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June 27, 2004
Your Question of the Day
Can anyone out there tell me if people in comas snore? Note: evidence collected from TV does not count.
Posted by hilatron at 09:20 PM | Comments (17) | TrackBack
June 24, 2004
NEW INCOMING MESSAGE
MESSAGE-ORIGIN: H-TRON3000 FEEDBACK RECEPTORS 1, 7, 10-16
MESSAGE-DESTINATION: H-TRON3000 VERBAL COMMUNICATION UNIT (SUBHEADING: SMALL TALK GENERATOR; SUBHEADING: SOCIAL CONTACT, CASUAL)
CC: MOTHERSHIP
MESSAGE-SUBJECT: TWO RECENT INTERACTIONS; SOCIAL ADJUSTMENT REQUIRED
MESSAGE-CONTENT-FOLLOWS
OBSERVATION LOCATION: “Walgreen’s” (Retail Facility; see also: Toiletries, Snacks)
OBSERVATION TYPE: Small talk, attempt at
OUTCOME: Negative
DETAIL: Attempt to engage in “banter” with human clerk at Walgreen’s: when security buzzer sounded upon entering facility, small talk generator produced seemingly suitable witticism: “Hey, I haven’t even had TIME to steal anything yet!” Feedback receptors detected unexpected response: stony silence instead of laughter, grim glare instead of welcoming smile.
RESULTING ACTION: Kept head down, made purchase without further comment. Exit from retail facility achieved without further incident.
FOLLOWUP: Review television sitcom data files in greater detail; pay particular attention to Hostility, Subject of and Overtures, Rejected. Exhibit caution until more information is gleaned.
OBSERVATION LOCATION: Green Line T stop, Boston Common
OBSERVATION TYPE: Social Interaction (Invitation, Casual; Speculation, Idle)
OUTCOME: No detrimental effect
DETAIL: While engrossed in discussion of The Stepford Wives (see also: Films, Mediocre; Films, Reshot Endings Of), gave voice to fleeting idea of hosting Naked Lady Party at some point in future. While awaiting response, feedback receptors detected range of emotions wash across companions’ faces: fear, confusion, concern over possible hippie New Age bullshit in the offing.
RESULTING ACTION: Hastened to explain that the Naked Lady Party is merely a clothing swap. Companions relieved, understanding and enthusiastic.
FOLLOWUP: Strive to ensure that all parties know meaning of unfamiliar words and phrases. Note for future use: social interaction has gone awry when the sentence “You don’t actually have to get naked” must be employed.
CONCLUSION: Much work remains to be done at social level. Number of things that can throw the smooth flow of day-to-day interaction off course are staggering. However, valuable knowledge is gained from each failed attempt. Report will be filed upon completion of adjustments suggested above.
MESSAGE-END
Posted by hilatron at 02:12 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 16, 2004
Someone Watched Too Much Popeye as a Kid, Obviously.
Right now I am self-consciously attempting to be good to myself, and regain a sort of balance that includes my Dad duties but does not let them eclipse everything else. I have to go about this very deliberately because there is a large unhealthy chunk of my psyche that revels in the martyrdom shit, that wants me to continue being slightly crazed so that I will have an excuse to be miserable, to be felt sorry for, to live mostly on snack cakes and anxiety and to stare mopily at my personal unfulfilled to-do list. However, screw that. Self-flagellators never get invited to the fun parties.
So anyway, I am trying to eat healthier. The diet that's evolved out of a combination of stress, distraction, and the “I eat two out of three dinners alone; why bother cooking for just myself?” factor is lacking in nutrients and heavy on the preprocessing. Let no one fear that I am applying the whole ass to this endeavor, though; as with most self-improvement projects, I am doing my best to sign on in name only. My thing at the moment, for example, is “on a bed of fresh spinach.”
Isn’t that lovely? You can serve anything “on a bed of fresh spinach,” and it immediately becomes health food. Cous-cous from a box? Just more convenience food, until it appears on a bed of fresh spinach. Mac and cheese? So much classier on a bed of fresh spinach. Veggie burger? Looks charming on a bed of fresh spinach. Pita, cold out of the fridge, with margarine? Goes from guilty eat-standing-up snack to gourmet delight on a bed of fresh spinach! Don’t spray that whipped cream straight from the canister! Lay it out on a bed of fresh spinach, and you’ve got yourself a dessert salad! And so on.
Expect my big lament that my hard work has not caused my life to turn around and all my pants to fit better in, say, a week or so. Until then I remain, as always, your charming robot. On a bed of fresh spinach.
