I'll revel in a happy new beginning, illustrated here by a string of beginnings:
December 15, 2008
Your application...has been reviewed carefully using the criteria established...As a result of this review, I regret to inform you that we are unable to grant your request for admission.
May 6, 2009
The...admissions committee has completed its review of almost all of the applications received this year. Although the committee concluded that you are a competitive applicant, an offer of admisison cannot be made to you...
June 30, 2009
Congratulations! We are delighted to inform you...
Fortunately my self-regard doesn't hinge on being perceived as prize real estate.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Monday, April 14, 2008
Dredge Edge
This sentence serves three purposes: to acknowledge the widely applicable advice never to open with an apology; to displace the sentence which will follow--an apology--from the introductory slot; and finally, to regrettably establish a pseudo-intellectual if not outright pretentious tone of self-reference (this parenthetical rues the likelihood of so early a misstep prematurely tainting your reception of the entire blog, though finds comfort in blogs' universal gravitation toward pseudo-intellectualism, pretentiousness and self-reference).
I need to apologize because this post will explore something I feel to be overwhelmingly well-covered territory. I continue because these clichés tend to be born of their own tantalizing resistance to illumination, and I'm as stubborn as they are. If that rationalization doesn't work for you, please bear in mind that your favorite underground band invariably plays cover songs.
I'll at least try to curb the blow by subtitling this story with a quote (of the myriad available and tired axioms) from Futurama:
Men are from Omicron Persei 7, Women are from Omicron Persei 9
Friday night at 6:00 PM I had dinner with my girlfriend, her roommate and a friend of theirs. Satur-night at 3:02 AM* I was angrily knocking on a drive-through speaker with my fist shouting "Excuse me, Taco Bell? Taco Bell? EXCUSE ME." Let's connect the dots.
(*When referring to the period of time between midnight and passing out, it is appropriate to substitute the "day" in that day's name to "-night" to avoid confusion and/or unnecessary verbiage. Ex. I had to go to the Free Clinic Saturday morning because I think that slut gave me the Clap Fri-night after we left the party.)
The Mrs. and the friend were carbo-loading for a half-marathon the following morning. Both made a pasta for everyone to try, the roommate put together a salad, and I contributed by breaking a twenty for three liters of wine.
The conversation revolved around the two single girls at the table and their future prospects. The friend, who by all objective accounts "had it going on," seemed prone to not letting guys past a first date (which, inclined to grant the tales of her past suitors even the slightest credibility, appeared reasonable indeed), though she had another scheduled for after the race. The roommate, with a world of positive features, possessed kindness to a fault and wouldn't send 'em packing, often times for several weeks, just for being an abysmal douche bag.
In my experience, men's Achilles' Heels are frequently far less endearing. In fact, it is even uncomfortable to discuss many of them this casually. Add the fact that pride and ego have a way of blinding us from even the most blatant and ungodly practices, further fueling the perversions. However, I maintain that this ignorance generates sympathy, and it's hard to hit a dog for eating his own feces when he answers your call with wide eyes, a wagging tail, and a piece of shit in his mouth.
These girls, on the other hand, laughingly discussed their respective pitfalls with no evidence of a thought toward remedying their problems. I devote my entire consciousness to sifting for truth in the confusion, its sporadic discovery yielding solutions or, failing that and far more common, substance abuse. They were staring down the barrel and would neither move nor drink with abandoned moderation: the only two options that made sense to me. I quietly ate my pesto and, not knowing what to do with this new truth I was sniffing at, buried my wits in a triumphantly cost-effective drinking binge.
The half-marathon went fine. Even being in Columbus, I wasn't surprised to find the top two finishers were Kenyan. I overheard them referring to the race as a "warm-up" for the jog they would have to make to Boston for another marathon the following morning. Then came lunch, HOURS of America's Next Top Model RERUNS in lieu of a promising baseball game, and finally a phone call to cancel the friend's date.
Well, first he called to report that he had finalized the reservations and everyone was ready to go, he didn't call back to cancel for a solid five minutes. She was understandably upset, and began dissecting his excuse.
Bullshit of the "Are You Kidding Me?" Variety
The Facts: He decided he was going through a stressful time in his life, had a lot of decisions to make, and would probably be more fun some other time, ie. next weekend.
The Hypotheses: Maybe the plans of the succubus he used to date had fallen through and she was back for the night to feed on his emotions. Maybe he was playing World of Warcraft and his guild decided they were going to make a video for their web page. Or maybe the awesome porno torrent he'd waited days for was finally complete and he saw this, in contrast to the date, as a sure thing.
The Obvious: He didn't call The Cheesecake Factory then suddenly remember his life sucked and he shouldn't burden anyone with his company. "End" of discussion.
The Discussion: The girls insisted on examining his diction (which I didn't care to accurately recreate) in order to determine the specific situations behind his generalizations. I spent this time pondering why I or anyone should give a rat's ass about Tyra Banks beyond her breasts. Relax, there's no such thing as objectifying a super model. Or rather, there's no alternative. Furthermore, at that moment she was forcing The Black Girl to make out with The Lesbian. I'm the bad guy. Point being, any man fully comprehends our bullshitter's methodology. None understands why this was still being debated.
Why? Why don't we all interpret this the same way? This girl is exceedingly attractive, as well as having a plethora of equally positive traits, even if they're not as immediately relevant as that first one. Suddenly something that is readily obvious to men has been hopelessly obscured by women. Apparently the only circumstance that bears significance to muddled communication is gender.
Drinking v. Thinking
After a long day of pointless consoling (again, she's hot) mixed with an eye-opening panel discussion of theoretical work-out-ball sex positions (prime masturbation fodder), we concluded that the four of us should probably get drunk. The night started at the apartment of a guy with whom the friend had shared a long-standing, suspiciously ill-defined acquaintance. Spirits subdued the investigation of this suspicion. I still harbor some resent from an argument concerning whether the foreign-born McCain should be a valid presidential candidate (apparently he gets bonus points for how handily he satisfies the 35+ prerequisite) but I was ready to call this guy my new conservative chum. We had some laughs then hit the town.
Like any responsible DD, i got FUCKED up at the first bar. Streamlining my requisite inebriation for the night allowed me to fill the hours that followed with sobering up by making inappropriate public advances on my girlfriend, dancing inappropriately with my girlfriend et al., and bartering with roadside gyro peddlers. During the interim I noticed my new buddy was dealing with some frustrating stalemates with the friend, treating them with straight whiskey.
The night progressed in much the same fashion, until, several hours/bars later, the lights got flipped on. The girls all headed for the bathroom, and it was just my buddy and me left with the coats. Our respective sobrieties had long since passed each other moving in opposite directions. My focus, sharpening though still foggy, fell upon his stance, unstable though still upright.
With a lot of help from a nearby table, he leaned in (way) close and muttered something to me. Drunk enough to mask the facetiousness I'd hoped to detect in his voice, he told me, "I... think I have... a man-crush on you..."
...
...
Ummm. Where them girls at? Where's anybody? Wasn't this room full a minute ago? Where the fuck did everybody go? And what would Old Father Time John McCain have to say about this?
I'm fine with leaving that one a mystery, but it's a big piece of a big puzzle that I actually do care to solve. He sat next to me in shotgun for a bumpy ride back to his apartment; all three girls were in the back. I pulled up to his place, threw the car in park, and buckled up, because it was his turn to take us on an uncomfortable drunken ride.
Times When "Irony" Really is the Word You're Looking for
Now, I'll save you any unbiased descriptions of the event and tell you that he was obviously trying to figure out how to get invited back to the apartment where the rest of us were going. I was content in his ability to figure out how not to piss inside my car, so I sat this one the fuck out. The girls didn't need me to explain anything this time, but they sure weren't any help. For every minute of forced small talk while we waited for him to give up, there were two minutes of silence. I didn't really look at the clock, but this lasted for right around six days.
Here's a guy who confided in me his secret crush, told in the second person, and he did it in less than ten words. How did this risk not outweigh that of saying anything, literally anything, any quaint or innocent thing, to a mutually interested girl?
What happened to communication? Small talk's no problem and the big issues are rarely vague. But put something on the line and suddenly language becomes the greatest obstacle. "Irony" is a safe bet on that one. Well, here's an even better one: after placing myself outside of and even admittedly above these discursive catastrophes, I avoided them all only to report back now. Some communicator I've proven myself to be.
