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January 31, 2003
I'm Joining the Geese and the Rich People (Part 1)
Did you know that there are people who like winter? No, I am not kidding. Sure, some of them might be kind of odd, but still, they seem fairly functional despite this bizarre misconception. To each his own (form of horrible torture of choice), I suppose.
I�ll admit my bias against the season may be stronger than is reasonable, because there is just not a single wintertime activity that I enjoy. I have no nostalgia whatsoever for the snowy days of my youth; the memories that make some people all misty-eyed just bring on the PTSD for me. Winter sports? Not my thing, so much.
I tried to learn to ice skate, I really really did. It seemed like such fun in the movies � gliding around, smiling serenely, wearing a fetching jacket and a little fur hat, blah blah blah. Apparently, however, my ankles had other ideas. Like allowing me to pigeon walk out onto the ice, push shakily off, say "hey, maybe this will work �" and then collapsing without so much as a by-your-leave, sending me with a wobble, a teeter and a splat onto the ice. Again and again and again. My ankles had no interest in skating, or cute jackets, or serenity. My ankles were, it seemed, eager to have me sit on the sidelines and get hypothermia, while all my friends did the whip and couples skating and learned jumps and twirls and figure eights, the bastards.
Do you have fond recollections of sledding as a child? Mmmm. I, too, remember that horrifying deathsport. What�s that you say? �Just a harmless childhood pastime?� Ha! Maybe for you. I, on the other hand, seem to have a unique talent for aiming a Flying Disc directly at trees, rocks and other sledders, despite feeling as though I have no control over the beastly thing at all. Let�s just say that I didn�t get the nickname �CrashTestTron� for nothing. And even if you don�t end up in the emergency room, sledding requires far too much work. All that walking up the hill in between collisions! What the hell kind of leisure activity is that?
In eighth grade, we �got� to go downhill skiing on a field trip. Free lessons were provided as part of our exciting adventure. Our kindly instructor presented skiing to me as follows: �Okay, kid, just push off with your left ski�now bend your knees a little�lean forward! Wait, no, backward a little. No, not that far�crap, not again�� And so it went, swoosh, swoosh, wobble, teeter, splat, for two solid hours. As I flailed back onto my feet and cleaned the packed snow from the inside of my glasses for the four thousandth time, I heard, �That�s it. Kid, you�re on your own. If you want my advice, stick to the little hills.�
I really should have known all along, however, that winter fun was not for me. The omens were there as early as kindergarten, when my class �got� to go cross-country skiing. To prepare for the big event, my mom dressed me in sensibly warm long underwear, snow pants, and parka. And of course, to protect my delicate feet, thick wooly socks. I did not like the socks; they were itchy. I would much prefer my thin, brightly colored polyester socks. Cleverly, I changed them when my mom wasn�t looking.
After a few hours of sluice, sluice, wobble, teeter, splat, I started to cry because my feet hurt. Hey kids! Can you say �mild frostbite?�
Thank you for joining me for �at least in other seasons, sucking at sports does not involve so much coldness and wetness.� Please return tomorrow, when we cover more reasons why winter is a bad idea that should be reconsidered.
Posted by hilatron at 12:21 AM | Comments (4)
January 29, 2003
Yikes
When a girl gets suckered into attending a meeting at 8am in a distant part of Boston, far from the T stop, thus necessitating that she awaken at the unspeakable hour of 5:30am, stumble around Cambridge in the cold, almost get run over a couple of times, drink 17 cups of tea so that she is all twitchy, and sit in the stupid stupid meeting that relates to her work not at all, during which she will utter a single, quickly dismissed sentence: the last thing that girl needs to hear on the twitchy, bleary, resentful ride back is a T conductor who sounds like Candyman.
Posted by hilatron at 02:53 PM | Comments (3)
January 28, 2003
Your Headlines for Tonight: Crap, Cynical Crap, and Meaningless Crap
Do you watch the TV news? I, usually, do not. One reason for this is that the news of today makes me feel a little more like hiding in the closet, wearing a gas mask and holding a sign which reads "I am not a subversive" than I like to. The other reason, um...
The Trash Trinity of UPN, Fox, and The WB all broadcast their news at 10pm. Occasionally, the television will get left on at the end of whatever program I've been watching, and I'll catch the start of the broadcast. This is a bad idea, as it brings out the crazy old hermit tendencies which I normally hide so very, very well: talking to myself, talking to the TV, throwing things, slapping my forehead, wondering what the world is coming to. Perhaps a rundown of the typical first 15 minutes of a typical broadcast will help demonstrate why:
Headline story: "What's On Fire?"