Posted by hilatron at 12:01 PM | Comments (17) | TrackBack
June 14, 2004
Just pretty much a collection of stuff I did.
This weekend was like a weekend a normal person has. I slept ridiculously but deservedly late on Friday, then Josh and I took each other out on a movie and sushi date. We felt quite virtuous about going for nourishing seafood (Josh) and vegetables (me) after viewing Super Size Me, but then of course we sort of scuttled our own sense of righteousness by eating far too much.
Saturday involved sleeping slightly less late, and then puttering, and then making not-Key lime tartlets, and then watching Gothika after Josh got home from work. I know it was roundly sneered at, and, to be sure, it is nothing special: entirely derivative, a bit sleazy, and wholly improbable even for a ghost story, yes. But I don’t understand how it gets critically trumped by What Lies Beneath, which is pretty much exactly like Gothika only much, much worse.
Sunday, the delightful Agent Courtney and DQ invited us for a picnic on the Charles to watch the dragon boat races. No pictures, because we were living in the moment (and forgot the camera), but it was all very genteel (except for the gin and tonics) and fun (except for the horrific but predictable state of the Porta-Potties). We dined on Asiatic Slaw, inari, and the aforementioned tartlets, and cheered, and speculated about how much more exciting things would be if weapons were allowed, and got hotter and hotter and hotter. I expected to be home by dinnertime, but instead we trailed our friends back to their place for barbeque, and stayed out quite late, and came home to confront the day’s injuries: Josh is a painful brick-red on the face and the forearms, with really funny (well don’t ask him, but I think they’re funny) white rings around his eyes where the sunglasses were. I very responsibly applied sunscreen but managed to burn nonetheless, a very weird splotchy sunburn on parts of my arms and both legs, but mostly the right leg, and random spots on my neck. I look like someone threw a bucket of sun on me.
Late at night we flopped on the couch, simmering gently, steam rising from our clothes and hair, discussing the particular, movement-inhibiting kind of tiredness that comes from being outside in the sun all day, and Josh came up with a very Josh-like phrase, something along the lines of “The Beaming Violent Rays of Pain from the Sun.” Whatever it was exactly seemed hilarious, and Josh declared that it would be the name of his band, and I said yes, but only if he promised to get really pissy every time someone tried to abbreviate the absurdly long name to TBVRPS or “The Beaming Violent Rays,” and insist that it would damage his artistic integrity, were such a demeaning truncation to issue from the lips of any deejay. This idea in turn was so damn funny that we have now forgotten what exactly the phrase was, so that placeholder above will just have to do. It’s hard to be so clever and witty sometimes, you know?
Now I am sitting here chanting "shut up, shut up, shut up" under my breath as a charm against my whistling coworker, and waiting for it to be 5:00 because I have a lot of puttering and sleeping to do.
Posted by hilatron at 02:35 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
June 09, 2004
"Transporting One, Plus Rider. Fuckhat."
So in case you are following my deranged and slightly mysterious ramblings anymore, the thing that I was worrying about went well today. I am now solidly and forever a Guardian Over the Estate and Person, provided that no one ever decides that I am sucking and takes me to court to get it revoked. It was actually harder to get there than to be in the hearing, which lasted all of five minutes: the wheelchair vans are sort of alarmingly rickety and slipshod, and I feel fairly certain that they should not involve so many bungee cords.
Also, our application for medical assistance was approved on the first try, when we thought that we would for sure get denied the first time and have to appeal. I am not quite sure how to react to this - perhaps I shall don my pith helmet, draw my native boy aside, and whisper, "It's quiet in the jungle tonight. Too quiet. Be on the lookout." Because really, I have become so accustomed to everything being harder than it at first appears that I am very suspicious of things that go smoothly and make sense.
On the way home, this fool blocked the subway doors as I was getting off and then tried to trip me when I wouldn't stand for his guff and blasted on through. What came out when I turned to bestow a well-deserved expletive was "FUCKHAT!"
Don't ask me. I just live here.
Posted by hilatron at 03:31 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
June 04, 2004
Needle Pionts to Empty
Sorry that things are a little grim and barren around here. (Who am I apologizing to? Myself?) I'm feeling a bit drained this week, that particular kind of unsatisfying tiredness that comes from obsessive worrying rather than any kind of decisive action. The next few days should determine if Project Dad will turn the corner from drawn-out crisis to sustainable routine, or be thrown for another loop or two, or what. So stay tuned for my life, returning soon to a blog near you.
Edit: I made that horrific typo above by accident, but now feel obligated to leave it there on purpose, for exemplary purposes.
Posted by hilatron at 11:42 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack