Mr. McGregor was FICTIONAL instead of verifying that I'm NOT a rabbit?
So that is the story of why I suffered traumatic years of avoidable anxiety surrounding visiting large bodies of water or becoming a rabbit.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Insane Aussie Grandmum+Cellulite+Full Bus of Horrified Onlookers=One Memorable Ride
One lovely night in Sydney, I was sitting on the 461 bus en route to downtown from the Inner West suburbs where I was living. It's not a very long ride; maybe 25 minutes or so; a ride I had taken many, many times, though none stands out to me like this one.
On this bus ride, I am accompanied by my friend and fellow American, Sarah, whom you may remember from previous posts. We are sitting in the very last row of seats, having a jovial time, anticipating the fun that would surely ensue at the party we are on our way to. But why should we wait for the party for the fun to start? Isn't life really about the journey and not the destination?
Yes.
And so, we meet our entertainment.
A twenty something enters the scene (bus). She is with her toddler-sized daughter, clad entirely in pink, complete with leash. Twenty Something's own mother, (the tot's grandmum) is also with them.
Upon noticing that Sarah's and my knees are about her height, Leash toddles over to us and embraces them (the knees) fervently. We do not find this especially strange or uncomfortable until Grandmum encourages Leash to sit on our laps. Somehow, we employ our body language to convey that we prefer Leash and her leash keep their distance. Leash begins flopping around like a fish out of water, rolling around under the seats. The leash is now completely superfluous. It is not securing Leash to anything whatsoever. Twenty Something and Grandmum don't seem to mind, though. Something else has caught their attention.
"You better get rid of that!" Grandmum screeches in our direction.
Sarah and I look at each other, startled.
"Get rid of what?"
Grandmum gestures to my exposed thigh. I am wearing a pair of shorts which is neither incredibly revealing nor horribly conservative.
"That cellulite!"
It is at this point that every passenger with a bottom jaw introduces it to the floor of the bus.
“Excuse me?” I reply.
“Look at your legs! That’s horrible! You need to get rid of that!” she barks on.
“MUM!” Twenty Something exclaims, embarrassed as can be at her mother's shameless declaration.
It's bad enough being insulted. Imagine being insulted by someone with an Australian accent about something you were completely unaware of about yourself, on a bus filled to capacity. At the time of these happenings, I don't even know what cellulite looks like. But that's neither here nor there. Cellulite or no cellulite, there are several things wrong with this scenario:
I look at Sarah for any shred of confirmation that my legs are not the epitome of all things hideous. She confirms.
Grandmum continues, “Well you have it and it's right there!”
Her hand makes contact with my thigh so as to better show me the "problem area." I abruptly inform her that I neither approve of such contact, nor such degrading remarks, regardless of their alleged accuracy.
Twenty Something pleads again for her mum to behave. Leash is still tumbling about among the other riders, every one of which is observing the Cellulite Showdown. Leash is probably the only being on board who is not paying attention. And that includes the driver.
Twenty Something pleads now for Grandmum to grab Leash's leash, as Leash is getting even bouncier, and Grandmum is much closer to her. Grandmum does not comply. She is far too engrossed (no pun intended) in something much more threatening than her granddaughter's potential head-trauma: the aesthetically displeasurable nature of a stranger's legs.
"Look at her legs!" Grandmum instructs Twenty Something.
Twenty Something follows her mother's lead, forgets about Leash, and focuses on my thigh. She appears to mull it over. Cellulite or no cellulite? That is the question. For a split second, I swear she wants to agree with Grandmum, but Leash needs rescuing, and Twenty Something abandons the thought of my thunderous thighs. I almost react as if I can't believe she would leave me hanging like this after all we've been through with her insane mum on this crowded bus.
Sarah and I think this can't possibly get any more bizarre. Then Grandmum sits down on the floor and begins demonstrating butt and leg exercises to me.
"This is the kind of thing you need to be doing! It's the only thing that works!"
Though this sounds comedic, I can assure you, she's quite serious and quite angry with me for not "keeping myself in shape." She is sincerely concerned for my condition.
I must mention now that throughout this whole ordeal, though I am highly offended, I am also highly amused. I've never been more insulted, laughed harder, or felt more compelled to work out in my life. What an absurd assortment of feelings. Although, not surprisingly, I am now somewhat self-conscious about my legs.
Finally, the bus arrives at the three strange females’ stop and Twenty Something and Leash promptly make their escape. Grandmum isn't done with me, though. The driver is highly annoyed and waits impatiently with the door open for her to exit.
She growls at me again: “How old are you anyway?? I’m 47 and I’ve got better legs than you do! Look at this!” She smacks her ass in my direction. Twenty Something is watching from outside, horrified.
"MUM!!!!!! GET OFF THE BUS!!!"
She finally leaves, albeit reluctantly.
This event took the cake for the most socially unacceptable spectacle I had ever witnessed. But then a few weeks later, we ran into some people having sex outside near Town Hall. And that's that.
On this bus ride, I am accompanied by my friend and fellow American, Sarah, whom you may remember from previous posts. We are sitting in the very last row of seats, having a jovial time, anticipating the fun that would surely ensue at the party we are on our way to. But why should we wait for the party for the fun to start? Isn't life really about the journey and not the destination?
Yes.
And so, we meet our entertainment.
A twenty something enters the scene (bus). She is with her toddler-sized daughter, clad entirely in pink, complete with leash. Twenty Something's own mother, (the tot's grandmum) is also with them.
Upon noticing that Sarah's and my knees are about her height, Leash toddles over to us and embraces them (the knees) fervently. We do not find this especially strange or uncomfortable until Grandmum encourages Leash to sit on our laps. Somehow, we employ our body language to convey that we prefer Leash and her leash keep their distance. Leash begins flopping around like a fish out of water, rolling around under the seats. The leash is now completely superfluous. It is not securing Leash to anything whatsoever. Twenty Something and Grandmum don't seem to mind, though. Something else has caught their attention.
"You better get rid of that!" Grandmum screeches in our direction.
Sarah and I look at each other, startled.
"Get rid of what?"
Grandmum gestures to my exposed thigh. I am wearing a pair of shorts which is neither incredibly revealing nor horribly conservative.
"That cellulite!"
It is at this point that every passenger with a bottom jaw introduces it to the floor of the bus.
“Excuse me?” I reply.
“Look at your legs! That’s horrible! You need to get rid of that!” she barks on.
“MUM!” Twenty Something exclaims, embarrassed as can be at her mother's shameless declaration.
It's bad enough being insulted. Imagine being insulted by someone with an Australian accent about something you were completely unaware of about yourself, on a bus filled to capacity. At the time of these happenings, I don't even know what cellulite looks like. But that's neither here nor there. Cellulite or no cellulite, there are several things wrong with this scenario:
 |
| Good ol' 461 |
#1) The way I am sitting reveals nothing short of an average thigh. Nothing to be admired, but nothing to scorn.
#2) Even if I am the fattest person Grandmum has ever encountered, (which, at 65 kg, I am assuredly not) her behaviour is far from appropriate."What are you talking about???" I ask, urgently. "I don't see any cellulite...." (True as this statement was, like I said, I wouldn't have known what to look for.)
I look at Sarah for any shred of confirmation that my legs are not the epitome of all things hideous. She confirms.
Grandmum continues, “Well you have it and it's right there!”
Her hand makes contact with my thigh so as to better show me the "problem area." I abruptly inform her that I neither approve of such contact, nor such degrading remarks, regardless of their alleged accuracy.
Twenty Something pleads again for her mum to behave. Leash is still tumbling about among the other riders, every one of which is observing the Cellulite Showdown. Leash is probably the only being on board who is not paying attention. And that includes the driver.
Twenty Something pleads now for Grandmum to grab Leash's leash, as Leash is getting even bouncier, and Grandmum is much closer to her. Grandmum does not comply. She is far too engrossed (no pun intended) in something much more threatening than her granddaughter's potential head-trauma: the aesthetically displeasurable nature of a stranger's legs.
"Look at her legs!" Grandmum instructs Twenty Something.
Twenty Something follows her mother's lead, forgets about Leash, and focuses on my thigh. She appears to mull it over. Cellulite or no cellulite? That is the question. For a split second, I swear she wants to agree with Grandmum, but Leash needs rescuing, and Twenty Something abandons the thought of my thunderous thighs. I almost react as if I can't believe she would leave me hanging like this after all we've been through with her insane mum on this crowded bus.
Sarah and I think this can't possibly get any more bizarre. Then Grandmum sits down on the floor and begins demonstrating butt and leg exercises to me.
"This is the kind of thing you need to be doing! It's the only thing that works!"
Though this sounds comedic, I can assure you, she's quite serious and quite angry with me for not "keeping myself in shape." She is sincerely concerned for my condition.
I must mention now that throughout this whole ordeal, though I am highly offended, I am also highly amused. I've never been more insulted, laughed harder, or felt more compelled to work out in my life. What an absurd assortment of feelings. Although, not surprisingly, I am now somewhat self-conscious about my legs.
Finally, the bus arrives at the three strange females’ stop and Twenty Something and Leash promptly make their escape. Grandmum isn't done with me, though. The driver is highly annoyed and waits impatiently with the door open for her to exit.
She growls at me again: “How old are you anyway?? I’m 47 and I’ve got better legs than you do! Look at this!” She smacks her ass in my direction. Twenty Something is watching from outside, horrified.
"MUM!!!!!! GET OFF THE BUS!!!"
She finally leaves, albeit reluctantly.
I feel like this family should invest in another leash.
This event took the cake for the most socially unacceptable spectacle I had ever witnessed. But then a few weeks later, we ran into some people having sex outside near Town Hall. And that's that.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Starr
 |
| Starr |
The last night time thought I had to my recollection:
I "woke up" (if you can really call it that) with an incredible sense of urgency surrounding the idea of getting in contact with my parents' German Shepherd, Starr. I felt bad because I hadn't seen or talked to (???) her in a while. I decided the best way to remedy the situation would be by texting her immediately.
It was at this point that I kind of groggily realized that this was an absolutely ridiculous idea. For one thing, she does not have opposable thumbs. For another thing, she does not have her own cell phone. Lastly, I'm not even that fond of her.
She has since been put down, so now I feel kinda bad about that last part. :\
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The List
I want to talk about picking up chicks. I want to talk about this because so many guys seem to need help.
I shall now impart an inspiring anecdote.
One evening this summer, a girlfriend and I were sitting at Plymouth, a rooftop bar in Chicago. There happened to be a Cubs/Phillies game on TV which was both convenient and coincidental, me being from Chicago and Sarah, from Philly.
It was also quite convenient that our bartender was absolutely gorgeous. All I remember about him was that he was 28, born and raised in the city, and his name started with "J." But none of that is important. What is important is that he was stunning (even before I ingested several Long Islands), and more importantly, clever.
"Are you a Cubs fan?" he flirted, handing me the first drink.
"Yeah."
"Are you single?"
He did not miss a beat. Two thumbs up. This comedic timing was wonderful.
I laughed. "Yeah."
He produced a long piece of paper from his wallet that unfolded several times.
"How many of these other things are you?"
He handed me the rather involved handwritten list of qualities:
Attractive
Cubs fan
Priorities straight
Wants kids
Healthy
Fit
Nonsmoker
Doesn't do drugs
Good in bed*** (This one was starred, circled, bolded, and underlined.)
Positive attitude
Funny
Intelligent
Likes to go out
Confident
Athletic
Goal-oriented
Spiritual
Kind
Comfortable with herself
Honest
Trusting
Clean
Conscientious
As Sarah and I were cracking up at the ingenuity displayed before us, the female bartender came over to see what all the fuss was about. Naturally, she thought it was adorable too.
“You ACTUALLY have a LIST? A PHYSICAL list? And you CARRY it on you?”
“J” explained that this was absolutely necessary because he needed to start cutting to the chase and stop wading through the bullshit of dating relationships. If I remember correctly, I believe he had recently gotten his heart pwned by a woman. But that’s neither here nor there. This “list” was too hilarious. Every female that now surrounded “J” at the bar was highly impressed and intrigued.
I handed him back the paper.
“Well, so how many?” he joked.
I laughed again and reminded him that I was just visiting from California, but that I knew this tactic would yield desirable results for him eventually.
"Oh, I see,” he said. “So the real reason is that you don't date black guys."
"No, no, no,” I assured him. “The real reason is I don't date 28 year olds."
But the point is, if I did, I would.
Sarah and I abandoned the baseball game and "J" to meet up with another friend, but his forthrightness and wit did leave an impression. I mean, here I am, months later, still telling this story...
Hint: Try this, guys. You'd be surprised.
I shall now impart an inspiring anecdote.
One evening this summer, a girlfriend and I were sitting at Plymouth, a rooftop bar in Chicago. There happened to be a Cubs/Phillies game on TV which was both convenient and coincidental, me being from Chicago and Sarah, from Philly.
It was also quite convenient that our bartender was absolutely gorgeous. All I remember about him was that he was 28, born and raised in the city, and his name started with "J." But none of that is important. What is important is that he was stunning (even before I ingested several Long Islands), and more importantly, clever.
"Are you a Cubs fan?" he flirted, handing me the first drink.
"Yeah."
"Are you single?"
He did not miss a beat. Two thumbs up. This comedic timing was wonderful.
I laughed. "Yeah."
He produced a long piece of paper from his wallet that unfolded several times.
"How many of these other things are you?"
He handed me the rather involved handwritten list of qualities:
Attractive
Cubs fan
Priorities straight
Wants kids
Healthy
Fit
Nonsmoker
Doesn't do drugs
Good in bed*** (This one was starred, circled, bolded, and underlined.)
Positive attitude
Funny
Intelligent
Likes to go out
Confident
Athletic
Goal-oriented
Spiritual
Kind
Comfortable with herself
Honest
Trusting
Clean
Conscientious
As Sarah and I were cracking up at the ingenuity displayed before us, the female bartender came over to see what all the fuss was about. Naturally, she thought it was adorable too.
“You ACTUALLY have a LIST? A PHYSICAL list? And you CARRY it on you?”
“J” explained that this was absolutely necessary because he needed to start cutting to the chase and stop wading through the bullshit of dating relationships. If I remember correctly, I believe he had recently gotten his heart pwned by a woman. But that’s neither here nor there. This “list” was too hilarious. Every female that now surrounded “J” at the bar was highly impressed and intrigued.
I handed him back the paper.
“Well, so how many?” he joked.
I laughed again and reminded him that I was just visiting from California, but that I knew this tactic would yield desirable results for him eventually.
"Oh, I see,” he said. “So the real reason is that you don't date black guys."
"No, no, no,” I assured him. “The real reason is I don't date 28 year olds."
But the point is, if I did, I would.
Sarah and I abandoned the baseball game and "J" to meet up with another friend, but his forthrightness and wit did leave an impression. I mean, here I am, months later, still telling this story...
Hint: Try this, guys. You'd be surprised.
Monday, November 1, 2010
No Shave November
Happy November.
For many men*, today marks the first day of a whole month of uninterrupted facial hair growth;
the aptly named "No Shave November".
I hereby dedicate this post to beards everywhere lest we forget:
stevetrottier.com
Am I right or am I right? Look at this man's badass beard. Sweet mother of nature. Who cares who he is or what he's done? Look at that mother friggen beard.
*Females are asked not to participate in No Shave November when culturally applicable. Please.
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