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I can’t sleep.
I know I could probably force myself to close my eyes, but I guess I’ll just pay for it in the morning.
I am seriously regretting taking two summer classes. Especially because one of them is statistics. But yes, I am alive, and once summer school’s finished (next Thursday) I’ll have more to say.
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Suppose you’re in college, and your scholarship requires you to work at the university library.
You finish college in four years, and after graduation, you start sending out resumés.
Half the people you help in the library say “Hey, thanks for helping me with the periodicals, good luck in your endeavors.”
The other half say “The library is going to be so understaffed next semester. It’s just not going to be the same without you. You’ll be the top library aide… Don’t you want to be the man? You can work for the new librarian, she’ll need the help. You can always enter the workforce next year. The economy sucks anyway.”
What would you do? If I were in that position, I would tell that second group of people they were certifiably insane: I didn’t go to college so I could satisfy your whims, I came here so I could get that paper and feed my family.
And that is why I almost got into a comment battle on Shawn Taggart’s Facebook profile with some guy old enough to be my dad. See, I’m grateful for guys like Shawn and Doneal Mack, who accept friend requests from fans. I am not naive enough to think it means I’m actually friends with those guys, but I like learning a little more about them as people. Ever since Shawn declared for the NBA draft, though, people have been harassing him on Facebook, looking for cryptic messages in his status updates, to the point that I think they may have driven him away.
Look, Tiger fans, I know next year is going to be rough. But there are enough 24-year-old college graduates without jobs out there. If Shawn Taggart can make money doing what he wants to do – what he went to school for, essentially – who’s to say he shouldn’t do that? The impact he would have on the court is undeniable. But is coming back for another season, to play for a third coach and enter the draft at 25, in Shawn’s best interest? I don’t think any fan can say so with conviction. I also don’t think any fan, given the choice between a well-paying job (even if it’s in Romania) and a year’s unpaid internship would choose the latter.
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This is what I saw when I came into the living room today:
I ran to get the camera because it’s rare to see them so close together when they’re not wrestling or taunting each other. It was a touching moment. But of course, as soon as I could say “Aww,” Penny turned around and nipped at Trish’s tail.
And then they switched scratchers. As if by biting Trish in the ass, Penny was saying “OK, switch.”
What’s particularly funny is that Trish’s scratcher is twice as wide as Penny’s, so she has to perch on it or hang one leg off the side. So not only is she totally uncomfortable, she has to watch this kitten roll around on her scratcher like she owns the place. I guess I understand why she’s been crabby lately. But at least I know now what they do while we’re at work.
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Every so often I have what I call a “domestic epiphany.” Sometimes they are proud moments, when I figure out a cooking shortcut or decorating idea. More often than not they’re embarrassing – like when I realize I’ve been doing something incorrectly or haven’t been doing what I’m supposed to… for years.
Summer school starts for me Monday. I’m taking two classes, each from 5:30 to 9:45, one Mondays and Wednesdays, the other Tuesdays and Thursdays. I work from 9 until 5. Brian’s out of town so if I don’t make something ahead of time that I can eat for dinner each night I’ll likely starve. So I made my amazing pasta salad. I prepped the vegetables as the pasta water boiled, and – out of nowhere – realized that instead of breaking the bunch of celery apart stalk-by-stalk, I could just chop off the bottom. You know, the same way I chop off the top so all the stalks are even and easier to cut. So I did, and this is what I saw:
I was so amazed that the bottom of a celery heart looks like a rose, my shameful lack of common sense in the kitchen didn’t occur to me until hours later.
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I’m not really a big late-show kind of person – our TV is tuned to Comedy Central for The Daily Show and Colbert before bedtime. But I figured I’d watch Conan’s first Tonight Show, because I watched his Late Night finale and I need to do these kinds of things so I have stories to tell my hypothetical children.
It was all right. Pearl Jam was kinda “meh” and you can’t go wrong with Will Ferrell, of course. And I’m so glad to see Conan and Andy together again. Still, it was nothing groundbreaking or monumental. The only thing worth noting is the total confusion I felt after the show was over.
Since middle school, being awake after Conan’s show has meant that I’d stayed up way past my bedtime. So as the credits rolled, I wondered, “Why the hell am I so alert? Conan’s over. I should be drooling on myself right now. That nap was a bad idea.” Of course I then looked at the cable box and saw it was only 11:35.
So, wide awake, I had to suffer through Jimmy Fallon’s show.
I said when he took over Conan’s spot, “I hope he’s learned how not to laugh at his own jokes,” because he was in my view one of SNL’s worst improv artists. Just watch:
At about the 1:53 mark, Fallon starts snickering. Rachel Dratch – who is the focus of the sketch – follows suit and the scene is blown. Look dude, I know you think you’re hilarious, but be professional. Not saying I could do any better, but SNL is supposed to be an elite (key phrase being “supposed to be”) gig for comic actors.
I am sad to report he has not improved. Unfortunately his monologue delivery was just as mediocre as when he sat at the Weekend Update desk, but with lamer jokes. Two things redeemed the program for me: The Roots, and finding out there’s a MacGruber movie in the works. “So, who’s the lucky girl?” “Scott.”
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Noticed this as I was getting ready for bed and had to laugh:
It appears that I may require more upkeep than Brian does.
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Before I left my parents’ house yesterday afternoon, I loaded my iPhone with podcasts to listen to with the aid of my new iTrip Auto. Somewhere near Corinth, Mississippi, a segment from the latest episode of KCRW’s “Good Food” caught my attention.
It was about a movement in LA called “Guerilla Gay Bar,” which describes itself as “flashmob meets the French Revolution meets Kylie.” Basically, the premise is, a big group of gay men take over “the coolest straight bar we can find” for a night, thereby making it a gay bar.