To wrap things up, he left, and I thought I deserved Fourth Meal, but thanks to the twenty minute clusterfuck back in the car, it was two minutes too late for chalupas to happen (though this doesn't qualify as ironic). Still, I took some convincing. They want you to think there's no one in there so they stay quiet for the first several minutes, but if you start banging on some shit, you'll get to meet the bastards face-to-face.
So for the second time in half an hour, the girls behind sat silently through a failed communication where nobody got what they wanted.
I need to apologize because this post will explore something I feel to be overwhelmingly well-covered territory. I continue because these clichés tend to be born of their own tantalizing resistance to illumination, and I'm as stubborn as they are. If that rationalization doesn't work for you, please bear in mind that your favorite underground band invariably plays cover songs.
I'll at least try to curb the blow by subtitling this story with a quote (of the myriad available and tired axioms) from Futurama:
Men are from Omicron Persei 7, Women are from Omicron Persei 9
Friday night at 6:00 PM I had dinner with my girlfriend, her roommate and a friend of theirs. Satur-night at 3:02 AM* I was angrily knocking on a drive-through speaker with my fist shouting "Excuse me, Taco Bell? Taco Bell? EXCUSE ME." Let's connect the dots.
(*When referring to the period of time between midnight and passing out, it is appropriate to substitute the "day" in that day's name to "-night" to avoid confusion and/or unnecessary verbiage. Ex. I had to go to the Free Clinic Saturday morning because I think that slut gave me the Clap Fri-night after we left the party.)
The Mrs. and the friend were carbo-loading for a half-marathon the following morning. Both made a pasta for everyone to try, the roommate put together a salad, and I contributed by breaking a twenty for three liters of wine.
The conversation revolved around the two single girls at the table and their future prospects. The friend, who by all objective accounts "had it going on," seemed prone to not letting guys past a first date (which, inclined to grant the tales of her past suitors even the slightest credibility, appeared reasonable indeed), though she had another scheduled for after the race. The roommate, with a world of positive features, possessed kindness to a fault and wouldn't send 'em packing, often times for several weeks, just for being an abysmal douche bag.
In my experience, men's Achilles' Heels are frequently far less endearing. In fact, it is even uncomfortable to discuss many of them this casually. Add the fact that pride and ego have a way of blinding us from even the most blatant and ungodly practices, further fueling the perversions. However, I maintain that this ignorance generates sympathy, and it's hard to hit a dog for eating his own feces when he answers your call with wide eyes, a wagging tail, and a piece of shit in his mouth.
These girls, on the other hand, laughingly discussed their respective pitfalls with no evidence of a thought toward remedying their problems. I devote my entire consciousness to sifting for truth in the confusion, its sporadic discovery yielding solutions or, failing that and far more common, substance abuse. They were staring down the barrel and would neither move nor drink with abandoned moderation: the only two options that made sense to me. I quietly ate my pesto and, not knowing what to do with this new truth I was sniffing at, buried my wits in a triumphantly cost-effective drinking binge.
The half-marathon went fine. Even being in Columbus, I wasn't surprised to find the top two finishers were Kenyan. I overheard them referring to the race as a "warm-up" for the jog they would have to make to Boston for another marathon the following morning. Then came lunch, HOURS of America's Next Top Model RERUNS in lieu of a promising baseball game, and finally a phone call to cancel the friend's date.
Well, first he called to report that he had finalized the reservations and everyone was ready to go, he didn't call back to cancel for a solid five minutes. She was understandably upset, and began dissecting his excuse.
Bullshit of the "Are You Kidding Me?" Variety
The Facts: He decided he was going through a stressful time in his life, had a lot of decisions to make, and would probably be more fun some other time, ie. next weekend.
The Hypotheses: Maybe the plans of the succubus he used to date had fallen through and she was back for the night to feed on his emotions. Maybe he was playing World of Warcraft and his guild decided they were going to make a video for their web page. Or maybe the awesome porno torrent he'd waited days for was finally complete and he saw this, in contrast to the date, as a sure thing.
The Obvious: He didn't call The Cheesecake Factory then suddenly remember his life sucked and he shouldn't burden anyone with his company. "End" of discussion.