So titled because it has a catchy ring, and there is usually at least one building on fire for every program, but really any kind of local disaster will do: car accident, tennis court collapse, gas explosion (especially if there is a resulting fire!), etc. Important features of this story are: solemn recitations of the numbers of dead, injured and rendered homeless; on-the-scene interviews with hysterical locals; and action graphics circa 1994 detailing the nature of the horrific mishap.
Story #2: "Gruesome Crimes of Today, as Well as Further Details, Preferably as Specific as Possible, On Gruesome Crimes of Yesterday"
Sleepy little New England is not known for violence, at least compared to places like New York and D.C. But what we lack in quantity, we make up for in quality. All that Puritan repression may reduce the overall number of murders, but those that occur have a certain flair that New York, with its shootings and robberies, just can't touch. Instead of these humdrum crimes, New England provides its news team with the opportunity to cover hammer bludgeonings, missing farmers buried under piles of sawdust, and dominatrixes chopping heart attack victims up into pieces. Really, you can hardly blame news producers for being a bit excited to dish it out at the top of the hour. You can, however, blame them for the undisguised glee with which they provide all the details they can get hold of, and their enthusiasm for repeating and expanding upon these descriptions at every opportunity. You guys. Everyone knows about the deal with the dominatrix. You don't need to call her "the beautiful dominatrix, held by the police on charges of CHOPPING ONE OF HER CLIENTS UP INTO LITTLE PIECES AFTER HE HAD A HEART ATTACK IN HER SO-CALLED 'DUNGEON' APARTMENT!!!!!!" especially five times in the same story.
Story #3: "Holy Shit, There's Weather!"
This is the point in our evening at which the news broadcast turns from exploitation of serious subjects, like dying or being on fire, to the glamorization of relatively trivial concerns. We are, after all, in New England, people. You know - the region which coined the phrase, "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes?" You'd think everyone would be pretty blase about the weather at this point, but judging by HS,TW!, the news teams have not gotten the message. It's not a weather report, but a segment in which the weather person and the anchors talk about whatever weather is going on at the moment as though that kind of weather has never, ever, happened before. So, during winter, we get: "Goodness me, is it cold out or what? This wasn't like this before, was it? Oh my! It's snowing! Does this mean we will all die?!?" etc. Then the "human interest" angle must be brought into the mess. This is where some poor field reporter gets to walk around and ask people how they are handling the Terribly! Scary! And! Shocking! Weather! and they say things like "Uh...I wear a coat?"
This is usually the point at which I turn the TV off by banging my head against the power button. What puts me in this state is not necessarily the bloodthirsty quality of the stories; I expect nothing better from our media, who, with a nation on the brink of embarking on Operation Blow the Entire Rest of the World the Hell Up, choose to focus instead on anything that can be made into the next "Law and Order" ripped-from-the-headlines shocker. Nor is it the assumption that we are all as dumb as turkeys, running around all "Wha-wha-what? What is coming from the sky? What do I do? Help!" I mean, I paid to go see Dude, Where's My Car? in the theater. Can I really expect to be treated better?
No, what gets me is that it's just so damn tacky. I mean, you'd think they could pull it off a little better if they do it every night. Get some writers who can gloss over your blatant disregard for the actual human beings touched by the tragedies you cover. Edit things in such a way that the sound bites from the victims' families seem less exploitative. Write some better damn patter for the weather guy, because he sure can't handle it on his own.
Have a little pride, News People. If you're determined, as you seem to be, to continue putting on a sham of a newscast, at least try to make it a good one. The American public may be as complacent, reactionary, ignorant, and callous as you believe, but one thing we are experts on is separating the amateurish bullshit from the slick, well-produced bullshit. And dammit, only the best bullshit will do for the population of the world's leading superpower. Now get out there and make us some crappy, inconsequential, totally irrelevant to our lives, but well-produced, news!
Posted by hilatron at 03:12 PM | Comments (6)
January 27, 2003
Oh, Dear.
I just realized:
I'm not cut out for being poor; I'm not cut out for getting rich. Increasingly, those seem to be the only two options. What's to be done?
Posted by hilatron at 11:38 PM | Comments (7)
Hurry, hurry!
Oh heavens to Betsy, we are all missing Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day! Quick, do some popping before midnight.
Posted by hilatron at 08:06 PM | Comments (1)
January 26, 2003
Sentimental Journey
Top twelve reasons to move back to New York City at the earliest opportunity:
1) Pedestrians, not (crazy Boston!) drivers, make the rules there.
2) You can stumble out of a club at 12:30 am and people are all, "where are you going so early? We have three more bars to visit!"
3) You can stumble out of a club at 12:30 am and the damn train has not closed down for the night, because the train NEVER closes down.
4) Obscenities shouted at cab poachers are taken in the spirit of drunken tomfoolery in which they are intended.
5) Keeps your attitude-throwing skills finely honed at all times.
6) The Beautiful People, while just as horrible as anywhere else, are at least frequently actually beautiful.