My question is, why do we have to differentiate? Does the fact that an establishment is occupied by gay people make it gay? If five gay people go to Starbucks and they are the only ones there, would that Starbucks then be a gay coffee shop?
I worked at a bar widely regarded a “gay bar” – it even won second place in the Memphis Flyer reader’s poll “best gay bar” category – for more than four years. One of the original owners is gay, deejays spun house music weekly, we had a big gay clientele… but we also served $1 Busch and played rock and roll on Wednesdays, and for awhile our Sunday 80’s night was the place to be. It had something for everyone.
I lost count of how many times I answered the phone behind the bar and was asked, “Are y’all a gay bar?” My reply would be either something like “We don’t discriminate and everyone of legal drinking age is welcome to come have a good time” or, if I was in a snippy mood, “No.”
If a straight person was on the other end of the line, they’d say either, “Okay, cool,” or “Well I heard…” followed by a story about how this one time this dude touched their buddy’s ass while he was waiting to use the urinal… and then I’d have to explain. If it was a gay person, “Oh, well, I was on the message boards at gay.com and they said this was a good place to go in Memphis…” and then I’d still have to explain.
“Well it is a good place to go in Memphis – you just don’t have to be gay.”
“So are there a lot of gay people there?”
“Yeah, but a lot of straight people too.”
Then I would either say “See you tonight!” or give them directions to a bar that actually deems itself “gay”… even though you’ll still find just as many “breeders” there on any given Saturday. Maybe Memphis just lacks the sheer population. But I’ve never seen a gay bar like the ones Vito patronized on The Sopranos, populated solely by sweaty, mustachioed bears and frosted twinks making out on the dancefloor while “Justify My Love” blares, nary a female in sight.
This of course is the visual I have of West Hollywood, which is, according to the guerilla in the KCRW piece, where most LA-area gays hang out exclusively. “Maybe it’s just a comfort zone thing,” I thought. “Maybe they just feel safe at ‘their’ bars.” But during the segment, the server and manager interviewed both said things like “I’m glad they’re here,” “I always have a great time at gay bars,” “We just want people to have a good time.”
If we are trying to go down a path toward acceptance and tolerance, is it still necessary to make a “separate but equal” distinction between gay and straight bars? Or is the “gay bar” another nightlife niche, like the hipster bar, jazz club and hookah lounge? If that’s the case, should we be calling it something different?
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Trish has a lot of nicknames – so many, in fact, that we rarely actually call her Trish.
Today she earned a new one, as she moves from aggressive protest to plain ol’ acting out.
We have made some progress. I’ve been able to leave the door to Penny’s “kitty nursery” open, which is great, because there is a certain flavor of canned food that just smells so vile on the way in and the way out. I bought it because it was Trish’s favorite flavor, but I must have blocked the smell out of my memory.
Wednesday night Trish came in to the kitty nursery and sniffed around a little. She kept her distance but has slowly been letting Penny get closer. Last night we started letting them run around the house supervised but unrestrained, and nobody’s gotten hurt. Now Trish only hisses when Penny touches her or gets too close to her food.
Which is pretty brazen, because this evening while Penny was playing on the bed I watched Trish help herself to some kitten food. And then a few minutes later, I heard what sounded like Penny’s toy hitting the floor. “Surely not,” I thought. Surely, with all the toys Trish has, she’s not going to steal the only toy I bought for that kitten.
Trish, I hereby dub thee The Hamburglar. Yes, I considered the obvious “Cat burglar” but imagining her saying “Robble robble!” makes me giggle uncontrollably.
Look at that. No remorse.
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Perfect, right down to the Devo track.
Wes Anderson Trailer from Alex Cornell on Vimeo.
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We’ve been a two-pet household for a little more than a day now, and I am worn out. Even though we’re now experienced at this whole new-kitten thing, I’m still twice as exhausted as I was as the first few days we had Trish. Trish has always slept in our room. The kitten, Penny, sleeps in the spare bedroom with the door closed, so one would expect a good night’s sleep to come a little more easily.
Not when you have a two-year-old calico whose turf has been threatened. I woke up at 4 am with her tail in my face. I don’t want her to think I don’t have enough love for two kitties, so I got up, fed her, and brushed her. Two hours later the mewing started.
Trish and Penny could not be more different personality-wise, at least as kittens. Trish was always far more interested in playing. Only recently, now that she’s a little older, has she become the lap-kitty type (oddly enough she crawled onto my stomach as I typed that). She didn’t even like being brushed until she was more than a year old. Penny just wants to snuggle. All I have to do is put my hand near her head and her motor starts running. And she is a biscuit-making machine. In fact, she’s like that boyfriend who’s always trying to cop a feel. But instead of “Dude, can we just watch the movie?” it’s “OK, the cuddling’s fine… you can even knead a little… but I draw the line at face-licking.”
It should be interesting to see how they get along. Because their interactions from behind closed doors have been pretty one-sided so far. Trish stands outside the door and hisses and growls. Penny doesn’t seem to care. In fact, when I let her explore the house (after closing the door to the living room, which is Trish’s domain) she made a beeline for Trish’s food bowl. Silly kitten, your milkteeth can’t handle the Adult Hairball Control kibbles.
It seems I’ve plied Trish with enough affection that she’s begun to forgive me for bringing this interloper into her home — for now at least. She’s on our bed licking her butt (thankfully nowhere near the pillows) and stops to roll her eyes at me whenever she hears a peep from Penny in the next room. But she’s behaving a lot better than yesterday. Hopefully tomorrow will be even better, and maybe they’ll be allowed in the same room by the weekend. This will be an adventure.
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