The Discussion: The girls insisted on examining his diction (which I didn't care to accurately recreate) in order to determine the specific situations behind his generalizations. I spent this time pondering why I or anyone should give a rat's ass about Tyra Banks beyond her breasts. Relax, there's no such thing as objectifying a super model. Or rather, there's no alternative. Furthermore, at that moment she was forcing The Black Girl to make out with The Lesbian. I'm the bad guy. Point being, any man fully comprehends our bullshitter's methodology. None understands why this was still being debated.
Why? Why don't we all interpret this the same way? This girl is exceedingly attractive, as well as having a plethora of equally positive traits, even if they're not as immediately relevant as that first one. Suddenly something that is readily obvious to men has been hopelessly obscured by women. Apparently the only circumstance that bears significance to muddled communication is gender.
Drinking v. Thinking
After a long day of pointless consoling (again, she's hot) mixed with an eye-opening panel discussion of theoretical work-out-ball sex positions (prime masturbation fodder), we concluded that the four of us should probably get drunk. The night started at the apartment of a guy with whom the friend had shared a long-standing, suspiciously ill-defined acquaintance. Spirits subdued the investigation of this suspicion. I still harbor some resent from an argument concerning whether the foreign-born McCain should be a valid presidential candidate (apparently he gets bonus points for how handily he satisfies the 35+ prerequisite) but I was ready to call this guy my new conservative chum. We had some laughs then hit the town.
Like any responsible DD, i got FUCKED up at the first bar. Streamlining my requisite inebriation for the night allowed me to fill the hours that followed with sobering up by making inappropriate public advances on my girlfriend, dancing inappropriately with my girlfriend et al., and bartering with roadside gyro peddlers. During the interim I noticed my new buddy was dealing with some frustrating stalemates with the friend, treating them with straight whiskey.
The night progressed in much the same fashion, until, several hours/bars later, the lights got flipped on. The girls all headed for the bathroom, and it was just my buddy and me left with the coats. Our respective sobrieties had long since passed each other moving in opposite directions. My focus, sharpening though still foggy, fell upon his stance, unstable though still upright.
With a lot of help from a nearby table, he leaned in (way) close and muttered something to me. Drunk enough to mask the facetiousness I'd hoped to detect in his voice, he told me, "I... think I have... a man-crush on you..."
...
...
Ummm. Where them girls at? Where's anybody? Wasn't this room full a minute ago? Where the fuck did everybody go? And what would Old Father Time John McCain have to say about this?
I'm fine with leaving that one a mystery, but it's a big piece of a big puzzle that I actually do care to solve. He sat next to me in shotgun for a bumpy ride back to his apartment; all three girls were in the back. I pulled up to his place, threw the car in park, and buckled up, because it was his turn to take us on an uncomfortable drunken ride.
Times When "Irony" Really is the Word You're Looking for
Now, I'll save you any unbiased descriptions of the event and tell you that he was obviously trying to figure out how to get invited back to the apartment where the rest of us were going. I was content in his ability to figure out how not to piss inside my car, so I sat this one the fuck out. The girls didn't need me to explain anything this time, but they sure weren't any help. For every minute of forced small talk while we waited for him to give up, there were two minutes of silence. I didn't really look at the clock, but this lasted for right around six days.
Here's a guy who confided in me his secret crush, told in the second person, and he did it in less than ten words. How did this risk not outweigh that of saying anything, literally anything, any quaint or innocent thing, to a mutually interested girl?
What happened to communication? Small talk's no problem and the big issues are rarely vague. But put something on the line and suddenly language becomes the greatest obstacle. "Irony" is a safe bet on that one. Well, here's an even better one: after placing myself outside of and even admittedly above these discursive catastrophes, I avoided them all only to report back now. Some communicator I've proven myself to be.
To wrap things up, he left, and I thought I deserved Fourth Meal, but thanks to the twenty minute clusterfuck back in the car, it was two minutes too late for chalupas to happen (though this doesn't qualify as ironic). Still, I took some convincing. They want you to think there's no one in there so they stay quiet for the first several minutes, but if you start banging on some shit, you'll get to meet the bastards face-to-face.
So for the second time in half an hour, the girls behind sat silently through a failed communication where nobody got what they wanted.
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