7) It's easy to retain your girlish figure by playing Sidewalk Quarterback.
8) The charming decay.
9) PROPER DINERS!
10) Out of the list of the coolest people I know, the highest geographical density of them is there.
11) You know you're never missing out on anything, because everything is there already.
12) New York City living makes you seem tough when you go anywhere else.
Posted by hilatron at 07:45 PM | Comments (6)
January 24, 2003
We Have a Little Business To Take Care Of, You and I.
1) I owe a kiss to lalalove for getting me referral points at Swappingtons. Thanks, lalalove! *smooch* [Confidential to lalalove: Swappington's would not give me your info, so send me an e-mail if you'd like to be linked and I'll put it here.]
2) I'll be away in dirty, cold, nasty, mean, beautiful, New York City this weekend. Huzzah! Apologies to the many friends there who I have not e-mailed. I did not plan my trip very well; I think important synapses may have gotten frostbite in my walks to and from work. Brrrr! I will try to get in touch with you all while I am there, so we can say, "We are in the same city! Damn, is it ever cold! No way am I leaving the house!" To the rest of you, it just means I will not be doing any blogtending for a few days, which is probably about as important to you as my left pinky toenail.
See you Monday!
Posted by hilatron at 10:47 AM
January 23, 2003
Hic Hic Hurray
I think it would be pretty cool to be in the Guinness Book of World Records. Sure, I might not be as dedicated as some people, but I'm not going to pretend that I didn't once embark on a quest to build the world's longest staple chain.* However, that ambition came to an abrupt end when a certain temp job turned permanent, thus removing structured 8-hour slots of unparalleled boredom,** and unlimited office supplies, from my life forever. How quickly the dreams of youth are abandoned at the promise of health insurance.
Still, though, I'm a fan. I love the yearly editions, dense with facts, most of them utterly trivial. I love the strange conglomeration of accomplishments that have been deemed worthy of note. Big food. Ridiculous endurance tests. Overgrown crafts projects.
One thing about the Guinness Book haunts me, though. I have a not-entirely-unjustified fear that, should I ever find my name gracing its hallowed pages, it will be in a horrible Monkey's Paw sort of way.
I have a hiccup problem.
I get the hiccups all the time. I get the hiccups from hunger, stress, or a single sip of soda. Or from being thirsty. Or too cold. I get them for no reason. Once, I got them in my sleep. Often, I get them multiple times in one day. I don't even know what can be wrong with you to make you hiccup-prone - sensitive diaphragm muscle? - but baby, I've got it.
And none of the traditional hiccup cures work for me. A spoonful of sugar just feeds 'em. Holding my breath - nope. Sudden loud noises make me nervous, and hiccupy. The only thing that has ever saved me is the following cure, handed down by my grandfather. Equipment: a glass of water, and a straw. You need the straw, you see, because you have to drink the water while plugging your ears with your fingers. It looks silly, but I'll do anything to make them go away, because every time I get the hiccups, fear surfaces in the back of my mind: this time, I think, they won't stop, and I'll surpass Charles Osborne.
I quote from the Guinness Book of World Records, 1993 Paperback Edition:
The longest recorded atteck of hiccupping was that which afflicted Charles Osborne (1894-1991) of Anthon, IA, who had hiccupped continuously for 69 years 5 months, since 1922. He began hiccupping when he was slaughtering a hog and was unable to find a cure, but led a reasonably normal life in which he had two wives and fathered eight children. He hiccupped every 1 1/2 seconds until a morning in February 1990. He died on 1 May 1991.
Oh. my. god. 69 years. How did he survive? How could you adapt? Think about it; you could never go to a movie again; you'd get lynched. Not a meal would pass without some sort of digestive trauma. How do you sleep? And what do you do if you need to go on a job interview?
Then again, forget about the guy. Because the guy had a wife. Two wives! That means someone married him after the hiccups started! A lifetime of listening to the hiccups! "Sleeping" alongside the hiccups! Eating, gardening, grocery shopping next to the hiccups! I'll tell you one thing, if I were married to that guy, he'd never have seen '91.
So, in order to avoid leaving Fate a horrible loophole, I have given up my wish for Guinness immortality. It's too risky. The quality of life for the chronic hiccupper is just too grim. Frankly, I think there should be some sort of foundation set up even for people like me, the Often-Hiccupped. The Heavily Hiccupped. Our lives are difficult! We need some consciousness-raising. We need science to work on a cure. We need sick time for bad hiccup days. We need posters, and a public service announcement. We need preprinted signs reading, "I don't mean to be rude, but it's best if I don't talk to you, because if I open my mouth and take a breath to speak, a strange seal-like bark might emerge instead of words." We need to rid ourselves of the harmful stereotype that uncontrollable hiccups signify drunken stupidity. Down with your moral judgments! Innocent people get hiccups too!
