Let me start off by saying that I’m quite ignorant on carrier pigeons. I can state with absolute certainty that I shouldn’t be commenting on the subject. With that said, I just don’t see what good a carrier pigeon can be. And I’m not talking just because we now have magical tubes that transport our thoughts to other people’s computers. I mean that a carrier pigeon seems like a really limited way to deliver messages. The pigeon has to know where it’s going, and it’s not like you can ask it to make a second stop. “On your way to deliver my bid to build Duke Ellsinghibbington’s moat, swing by Lord Chesterworths’ castle and drop of this Get Well Soon card.” Seriously, you trust a pigeon to remember which aristocrat gets what package?
Say I wanted to feel olde-timey and send a friend a message via carrier pigeon. That pigeon has no reference as to where my friend lives. To get that message, my friend would have to go to the only other place that carrier pigeon knows how to get to, and who knows where that might be. I’d be better off sending the message along with a peasant on the back of a burrow.
It just doesn’t seem worth it. And it doesn’t seem like it could have been worth it back when people actually did use carrier pigeons. “Uh, great, you can get a pigeon to fly from here to my cousin’s and back. But shouldn’t you be mid-wifing for all the pregnant women?”
Forget it. It’s not worth the effort. I’ll stick to smoke signals.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
An Open Letter to the Car Driver in Front of Me
Hey guy,
Just sitting here behind you looking at your bumper sticker. “13.1”, huh? You should be proud you ran that half-marathon. I mean, not proud enough to think it worthy of everyone’s recognition. I think you’re a bit unclear on how bragging works, so turn on the BBQ, because I’m about to grill up some knowledge burgers: never brag about something that can be easily bested. For example, a kid on the basketball court doesn’t brag about being able to touch the rim when one of his friends can dunk. See what I’m saying? Yeah, it’s impressive that you ran a race of just barely over thirteen miles, but not when there’s so many people out there running 26.2 miles.
Have I ever done a half-marathon? Of course not. My Saturdays are better spent sitting on the couch eating a Costco-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
But I’m still not impressed by you, particularly if the driver next to you has a “26.2” sticker. Speaking of: if you’re driving and you’re about to pass someone with that full-marathon sticker on their car, do you decide not to pass, knowing that if you were to pass, the other driver’d no doubt chuckle and shake his head the way a father does when watching his toddler try to figure out how a straw works? Or do you pass the other car and curse yourself for ever affixing that sticker in the first place?
Running a half-marathon is like dating the hottest women in her group of friends. But then one of her college friends moves to the area and is hotter. That guy who dates her is the full-marathon runner. And the ultra-marathoner is the guy who dates the woman’s unreal hot cousin who would have been a model but decided to get a medical degree instead, and is super nice to everyone, and even though the other women should all be jealous and catty around her they can’t because she’s just that great. And she cooks. So now you went from being on top to being middle of the pack. How’s that feel?
Sure, you should be proud of your accomplishment, but maybe it shouldn’t be your pickup line. I mean…shoot, I spilled some Doritos.
Sincerley,
Just sitting here behind you looking at your bumper sticker. “13.1”, huh? You should be proud you ran that half-marathon. I mean, not proud enough to think it worthy of everyone’s recognition. I think you’re a bit unclear on how bragging works, so turn on the BBQ, because I’m about to grill up some knowledge burgers: never brag about something that can be easily bested. For example, a kid on the basketball court doesn’t brag about being able to touch the rim when one of his friends can dunk. See what I’m saying? Yeah, it’s impressive that you ran a race of just barely over thirteen miles, but not when there’s so many people out there running 26.2 miles.
Have I ever done a half-marathon? Of course not. My Saturdays are better spent sitting on the couch eating a Costco-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
But I’m still not impressed by you, particularly if the driver next to you has a “26.2” sticker. Speaking of: if you’re driving and you’re about to pass someone with that full-marathon sticker on their car, do you decide not to pass, knowing that if you were to pass, the other driver’d no doubt chuckle and shake his head the way a father does when watching his toddler try to figure out how a straw works? Or do you pass the other car and curse yourself for ever affixing that sticker in the first place?
