I am endeavoring to be somewhat regular in my blogtastic experiment. I have no desire to undertake the awkward "gee, it's been awhile" style of posting, my sentences plagued with the combination of embarassment and guilt and the sinking knowledge that I am making excuses to myself.
I also hope that a charade of regularity will instill in me a habit of having and cataloging the interesting sort of thoughts that I am nearly certain that I must waste daily, but this is rather a long shot. Mostly I just want blog street-cred.
Over the weekend I did several things of note. Firstly and foremostly, I obtained an apartment for post-graduate living with my M.S. (main squeeze, not multiple sclerosis). The apartment shopping experience was marked by rental offices with balloons, guac and unabashed Cinco De Mayo specials, sales boys with a tendency to say "I hear that" and the dreadful realization that there are squalling, dirty babies playing on every dingy "God Bless This Nest" doormat. Despite the apparent spawning masses, we found a nice place with alluring art niches and a faux-wood balcony (that I will inevitably refer to as the veranda) that will allow us a grand view of any awesome domestic desputes taking place in the parking lot.
Other than this, I spent a lot of the weekend reading. Unfortunately most of this reading was statistics about the demographic spread of African and European ethnicities in early America and how their cultures were transplanted. Now, I have been known to slog through some spectacularly boring tomes for class (being secretly a very pretenious slacker), but this book was amazingly dull. I'm not one of those chicks with the Johnny Depp 3-ring binder and the special edition P.O.T.C. mary janes with the skull and crossbones on the toe, but I nearly wept with joy everytime some cheesy pirate narrative gave a small break in the heavy statistics. (It occurs to me that maybe I should discuss my other classes so that I'm not playing such obvious favorites, and perhaps I will some other time when they aren't covering erotic poetry and beauty pageants respectively).
Recreationally I read The Dain Curse over the weekend, and it was drastically inferior to The Maltese Falcon. I'm not saying that The Maltese Falcon is a marvelous peice of literature, but it is so nice and pulpy, and I fondly remember how the main chap is describing as repeatedly slapping people with his "wide, flat hand" or something like that. In The Dain Curse, no one is getting slapped with wide, flat hands, they are all just getting shot by four skilled marksmen simultaneously and dying from three bullets in the chest and one in the forehead. Lame.
I also hope that a charade of regularity will instill in me a habit of having and cataloging the interesting sort of thoughts that I am nearly certain that I must waste daily, but this is rather a long shot. Mostly I just want blog street-cred.
Over the weekend I did several things of note. Firstly and foremostly, I obtained an apartment for post-graduate living with my M.S. (main squeeze, not multiple sclerosis). The apartment shopping experience was marked by rental offices with balloons, guac and unabashed Cinco De Mayo specials, sales boys with a tendency to say "I hear that" and the dreadful realization that there are squalling, dirty babies playing on every dingy "God Bless This Nest" doormat. Despite the apparent spawning masses, we found a nice place with alluring art niches and a faux-wood balcony (that I will inevitably refer to as the veranda) that will allow us a grand view of any awesome domestic desputes taking place in the parking lot.
Other than this, I spent a lot of the weekend reading. Unfortunately most of this reading was statistics about the demographic spread of African and European ethnicities in early America and how their cultures were transplanted. Now, I have been known to slog through some spectacularly boring tomes for class (being secretly a very pretenious slacker), but this book was amazingly dull. I'm not one of those chicks with the Johnny Depp 3-ring binder and the special edition P.O.T.C. mary janes with the skull and crossbones on the toe, but I nearly wept with joy everytime some cheesy pirate narrative gave a small break in the heavy statistics. (It occurs to me that maybe I should discuss my other classes so that I'm not playing such obvious favorites, and perhaps I will some other time when they aren't covering erotic poetry and beauty pageants respectively).
Recreationally I read The Dain Curse over the weekend, and it was drastically inferior to The Maltese Falcon. I'm not saying that The Maltese Falcon is a marvelous peice of literature, but it is so nice and pulpy, and I fondly remember how the main chap is describing as repeatedly slapping people with his "wide, flat hand" or something like that. In The Dain Curse, no one is getting slapped with wide, flat hands, they are all just getting shot by four skilled marksmen simultaneously and dying from three bullets in the chest and one in the forehead. Lame.
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