Polaroids

A friend of mine has a Polaroid camera. It's new. It's also monstrously large. Do you remember the Polaroid being that unwieldy? I laugh every time she whips it out.

So anyway, she took several Polaroids over the last few weeks which I'm staring at now. "Polaroids" makes you think of dirty pictures, doesn't it? Yeah, I know. It made me think of dirty pictures too. I have to say though that these are the best f'ing pictures anyone has ever taken that I happen to be in. It's almost as if the Polaroid has captured my soul in its giantess and reproduced it in a 4x4 frame.

I think I'm in love with the Polaroid.

Apparently the film is ridiculously expensive. But shit, if these are the best pictures anyone will ever take of you, isn't it worth it? I remember my mom taking Polaroids of us at the beach when we were kids. (These were not "dirty pictures" either.) And damn, I looked good.

I may have to do some research on how Polaroid came to mean "dirty pictures". If you have any input, it's welcome. Your own Polaroids are also welcome.

Cheese.

Proverbially speaking

I found myself on this proverbs site today. I had no idea how many proverbs there really were or just how ridiculous the majority are. Here's a sampling:

-- "Don't cross the bridge till you come to it."
Can I have a duh moment for a second? How can you cross the bridge if you haven't come to it? Do you mean a mental bridge and not the Brooklyn Bridge? That's deep, man.

-- "A good man is hard to find."
No comment.

-- "You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs."
Is this a proverb or Joy of Cooking?

-- "Don't try to teach your grandma to suck eggs."
Not from the Joy of Cooking. Apparently it means don't give advice to someone with more experience or who seems crotchedy and wields a cane.

-- "Don't keep a dog and bark yourself."
Hold the phone, Buck Jones. Say what? What if you really liked to bark? And you were good at it? And your dog liked it too? I reject this proverb.

-- "Life's not all beer and skittles."
Really? Because that sounds like a pretty righteous combination. I want to taste the rainbow. [See World Domination post for my feelings on delicious beer products.]

-- "Two heads are better than one."
Unless of course you're attached to that head as in siamese twins. I don't think siamese twins think that their two conjoined heads are better than one un-conjoined head on one un-conjoined body. This is my assumption; I have not done fieldwork.

-- "Live for today for tomorrow never comes."
What??? Holy crap, are you kidding? I didn't do Jack today and now I'm going to die? Thanks for the memo. Jerk.

-- "Handsome is as handsome does."
I'd like to amend this to Awesome is as awesome does. I still don't know what it means but it sounds infintiely cooler now.

I'm getting pretty bored with these proverbs now. Feel free to send me your own proverbs to make fun of.

Remember, awesome is as awesome does.

Right. On.

Super Cultured

As if this is at all surprising, I am super cultured. Tonight I attended a reading of several short plays. That means live actors read the parts with little to no staging, no scenery, no costumes, etc. See, only those with super suspension of disbelief -- like myself -- can partake in this high-minded cultural event.

Anyway, as luck would have it, some of the pieces were exceptionally good, while others really sucked. My friend wrote one of the exceptionally good ones because you know I only surround myself with talented people. One piece in particular confounded me to no end. I couldn't follow the dialogue; I couldn't follow the plot. It just sounded all kinds of crazytown to me. Afterwards the writers assembled on stage to take questions. It's funny how no one ever has any questions in situations like these. Anyway, the author of said confounding piece described the vision/inspiration. I was even more befuddled. That writer made no sense.

Sometimes that happens. As a totally awesome writer, I know this to be true. . . of others. I try not to rub it in when it happens to those other writers because I'm a pretty generous and loving person. Unless you cross me. Don't ever cross me.

Anyway anyway, I was reflecting on the subway home about the characters in these myriad pieces. Then it struck me like a thunderbolt. People in fiction can be just as assholic as people in real life. Can you believe that? You don't even have to suspend your disbelief really. It's amazing.

I think that revelation just shook the very grounds of theater. Playwrights everywhere are going to start seriously cranking out the pages now. (You're welcome.)

Anyway anyway anyway, it's all true. People in fiction and nonfiction can be real jerks. I know this to be true from personal investigation and from the reading of many many long books. I'm not advocating for everyone in fiction and otherwise to be nice all the time because that would seriously get boring. I'm just stating the facts.

