Mentors & Muscle Spasm
This is an experiment in drunk blogging...
I've been attempting to get on the blogger site to write this blog for about 30 minutes. My computer at home hates me. It's a Dell laptop from 1999 but it might as well be the Apple IIGS from when I was eleven because it's bordering on non-functional. I was okay when the letter 'N' rubbed off the keyboard months ago because I can type without skipping a beat (shout out Lan Heng). I was a bit bummed when the tab key stopped working last week. Even more upset when my internet explorer went on the fritz (why the FUCK would I want to "try offline"?? stop asking me that!) Most of all, I am really frustrated about this whole COOKIE situation. I couldn't get onto my blog homepage tonight because apparently somehow my cookies were disabled. Is this even English? How DARE the computer nerds of America name something evil after one of the 3 foods I would bring to a desert island. How my cookies were disabled, I'll never know. It took me 30 minutes - and clearing out my temporary internet files - to figure out how to enable them. I totally lost all the bloggerific thoughts rolling around in my brain. For all the hard work and concentration it just took to enable my cookies, there should be motherfucking mallomars raining from the sky. Also, for some reason, my home computer has changed the format of the blog homepage so I'm without the use of bold/italics/spell check/preview, etc. So I guess this is a blog post that will harken back to the old days of stream of consciousness and quill pens and the like. Or, I will attempt to edit this later and find those safety functions before you guys read this. But that might not be possible. Because my sister told like, every human she's encountered in the past week, about this blog. I'm exaggerating but let's just say it's not necessarily the elite inner circle I had initially envisioned. You know, at least until Jhumpa Lahiri discovered it and we ended up co-writing a collection of creative non-fiction short stories. Truthfully, I'm very flattered that my sister is proud of me and obviously, if I didn't want people to read my writing, I'd probably choose a more private outlet than say, the internet. Someone asked me today if people who didn't know me will find the things I write as funny and interesting - well, I guess we're gonna find out.
Everyone's all abuzz lately about Grey's Anatomy and specifically, Patrick Dempsey's hair. It occured to me just now while flipping through the channels while my computer licked itself clean that Patrick Dempsey really owes a great debt to Corey and Shawn from Boy Meets World. If you combined Corey's non-jew-jew-fro and Shawn's long, thick wayward tresses into one hybridized hairstyle, you'd have Dr. Derrick Sheppard's thick, beautiful locks of auburn loveliness.
Note to self: Do not complain about mosquito bites on your blog. BECAUSE YOU'LL WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING WITH A MOSQUITO BITE ON YOUR FACE.
If I stop and think for a moment about all the hurricanes this summer, and how when the power in my apartment or even my fucking cable goes off for like an hour, I spaz, I feel like the scum of the earth.
I may be the scum of the earth, but at least I'm not preventing the earth from protecting itself (WHUT UP DUB-YA).
In case you were wondering, I'm drunk off three drinks of vodka and grapefruit juice. As I feel the onset of the spins approaching, it comforts me to know that I will retain all of my teeth due to the grapefruit juice combatting the threat of scurvy.
I saw Jarhead. I liked it. I'm sick of defending this opinion. A.O. Scott called it "a minor film about a minor war." I think that's retarded. Wow, apparently alcohol inhibits my use of appropriately impressive vocabulary words and relegates me to using words like retarded. Let's be honest, I use that word even in my sober state. I don't mean no harm. Except to A.O. Scott. I think A.O. Scott is minor AND retarded. Why do I need him when I have Manola Dargis? Listen, the film is by no means flawless. The book is better, but the themes of the book do not ideally translate to a cinematic story arch, and that's not the fault of the filmmaker. Sam Mendes made a choice, to faithfully adapt the book, and I support that. If you want blatant sentiment - be it anti-war or pro-war - then this isn't the movie for you. But aren't we sick of the blatant, of the obvious, let's applaud nuance and subtlety and quiet and the depiction and toll of EMOTIONAL violence and carnage. I acknowledge that it's difficult to return to a pre-9/11 world, but events before September 11th are not irrelevant, and connections made to today do not need to be wrapped up in a bow and stuffed down our throats. We are smarter than that, aren't we? The audience should be able to form opinions and react even if there isn't necessarily one character in the film that spews the truth as we see it. It's a beautifully shot film and the acting is great. Jarhead makes you uncomfortable, it makes you question, it makes you sympathize, but no, it does not wink at you and say "see this, this war in Iraq, DOESN'T IT SEEM FAMILIAR?" And I'm a-okay with that.
I hate Angelina Jolie. She is a pair too-skinny legs with wax lips perched on top.
When making most decisions, fear is a big factor. Wait, that sentence was missing two words. When making most OF MY decisions, fear is a big factor. Wow, apparently there was truth serum in my drinks tonight. I overcame my fear and attended a class at New York Sports Club earlier this evening. The class ended approximately 9 hours ago and my legs have felt like noodles ever since the moment that the techno music stopped. Sometimes when I try to walk, my left leg buckles and I feel a tingling sensation up my leg into my back. I think back to senior year in college when I woke up one morning and couldn't walk and had to go to the ER and was later diagnosed with herniated discs and a doctor telling me that it was stress-related and probably exascerbated by my senior thesis and kickboxing class and I wonder if taking Total Body Conditioning was really a bright move. The most surprising part of the class was that the instructor was named Bianca, and I still liked her. All you need to know about the class is that it's 45 minutes straight of weights, crunches, and my 2 new least favorite words - lunges & squats. All you have to know about the effects this class had on my body are - I expect, expect, to be unable to walk when I wake up tomorrow morning. Maybe this is part of the reason I'm up at 4:30am - I'm dreading going to bed, because I'm dreading waking up. The class was great actually, kicked my ass in the best way, but I am not a limber person, I am not a particularly strong person, and though I have a sense of humor usually, the fact that the party I attended this evening was behind the doors of a 5th floor walk-up, I found that not funny. My body is experiencing a cornucopia of muscle spasms - it's like a charley horse gave birth to sore & crampy charley ponies.
My roommate and I combined the other day to come up with what I thought was a funny comparison: "Finding the right balance between flirting and playing it cool is like trying to find the perfect length jeans." (Props to giving credit where credit is due, I provided the first - not as clever - half of that comparison).
I believe this meandering, loosely-related (tonally diatribe) blog post needs to end. The night mosquito and I have another battle to fight (he's up 2-0). At least if I get West Nile, I won't die of bird flu like all the rest of you. Oh, and in case you are wondering about the title of this blog (to those of you who have not slipped into a self-induced coma), here's the missing piece:
Tonight I met a person who could be my mentor. She does what I want to do when I want grow up. Potential is in the air my friends.
I've been attempting to get on the blogger site to write this blog for about 30 minutes. My computer at home hates me. It's a Dell laptop from 1999 but it might as well be the Apple IIGS from when I was eleven because it's bordering on non-functional. I was okay when the letter 'N' rubbed off the keyboard months ago because I can type without skipping a beat (shout out Lan Heng). I was a bit bummed when the tab key stopped working last week. Even more upset when my internet explorer went on the fritz (why the FUCK would I want to "try offline"?? stop asking me that!) Most of all, I am really frustrated about this whole COOKIE situation. I couldn't get onto my blog homepage tonight because apparently somehow my cookies were disabled. Is this even English? How DARE the computer nerds of America name something evil after one of the 3 foods I would bring to a desert island. How my cookies were disabled, I'll never know. It took me 30 minutes - and clearing out my temporary internet files - to figure out how to enable them. I totally lost all the bloggerific thoughts rolling around in my brain. For all the hard work and concentration it just took to enable my cookies, there should be motherfucking mallomars raining from the sky. Also, for some reason, my home computer has changed the format of the blog homepage so I'm without the use of bold/italics/spell check/preview, etc. So I guess this is a blog post that will harken back to the old days of stream of consciousness and quill pens and the like. Or, I will attempt to edit this later and find those safety functions before you guys read this. But that might not be possible. Because my sister told like, every human she's encountered in the past week, about this blog. I'm exaggerating but let's just say it's not necessarily the elite inner circle I had initially envisioned. You know, at least until Jhumpa Lahiri discovered it and we ended up co-writing a collection of creative non-fiction short stories. Truthfully, I'm very flattered that my sister is proud of me and obviously, if I didn't want people to read my writing, I'd probably choose a more private outlet than say, the internet. Someone asked me today if people who didn't know me will find the things I write as funny and interesting - well, I guess we're gonna find out.
Everyone's all abuzz lately about Grey's Anatomy and specifically, Patrick Dempsey's hair. It occured to me just now while flipping through the channels while my computer licked itself clean that Patrick Dempsey really owes a great debt to Corey and Shawn from Boy Meets World. If you combined Corey's non-jew-jew-fro and Shawn's long, thick wayward tresses into one hybridized hairstyle, you'd have Dr. Derrick Sheppard's thick, beautiful locks of auburn loveliness.
Note to self: Do not complain about mosquito bites on your blog. BECAUSE YOU'LL WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING WITH A MOSQUITO BITE ON YOUR FACE.
If I stop and think for a moment about all the hurricanes this summer, and how when the power in my apartment or even my fucking cable goes off for like an hour, I spaz, I feel like the scum of the earth.
I may be the scum of the earth, but at least I'm not preventing the earth from protecting itself (WHUT UP DUB-YA).
In case you were wondering, I'm drunk off three drinks of vodka and grapefruit juice. As I feel the onset of the spins approaching, it comforts me to know that I will retain all of my teeth due to the grapefruit juice combatting the threat of scurvy.
I saw Jarhead. I liked it. I'm sick of defending this opinion. A.O. Scott called it "a minor film about a minor war." I think that's retarded. Wow, apparently alcohol inhibits my use of appropriately impressive vocabulary words and relegates me to using words like retarded. Let's be honest, I use that word even in my sober state. I don't mean no harm. Except to A.O. Scott. I think A.O. Scott is minor AND retarded. Why do I need him when I have Manola Dargis? Listen, the film is by no means flawless. The book is better, but the themes of the book do not ideally translate to a cinematic story arch, and that's not the fault of the filmmaker. Sam Mendes made a choice, to faithfully adapt the book, and I support that. If you want blatant sentiment - be it anti-war or pro-war - then this isn't the movie for you. But aren't we sick of the blatant, of the obvious, let's applaud nuance and subtlety and quiet and the depiction and toll of EMOTIONAL violence and carnage. I acknowledge that it's difficult to return to a pre-9/11 world, but events before September 11th are not irrelevant, and connections made to today do not need to be wrapped up in a bow and stuffed down our throats. We are smarter than that, aren't we? The audience should be able to form opinions and react even if there isn't necessarily one character in the film that spews the truth as we see it. It's a beautifully shot film and the acting is great. Jarhead makes you uncomfortable, it makes you question, it makes you sympathize, but no, it does not wink at you and say "see this, this war in Iraq, DOESN'T IT SEEM FAMILIAR?" And I'm a-okay with that.
I hate Angelina Jolie. She is a pair too-skinny legs with wax lips perched on top.
When making most decisions, fear is a big factor. Wait, that sentence was missing two words. When making most OF MY decisions, fear is a big factor. Wow, apparently there was truth serum in my drinks tonight. I overcame my fear and attended a class at New York Sports Club earlier this evening. The class ended approximately 9 hours ago and my legs have felt like noodles ever since the moment that the techno music stopped. Sometimes when I try to walk, my left leg buckles and I feel a tingling sensation up my leg into my back. I think back to senior year in college when I woke up one morning and couldn't walk and had to go to the ER and was later diagnosed with herniated discs and a doctor telling me that it was stress-related and probably exascerbated by my senior thesis and kickboxing class and I wonder if taking Total Body Conditioning was really a bright move. The most surprising part of the class was that the instructor was named Bianca, and I still liked her. All you need to know about the class is that it's 45 minutes straight of weights, crunches, and my 2 new least favorite words - lunges & squats. All you have to know about the effects this class had on my body are - I expect, expect, to be unable to walk when I wake up tomorrow morning. Maybe this is part of the reason I'm up at 4:30am - I'm dreading going to bed, because I'm dreading waking up. The class was great actually, kicked my ass in the best way, but I am not a limber person, I am not a particularly strong person, and though I have a sense of humor usually, the fact that the party I attended this evening was behind the doors of a 5th floor walk-up, I found that not funny. My body is experiencing a cornucopia of muscle spasms - it's like a charley horse gave birth to sore & crampy charley ponies.
My roommate and I combined the other day to come up with what I thought was a funny comparison: "Finding the right balance between flirting and playing it cool is like trying to find the perfect length jeans." (Props to giving credit where credit is due, I provided the first - not as clever - half of that comparison).
I believe this meandering, loosely-related (tonally diatribe) blog post needs to end. The night mosquito and I have another battle to fight (he's up 2-0). At least if I get West Nile, I won't die of bird flu like all the rest of you. Oh, and in case you are wondering about the title of this blog (to those of you who have not slipped into a self-induced coma), here's the missing piece:
Tonight I met a person who could be my mentor. She does what I want to do when I want grow up. Potential is in the air my friends.
posted by Susan Goldberg at 2:55 AM
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