I want to see a positive hiccupping character on network television next season, or I'm organizing and marching. Who's with me?
*It's not a category yet, so the field was wide open. I figured if I could get up to some impressive fraction of a mile, they would consider it. P.S.: If you steal my idea, I will cut you.
**Seriously. Remind me to tell you about that sometime. You may think you've been bored, or seen the depths of corporate despair, but trust me. You haven't.
Posted by hilatron at 06:43 PM | Comments (11)
January 21, 2003
Consider Yourself Devalued, Mister
Do you know what I am doing right now?
I am posting this entry on my very own computer, at my very own desk, a single tear of pure joy adorning my rosy cheek. There are no other liquids in sight. "Click," clicks my very own enter button as I send the good news out into the ether. Gently, I stroke the trackpad and whisper, "Welcome home. No more tea."
I cannot say enough good things about The Computer Loft, who not only got the replacement part I needed from Apple at half the cost that The Apple Store itself quoted, but put it in for me and did a lot of other work essentially for free. So Murray has been discounted. He is now the Four Hundred and Seventy-Two Dollar, Fifty Cent Cat. Get him while he lasts! And, if you are in the Boston area with a sick computer, go to The Computer Loft without delay. Bring them cookies! Tell them I love them!
In other news, yawn. My four-day weekend (ha ha, full-time, paying-the-bills, no-credit-card-debt SUCKAHS!) was quite eventful, and now I am not ready to be back on the work schedule. Highlights included a visit from Josh's mom, with yummy food, shopping, and socializing; the acquisition of the perfect lampshade for this great lamp we have, which fills me with disproportionate joy whenever I see it, perched behind the couch, waiting to cast its gentle glow upon my book; and birthday celebrations for the lovely Agent Courtney. Special thanks to Charlie's for providing football to those who needed it, and giant mugs of Hoegaarden to the rest of us, which seriously looked like props for Lily Tomlin and just kept on coming. Plus: "Hooooogarden." Heh-heh.
One thing I did not do this weekend was attend any anti-war rallies. I feel bad about this, which I realize is stupid because what good does that do anyone? Does it mitigate my apathy? It does not. Therefore, I would like to go on record as saying to my government: please do not blow things up. I do not believe that it will make the world better or safer, in fact quite the opposite, and where will it all end? With another "temporary regime" designated to rebuild the rubble of Iraq? Hey, when was the last time we heard how things were going with that plan in Afghanistan? Hmmmm...
So, now that I have embraced the show "Joe Millionaire," I can just stop trying, right? I can go ahead and give up the pretense of any intellectual superiority, good taste, or class, and join everyone else in assisting with the decline and fall of human society? Good. That's what I thought. I can't wait till next week, dude! I wonder what that tramp MoJo* will wear? Could you beLIEVE that hat? For real, yo!
*I would forgive her any and all fashion transgressions if her nickname were actually MOFO, which is what I first read it as when I saw it on the screen in that ugly scripty font they use. Do you think they did that on purpose? Because that is something I would do.
Posted by hilatron at 07:47 PM | Comments (3)
January 19, 2003
A Rare Opportunity for the Right Young Go-Getter
I have finally figured out what my problem is.
Yes, for real this time, shut UP.
My problem is that I have not been taking advantage of all the resources available to me. What I need to get is: interns.
Have you had an internship? They're pretty much really stupid, except for that one guy at everyone's school whose dad got him a gig at Paramount studios and one day he scored cocaine for a wealthy producer and the next thing you know he's directing his first movie. We hate him. For the rest of us, an internship is an exciting opportunity to learn that no matter what your chosen field, they still need people to file, get coffee, run things uptown and paste labels on things. The reason that you do not say, "Yo, I could be getting paid an insufficient living wage for this mindless tedium instead of doing it for free, see ya," of course, is the hope that you will impress those who have made it in the world of whatever your internship is about, form connections, and begin to network. In other words, you are hoping for a reference when you are looking for a real job with no skills, experience or training and people are saying, "Ha, ha! Now, can I see your real resume, Ms. Tron?"
While standing in the "express" lane at the grocery store for the 47th time this week, I was struck with an epiphany. The intern dealie basically boils down to this: free unskilled labor is exchanged for future favors. I, for one, see no reason why this concept should be limited to the working world. I think that there could be all kinds of new ways to apply the intern model. I'm going to post this want-ad at Boston's colleges: Life Interns Wanted!
We all know that the transition from the semi-independence of college to total self-sufficiency can be hard for young people. I know that I, for one, didn't even know what I didn't know about living on my own. "Life Interns" is a program for those who are about to move out of the house. It's a behind-the-scenes look at what it's like to be a grown-up! In other words, I will take the right responsible, mature college juniors and seniors under my wing and show them what important adult duties like laundry, housework, and grocery shopping are all about. We will carefully cover all aspects of my usual drudge- er, adult responsibilities, review how they work, and when the time is right, my Life Interns will be sent out on their own to practice their new skills!
How could someone benefit from running my errands, you ask?
Well.
Not only will you learn some vital truths about shopping on a budget, how shockingly often the carpet gets dirty, and how imperative it is to hit the laundry room before 5 pm on Sunday, I can provide a number of services for Life Interns who really impress me. Hoping to move to the big city when you're out on your own? Your roommate reference letter is on the way! Need some help persuading the parents that you're ready for that summer jaunt through Europe? Have them give me a call! For L.I.s who go the extra mile, the sky's the limit. If I really like you, consider your couch at my disposal whenever you're in town for alumni meetings. You learn to get those dishes cleaned up before I have to ask, and we're talking travel stipend, baby!
If you'd be interested in taking advantage of this opportunity, please e-mail ooohpickme@leisureagency.org. I'll just need your resume, detailed education history, and of course three references. I can't pick just anyone, you know. Filing my DVD collection cannot be left in untrustworthy hands.
Posted by hilatron at 11:59 PM
January 16, 2003
Righting Wrongs, Matey
A slow day at the office and a very tired and unfocused brain led me inexorably to the discovery that when you type "where did the pirate get his accent?" into Google, it returns no results.
But not anymore. Avast, ye scurvy dogs! I'll fix yer search engine, fix her till she can't be fixed no more!
I really want to know, though. Pirates have no nation, right? They are the wolves of the sea. Wait, no, that's killer whales. Anyway, they presumably come from all over, and call no land their home, so why do they all have their own lingo and accent? Are there secret Pirate Summits where they get together and work things like this out, and also decide to wear those hats?
Apparently, the pirate accent is similar to the Devonshire accent. Those Dastardly Devonshirians, breeding pirates to terrorize the oceans of the world! Do you suppose that all the other pirates from, say, London, or Madrid, just adopted the west country accent because it sounded so cool? This, I imagine, would the pirate equivalent of suburban youth intoning, "for real, yo!" and the like. Poor Devonshire. Just trying to keep it real, while the pirate posers were copping their style.
And by the way, I am completely aware that the pirate thing is like so over, but I don't care because I don't care about being cool.
And that's what makes me cool, me pretty!
Right?
Posted by hilatron at 10:41 PM | Comments (8)
January 15, 2003
Dilemma
I went to the stationery store the other day, which is a little like an alcoholic going into a bar to eat some peanuts.* I was "just looking for a 2003 datebook," heh. But naturally, I had to look around a little. Test out the new pens. Fondle the writing paper. Browse the wrapping sheets. Mmmmmmm yeah.
And, of course, there were the notebooks.
I can't resist a blank book. Lined, unlined, sketchbooks, fancy cloth journals, spiralbound notepads - I love them all. So blank, so pure, they come with no expectations and endless possibilities. Will this be the notebook to unleash my genius? Would this one better accommodate my insights, my thoughts, my Scrabble scores?
The clear winner on this particular visit was a boxed set of small books made from rag paper, with a rainbow of covers decorated with tiny painted dots. So cute! So functional! I was infatuated.
And yet, I had to resist their siren call.
You see, my apartment already contains approximately seven thousand blank books in all styles, shapes and sizes. I have enough free paper real estate to last me for months, possibly years, even if I continue at my current high rate of scribbling. The problem is that all of these books have been deflowered already. Many have less than a dozen pages used, but each is a little piece of history that would be glaringly out of place were I to begin to add to it now. Although they may contain numerous blank pages, each has something - some notes, a few entries from the umpteenth time I started a paper journal, something.
So on the one hand, the thrifty part of my nature gets up in arms about buying a sexy new notebook when there is all this blank paper around, while my compulsive side cannot stand either the messiness of slapping the new down right next to the old, all out of order, or the baggage associated with ramblings from the past. I mean, can I really think clearly when only a few thicknesses of paper separate me from one of my abortive high school journals? I think not.
Meanwhile, both sides are united in guilt. All these fractionally used books symbolize waste, and worse, the disheartening notion that I can start, but never finish, projects.
I would like to know what you all would do. Would you box all this stuff up and move on with a vow to use up each new bok from now on? Would you conscientiously revisit each abandoned writing pad until all the space was used, the bad poetry of your youth be damned? Would you compromise by removing the already-used pages and having them rebound, so that you can use the remainder of the books almost as if they were fresh and new?
And can anyone come up with a decent excuse for me to drop thirty bucks on a set of totally dreamy polka dot journals?
