Every now and then I just love messing around with Wordle. When it comes to art, I don't really have the old creative skill which, given the color scheme—among other things—of this blog, rather goes without saying. Still, thanks to talented people there are a great many variations and whatnot you can create of the word clouds Wordle creates. I opted to upload a chunk of text from a short story I'm working on and accept the default. It's quite interesting to see from small and large samples what words you have a penchant for using.
I am still wrapping my head around today being Tuesday, as Memorial Day Henry David Thoreau my brain off. The warmth of spring finally arrived, melting me a mite bit as I traversed a four-mile route. Unable to stop sweating, it was clear that whiskey and lemonade was in order. As the day wore on I got that sort of sneaky drunk that transpires when you are well-practiced at drinking. Translation: only I knew how much I was skirting the line of wasted.
As the night wore on, I like to blame fatigue rather than inebriation for an embarrassing episode of paranoia that set in late in the night whereby I thought I'd lost my computer. With unconscionable amounts of intellectual (this word might be a stretch) property on this bad boy, I was in a rather terrible way. I am just glad that at this moment I can laugh about it and, goodness, though every time I say I will back my shit up...I'm gonna back my shit up! Through embarrassment I do hope to mature and grow.
Relieved to have found my computer but queasy from incorrect balancing of food with spirits, I decided the classic detox run was a good idea. For it to be seven miles was not a good idea, as I sweat till I could sweat no more, nearing my peak of wobbly, tight-skinned, drooling mass. Though I will be a dripping, stinky human for the coming months, I am glad it's warm. Sometimes you beat the heat, and sometimes the heat beat(s) you.
More mindless musings on spring and summer sweating to come.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Cremorial Day
While it's not quite Memorial Day, this Friday that is nearly completed was, for myself and some others Cremorial Day. I suppose that is not so apt as we were not the ones cremated but, rather, we witnessed a service devoted to one who had been. And while her husband was not an American veteran of World War II, he had fought for the Britons. After that lengthy explanation of my struggle for a title I've completely forgotten what it is I intended to talk about. Presumably little, as always.
In fact, this past weekend an old teammate and I suppose I could say chum of mine told me that he reads this here blog of mine on occasion without enjoyment. I asked him, then, why he read it, and if he did have an answer—which I contend he did not—I will admit I may have been too soused to recollect it.
In my life I have seen precious few celebrities in the flesh, but after this past Monday evening I have now had occasion to see one celeb (I cringe at that abbreviation) twice. The man in question is Jesse Eisenberg of Social Network and other fame. That he is the same age as me and grew up in a neighboring town are some very loose connections, but now I have seen him twice. Time the first he was accompanied by two dudes and was walking by Chicago's Second City stages and training center building. Time the second he was near Times Square, walking his bike—which appeared to be a brand most average at best—then riding it for less than a block, before dismounting again to rendezvous with a woman I presume is his girlfriend. His posture and manner of movement is much like the characters he often portrays: gloomy, sullen, and hurried all at once. And though his posture remained bent when he met his presumable girlfriend, a smile breached his face (and, I should note, once again a hat adorned his head). Granted this was New York, and I am sure many are used to seeing many celebrities but I couldn't help but appreciate that he flew under everyone's radar and the regular-guyishness he exuded in both instances. Dare I say this is success without fame? And yet, he is famous, so perhaps notoriety is the word I seek.
At any rate I shall wonder if the cosmic crossing of young Eisenberg and myself shall continue and when, if ever, I may annoy him with brief verbal acknowledgment. Cosmic is probably an overstatement, but I can't help but have fun looking for signs and the connections in things. Call it the failed and cynical AP English student in me finally deciding that kind of shit, while contrived, can be good times. Let's take that a recent reader here was from Malvern of all places. There are ~28,000 people that live there and this internet user conducted a standard google search for something perhaps a bit obscure, which I happen to have somewhat addressed in a post here just a few weeks back (three fortnights to get more British sounding). The date of the posting and its connection to my own birth which was, in turn, from the body of an individual whose own birth took place in this very town in England, well, actually that doesn't really mean much. And those sentences were vague enough that even I might not know what I mean when I go back to read that.
