I need a new hair cut. I’ve had the same hair cut for a very long time. Short. Spiky. Then I forget and it becomes bouffant and puffy. I go from looking angry all the time to looking like Ted Koppel with bed hair. It’s a shame.
Every time I need a haircut I look in the mirror and think: I need a new hair cut. One that would befit a father of two without giving up his groovy sense of style and weirdness. Something that would make me look cool, edgy and still be able to comb and make me look like Robert Young from “Father Knows Best” at Parent Teacher conferences. The Clash by day, Vaughan Monroe by night.
Last night, while watching our new favorite show, I realized that I need help. Merely picking up a men’s magazine taking it to Great Clips and getting my hair massacred for $12 plus tips wasn’t going to work anymore.
The ladies who graduated from the ACME School of Hair design aren’t going to do it. I need to go to a woman named Che who will put pudding in my hair and sculpt it into a work of art that will take me twenty minutes to do every morning. Twenty minutes for the result of looking like I just woke up. That kind of care, with those kinds of results say, “Hey, look at me! I take time and care about my appearance but I’m casual and cool enough to look like I walked out of a wind tunnel and am ready to eat Sushi with Cameron Diaz!”
So the new show is called “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” The premise is, five gay guys come to a straight guy’s home and save him from plaid pants and athletic socks from the eighties. It’s like Pygmalion for men. Except it’s Ebenezer Doolittle and Professor Henry Hiphugger.
Quite honestly, these guys really do need help. And I don’t think I’m that bad off. Guys who don’t get haircuts for years. Men who look like they smell. Guys who cite Tim McGraw as a fashion hero. Houses that look like a nuclear waste site. Underwear that actually has to be sandblasted from the ceiling. They’re pretty bad off.
I don’t think I’m that far gone.
But I could use a staff of gay guys to tell me what to do with my hair. Why not? Most of the guy guys I know have really good hair. And, for that matter, dress really well. However, I wouldn’t allow my gay friends to dress me. It’s not that I don’t trust them. It’s that they have a Missouri sense of style. I want an LA sense of style. I want that, “I could be a movie star if I weren’t so fat and lazy and pug-like” sense of style.
I want to be a movie star. Though I fear my results would be Ernest Borgnine. Or worse,
Abe Vigoda.
But I’d settle for looking a little less . . . floofy.
But most of all I want someone other than some Great Clips chick who dates a guy with a mullet what to do with my damn hair.
Then I can look as cool as my personal fashion hero. Bert Convy!
No discussion link today. You really think I’d let you make that much fun of me?
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Monday, July 28, 2003
Chicago! Chicago! Watch Out! Car!
We had a wonderful weekend spent in the Chicago area for a family reunion. We reunited with several family members and, in some cases all of us said, “Are you sure we’re related?” With a family as large as ours, it can be hard. My mother and her siblings were rather prodigious when it came to reproduction. Add in spouses, children, grandchildren and random people coming in off the street and that’s a lot of people. The Rolling Meadows police department, shortly before shutting us down, estimated the crowed at about 3,000 revelers, all singing songs and calling each other names like “Lefty”. When we assured them that, no there weren’t 3,000 people there it only seemed like that because we were all wearing two name tags and, no we weren’t speaking in code because our underboss was in prison on racketeering charges. Birdman really was there. Whitey wasn’t though. We all sighed with sadness.
We all had a great time. Really. Despite the fact that we’re all a little rounder and stranger than we were last time we got together. But there’s really a stunning array of people and interests contained within this little microcosm. And when we get together, we get, well . . . strange.
However, the highlight of my evening was probably watching my niece dance to YMCA. This once shy and quiet girl was up there shouting out the lyrics, wearing a cowboy hat and doing the moves perfectly. More so, she was the embodiment of at least three of the village people at one time.
My other highlight was seeing my gorgeous baby daughter, decked out in a little sailor dress, charming the pants off of anyone with in eyesight. And then she danced and danced until she fell asleep on my shoulder dancing to Patsy Cline singing “Crazy.”
But if you ask Matilda, there was only one reason for our trip. The American Girl Place. But I’ll get to that.
The drive up was uneventful, for the most part. Unless you count the time where I almost ran over a woman who was trying to pick up her underwear from the side of the road. Screeching brakes, skidding, car sliding sideways and her looking at me like, “Oh crap. My last act will be picking up my dirty underwear from Interstate 55 somewhere between Bumblecrap and Bellybuttonlint, Illinois.”
She lived. Whatever crap was in my arteries was loosened by the sudden rush of adrenaline and sent straight to my brain. After three hours I was still shaking.
The kids slept through the whole thing.
Then I hit Joliet. And when I say hit, I mean literally. It was like a wall of cars. Traffic was fine until Joliet. Then it was solid until I got to the hotel. I expected this, sure. But I’d never actually driven in Chicago or the surrounding areas. I had either flown and taken cabs or was driven by someone else. Well, no one warned me that people in this area (not all, mind you) resort to something I came to call “Random Braking for Phantom Objects”. I don’t know if there is a need in the area to suddenly check your brakes on the highway by going from 65 to 0 in less than a second or if they just saw my license plate and thought it would be funny to make my bowels liquefy every thirty seconds. By the end of the weekend I realized that no matter where I drove I managed to get behind someone who was hallucinating.
“Holy crap! Air! (Scrrrrrrrreeeeech)”
“Oh no! Godzilla on I-90! (Screeeeeeeecccccch)”
Believe it or not, this happened in parking lots too. I’d be driving along in a totally empty parking lot and the guy in front of me would slam on his brakes for no reason.
Screeeeeeeeeeccccch!
”Oh good. They still work.”
I was a nervous wreck until I got to the hotel. The guy who checked us in was probably wondering why I kissed him full on the lips.
On Saturday we went to the American Girl Place with Matilda. She had been saving every penny for this since the moment we gave her an American Girl doll for her seventh birthday. The week leading up to her trip she had taken to sleeping with the catalog and, two days prior, her mother caught her kissing the catalog and saying, “I’ll see you soon.”
In case you don’t know what American Girl is, it is a cult that recruits little girls at the age of six and programs them through their teen years. What they do is sell them books, dolls, clothes and accessories that are tied together. You can read a series of books about a little girl who is growing up during the Depression, the 1800s, early 1900s, etc. Sure, the books teach the girls about life during different periods and provide them with a deep understanding of the historical perspective of the characters but, it’s the dolls that get you. These suckers are expensive and the clothing and accessories available are incredible. And pretty cool, I might add. The level of detail the craftspeople put into these dolls and their stuff is just amazing. Tiny glasses, working harmonicas, roll top desks. These damn dolls are better outfitted than me.
When we first gave Matilda her doll, she didn’t touch it. It sat on her shelf and she would stare at it for four hours. She called this “playing”. I called it nodding off and equated it to a guy I know who took heroin. Mom explained to me that this wasn’t the type of doll you actually played with. You admired it.
So, essentially, it’s demagoguery.
Later, Matilda began arranging the doll in situations and leaving her there. She was typing a newspaper. For a month. She was lying down and getting rest. For a week. Walking in her room was like going to Madame Toussad’s. You saw dioramas of how Matilda’s doll would be played with. If it were the “playing” type of doll.
Since then, and especially leading up to the trip, the doll has become part of the family. She eats with us. She watches TV with us. She even rebels against our rules. Overall, she’s a nice doll. Not too uppity.
But the dolls are only an inroads. Next are “minis” which are tiny rooms with tiny furniture. You decorate the room and then look at it. That’s it.
Then there’s the magazine that a) sells the new products and b) gives the girls tips for surviving adolescence. Good tips too. Amazingly good tips. In fact, I wish I had American Girl Magazine when I was in junior high. Of course, they’d have to add a tip on how to survive the beatings doled out for being a boy reading a girl’s magazine.
By the time the girls reach teenhood, they are too bitter and disillusioned to want to deal with the doll. It gets packed away and moves with them, confined to a box.
But then the former little girls have little girls of their own. And the cycle of consumerism starts anew.
They are brilliant. Brilliant I tell you.
And, quite honestly, some of the coolest girls’ toys I’ve ever seen. So even though I’m making fun of them, they are quite a positive influence on my daughter’s life. A very expensive positive influence.
One of those positive influences stems from her desire for more American Girl stuff. She scrimped and saved for two years. She did extra chores for us, her bio-dad, grandparents and random strangers who were suckered in by her giant blue eyes.
When we saw the store from across the street, she let out a squeal of delight. When we entered the doors, she nearly melted. When she saw it was three levels, she almost passed out.
Then she started scouring for new stuff like an old pro searching the tables at Feline’s Basement. Two hours later she had bags full of stuff and the look of a girl who was satisfied with life. She had saved and earned $184. We promised to take care of taxes.
How much did she spend? Exactly $184. On the nose. She had planned her trip for weeks and the preparation paid off.
On the street back to the car she proclaimed our little weekend jaunt as the second best trip we’d ever taken (slightly behind Disney World).
And she declared me as the greatest daddy in the world because, even though she had just blown $184 on doll stuff, I had picked up a pair of glasses for her doll. Now they look like twins.
And she smiled and hugged me for the rest of the weekend.
Certainly worth a pair of $6 doll glasses.
Discuss
We all had a great time. Really. Despite the fact that we’re all a little rounder and stranger than we were last time we got together. But there’s really a stunning array of people and interests contained within this little microcosm. And when we get together, we get, well . . . strange.
However, the highlight of my evening was probably watching my niece dance to YMCA. This once shy and quiet girl was up there shouting out the lyrics, wearing a cowboy hat and doing the moves perfectly. More so, she was the embodiment of at least three of the village people at one time.
My other highlight was seeing my gorgeous baby daughter, decked out in a little sailor dress, charming the pants off of anyone with in eyesight. And then she danced and danced until she fell asleep on my shoulder dancing to Patsy Cline singing “Crazy.”
But if you ask Matilda, there was only one reason for our trip. The American Girl Place. But I’ll get to that.
The drive up was uneventful, for the most part. Unless you count the time where I almost ran over a woman who was trying to pick up her underwear from the side of the road. Screeching brakes, skidding, car sliding sideways and her looking at me like, “Oh crap. My last act will be picking up my dirty underwear from Interstate 55 somewhere between Bumblecrap and Bellybuttonlint, Illinois.”
She lived. Whatever crap was in my arteries was loosened by the sudden rush of adrenaline and sent straight to my brain. After three hours I was still shaking.
The kids slept through the whole thing.
Then I hit Joliet. And when I say hit, I mean literally. It was like a wall of cars. Traffic was fine until Joliet. Then it was solid until I got to the hotel. I expected this, sure. But I’d never actually driven in Chicago or the surrounding areas. I had either flown and taken cabs or was driven by someone else. Well, no one warned me that people in this area (not all, mind you) resort to something I came to call “Random Braking for Phantom Objects”. I don’t know if there is a need in the area to suddenly check your brakes on the highway by going from 65 to 0 in less than a second or if they just saw my license plate and thought it would be funny to make my bowels liquefy every thirty seconds. By the end of the weekend I realized that no matter where I drove I managed to get behind someone who was hallucinating.
“Holy crap! Air! (Scrrrrrrrreeeeech)”
“Oh no! Godzilla on I-90! (Screeeeeeeecccccch)”
Believe it or not, this happened in parking lots too. I’d be driving along in a totally empty parking lot and the guy in front of me would slam on his brakes for no reason.
Screeeeeeeeeeccccch!
”Oh good. They still work.”