*Sorry about that awkward simile. I was going to say "like a junkie strolling through __________," with __________ being a place that's famous for being home to smack dealers, but then I realized that I don't know any of those places except for from the movies, and of course they've cleaned up all those now. Like, the Lower East Side is so 1997. So the lesson here is, don't come running to me for your heroin shopping needs.
Posted by hilatron at 07:50 AM | Comments (2)
January 13, 2003
Correspondence #4: Summons
Dear Ballantine Books,
I am writing to demand that you disclose the name of the person who championed the publication of 24/7, by Jim Brown, so that I may make a citizen's arrest. The charge: Crimes Against Humanity.
Allow me to concede a few things before I go into the nature of the offenses.
1) It is obvious from the final product that whoever was given the thankless task of editing this "book" had to wade through a morass of painful nonsense in order to carve out even the deeply, disturbingly, nightmare-inducingly bad final product that I checked out of the library on Saturday. I'm not saying you didn't make an improvement; the hand of some poor soul, attempting to guide this work toward some semblance of sanity, can clearly be seen in the ever more desperate attempts to explain key "plot" "points," flesh out the "characters," and reconcile the poorly conceived subplots. What I'm offended by is that someone, somewhere in your chain of command, looked at the progress being made, perhaps even filled out the paperwork that allowed a mental health leave for those involved, and still decreed that this manuscript should see the light of day.
2) I'll admit that this book does not promise to be high literature in the first place. After all, I went in search of some trashy entertainment to fill my lazy Sunday. That's why I'm willing to overlook the lapses in logic (although they are so numerous as to cause dizziness), the threadbare technological background (despite the fact that the suspense revolves around the acceptance of numerous advances in modern science), the gaping holes in the story, the snarl of loose ends, and the painfully trite personal relationships. These are all par for the course.
What I can't forgive is the writing.
Our man Jim Brown came up with a cheesy, sordid ripped-from-the-headlines story idea, and I can forgive you for allowing him to run with it. After all, a book about a reality TV show and violent, horrible death is bound to make you a buck or two, right?
But then, like a high school quarterback in the backseat on Saturday night, with an idea that women have "needs" culled from the Spice Channel, Mr. Brown felt compelled to add that descriptive flourish to his work. He knows, after all, that writers describe things, and so he set about to do that himself.
Why did no one explain to him that he is just a hack?
Why did you not do all you could to save the world from his fumbling word-caresses?
Allow me to provide you with some examples, so that we might better understand what I'm referring to.
One of Mr. Brown's major offenses is visual descriptions which are so labored, awkward, off-base, or all three that they completely halt the flow of reading, such as:
"Painted a bluish dark gray, the color of Windex on a wet cinder block..."
Um. Has anyone ever seen Windex on a wet cinder block? Comparative descriptions are supposed to make visuals more accessible to the reader, not give you an opportunity for verbal onanism. Second, if you were to actually spray Windex onto a wet cinder block, it would look, well, wet. Windex is just not that blue, dude.
Or how about:
"wind...tossing Tucker's hair like an overeager stylist."
Just. too. much, especially taking place as it does in the middle of an alleged action scene. Plus, while we're on the subject, how can you name one of your main characters Tucker and expect us to take him seriously?
Then there's:
"Renee's hair, teased by the growing wind, looked like an illustration of St. Elmo's fire sculpted in blond."
Ow. Ow! This guy clearly has the same authorial relationship to wind that I did when I composed the third-grade epic, The Unicorns at Night. One of us, however, grew up. Guess which one!
Another wee issue is the attempt to capture characters' inner lives. I can't imagine what drove Brown to try to do this in a mindless page-turner anyway; people are buying this puppy for the synthetically altered flesh-eating virus, not for the emotional development of those racing against time to save themselves blah blah blah. But then maybe he thinks he's a real author. However, you, Ballantine Books, should know better. Look what you made me read:
"her hands shook like the last leaves of autumn at the prospect of winter"
Setting the blinding purpleness of the prose aside - actually, no. Let us not set that aside. It made my brain hurt! It made my loved ones wonder if they should go buy me a special helmet, as I gave the term "head-slappingly bad" a literal interpretation! It is unacceptable! Also, this phrase is used to describe someone who is panicking from a nightmare. This is clearly wrong. If I were in some topsy-turvy hell dimension, and willing to use this as a descriptive sentence, it would clearly be used to describe someone infirm or elderly. Duh!
"It was as if he saw the world through a prism, splitting the white light of logic into a rainbow of possibilities."
Sweet merciful delete button, what inhuman monster let things like this actually get printed? What the hell does that mean? What? If anyone can form the faintest clue about what that sentence actually says about a person, I will personally fly to Oregon and perform an interpretive apology tap-dance on the nightly news.
Last, I present you with:
"like trying to surf a tsunami with an ironing board."
Here's what I figure must have happened: Mr. Brown, bitten by the writing bug, began to carry around a notebook that he could fill with the choice metaphors, similes, etc. that came to mind when his muse (i.e. SATAN HIMSELF!) struck. Then he needed a place to put nonsense like that quoted above, and so he just sort of inserted it into sentences of his book as best he could. Am I close?
Let me ask you something, Ballantine. Did anyone even read this book? Or did you just say "Hey, he's a news anchor, he can read a teleprompter, so there's no need to really check up on this book. Who's for another martini lunch?"
These are just a few representative examples, chosen from hundreds. I hope you'll agree that reparations are due to all those who suffered certain neural damage from this, this, thing. Feel free to contact me anytime regarding amount; I'm open to negotiation. Failing a cash settlement, perhaps you'd be interested in taking a look at my latest book? It's called Random Sentences I Pulled Out of My Butt That Are Still Better Than That 24/7 Crap.
Call me!
Best regards,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 11:01 AM | Comments (5)
January 11, 2003
The Adventures of Phlemmo
The time has come to reveal the truth to you, my readers. I can't keep living a lie. You see, the ordinary identity of Hilatron is but one facet of my personality. Since the beginning of the new year, I have been living a double life: by day, merely a mild-mannered robot constructed under advanced conditions for the purpose of studying human life; but by night, or after coming in from the cold, or upon waking up in the morning, or within moments of consuming spicy food, I transform into...PHLEMMO!
Phlemmo produces astonishing quantities of mucous with a single blow!
Phlemmo keeps enemies at bay with Sneeze Attack and the Hacking Cough Maneuver!
Phlemmo spreads her invincible timed-release Germ Surprise in all the hostile territory she infiltrates!
Phlemmo makes money on the side providing disgusting noises for horror movie soundtracks!
Phlemmo makes people nervous by walking behind them, breathing funnily!
Phlemmo provides cats with much needed exercise by causing them to flee from the room in terror!
Phlemmo's voice cannot be recognized on any phone line known to man!
Phlemmo likes naps!
Phlemmo apologizes for any "friendly fire" which may occur!
Phlemmo must eat simple carbohydrates every couple of hours, or she starts to get cranky!
See Phlemmo battle her arch-enemies, DaQuilia von Capsuel and Disinfectica!
Gasp as Phlemmo overcomes the forces of Disposable Soft Paper Products Inc!
Cheer as Phlemmo enters the Land of Cat-Box Odor, unaffected by the toxic stench!
I know what you're thinking...feature film, right? But I'm a traditional girl. I prefer to seek fame and fortune through a hit comic book first. Anyone interested in doing the artwork? I'm short on cash, but I can promise to pass on my new super-powers to you...
Posted by hilatron at 01:39 AM | Comments (5)
January 08, 2003
1s and 0s! 1s and 0s! Halleluiah! Halleluiah!
I just wanted to post an update on the computer woohaw I discussed yesterday, since I know all you people looking for TEENAGE PANTIES (and my goodness, there are a lot of you!) are so interested in the endless minutiae of my life.
Against all odds, The Little Laptop That Could actually turned on this morning, and my hard drive seems to be intact. My files are safely copied onto an external hard drive, and we are taking TLLTC to the computer hospital to see what repairs need to be made - definitely the power source, since when I tried to plug it in after turning it on and witnessing the miracle, it made a terrible hissing noise and turned itself off again, causing a bad moment of "well, great, it WAS okay, but I probably just killed it for real." But the little trooper can run off the battery still, despite a bit of stickiness in the keyboard, and I am beginning to hope the hope that dare not speak its name.*
Thanks for all your well wishes. Please think good thoughts about minor, inexpensive, rapid repairs, if you will. But even failing that, the data is intact, which makes me giddy like a schoolgirl. Huzzah! Huzzah!
* Pssst. Quick, over here, while Fate is not looking...is it perhaps possible that I can have this computer fixed at a relatively reasonable price, and will not have to buy a new one after all? *Swoon*
Posted by hilatron at 11:52 AM | Comments (6)
January 07, 2003
Two Thousand, Six Hundred, Twenty-Two Dollar and Forty-Five Cent Cat
When you sit down at your desk to eat breakfast and check your e-mail, and the cat jumps up there because he is always curious about what you're doing, and you try to push him off like you always do because "No!" doesn't work and you don't want him to get in the habit of walking all over your stuff, but this time, a noise scares him, and instead of going backwards away from your hand, he goes forward, over your hand, across your laptop, knocking your full mug of hot tea over right onto it, direct hit, there are several things you can do.
You can shout "Fuck! fuck! fuck!" over and over while grabbing for anything absorbent, including your bathrobe.
You can lift up your Titanium Powerbook G4 and realize that there is tea pouring out of it. It is considered appropriate to whimper at this time.