Running a half-marathon is like dating the hottest women in her group of friends. But then one of her college friends moves to the area and is hotter. That guy who dates her is the full-marathon runner. And the ultra-marathoner is the guy who dates the woman’s unreal hot cousin who would have been a model but decided to get a medical degree instead, and is super nice to everyone, and even though the other women should all be jealous and catty around her they can’t because she’s just that great. And she cooks. So now you went from being on top to being middle of the pack. How’s that feel?
Sure, you should be proud of your accomplishment, but maybe it shouldn’t be your pickup line. I mean…shoot, I spilled some Doritos.
Sincerley,
Thursday, August 13, 2009
It's All in My Head
I’m much funnier in my head. At least I like to think so. My brain works too fast for my mouth and has already moved on to something else by the time I get around to saying what I wanted to say and then words just spill out all over the place, never being what I originally intended to say, but now it’s out there and I can’t take it back. I’m unintentionally funny. When I speak, my brain’s running and trying to double-back hoping to catch any slips that I’m about to make. I usually fail to catch them, and I often dot my speech with phrases like, “I can’t believe I just said that,” or “That wasn’t what I meant to say.”
I often talk to myself in the car. Not on purpose. I don’t mean to say things out loud, again, it just sort of falls out. And then it’s there, waiting for company. And I’m worried that someone from the car in the other lane just saw me say to myself, “Yeah, but I would never eat oysters.” I wonder what it must be to watch me while I drive. I cringe, grimace, frown, and generally feel embarrassed for myself. Not from anything at that moment, but because I remember situations where I made a fool of myself when I was a kid. I can’t remember faces, or where I was yesterday, but I do remember the time in 5th grade when I slipped in the mud before school, getting my jeans soaked, and called my mother to bring me a change of pants, but instead she brought sweatpants and I changed in the boys’ bathroom by the third grade classrooms. I sometimes wonder if anyone else remembers those things about me. Like if at my ten-year reunion one of my former classmates will approach me to say they remember when I… But I bet most people can only recall their own embarrassing instances.
I’ve considered being mute for a stretch, but don’t want my brain to build up with too much to say that isn’t allowed to pour from my unfiltered mouth. I think I prefer writing to speaking. At least when I have a point I want to make. I have more time to compose; to formulate; and I can also revise. Because I know I can’t be relied on to clearly state my point when I’m talking. That’s asking too much of me.
I often talk to myself in the car. Not on purpose. I don’t mean to say things out loud, again, it just sort of falls out. And then it’s there, waiting for company. And I’m worried that someone from the car in the other lane just saw me say to myself, “Yeah, but I would never eat oysters.” I wonder what it must be to watch me while I drive. I cringe, grimace, frown, and generally feel embarrassed for myself. Not from anything at that moment, but because I remember situations where I made a fool of myself when I was a kid. I can’t remember faces, or where I was yesterday, but I do remember the time in 5th grade when I slipped in the mud before school, getting my jeans soaked, and called my mother to bring me a change of pants, but instead she brought sweatpants and I changed in the boys’ bathroom by the third grade classrooms. I sometimes wonder if anyone else remembers those things about me. Like if at my ten-year reunion one of my former classmates will approach me to say they remember when I… But I bet most people can only recall their own embarrassing instances.
I’ve considered being mute for a stretch, but don’t want my brain to build up with too much to say that isn’t allowed to pour from my unfiltered mouth. I think I prefer writing to speaking. At least when I have a point I want to make. I have more time to compose; to formulate; and I can also revise. Because I know I can’t be relied on to clearly state my point when I’m talking. That’s asking too much of me.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
What Did We Learn Today?
That it’s true: Men are dogs
I’d never understood why some women are fond of saying that men are dogs. Until today. Because in today’s local paper is an article about a guy who broke in to his ex-wife’s house and did everything but poop in the kitchen. It probably shouldn’t have made the top of the front page, but he’s a former state champion wrestler, and in my area the only people above successful high school wrestlers are successful high school wrestlers who go on to coach wrestling at their alma mater. And Larry Holmes.
The written description of this guy’s destruction is great: “[T]he well-known wrestling champion came to the new home [the ex-wife] was renting and emptied the refrigerator, throwing yogurt and butter all over the ceiling and walls.
“He emptied the juice, soda, and milk on the floor. He ripped up mail and cards, she said. He also threw garbage across the backyard, she said.”
You showed her, guy! I hope when the cops picked him up they hit him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, shouting, “No!”
I’d never understood why some women are fond of saying that men are dogs. Until today. Because in today’s local paper is an article about a guy who broke in to his ex-wife’s house and did everything but poop in the kitchen. It probably shouldn’t have made the top of the front page, but he’s a former state champion wrestler, and in my area the only people above successful high school wrestlers are successful high school wrestlers who go on to coach wrestling at their alma mater. And Larry Holmes.
The written description of this guy’s destruction is great: “[T]he well-known wrestling champion came to the new home [the ex-wife] was renting and emptied the refrigerator, throwing yogurt and butter all over the ceiling and walls.
“He emptied the juice, soda, and milk on the floor. He ripped up mail and cards, she said. He also threw garbage across the backyard, she said.”
You showed her, guy! I hope when the cops picked him up they hit him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, shouting, “No!”
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
In My Humble Opinion
I was browsing a bookstore tonight when I came across their selection of “school reading”, and among the books was J.D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye”. Which happens to be a book I hate. About a year back I read an essay about why “Catcher” shouldn’t be taught in high school anymore. The writer’s argument was that the curriculum should be updated, whereas my argument would have been that the book is awful. But I’m pretty sure I’m in the minority in that opinion.
I read “Catcher” when I was in college, because I wasn’t forced to read it in high school. And after being lent a copy by a friend and listening to people practically faint in ecstasy over how great the book is, I read it. Well, not in its entirety. I stopped three or four pages from the end. I was falling asleep and couldn’t finish it, and then never picked it up again. It wasn’t until almost a year later that my friend, Becca, told me what happened at the end of the book. And I didn’t care.
If I were asked, “What’s the worst book you ever read?” I’d most likely respond that it’s “Catcher”. But now that I think about it, the worst book I ever read was “Fight the Power”, by Chuck D. Honestly, I don’t know how anything that poorly written could ever be published. And what’s worse is that he wrote it with someone else. So way to go guy who was hired to help Chuck D. write a compelling story and failed miserably. I’m sure when that book came out your friends said to you, “Seriously, you put your name on this crap?”
I’ve read some pretty bad books in my time, and I’m sure many were worse than what many consider to be Salinger’s best work. It’s just that the other books don’t stick in my memory. Not when a book that I hate is considered by many to be such a seminal work of fiction. Becca tried to get me to read Salinger’s “Nine Stories”’; I got through three and then gave the book back to her. It was boring. If Salinger happens to read this, just know this: it’s not that I think “The Catcher in the Rye” is a horrible book, it’s that I think you’re a terrible writer. There. I said it.
I read “Catcher” when I was in college, because I wasn’t forced to read it in high school. And after being lent a copy by a friend and listening to people practically faint in ecstasy over how great the book is, I read it. Well, not in its entirety. I stopped three or four pages from the end. I was falling asleep and couldn’t finish it, and then never picked it up again. It wasn’t until almost a year later that my friend, Becca, told me what happened at the end of the book. And I didn’t care.
If I were asked, “What’s the worst book you ever read?” I’d most likely respond that it’s “Catcher”. But now that I think about it, the worst book I ever read was “Fight the Power”, by Chuck D. Honestly, I don’t know how anything that poorly written could ever be published. And what’s worse is that he wrote it with someone else. So way to go guy who was hired to help Chuck D. write a compelling story and failed miserably. I’m sure when that book came out your friends said to you, “Seriously, you put your name on this crap?”
I’ve read some pretty bad books in my time, and I’m sure many were worse than what many consider to be Salinger’s best work. It’s just that the other books don’t stick in my memory. Not when a book that I hate is considered by many to be such a seminal work of fiction. Becca tried to get me to read Salinger’s “Nine Stories”’; I got through three and then gave the book back to her. It was boring. If Salinger happens to read this, just know this: it’s not that I think “The Catcher in the Rye” is a horrible book, it’s that I think you’re a terrible writer. There. I said it.
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