What this Eureka moment has taught me is that at the end of the day, I am still super cultured. At least something's still right with the world.

Ants in Pants

Self-diagnosis: ants in pants. Feeling nervous or anxious about something or someone.

Prognosis: will live. Prone to spastic outbursts. Harmful to self, less so to others.

Ants in pants is originally an English idiomatic phrase. Those crazy English. So clever. I'm wondering about the real derivation.

Picture this: little Georgie picnicking with his family. Mother passes the creamed corn. Father smiles self-satisfied, pats his own belly. Suddenly, and without invitation, an army of ants invades little Georgie's pants. Little Georgie hops to and fro, trying to shake said ants from said pants. Father scolds. Mother begins to cry.

An idiom is born.

It's poetic really.

I don't think I'd appreciate having actual ants in my actual pants. I imagine that would be fairly freakalicious, heavy on the freak, less so on the licious.

Did you know that Ants in Pants is also a popular Milton Bradley board game? I need to get my hands on that.

I digress. It's the ants. Hard to concentrate when they're in your pants. If you see me around town sans pants, you'll understand. It may be the only way. It just may be.

In summary

This was a crap week. Full of crap that I'd prefer not to recall, even under sworn testimony, even if Congress wanted to interview me without a transcript, even if I was offered a billion dollars, even if all the candy in the world was under my control.

I'm a little disappointed in the world at large at this present moment so this will be brief.

I've often kidded a friend of mine about writing a book about Common Courtesy. It seems to be a quality severely lacking in the general population and I can't quite pinpoint why. It takes zero effort and costs nothing and can only come to good. So why the resistance?

Beats me. And I feel pretty battered after one harrowing week so that's all the reflection you're going to get. I'm puzzled.

If you have any answers -- or a book publisher interested in aforementioned idea -- give me a holler.

Later, pups.

I am excited by technology.

It's true even though in argument I will vehemently deny the above. I am excited by the idea of being connected to other people at any time I want. I am also scared out of my mind by that notion. Although I don't own a Blackberry, I can see its potential for good.

I'm not much interested in technology for good today. Today I'm interested in technology for world domination. My domination of the world which is you.

When are one of these fancy scientists going to come up with mindreading software? Because I'm totally down with that.

Think of all the miscommunication and passive-aggressiveness and crossed signals that we could avoid if I had the power to read your mind with the push of a button?

Yes, sorry, this is totally one way. I will read your mind; you will read the newspaper.

Do you see the potential?

Because at the end of the day, I can't read your mind and whatever you think you're putting down, chances are I'm picking up something entirely different. Because I'm like that.

I am excited by the promise of this technology. Imagine what I could do with it right now. I could read your mind at this very moment and figure out why you are unceremoniously ignoring me.

That would be sweet. You'd still be rude.

P.S. So if anyone knows of any mad scientists looking to develop some mindreading software and bent on my own personal world domination, give me a jingle.

P.P.S. Yes, I do write in riddles. No, you are not the "you" aforementioned. I know who "you" are, even if "you" don't.

One seriously bad fucking day

Warning: I'm in a really bad mood so if you don't want me to bring you down to my dark fortress, stop reading now. (And you can go scratch too by the way.)

All kinds of malevolent forces have been conspiring against me since I awoke this morning. I'm talking serious bad shit. The kind of wickedness that makes you really believe in karma. I have now accepted that in a former life I was Genghis Khan. I really don't see any other way around all these creatures of darkness exacting revenge on me in my current form.

You may have guessed that the above "search engine" seriously contributed to my dark mood. Maybe you'll win a KFed t-shirt for guessing correctly. Lucky you.

Now listen, I don't give a crap and a half about this guy. He can do whatever the hell he damn well pleases. Who cares really? But when this came across my desk as news, the shit hit the big fan. I went to a very dark place inside my mind.

Why do I want to search with Kevin Federline?

Why should I believe Keven Federline has my best interests at heart?

Why do I want to win some paraphernalia emblazoned with his face and name?

Who is responsible for this affront to my consciousness?

Who is the asshole seeding money to fund this venture?

Why? Why? Why?

You probably want the URL of KFed's search engine. I can't even give it to you. It was vomitrocious enough for me to have taken a screen shot. Do you see how I sacrifice myself for you?

I've spoken of the rage before. This has sent me over the edge into the abyss. As you know, I can't swim. Save yourself.

Word of mouth.

Usually I don't have a problem being quiet. Unless the man has told me to zip it. Then I have a big problem. Like today for instance. I paid an exorbitant amount to ride the rails back to my top secret, secret headquarters. I didn't realize I sat down in the SILENT CAR until I unloaded all my crap.

"I can't talk?" I thought. [At this point, I didn't have anyone to talk to.]

I reject the SILENT CAR.

I didn't fork over a small fortune to be shhh'd. The outrage swelled within me. [I still didn't have anyone to talk to but it's the principle here.]

So I sat there in silence, trying to read. I couldn't read. It was too quiet. The redhead next to me had her mouth open as she slept. I could hear her breathe. "Can you keep it down over there, red?" I wanted to elbow her in the ribs.

This reminds me of the time I was hoodwinked into attending a retreat during college. Our professor proposed the following: "Write a 15-page paper. Or go on a two-day retreat." Duh. Obviously I chose the retreat. Our destination was somewhere far, far away in the middle of nowheresville.

On the bus, I recall our professor standing to greet us. My recollection of his words are as follows: "This will be a silent retreat. No talking for two days."

WHA?

Who the hell signed me up for this? No talking for two days? And he meant it. No "pass me the salt," or "is anyone in the bathroom?" Nothing. Mum's the word.

Needless to say, it was torture. And I failed. This girl (who I had never spoken to before and never spoke to afterwards) and I went for a walk and laughed outrageously loud once we were out of earshot.

The moral of this and other stories is this: Shutting up for two hours or two days will not in fact kill your person. Sure, a little part of you may die a very tiny death inside but you will still be 99.5% alive and that's not really as horrific as it may seem. We're probably going to drown in that Hurricane anyway (see previous post).

Death by drowning

It has been confirmed today that I will in fact die by drowning. I thank the New York Times for that. Thanks.

"How can you possibly drown, Shiny Penny?" I'm glad you asked. I can't swim. Can't as in cannot. Yes, I've taken swimming lessons. They didn't stick. My body defies the float. {See Powerful Mind entry for further details.}

But how do I know this to be my fate? Well, as luck would have it, I was perusing the good old New York Times for assistance in locating my new top secret, secret headquarters when i stumbled across this:

THE REAL RIDDLE OF CHANGING WEATHER: HOW SAFE IS YOUR HOME?

It began with the basic Al Gore mumbo jumbo (did you know I saw Al Gore's face in the sky once?). Basically our grandchildren's children are seriously fucked. Water levels will continue to rise. Low lying coastal areas, e.g. all of Downtown Manhattan, are doomed. Bye-bye West Village. Mother Nature is PMSing like a mofo. Hurricanes, people. Hurricanes.

Let's just say by page 2 I was significantly freaked out. When I commit to reading something, I suspend all disbelief. I was committed to panic. Then I discovered the very useful link to this:

NEW YORK CITY HURRICANE EVACUATION ZONES

It's a 17x22 color-coded map of all the danger zones. Basically Queens survives and the rest of us drown in flood water. I printed out three copies.

Okay, you may think I'm overreacting. I could be dead by the time my grandchildren's children get swept away but what if I'm not. What if I'm some sweet little old lady with a walker who at the age of 95 still can't swim. Can't as in cannot. Then what?

That's what I'm talking about.

Shocking discovery

Sometimes I am shocked by the day's news. Like yesterday for example, I was shocked to discover that shooting yourself in the face is not funny, even if you are a comedian. Yeah, totally unfunny.

On a lighter note, I unearthed this shocking discovery thanks to Scientific American:

"...inside every tabby lurks a killer."

That's right. Cats do not like sugar; they're carnivorous little bastards through and through. That's all cats: lions down to my former cat Muffin who loved me despite what anyone in my family says.

What's even more shocking is the discovery that cats don't take to sugar because they're missing the gene. I know. I had to sit down when I read that -- and I was already sitting down.

If you want to read all the gory details for yourself, go here: http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?articleid=32EA05AC-E7F2-99DF-3B28FBBB0352D1C3&chanId=sa022

Or remain ignorant of the killer purring softly beside you. It's your life.

Too cool for school

I traveled to the den of iniquity this weekend to shop around for some new space for my top secret, secret headquarters. What I discovered is that the inhabitants of said den are all under the impression that they are in fact too cool for school.

Now you know, puppies, that I am the last one to jump to conclusions or fix my mind in stone about anything. But wow, I felt surrounded, cornered, ganged up on by this throng of indifferent wanna-bes. And the sad truth is I couldn't figure out for the life of me who they wanted to be exactly since they all blended into one another like bots. How tedious life must be for them. And predictable. And dreadfully dull.

So there were those folks and then I encountered a whole other breed. The moneyed. Hello, scary. Young. Rich. Frightening. I really felt like I had entered Crazytown instead of an outer borough. I thought the outer borough was all "look how diverse I am". Not so much. It was more like "look how white I am but I am going to try real hard not to look/act white unless I'm rich white because then it's okay."

After encountering one too many douche bags on a single day, I've decided to stick to my already top secret, secret headquarters because you people are freaking me out.

My Powerful Mind

You know that expression, "mind over matter"? Yeah, I don't know what kind of evil genius came up with that one, but I can attest to its veracity. My mind is like a powerful universe. My mind is like space: vast, dark, impenetrable. See where I'm going here?

My Powerful Mind, a short tale

I was working at my top secret headquarters last week. Doing my thing. Pushing paper. Typing the e-mails. Brokering big deals on the telephone. Generally being awesome.

Per usual, I took some time out of my hectic schedule to catch up with a co-worker. I am a people person. We were having a close conversation because we didn't anyone else to hear our top secret plans for world domination and how fat someone's ankles looked in those heels. You know, chit chat. It was a great conversation and both of us were pleased with how witty and charming we are.

The following day I was unofficially informed that this same co-worker was infested with germs of the strep throat variety. Yeah, can you believe that? I was having a close conversation with CONTAGION in its rawest form.

My first reaction: "I hope she'll be okay." "That really sucks." "She'll bounce right back."

My second reaction: "Motherfucker, if I get sick, there is going to be all kinds of rage up in this place."

If you don't believe me, see SICK I, SICK II, and SICK III: THE ANGER in previous posts.

The next two days passed without incident. Yesterday all kinds of shit hit the big fan. I noticed a slight difficulty swallowing. I phoned my super medical team who are at the ready to answer my every call. The conversation went something like this;

ME: "I'VE BEEN EXPOSED. MY HEALTH HAS BEEN COMPROMISED."

SUPER MEDICAL TEAM: "WHEN?"

ME: "TWO DAYS AGO, WEDNESDAY."

SUPER MEDICAL TEAM: "DOES YOUR THROAT HURT?"

ME: "I DON'T KNOW. [PAUSE] I JUST DON'T KNOW, MAN."

Wow, that was hard to relive. As the day pushed on, my ear started to hurt, or so I thought. Then my legs began to give way. I felt faint on the subway. My Powerful Mind had assumed total control. I was sick.

Damn you, Powerful Mind.

I tossed and turned last night. My ear still throbs. I don't know if my throat hurts. I just don't know. I may be dying slowly from the inside.

Maybe the popular TV show HOUSE will do a show on me and my mysterious illness. That might be worth the suffering.

In conclusion, when you are gossipping as you surely will be (90% of all conversation is gossip according to some anthropologist), just remember that you may be exposed to strep throat. Then think to yourself whether you're badmouthing is really worth dying for. Is it?

Don't call it a comeback

Thank you, loyal readers, for your heartwarming letters of concern for my safety and whereabouts. Although I cannot reveal where I have been, know that I have been somewhere probably awesome doing generally awesome things and forgetting entirely to update you. That's just how I roll.

If you must press me for details, I could perhaps tell you I had a falling out with my alter-ego Shiny Penny. See, we write this blog together and she's been a right bitch lately. She's going to be really ticked off that I let that one go. I don't really care. You know what it's like when you have a falling out with your alter-ego. Who wins? The dominant -- and clearly cooler and better -- personality. That would be mine.

So I'm going to indulge you for a few more posts -- and Shiny Penny as well. She's a glutton for attention. We'll see what happens, puppies. It could be a bumpy ride.

xo, me and SP