You can hand off your computer with the thirty-gig hard drive and the 667 MHz processor and the 512MB of RAM to your boyfriend, and stand there helplessly and watch him take off the keyboard and mop up the liquid inside. It would not be out of line to shed a few stressed-out tears here.
You can see your two thousand, six hundred and twenty-two dollar, forty-five cent computer, which contains nearly all your creative and professional ideas and endeavors from the past two years or so, propped up in the dish drainer with its guts hanging out, and have a wee breakdown.
You can think about your two thousand, six hundred and twenty-two dollar, forty-five cent cat.
You can think about a two thousand, six hundred and twenty-two dollar, forty-five cent cat skin rug. But you would never, ever do that.
You can shut the cat in the bedroom, where he will be safer.
You can take your computer to the Apple Store to see what they have to say about it. On the way, you can prepare defensive responses to their imagined derision: "You don't have Apple Care? You were drinking liquids while computing? This is why I'm a dog person."
You can do this on the day that the Apple Store is broadcasting MacWorld Expo live from San Francisco. You can stand amongst the walking stereotype computer geeks and listen to the restless fidgeting of seventy-five people who are unused to standing up for this long. You can watch the unveiling of the new, scrumptious, moisture-free 17" Powerbooks. You can look down at your poor unconscious sticky sullen machine and pet it gently.
You can wait your turn at the Genius Bar, where they will not scold you but will very sympathetically tell you that your computer will likely need a thousand-dollar repair to function again.
You can say, "It's only money. At least no one died." You can think, "Yet."
You can ask if your hard drive can be salvaged. It most likely can, but of course you cannot find that out today and of course you cannot feel all right until you know for sure that all your 1s and 0s are intact.
You can have a very gray ride home on the T. You can walk through your door and say, "Hello, two thousand, six hundred and twenty-two dollar, forty-five cent cat. Let's be friends again, because now you are an investment."
__
So, friends and readers, that is my sad tale. Special thanks to Josh for lots of hand-holding and talking to people at the Apple Store while I was in a fugue state. Updates may be sporadic for awhile. On the other hand, I may crawl into a bottle of gin and live at Kinko's and post constant rambling pleas and cries of woe like an Internet Blanche DuBois. In all likelihood, my current machine is gone for good, but my data can be recovered. And hey, I might have no money but I sure do have credit, baby. So really, I'm just a big whomping hunk of debt away from everything being all right again! Woohoo!
Uh...where's that gin at?
Posted by hilatron at 07:23 PM | Comments (7)
January 03, 2003
Searchy search search
I'm feeling all traditional this week - and more than a bit lazy due to this horrific and offensive cold I have - seriously, I think I made a little kid cry in Walgreen's today with my terrifying level of snot production. Therefore, I will hearken back to a blog custom of yore and present some of the search requests which have led people to this site.
First of all, panties - wow. I put that used panties thing in as a joke, people, but there are a lot of people out there searching in earnest for:
1) "used panties" My top referral of all time! woohoo!
2) "cheap panties"
3) "sheer panties"
4) "teenage panties" Whoa. Those would be pretty funky panties, don't you think? Most of my panties only live to be toddlers. Unless there is some conversion system, like dog years - "I've had these panties since 1999, which makes them 86 in panty years!"
Then there's the beauty-related questions.
1) "topless haircut" Does that mean you'd be topless while getting the haircut, or that the haircutter would be topless? Either way, those little itchy hair scraps would be driving one of you crazy in like five minutes. Not a good business model.
2) "beautiful women false eyelashes" An eyelash fetish - that's a new one!
3) "TEENAGE GIRLS WHO SHAMPOO AND CUT HAIR" YOU MUST REALLY NEED TEENAGE GIRLS TO SHAMPOO YOU! I ASSUME THAT IS WHY YOU ARE YELLING! HAVE YOU CONSIDERED THE POSSIBILITY THAT YOUR HAIRCUT MIGHT NOT BE ALL THAT GOOD IF GIVEN BY SOMEONE WHO'S STILL TAKING ALGEBRA AND HAS NO TIME FOR BEAUTY SCHOOL? IT'S SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT!!!!
Hooray for the person who found me while searching for "goddamn republican," although you must have been rather confused when you ended up here.
Lastly, I can only assume that many a New Year's resolution was "Make sure to look for more sexual content on the web." Not only was there a significant increase in the number of panty-related requests, I've gotten the following two gems in the last couple of days, neither of which bears commentary:
1) "big assed naturalists"
2) "new england bare ass women"
Blogatron - home of the weird ass-related search request!
Posted by hilatron at 11:34 PM | Comments (3)
January 01, 2003
2003
Rabbit rabbit!
Posted by hilatron at 12:15 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack