First, an observation: The Flint movies (the first title above is a quotation from Our Man Flint) play differently after Austin Powers. The tongue in the earlier films is somewhat salaciously in cheek, but the films are silly without being spoofs. Their existence renders at least a couple of the Austin Powers films superfluous. IMHO badabimbo. What's that? Oh, great.
And now for something completely different ...
I had an anxiety dream today, and it was disappointingly banal. I was in college again, taking a biology class(!), and I had an oral report due ... on bluegills(!!). I walked into class assuming I was prepared--after all, I had notes, and I've taught for many years, so I can prattle on endlessly with minimal preparation--only to learn that I had forgotten my notes and had no recollection of anything I learned while preparing them.
Gee. How novel. I might as well have showed up without pants.
The interesting thing is that it was me now, not me as a student ... so I didn't argue with the professor. I just asked him how many points the presentation was worth (152!?) and told him I was probably going to drop the class. His response was a wholly appropriate shrug.
When I woke up I was feeling quite anxious and relieved that it was only a dream. My only consolation is that I've probably inspired nightmares like that once or twice. At least I hope so. I want to be your superego!
January 04, 2010
December 11, 2009
I'm Proud To Be an American, Where At Least I Know I'm Free
"At least"? What does that "at least" mean?
Okay, the whole song makes my skin crawl, not that I myself am not glad to be an American, because I am, though what I feel about it isn't pride, exactly, but extremely lucky I got born where I did. Makes you wonder why all those other people didn't choose to be born here, huh? I mean, what's the matter with them? The song bothers me the way "Dixie" bothers me when old men sing it slowly and solemnly. Again, not that I don't occasionally wish myself in the land of cotton. My old times there will definitely not be forgotten.
But here I am in downtown Philadelphia, where a lot of this America stuff got sketched out, so while I'm going avoid politics (I avoid politics religiously), I'm going to float an observation or two.
First, if there's a heaven, it's liable to be a lot like the Reading Terminal Market.
Second, and this gets me back to the whole America thing, I committed two social errors yesterday (which admittedly sounds like a pretty good day for me ... and incidentally I would have used the term faux pas, but I'm too ignorant of the Anti-American Freedom Hater language to know what the plural should be ... Fries, anyone?). See, I like talking to people. If I'm interacting with people professionally, be they a salesperson in a conference booth or an "engineer" from the hotel who comes up to fix the internet connection, I'm liable to strike up a conversation. If they sport accents that indicate that they're not from around here, I'm liable to ask them where they're from. It interests me.
But it turns out that people really don't like that at all. The foreigners I've met in the U. S. recently haven't been too comfortable telling where they come from. Even the British guy ("our staunchest ally") who was trying to sell me a big expensive piece of software was hesitant to acknowledge his origin ... though eventually we were talking about his adopted home in Atlanta, his dogs and his wife, who is a cancer survivor, and his lower middle-class education, which involved learning a higher than upper-class Oxford accent. All of this was after we established that I wasn't buying the software. I should have asked him to sing "Dixie."
Hours later, I was in the hotel room trying to get some work done, and the scandalously expensive internet connection quit on me. The tech--excuse me, engineer--who came to my assistance is clearly Not From Here. Still comfortably stuffed full of my dinner (carryout from the Reading Terminal Market) of falafel, hummus, grape leaves, tabbouleh, etc., I asked him where he was from. "South Phillie," he replied, stiffly. "Oh, okay," I said. "I thought I heard a little accent." Turns out he's from Egypt, not from Cairo but from farther north. He told me a little bit about it, we joked about the weather, and then he fixed the internet connection and got the hell out of there.
In my line of work we spend time in conferences and meeting rooms talking about "celebrating difference" ... and we feel pretty good about ourselves when we do so. But the barriers to doing so are many and complicated.
Okay, the whole song makes my skin crawl, not that I myself am not glad to be an American, because I am, though what I feel about it isn't pride, exactly, but extremely lucky I got born where I did. Makes you wonder why all those other people didn't choose to be born here, huh? I mean, what's the matter with them? The song bothers me the way "Dixie" bothers me when old men sing it slowly and solemnly. Again, not that I don't occasionally wish myself in the land of cotton. My old times there will definitely not be forgotten.
But here I am in downtown Philadelphia, where a lot of this America stuff got sketched out, so while I'm going avoid politics (I avoid politics religiously), I'm going to float an observation or two.
First, if there's a heaven, it's liable to be a lot like the Reading Terminal Market.
Second, and this gets me back to the whole America thing, I committed two social errors yesterday (which admittedly sounds like a pretty good day for me ... and incidentally I would have used the term faux pas, but I'm too ignorant of the Anti-American Freedom Hater language to know what the plural should be ... Fries, anyone?). See, I like talking to people. If I'm interacting with people professionally, be they a salesperson in a conference booth or an "engineer" from the hotel who comes up to fix the internet connection, I'm liable to strike up a conversation. If they sport accents that indicate that they're not from around here, I'm liable to ask them where they're from. It interests me.
But it turns out that people really don't like that at all. The foreigners I've met in the U. S. recently haven't been too comfortable telling where they come from. Even the British guy ("our staunchest ally") who was trying to sell me a big expensive piece of software was hesitant to acknowledge his origin ... though eventually we were talking about his adopted home in Atlanta, his dogs and his wife, who is a cancer survivor, and his lower middle-class education, which involved learning a higher than upper-class Oxford accent. All of this was after we established that I wasn't buying the software. I should have asked him to sing "Dixie."
Hours later, I was in the hotel room trying to get some work done, and the scandalously expensive internet connection quit on me. The tech--excuse me, engineer--who came to my assistance is clearly Not From Here. Still comfortably stuffed full of my dinner (carryout from the Reading Terminal Market) of falafel, hummus, grape leaves, tabbouleh, etc., I asked him where he was from. "South Phillie," he replied, stiffly. "Oh, okay," I said. "I thought I heard a little accent." Turns out he's from Egypt, not from Cairo but from farther north. He told me a little bit about it, we joked about the weather, and then he fixed the internet connection and got the hell out of there.
In my line of work we spend time in conferences and meeting rooms talking about "celebrating difference" ... and we feel pretty good about ourselves when we do so. But the barriers to doing so are many and complicated.
November 29, 2009
Ratatouille
Here in the Keystone State the Thanksgiving holiday bleeds over at least until Monday for public schools, since Monday is The First Day of Deer Season. When I grew up and moved to Ohio, I was incredulous ... I just assumed that everybody got the first day of dear season off. Everywhere. At least in America. The university where I work will be open tomorrow in spite of deer season, but I imagine we'll be a little short-staffed.
As a non-hunter I'm usually able to let deer season pass me by with barely second thought: a few more cars driving around with dead deer strapped to them, maybe, a few more gun shots heard in the distance than usual ... nothing more. But having just moved into my new abode last week, I've found several things that need fixing, and some of them are beyond me: a new subpanel in the basement, for instance, and some alteration of the roof over the garage to allow for the truck. Turns out there will be no home improvement for the next few weeks, since most of the people who do that sort of thing will be out hunting. Well, I hope they bag their limits tomorrow, because I've got some big ideas.
So: holidays, home improvement, and hunting--how to bring all of this together? Well. This is the season when outdoor critters start looking for heat, and this house having been bipedally unoccupied for some time prior to our arrival, it has been home to at least one resident, a mouse who decided to present himself in the kitchen during the preparation of the Thanksgiving feast. Ah, nothing brings three generations together like a mouse hunt! We might have been able to ignore it, or at least postpone the inevitable, had it not taken refuge up in the top part of the stove, mere inches from where the succulent giblets would soon simmer.
Madcap hilarity, shouting, violence, and remorse--Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings!
As a non-hunter I'm usually able to let deer season pass me by with barely second thought: a few more cars driving around with dead deer strapped to them, maybe, a few more gun shots heard in the distance than usual ... nothing more. But having just moved into my new abode last week, I've found several things that need fixing, and some of them are beyond me: a new subpanel in the basement, for instance, and some alteration of the roof over the garage to allow for the truck. Turns out there will be no home improvement for the next few weeks, since most of the people who do that sort of thing will be out hunting. Well, I hope they bag their limits tomorrow, because I've got some big ideas.
So: holidays, home improvement, and hunting--how to bring all of this together? Well. This is the season when outdoor critters start looking for heat, and this house having been bipedally unoccupied for some time prior to our arrival, it has been home to at least one resident, a mouse who decided to present himself in the kitchen during the preparation of the Thanksgiving feast. Ah, nothing brings three generations together like a mouse hunt! We might have been able to ignore it, or at least postpone the inevitable, had it not taken refuge up in the top part of the stove, mere inches from where the succulent giblets would soon simmer.
Madcap hilarity, shouting, violence, and remorse--Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings!
November 23, 2009
Hiatus
So in case you haven't noticed, the Wordshed has been on hiatus for the past couple of months ... what can I say? Work has been challenging but rewarding, and the idea of stealing a half an hour or so during the day to post something is pretty much out of the question. I'd rather be busy than bored, though, so I'm not complaining.
I spent the last week moving out of the crappy apartment. I can honestly say I'll miss the place, and the incessant hollering from the floor below. "ANDREW!" "MOOOOOOOM!" "MITCHELL!" Stomping, swearing, shaking my floor from the floor below--I don't even know how you'd do that. But it was great listening to two adolescent boys who ain't quite right practicing the F word when mom's out. Swearing is an acquired talent, and I was tempted to help them out. And it was great smelling burning microwave popcorn night after night after night. I'll miss it. I really will. Really.
So from a cramped apartment to house that's larger than we need on two acres with two views ... definitely a step in the right direction in spite of the general dilapidatedness of the house itself. The dog is having fun discovering the yard and the various interesting droppings deposited by deer and bears. The cats are still in hiding during the day, but they come out at night and raise galumphing, elephantine hell all night.
For everything I fix, I find two more things that need fixing. I guess that's what they call job security.
I spent the last week moving out of the crappy apartment. I can honestly say I'll miss the place, and the incessant hollering from the floor below. "ANDREW!" "MOOOOOOOM!" "MITCHELL!" Stomping, swearing, shaking my floor from the floor below--I don't even know how you'd do that. But it was great listening to two adolescent boys who ain't quite right practicing the F word when mom's out. Swearing is an acquired talent, and I was tempted to help them out. And it was great smelling burning microwave popcorn night after night after night. I'll miss it. I really will. Really.
So from a cramped apartment to house that's larger than we need on two acres with two views ... definitely a step in the right direction in spite of the general dilapidatedness of the house itself. The dog is having fun discovering the yard and the various interesting droppings deposited by deer and bears. The cats are still in hiding during the day, but they come out at night and raise galumphing, elephantine hell all night.
For everything I fix, I find two more things that need fixing. I guess that's what they call job security.
September 22, 2009
September 17, 2009
Even my nightmares are stupid
Well, you know you're out of stuff to talk about when you start talking about your dreams. So here goes.
Last night--early this morning, probably--I dreamed I was in one of these stupid Saw-type horror movies where you have to do all of this weird crap or else something bad will happen to you or a loved one or a puppy or something. Along with several other people (none of whom, oddly enough, I knew, either in the dream or in real life), I was being held captive in a house by a psychotic guy.
How were we held captive? That's the thing. We knew we were being held captive, and there was some vague threat about leaving. But this guy was nonchalant enough about the whole business that at first I kept thinking, "Why the hell don't we just gang up on him and kill him?"
Alas, none of my colleagues could be talked into it. So then I thought, "Why don't I kill him myself?" I'd like to think it was because at no point during the entire dream did the psychopathic villain harm anybody. But in fact I was probably afraid of ludicrously complex booby traps or something. What a stupid nightmare.
To be fair, he did keep the mummified remains of his mother (golly, how original) stashed under his bed. But these were cool, interesting remains ... a hardened, resinous boglady type mummy, not a nasty drippy dead body. I remember thinking, "That's really cool ... I wonder how he did that."
Still, there's this vague sense of dread. When he takes a nap (yes, the psychopath(et)ic villain naps daily), I broach the subject of murdering him, but by this point, my heart isn't in it. Instead, a bunch of us apparently go out to a SCHOOL BOARD MEETING. At which point, my unconscious's voluntary suspension of disbelief comes to a screeching end. What a stupid, stupid nightmare.
If you only click one of these links, please make it the "puppy" link above! Oh, and "house." You won't be sorry.
Last night--early this morning, probably--I dreamed I was in one of these stupid Saw-type horror movies where you have to do all of this weird crap or else something bad will happen to you or a loved one or a puppy or something. Along with several other people (none of whom, oddly enough, I knew, either in the dream or in real life), I was being held captive in a house by a psychotic guy.
How were we held captive? That's the thing. We knew we were being held captive, and there was some vague threat about leaving. But this guy was nonchalant enough about the whole business that at first I kept thinking, "Why the hell don't we just gang up on him and kill him?"
Alas, none of my colleagues could be talked into it. So then I thought, "Why don't I kill him myself?" I'd like to think it was because at no point during the entire dream did the psychopathic villain harm anybody. But in fact I was probably afraid of ludicrously complex booby traps or something. What a stupid nightmare.
To be fair, he did keep the mummified remains of his mother (golly, how original) stashed under his bed. But these were cool, interesting remains ... a hardened, resinous boglady type mummy, not a nasty drippy dead body. I remember thinking, "That's really cool ... I wonder how he did that."
Still, there's this vague sense of dread. When he takes a nap (yes, the psychopath(et)ic villain naps daily), I broach the subject of murdering him, but by this point, my heart isn't in it. Instead, a bunch of us apparently go out to a SCHOOL BOARD MEETING. At which point, my unconscious's voluntary suspension of disbelief comes to a screeching end. What a stupid, stupid nightmare.
If you only click one of these links, please make it the "puppy" link above! Oh, and "house." You won't be sorry.
September 15, 2009
Trust me--I'm a doctor ...
... although I must admit I'm not a physician per se. I was washing my hands in the men's room today, as is my wont (which ought to mean, but doesn't mean, that I wont wash my hands in the men's room).
Oh, Apostrophe! We cannot contract without thee.
Anyhow, when I wash my hands I like to pretend that I'm Trapper John ... M.D., that is--not Hawkeye's cooler sidekick, but the competent surgeon whose sidekick was George Alonzo "Gonzo" Gates in a show I never once watched willingly. Which is to say, I wash my hands. With soap. Including the wrists. Often up to the elbow, as if I'm preparing to deliver a breached calf. Though I guess that would make me Trapper John, D.V.M.
...
I'm trying to work my way around to a BVM quip, but holy cow, I can't get there from here(tic).
So I'm in the can, washing my hands religiously, not the holy water dip but really cleaning them, because other people touch stuff I touch, and other people are often disgusting, when I see the sign on the mirror telling me to Fight the Flu by washing my hands. Because if you use soap long enough, you kill the bacteria.
Now I'm not a physician. Per se. But I'm pretty sure that with the flu we're talking about a virus, not a bacterium. I guess I should keep my mouth shut, though, and let people be scared into washing their hands, because after all, they go around touching the same stuff I touch. And I don't like it.
But I do like this:
Oh, Apostrophe! We cannot contract without thee.
Anyhow, when I wash my hands I like to pretend that I'm Trapper John ... M.D., that is--not Hawkeye's cooler sidekick, but the competent surgeon whose sidekick was George Alonzo "Gonzo" Gates in a show I never once watched willingly. Which is to say, I wash my hands. With soap. Including the wrists. Often up to the elbow, as if I'm preparing to deliver a breached calf. Though I guess that would make me Trapper John, D.V.M.
...
I'm trying to work my way around to a BVM quip, but holy cow, I can't get there from here(tic).
So I'm in the can, washing my hands religiously, not the holy water dip but really cleaning them, because other people touch stuff I touch, and other people are often disgusting, when I see the sign on the mirror telling me to Fight the Flu by washing my hands. Because if you use soap long enough, you kill the bacteria.
Now I'm not a physician. Per se. But I'm pretty sure that with the flu we're talking about a virus, not a bacterium. I guess I should keep my mouth shut, though, and let people be scared into washing their hands, because after all, they go around touching the same stuff I touch. And I don't like it.
But I do like this:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)