I was a nervous wreck until I got to the hotel. The guy who checked us in was probably wondering why I kissed him full on the lips.
On Saturday we went to the American Girl Place with Matilda. She had been saving every penny for this since the moment we gave her an American Girl doll for her seventh birthday. The week leading up to her trip she had taken to sleeping with the catalog and, two days prior, her mother caught her kissing the catalog and saying, “I’ll see you soon.”
In case you don’t know what American Girl is, it is a cult that recruits little girls at the age of six and programs them through their teen years. What they do is sell them books, dolls, clothes and accessories that are tied together. You can read a series of books about a little girl who is growing up during the Depression, the 1800s, early 1900s, etc. Sure, the books teach the girls about life during different periods and provide them with a deep understanding of the historical perspective of the characters but, it’s the dolls that get you. These suckers are expensive and the clothing and accessories available are incredible. And pretty cool, I might add. The level of detail the craftspeople put into these dolls and their stuff is just amazing. Tiny glasses, working harmonicas, roll top desks. These damn dolls are better outfitted than me.
When we first gave Matilda her doll, she didn’t touch it. It sat on her shelf and she would stare at it for four hours. She called this “playing”. I called it nodding off and equated it to a guy I know who took heroin. Mom explained to me that this wasn’t the type of doll you actually played with. You admired it.
So, essentially, it’s demagoguery.
Later, Matilda began arranging the doll in situations and leaving her there. She was typing a newspaper. For a month. She was lying down and getting rest. For a week. Walking in her room was like going to Madame Toussad’s. You saw dioramas of how Matilda’s doll would be played with. If it were the “playing” type of doll.
Since then, and especially leading up to the trip, the doll has become part of the family. She eats with us. She watches TV with us. She even rebels against our rules. Overall, she’s a nice doll. Not too uppity.
But the dolls are only an inroads. Next are “minis” which are tiny rooms with tiny furniture. You decorate the room and then look at it. That’s it.
Then there’s the magazine that a) sells the new products and b) gives the girls tips for surviving adolescence. Good tips too. Amazingly good tips. In fact, I wish I had American Girl Magazine when I was in junior high. Of course, they’d have to add a tip on how to survive the beatings doled out for being a boy reading a girl’s magazine.
By the time the girls reach teenhood, they are too bitter and disillusioned to want to deal with the doll. It gets packed away and moves with them, confined to a box.
But then the former little girls have little girls of their own. And the cycle of consumerism starts anew.
They are brilliant. Brilliant I tell you.
And, quite honestly, some of the coolest girls’ toys I’ve ever seen. So even though I’m making fun of them, they are quite a positive influence on my daughter’s life. A very expensive positive influence.
One of those positive influences stems from her desire for more American Girl stuff. She scrimped and saved for two years. She did extra chores for us, her bio-dad, grandparents and random strangers who were suckered in by her giant blue eyes.
When we saw the store from across the street, she let out a squeal of delight. When we entered the doors, she nearly melted. When she saw it was three levels, she almost passed out.
Then she started scouring for new stuff like an old pro searching the tables at Feline’s Basement. Two hours later she had bags full of stuff and the look of a girl who was satisfied with life. She had saved and earned $184. We promised to take care of taxes.
How much did she spend? Exactly $184. On the nose. She had planned her trip for weeks and the preparation paid off.
On the street back to the car she proclaimed our little weekend jaunt as the second best trip we’d ever taken (slightly behind Disney World).
And she declared me as the greatest daddy in the world because, even though she had just blown $184 on doll stuff, I had picked up a pair of glasses for her doll. Now they look like twins.
And she smiled and hugged me for the rest of the weekend.
Certainly worth a pair of $6 doll glasses.
Discuss
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Reader Mail
I thought today would be a good time to answer some reader mail from my tens of fans from all the major continents, two island nations and one sovereign nation that floats above the Lesser Antilles.
Dear Gary:
I’ve been reading your blog for a year now and there’s one thing I can’t figure out. If there were a genetic mutation in a strand of monkey DNA that caused all monkeys to have sudden senses of shame, would there be a need for a monkey textile industry and clothing line? Please answer soon and let me know what clothing requirements you think a group of Capuchin monkeys that live on a beach would have.
Sincerely,
Dale
Dear Dale:
If such a genetic mutation occurred, and I sincerely hope it doesn’t, all monkeys would have to wear monkey pants. Or at least shorts. Shirts may not be needed because of the amount of monkey hair that monkeys currently have. However, another genetic mutation may occur that tell the monkey fur to drop and monkeys would be virtually indistinguishable from people who patronize the Ozzfest. As for your Capuchin beach monkeys, I’d say they’d like some baggies and a straw hat. Perhaps, for more formal arrangements, a nice, loose Hawaiian shirt.
Dear Gary:
You suck. Your blog sucks. Your life sucks. In essence, I think you suck.
Signed,
I Hate You
Dear Hate You:
Thank you for your feedback. I’ll be sure to pass it along to management.
Dear Gary:
Something has always bothered me and, perhaps you can help. What is the connection between a geek and monkeys? I’ve visited a number of sites with geek in the title and, barring the one about the guy who ate chicken heads, they all mention monkeys. Including yours. What up?
Elvin
Dear Elvin:
This is an excellent question that many people ask. There are actually many facets of this answer, so bear with me.
First there is the historical perspective. Without a doubt, Leonardo DaVinci was the very first geek. He spent his days trying to think of new machines that would defy physics. For the most part, his ideas worked but his designs were flawed. Leo certainly couldn’t try his own machines out himself because a) his Patron wouldn’t allow it and b) falling from the sky into the Piazza tended to draw undue attention to oneself when one was dissecting bodies in ones basement to draw ones strange and unusual pictures of dissected bodies. Which was illegal then. At least for painters.
So Leo hired a group of monkeys to test out his ideas. They were the very first test pilots and became Leo’s friends. They were known as La Monkeyata. They flew many missions for Leonardo. Several died in the line of service.
Also, little known fact, a monkey posed for the Mona Lisa. He just made her look human.
Second, another little known fact, Bill Gates has an army of miniature monkeys that he has been prepping for war. Any day now he will unleash his monkey army and send them over to Steve Jobs’ house to bite him in the ankles and steal pretty designs to be used on the next generation of PCs. Beware the monkey elite guard! You may be next! Keep your eyes in the trees and your ears to the ground. But always be on the look out. You never know what a monkey will throw.
And finally, this is the most important part, monkeys are frickin’ funny. Monkeys in clothes are even funnier and Monkees named Mickey are far better than Monkees named Davy.
Dear Gary:
You seem like you should know this. How much coffee do you have to drink to have a heart seizure?
Helen
Dear Helen:
I’ll let you know when I get to that point. So far three pots a day only makes me see dead relatives and hear baroque music in my head.
Dear Gary:
I’ve been reading your blog for a year now and there’s one thing I can’t figure out. If there were a genetic mutation in a strand of monkey DNA that caused all monkeys to have sudden senses of shame, would there be a need for a monkey textile industry and clothing line? Please answer soon and let me know what clothing requirements you think a group of Capuchin monkeys that live on a beach would have.
Sincerely,
Dale
Dear Dale:
If such a genetic mutation occurred, and I sincerely hope it doesn’t, all monkeys would have to wear monkey pants. Or at least shorts. Shirts may not be needed because of the amount of monkey hair that monkeys currently have. However, another genetic mutation may occur that tell the monkey fur to drop and monkeys would be virtually indistinguishable from people who patronize the Ozzfest. As for your Capuchin beach monkeys, I’d say they’d like some baggies and a straw hat. Perhaps, for more formal arrangements, a nice, loose Hawaiian shirt.
Dear Gary:
You suck. Your blog sucks. Your life sucks. In essence, I think you suck.
Signed,
I Hate You
Dear Hate You:
Thank you for your feedback. I’ll be sure to pass it along to management.
Dear Gary:
Something has always bothered me and, perhaps you can help. What is the connection between a geek and monkeys? I’ve visited a number of sites with geek in the title and, barring the one about the guy who ate chicken heads, they all mention monkeys. Including yours. What up?
Elvin
Dear Elvin:
This is an excellent question that many people ask. There are actually many facets of this answer, so bear with me.
First there is the historical perspective. Without a doubt, Leonardo DaVinci was the very first geek. He spent his days trying to think of new machines that would defy physics. For the most part, his ideas worked but his designs were flawed. Leo certainly couldn’t try his own machines out himself because a) his Patron wouldn’t allow it and b) falling from the sky into the Piazza tended to draw undue attention to oneself when one was dissecting bodies in ones basement to draw ones strange and unusual pictures of dissected bodies. Which was illegal then. At least for painters.
So Leo hired a group of monkeys to test out his ideas. They were the very first test pilots and became Leo’s friends. They were known as La Monkeyata. They flew many missions for Leonardo. Several died in the line of service.
Also, little known fact, a monkey posed for the Mona Lisa. He just made her look human.
Second, another little known fact, Bill Gates has an army of miniature monkeys that he has been prepping for war. Any day now he will unleash his monkey army and send them over to Steve Jobs’ house to bite him in the ankles and steal pretty designs to be used on the next generation of PCs. Beware the monkey elite guard! You may be next! Keep your eyes in the trees and your ears to the ground. But always be on the look out. You never know what a monkey will throw.
And finally, this is the most important part, monkeys are frickin’ funny. Monkeys in clothes are even funnier and Monkees named Mickey are far better than Monkees named Davy.
Dear Gary:
You seem like you should know this. How much coffee do you have to drink to have a heart seizure?
Helen
Dear Helen:
I’ll let you know when I get to that point. So far three pots a day only makes me see dead relatives and hear baroque music in my head.
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Ba Ba Ba I Wanna Be Sedated
There’s a line in Office Space when Peter is explaining to his shrink how each day is worse than the other.
“So I was sitting in my cubicle today,” he says, “and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.”
The doctor asks if this is the worst day of his life. Peter says yes.
“Wow,” says the shrink, “that’s messed up.”
Yes. Yes it is.
Today I feel like Peter though. Yesterday was worse than the day before and today is just beginning.
I’ve been sitting in my chair so far this morning, reading my email and practicing my Kinski responses chanting, “Something good will happen today. Something good will happen today.”
It occurred to me that I wasn’t specifying WHO to have something good happen to. Looks like I screwed that up too.
Anyway, hopefully things get better today. I keep telling myself that it could be worse. That my stress and dissatisfaction with life today is nothing compared to others.
I could be a truck driver, a thousand miles away from my family. I could work behind the counter at a gas station midnight to eight. I could be a heart surgeon. I could be Saddam Hussein’s sons with my decapitated head on a pike.
Now that would suck. I don’t want my head on a pike.
Hopefully that won’t happen to me. I don’t think my offenses go into the area of dissolving people in acid.
No, my offenses are teaching the kids to do weird things. Today we belted out a song in the car:
”The sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace.”
And it was good.
I can’t wait until the baby can explain fission to her pre-school teacher.
“So I was sitting in my cubicle today,” he says, “and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.”
The doctor asks if this is the worst day of his life. Peter says yes.
“Wow,” says the shrink, “that’s messed up.”
Yes. Yes it is.
Today I feel like Peter though. Yesterday was worse than the day before and today is just beginning.
I’ve been sitting in my chair so far this morning, reading my email and practicing my Kinski responses chanting, “Something good will happen today. Something good will happen today.”
It occurred to me that I wasn’t specifying WHO to have something good happen to. Looks like I screwed that up too.
Anyway, hopefully things get better today. I keep telling myself that it could be worse. That my stress and dissatisfaction with life today is nothing compared to others.