After all that nonsense, I'd like to give a shout-out to my alma mater. The pleasures of Wadsworth forest continue to be exquisite, as does the quality of the Freeman Shower (though I am sad the soap smells better now), and of course it allows for me to fully embrace my inner asshat and know that few will judge and so very many will embrace. Cheers to the old 'Tech and all of those whom I have known and loved in my time there and since.
In fact, this past weekend an old teammate and I suppose I could say chum of mine told me that he reads this here blog of mine on occasion without enjoyment. I asked him, then, why he read it, and if he did have an answer—which I contend he did not—I will admit I may have been too soused to recollect it.
In my life I have seen precious few celebrities in the flesh, but after this past Monday evening I have now had occasion to see one celeb (I cringe at that abbreviation) twice. The man in question is Jesse Eisenberg of Social Network and other fame. That he is the same age as me and grew up in a neighboring town are some very loose connections, but now I have seen him twice. Time the first he was accompanied by two dudes and was walking by Chicago's Second City stages and training center building. Time the second he was near Times Square, walking his bike—which appeared to be a brand most average at best—then riding it for less than a block, before dismounting again to rendezvous with a woman I presume is his girlfriend. His posture and manner of movement is much like the characters he often portrays: gloomy, sullen, and hurried all at once. And though his posture remained bent when he met his presumable girlfriend, a smile breached his face (and, I should note, once again a hat adorned his head). Granted this was New York, and I am sure many are used to seeing many celebrities but I couldn't help but appreciate that he flew under everyone's radar and the regular-guyishness he exuded in both instances. Dare I say this is success without fame? And yet, he is famous, so perhaps notoriety is the word I seek.
At any rate I shall wonder if the cosmic crossing of young Eisenberg and myself shall continue and when, if ever, I may annoy him with brief verbal acknowledgment. Cosmic is probably an overstatement, but I can't help but have fun looking for signs and the connections in things. Call it the failed and cynical AP English student in me finally deciding that kind of shit, while contrived, can be good times. Let's take that a recent reader here was from Malvern of all places. There are ~28,000 people that live there and this internet user conducted a standard google search for something perhaps a bit obscure, which I happen to have somewhat addressed in a post here just a few weeks back (three fortnights to get more British sounding). The date of the posting and its connection to my own birth which was, in turn, from the body of an individual whose own birth took place in this very town in England, well, actually that doesn't really mean much. And those sentences were vague enough that even I might not know what I mean when I go back to read that.
After all that nonsense, I'd like to give a shout-out to my alma mater. The pleasures of Wadsworth forest continue to be exquisite, as does the quality of the Freeman Shower (though I am sad the soap smells better now), and of course it allows for me to fully embrace my inner asshat and know that few will judge and so very many will embrace. Cheers to the old 'Tech and all of those whom I have known and loved in my time there and since.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Condiments
Not to be confused with condomints of course, the minty-fresh safe-sex option product I never released. One day, that along with complimints—the mints that say nice things about you in the wrapper—shall continue to not exist. Condiments are on my brain though (no not literally you sillies, old mustard-brain Solomon) but, like, I'm thinking about them because they were the savior of a sandwich I was afraid to eat. Rare are those occasions on which I consume canned tuna but given a far too long stretch of fishlessness, I decided I could settle for the canned variety. As it stands, I made grave error my last excursion to purchase canned tuna, opting for chunk white. While not as vile as chunk light, as I opened the can, worry creased my face. But waste not want not and the best way to learn a lesson is to eat it. So I dropped in some olive oil (mayonnaise is my nemesis) and chili powder and adobo, because those were in my spice cabinet. It's difficult to determine whether these had great effect on increasing the palatability of the primary constituent part of my sandwich, but Grey Poupon really saved the day. The conclusion is that condomints can keep a _______ smelling minty fresh, and condiments can keep flavor fresh. Both can mask something otherwise gross.
Another of the primary things on my brain is the death of reigning Olympic and Chicago marathon champ Samuel Wanjiru. The circumstances are exceedingly strange. That immediately one of the police investigators was shouting to the media that it was a suicide speaks to one of many cultural differences between The United States and Kenya. When I have such little grasp of circumstances, I like to keep any judgment in check so I'll just say that I loved to watch the man run and was impressed by the way he competed. As a distance runner myself, the desire to run long distances may or may not be indicative of a mind somewhat less stable than what is alleged to be the mental standard. If further proof was needed of how insane things can be over in Kenya, I'll forgo some of the stories told me secondhand from visitors and cite this tale of random assault of former (and would-be otherwise current) Division III star Peter Kosgei.
Well, at this juncture I really must be making some ambulatory motion from my current sedentary perch. Chicago, I shall bid you adieu temporarily in some 40 hours. If you could find it within your weather to warm in the days of my absence, I am sure the other residents might be just as appreciative as I.
Another of the primary things on my brain is the death of reigning Olympic and Chicago marathon champ Samuel Wanjiru. The circumstances are exceedingly strange. That immediately one of the police investigators was shouting to the media that it was a suicide speaks to one of many cultural differences between The United States and Kenya. When I have such little grasp of circumstances, I like to keep any judgment in check so I'll just say that I loved to watch the man run and was impressed by the way he competed. As a distance runner myself, the desire to run long distances may or may not be indicative of a mind somewhat less stable than what is alleged to be the mental standard. If further proof was needed of how insane things can be over in Kenya, I'll forgo some of the stories told me secondhand from visitors and cite this tale of random assault of former (and would-be otherwise current) Division III star Peter Kosgei.
Well, at this juncture I really must be making some ambulatory motion from my current sedentary perch. Chicago, I shall bid you adieu temporarily in some 40 hours. If you could find it within your weather to warm in the days of my absence, I am sure the other residents might be just as appreciative as I.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Man v. Security
In a week's time the strongest recollection in my brain at this moment is the triumph a friend and I made over the security device placed around the lid of a legitimately purchased bottle of scotch. The device, meant to be removed with a specific magnetic key, can be seen below:
The internet being what it is, I expected to find some intrepid and enterprising methods at removal sans prescribed key. But all that I could find spoke to plenty of potential for damaging the bottle. In the end, all it took was a serrated meat knife, a couple of screwdrivers for leverage, and some faith. The triumph was due almost entirely to this unnamed friend but I am always unsure whether to name human acquaintances of mine in here, but the sentiment is there: the victory was mine only in afterward enjoying said scotch.
I heard that new Katy Perry song today, as I have before, the one with Kanye West, and where she comes in at the near chorus moment, I couldn't help but think of T.A.T.U.'s hit "All the Things She Said." The cadence and rhythm more than anything are what remind me, and it's not really as close as a lot of the connections I tend to note in here, but one triggers the other just the same. Perhaps a bit more of my associative brain than melodic theft or even influence.
At any rate, I'm tired just having watched the Thunder beat the Grizzlies, so I'm going to trundle off to bed. Rest well ye weary internet travelers.
The internet being what it is, I expected to find some intrepid and enterprising methods at removal sans prescribed key. But all that I could find spoke to plenty of potential for damaging the bottle. In the end, all it took was a serrated meat knife, a couple of screwdrivers for leverage, and some faith. The triumph was due almost entirely to this unnamed friend but I am always unsure whether to name human acquaintances of mine in here, but the sentiment is there: the victory was mine only in afterward enjoying said scotch.
I heard that new Katy Perry song today, as I have before, the one with Kanye West, and where she comes in at the near chorus moment, I couldn't help but think of T.A.T.U.'s hit "All the Things She Said." The cadence and rhythm more than anything are what remind me, and it's not really as close as a lot of the connections I tend to note in here, but one triggers the other just the same. Perhaps a bit more of my associative brain than melodic theft or even influence.
At any rate, I'm tired just having watched the Thunder beat the Grizzlies, so I'm going to trundle off to bed. Rest well ye weary internet travelers.
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