stories

Four women who work in my office (all in their twenties and doing the same job as me) have spent, I swear to god, the last eleven minutes standing in a circle ten feet away from me talking about manicures.

Does anyone out there speak/write Russian? I need some assistance with a gift for a friend. I figure all the smart people who frequent this site must have some KGB connections or a pal in the Kremlin.

Thanks in advance for the help!

In an effort to do new and productive things with my free time, I’ve decided to pursue some hobbies. Grad school doesn’t allow for a lot of leisure hours, but summer rapidly approaches and anything has to be better than what I do now. (“What I do now” is obsess over unrequited love. I’m good times!)

So, here’s what’s on the docket:

1) Playing my guitar. I took guitar lessons for a while when I lived in New York. I could play something that kind of sounded like a sloppy version of Positively Fourth Street by Bob Dylan. I haven’t actually picked up my guitar in over a year, but am hoping it will all come rushing back to me. I would also like to learn how to read tabs. They confound me.

2) Running. I’m lazy. No joke, I’m really lazy. I’m also out of shape. I get winded carrying in my groceries from the car. I’ve never been an athlete. When I was in 7th grade, I played on a basketball team and only scored one basket and one foul shot all season. At the end of the year, I got Most Improved Player. That is sad. To rectify this sorry state of affairs, I have decided to train for a marathon. I bought two books on the subject and am going to develop an awesome training plan. I tell you this now, so that I can’t back out of it later. I need external motivation. I may also need some massages.

3) ?????? There’s room for something here, but I don’t know what it is. I am taking all feedback and suggestions. Sure, many of you don’t know me, but that may lead some exciting new adventure on my part. In exchange, I will send you plenty of suggestions for things you can do with your life. And, go!

Sometimes, words are not enough.
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I have never so thoroughly needed a button-maker.

(Creators: Clara, Chris, Patrick, Emily, Roman, Jesse, Turing, Drew, and myself.)

There have been rumors that I had quit the blog before I even began. Pshaw, I say; I ain’t no quitter! With that out of the way, here is where things get heavy: I’m an addict. I don’t use daily; just Tuesday, Wednesday, and sometimes Thursday evenings. I spend the next morning thinking about the prior evening, playing it out in my head over and over. I talk about it with friends, read websites & blogs dedicated to it, and even am a member of a group as addicted as I am.

At this point you must be wondering what horribly sinful substance has me so deeply under her dark spell. I’m here to admit for the first time, that I am addicted to…..Idol.

 Yes, that lame Fox television show rules my life for the some 2-odd hours it airs each week. I’m involved in a “pool” at my office, a “Fantasy Idol” of sorts. Each week we wager points on who is getting the boot, with the big winner at the end winning hundreds of dollars. I’m an out & proud Kelly Clarkson fan, and won’t deny it to anyone who asks.

I take comfort in knowing that I’m not alone in my struggle. Recent figures say that nearly 30 million Americans are affected with Idolitis, though it’s a fairly safe bet that most of them are midwestern (Sorry Rach, you know I love ya!) soccer moms, middle-school aged ‘tweens, and scary men whose favorite shows are Idol & Dateline: To Catch A Predator. Either way, I have taken the first step and it feels freeing. My name is Joshua, and I’m addicted to Idol.

I’m sure the blogs of America are now full to bursting with people talking about St. Patrick’s Day. I was going to write something about how I don’t really celebrate it, that I don’t quite see how one can “celebrate” St. Patrick’s Day who isn’t Catholic, but instead I’ll explain.

I have Irish blood, sure. Most of my friends do, too, and only really lay claim to it in early March or under special circumstances like drinking contests or when Notre Dame is playing.

Fact: My grandmother changed the spelling of her daughter Bridget’s name to avoid having it be “too Irish” (fear of being associated with the IRA.)
Fact: My mother converted from Catholicism when she married my father.
Fact: I don’t actually know a thing about St. Patrick. (Now I do.)

Therefore, I don’t really feel like I can claim any kind of loyalty or right to celebrate today. Ah well, it’ll save me a hangover.

Instead, why don’t I celebrate what I am actually proud of about my family’s history:

My mother’s mother took dancing lessons from Gene Kelly. My grandfather owned a double-wide in the sticks until the day he died. It was full of weird little trinkets; on one wall hung at least a dozen different-sized calipers. A WWII pilot, last year his gruffness actuallly gave me the opportunity to say “Chinaman isn’t the preferred nomenclature, Grandpa.”

My father’s parents passed away when I was a kid, but I remember Granny being sweet and smelling like powder. She made mashed potatoes with lard, which made them taste much better, and always had little bowls of gumdrops that I would suck all the sugar off of and then try to put back. Mase (I actually thought this was his first name for most of my childhood, only later did I realize it was a shortening of our last name) had my dad and I over for lunch every Tuesday, and he would boil four hot dogs and cut them into bite-size pieces. I would douse them in ketchup and watch cartoons while he and my dad visited in the kitchen.

If anything, I think St. Patrick’s Day should be about celebrating your heritage, where you come from. I’m a Mick, a Limey, and a Kraut. (I hear I also have some Scot in me, but I didn’t know a racial slur for them.) But that isn’t where I come from – that’s just trivia. I come from the people who raised me; they come from the people who raised them. So today, when most everyone I know is getting hammered just because they can, I’ll drink to them: Mary, Melvin, John, and Audrey.

(Thanks, Gabe, for the title)

The weather in Michigan has bred in me a deeper empathy and understanding for Jack Nicholson’s character in The Shining. I no longer believe that to be a horror film, but rather a documentary about Seasonal Affective Disorder.

As a bit more background, I work for a ticketing agency that is wholly owned by an arts venue.

For some reason, the management of this venue feel an urge to hold quarterly meetings of the whole organisation (mostly, they happen so the Marketing department can continue to justify their existence).

In 2002, myself and the 2 other members of the IT department had a mild obsession with the Upright Citizens Brigade (particularly the finale of season one) and an overwhelming desire to not attend these meetings.

Enter Tuvok.

With the Tuvok action figure, we could safely send 2 people to the meetings, yet semi-truthfully say 3 members of the IT team were there.

In the intervening time, the other 2 have left and others have come in, but Tuvok has maintained his record of perfect meeting attendance, something that nobody else in the IT department can boast.

Being an office drone, small distractions such as this are what make life tolerable.

I just don’t know what will happen when Tuvok finds his way home.

It’s 75 degrees in Washington today (that’s about 24 degrees for you metric-system types), and in my walk around the block for lunch I noticed that the attractive people have returned for spring.

I can only assume that they follow the homeless population south for the winter.

Sometimes, many happy accidents come together at once to bring a little joy into your life. I’m going to tell two of those stories.

First, I went to see 300 on Friday afternoon with Josh. We both enjoyed it well enough but found ourselves leaving feeling like there was a better movie lying there somewhere. As we walked, I figured it out – the movie had no sense of humor about itself, it didn’t let itself be the rollicking bloodfest we wanted it to be – it was taking itself too seriously.

At the very moment we were wondering how to give it that sense of humor, we walked past a van blasting AC/DC.

Someone please cut me a 300 trailer scored to “For Those About To Rock.” Please.

Story two: I finally got around to pulling the pictures off my camera from when some friends visited, and found, nestled among the drunk people and smiles, this tender moment:

Worf, you’ll teach us all a lesson about love, you old dog.