I could be a truck driver, a thousand miles away from my family. I could work behind the counter at a gas station midnight to eight. I could be a heart surgeon. I could be Saddam Hussein’s sons with my decapitated head on a pike.
Now that would suck. I don’t want my head on a pike.
Hopefully that won’t happen to me. I don’t think my offenses go into the area of dissolving people in acid.
No, my offenses are teaching the kids to do weird things. Today we belted out a song in the car:
”The sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace.”
And it was good.
I can’t wait until the baby can explain fission to her pre-school teacher.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Yummy!
See and Be Seen
Not only have I been seen. But I have seen. And I have “See and Be Seen” and it must be heard.
This just came in the mail. Written, performed, mixed, designed and mailed by Steve himself. And I love it.
It’s quiet, reflective and somewhat dark. And it has a tone that I can only describe as . . . Earthy.
But I don’t know what that means.
Now, if you haven’t listened to Steve Ward and consider yourself a music lover, you need to check him out.
Steve is good.
More Steve is even better.
Not only have I been seen. But I have seen. And I have “See and Be Seen” and it must be heard.
This just came in the mail. Written, performed, mixed, designed and mailed by Steve himself. And I love it.
It’s quiet, reflective and somewhat dark. And it has a tone that I can only describe as . . . Earthy.
But I don’t know what that means.
Now, if you haven’t listened to Steve Ward and consider yourself a music lover, you need to check him out.
Steve is good.
More Steve is even better.
Sometimes It Just Doesn’t Pay
To get up, that is. Yesterday was one of those days. Everything was fine until around three p.m. and it all went to hell.
I won’t bore you with the details because it’s all work related. But, it’s a pain. And I’m ticked about it. And, for the most part, it’s my fault.
I hate that. I hate making mistakes.
So I’m drowning my sorrows in very loud music. Very loud. My ears are bleeding from it.
Last night I watched the Werner Herzog documentary about his relationship with the actor Klaus Kinski. I found it very inspiring. So inspiring, in fact, I’m going to start acting like Kinski and start throwing tantrums when the focus of attention has moved away from me.
And I’m going to start using some of his more inventive epithets. For example, during one screaming argument with someone over food, he invited his adversary to lick a part of the human body that normally has no oral contact unless it’s been bitten by a snake.
I wonder if I can offer that solution to my client about this little issue.
Kinski believed he was a genius. So, therefore, do I. I am a genius and I do not need your applause or recognition to validate my myriad talents.
Yeah. I’ll be like that from now on. True it has nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with self-doubt. I have plenty of that.
Of course, it all sounds cooler in German.
I won’t bore you with the details because it’s all work related. But, it’s a pain. And I’m ticked about it. And, for the most part, it’s my fault.
I hate that. I hate making mistakes.
So I’m drowning my sorrows in very loud music. Very loud. My ears are bleeding from it.
Last night I watched the Werner Herzog documentary about his relationship with the actor Klaus Kinski. I found it very inspiring. So inspiring, in fact, I’m going to start acting like Kinski and start throwing tantrums when the focus of attention has moved away from me.
And I’m going to start using some of his more inventive epithets. For example, during one screaming argument with someone over food, he invited his adversary to lick a part of the human body that normally has no oral contact unless it’s been bitten by a snake.
I wonder if I can offer that solution to my client about this little issue.
Kinski believed he was a genius. So, therefore, do I. I am a genius and I do not need your applause or recognition to validate my myriad talents.
Yeah. I’ll be like that from now on. True it has nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with self-doubt. I have plenty of that.
Of course, it all sounds cooler in German.
Monday, July 21, 2003
I Like Physics
I really do. But I'm no good with numbers. I'm trying to understand things, but without the basic mathmatical concepts, it's a tad difficult. I have to hash out these numbers at great expense to my brain functioning.
Anyone willing to come over and teach me physics?
Anyone willing to come over and teach me physics?
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