Tuesday, December 16, 2008

I almost used an exclamation mark in this sucker

Sometimes I am a bit overwhelmed by my general resistance to change. Don’t worry, I’m not about to go plowing through what laugh-tracked sitcoms might call my “issues;” I just wanted to revel in my dogged love of re-reading crappy books.

I just finished reading Under the Volcano by M. Lowry, which was a challenge, since I usually tend to zone out during swirly, multi-consciousness passages that lack quotation marks. I have been disappointed several times by my inability to stomach stream-of-consciousness modernist writing. Generally I start to waiver and then rebuke myself with a stern slap of pretentiousness. Surely the book isn’t boring, pointless, or a crack dream. It’s obviously art, and I’m obviously a moron.

To return to my point, if I can indeed claim to have one, I read Under the Volcano for two reasons. One is that amazon told me that I might like it. The second is that it is referenced rather frequently in another book, Second Hand that I somewhat regularly re-read. I like Second Hand; it’s obvious and pop-y and the main chap wears tweed pants and suffers from “emotional hang-overs” after embarrassing events, which is certainly something I can relate to.

I liked Under the Volcano slightly less. I like things to be conclusive, and although it ended with plenty of carnage, I didn’t get the feeling of any real catharsis. I like things neatly concluded (tragically or not), which is perhaps why I spent yesterday afternoon holed up in my apartment watching It’s a Wonderful Life and eating spaghetti from a Tupperware. Now that is a firmly concluded story.

Speaking of things referenced, one of my favorite bits of Under the Volcano was when the brother laments being served tea as a sailor because he had read Jack London’s The Sea Wolf. I read The Sea Wolf recently (during my London phase, closely documented on THIS VERY BLOG) and it was a real naturalist ringer. Full of stabbings and hard-tack and people who try to burn the boat down after they’ve been presumed in a coma because they are plumb crazy atheist sailors with hands like shanks of meat.

Friday, December 12, 2008

How Strange

In the past 48 hours I have received two free [yes, free] Squirts, heard the words "addled," "persnickety" and "babe-o-rama" used in complete sentences, and encountered two women named Wilma.

Those are very strange occurrences.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

The only time skim milk is acceptable

Excuse me for sounding obnoxious and hyper-patriotic on a Wednesday afternoon, but sometimes a Coke is just awesome. I’m having one now and I’m pleased as punch.

I don’t have too much to relate (my brain is the mucky state at the crossroads of bored and caffeine) so I will just share a few random thoughts to avoid being called a blog-bandoner.

1) It’s a “free jeans” day at my workplace. It is very unnerving to see coworkers who would never usually soil themselves with denim donning it painfully for a show of solidarity. People get insulted if you don’t wear jeans on “free jeans” day. Strangely they are often more upset at this than they are if you violate the everyday no-jeans policy.

2) I am forcing certain persons of my very close acquaintance to experience select volumes of prairie literature. I’m pleased to find (yet again) that my brain has not evolved to a point where reading descriptions of skimming milk is not the most pleasant thing comprehendible. Please, list yet again the process of dressing in wool for sub-zero weather. This is how I get my kicks.

3) It has been quite cold and I was very excited that the weather had finally decided to act like winter. However, the sun came out very determinedly this afternoon and rendered me incapable of fully appreciating a semi-truck with a Christmas wreath attached to the front. I simply cannot enjoy thinking about that truck driver making the long trek home in snowy weather to arrive in the nick (I’m really resisting a bad joke here) of time on Christmas Eve when I’m busy sweating inside of my car.

While I am yapping on about the weather, I’d like to petition for it to rain already, so that I can use my totally bitchin’ umbrella.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Humbuggery

Again I will dabble delightedly in clichés.

Boy do I hate Christmas music on the radio while I am driving around. Which is not to say that I hate Christmas music all together; I don’t mind it in the least when I’m trying to listen to it. But I like to groove in my car, and oftentimes the Christmas jams are too sanctimonious for grooving.

All of this whining does have a point, albeit a stupid one. Last night I was driving home and I turned on the radio, only to hear I Want to Wish You a Merry Christmas done by some sappy oldie-goldie beboppers. For years my go-to Christmas song has been Little Drummer Boy (so sue me; I like repetition). But I found myself awfully uplifted by this Merry Christmas song.

I’m awash in confusion; I don’t even know what Christmas means to me anymore. Probably it means something about egg-nog, but I’ve never had any of that.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

More than traffic

I definitely hate sitting in traffic, but I have lately realized that what I hate slightly more is driving in a quickly-moving middle lane next to a lane of stopped traffic.

For some reason this really creeps me out; I tend to cringe on the right side while hurtling past these stopped cars at impressive, yet legal, speeds.

My fear is that someone in that line of cars is going to decide suddenly that that exit is not nearly so remarkable as to warrant the wait, and thus liberated and joyous, turn violently into the quickly-moving lane. [That's where I am driving, hoping to be left alone.]

Blinkers people, love your blinkers.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

I don't taunt insects.

When I was a teenager I suffered a spider bite perilously near to my eye (at least in my own narrow and admittedly melodramatic opinion). The only thing really funny about this story, beyond the obvious slapstick resulting from arranging your bangs to cover your eyes, was my mother’s reaction to my plight. And even that is not particularly funny.

When I interrupted my mother’s phone conversation with my panicked and slightly exaggerated assertions that a spider had bitten my eye (“ My eye, Mother, my god-forsaken eye!”) she responded with typical motherly indifference. A few days later, when she noticed my impressive shiner and inquired, she claimed that she’d thought I was joking about the spider because I apparently said weird things like that “all the time.”

Though insulted, I could not deny it: proclaiming my personal atrocities was/is a large put of my (substantial) daily conversational quota.

I was reminded of this humiliating escapade this morning. My mother was emailing me (as is her persistent habit) loads of pictures from the family Thanksgiving festivities. She included among the other unflattering gems a subsection very appropriately entitled “close-ups.”

I have tried to reason with my mother on this account many times. I’ve assured her that no one likes close-up pictures of themselves bopping from PC to PC on the family mailing list. People especially do not appreciate this when the pictures are unflattering or make them look like a goober or feature them wearing earplugs and eating huge pieces of pie. In short, people do not appreciate the Internet publicity if they are me.

After I shuddered my way through the photo selections this morning, I began yet another cap-locked email to my mother expressing my distaste of close-ups. The familiarity of the situation started me thinking about how I have most of my conversations with my mother in metaphorical cap-locks, not because I’m angry but because of my semi-constant state of overreaction.

It would appear that I am the kid who is always yelling “spider bite.”