My fish Doug and I have lived together for about a year now. We've had some good moments. We've had some bad moments. Overall, though, my relationship with Doug has been pleasant. He's the size of a pen cap and hangs out in his tiny space, and I feed him and occasionally change his water. It works. Or so I thought.
It was around 10pm last night when I noticed that Doug's water had grown murky. I imagine that living in a pint of murky water can't be especially enjoyable, so I thought it might be time to give him a change. I took out a cup to put Doug in temporarily while I performed the operation, and prepared to pour him in.
Doug hates being poured from place to place. He thinks the world is ending every time there is transfer, and always frantically tries to stay in whatever vessel he's currently in. So when he swam furiously against the current as I poured him from his bowl to the cup, I thought nothing of it.
Until he flipped up out of the bowl, over the cup, and into the drain of the sink.
I looked down and saw him caught in the rubber flaps of the drain, one false flip away from plummeting down into the disposal. Heart racing, I knew I had to think quick. One more convulsion by Doug and he'd be toast. I grabbed a spoon, and decided I'd use it to pin him to the rubber, and then lift him out.
I carefully lowered the spoon to where he was, and moved it over to try to hold him in place. As soon as I got close though, he jerked his body.
And fell down into the disposal.
"FUCK!" I yelled. This was not good. I opened up the rubber of the drain with my hands and tried to see into the disposal. Pitch black. I ran around looking for a flashlight, to no avail. Back to the drain. Still pitch black.
There are times when a man must rise above the normal call of duty, and perform the unthinkable. It is in these times of extreme peril, that the ordinary man shows himself to be extraordinary. It is in these moments that a man becomes a hero.
And so, looking down into the dark, frightful depths of my hideous disposal, I knew what I had to do.
I took a deep breath and reached down into the drain. I felt soggy, slimy, moldy food. I felt razor-sharp blades cutting my hand. And then, I felt something convulse. A slippery little pen cap-size object. I felt around furiously trying to discern Doug from the slimy food. And again, something moved! I clasped my hand around it, and he slipped out. No! I felt around more, and more, and felt a slight movement once more. I clutched onto him tight this time, and lifted my arm out, holding Doug's slippery, slimy, pathetic little body.
I thrust my fist heroically from the drain, reached over, and dropped him into his bowl. I looked in nervously, to see whether he had made it.
And there he was-- swimming. He was alive. The little fighter had survived the disposal. "Doug!" I screamed. It was a joyous occasion.
I stood there, beaming, for about 15 seconds. Then I realized that it was difficult to celebrate anything with a fish, and became bored.
Today, Doug's flipping around his tiny space happily. For Doug, this is a new beginning. We were chatting this morning and he mentioned that he was going to treat every day like it was his last. I'm happy for him. I even gave him a few extra flakes of food today.
As for me, I've gone on with my day, an ordinary man once again.
Sudoku Hell
I had a brief Sudoku fling awhile back, but then I realized that Sudoku puzzles were completely addictive and not at all enjoyable. Most addictive things are addictive because there is an element of extreme joy involved, even if there is a negative and often destructive component as well. Not Sudoku. I found Sudoku puzzles to be minimally fun-- basically I was just doing work. And yet, I had a mild addiction.* Then, one day, I got sick of Sudoku and stopped. I thought I'd never look back.
And then I started dating a girl who was not only addicted to Sudoku puzzles, but who was much better than me at them.
This is not funny. Not only has Sudoku been brought back into my life with a vengeance, but my self-esteem is now dangerously at stake. No one, especially a girlfriend, is allowed to be better than me at anything involving math or logic. This is like being an excellent gambler who had a serious gambling problem and finally quit, and then dating someone who goes to the casino every night and always wins money, and brings you with them and you usually lose.**
Every time we're together she starts doing one of these cursed puzzles, and then I start doing one, my blood pressure rises because I know she's gonna finish first, and then she finishes first. Then I loathe myself and her.
This second wave of Sudoku addiction is not a good thing. When I pick up a puzzle and eventually finish it, one of three possible scenarios occurs:
1) I'm alone, and have a proud moment by myself, whereby I'm filled with nerdy excitement and have no one to share it with. Plus, I just wasted 15 minutes*** of my life.
2) I'm with her, and we're racing, and I win (3% of the time), at which point I am saturated with intense satisfaction and become really condescending and smug.
3) I'm with her, and we're racing, and I lose (97% of the time), at which point my self-esteem drops 1-2 percentage points, and I loathe myself and her.
These are all bad. I am in a lose-lose-lose situation. Yet last night I drifted off to sleep doing a puzzle. Worse, I found myself dreaming about doing the puzzle. My self-loathing, self-defeating side has teamed up with my ridiculously nerdy side, and then they both teamed up with my girlfriend, and I cannot defeat them. I miserably surrender. I need to finish this post immediately so I can continue the puzzle.
*Other addictions that provide no joy:
-miserably watching infomercials for over an hour when you know you should be sleeping
-finishing the last quarter of the plate at the Chinese restaurant even though you're blatantly stuffed
-Tetris
-Triscuits (these are horrible, yet I sometimes eat 200 of them in one sitting-- each one is worse than the last but I can't stop)
-watching The OC
-reading an entire book of Calvin and Hobbes
-trying to make a paper clip into a straight rod
**A poorly thought-out analogy
***60 minutes
And then I started dating a girl who was not only addicted to Sudoku puzzles, but who was much better than me at them.
This is not funny. Not only has Sudoku been brought back into my life with a vengeance, but my self-esteem is now dangerously at stake. No one, especially a girlfriend, is allowed to be better than me at anything involving math or logic. This is like being an excellent gambler who had a serious gambling problem and finally quit, and then dating someone who goes to the casino every night and always wins money, and brings you with them and you usually lose.**
Every time we're together she starts doing one of these cursed puzzles, and then I start doing one, my blood pressure rises because I know she's gonna finish first, and then she finishes first. Then I loathe myself and her.
This second wave of Sudoku addiction is not a good thing. When I pick up a puzzle and eventually finish it, one of three possible scenarios occurs:
1) I'm alone, and have a proud moment by myself, whereby I'm filled with nerdy excitement and have no one to share it with. Plus, I just wasted 15 minutes*** of my life.
2) I'm with her, and we're racing, and I win (3% of the time), at which point I am saturated with intense satisfaction and become really condescending and smug.
3) I'm with her, and we're racing, and I lose (97% of the time), at which point my self-esteem drops 1-2 percentage points, and I loathe myself and her.
These are all bad. I am in a lose-lose-lose situation. Yet last night I drifted off to sleep doing a puzzle. Worse, I found myself dreaming about doing the puzzle. My self-loathing, self-defeating side has teamed up with my ridiculously nerdy side, and then they both teamed up with my girlfriend, and I cannot defeat them. I miserably surrender. I need to finish this post immediately so I can continue the puzzle.
*Other addictions that provide no joy:
-miserably watching infomercials for over an hour when you know you should be sleeping
-finishing the last quarter of the plate at the Chinese restaurant even though you're blatantly stuffed
-Tetris
-Triscuits (these are horrible, yet I sometimes eat 200 of them in one sitting-- each one is worse than the last but I can't stop)
-watching The OC
-reading an entire book of Calvin and Hobbes
-trying to make a paper clip into a straight rod
**A poorly thought-out analogy
***60 minutes
Handshakes and Hugs
I was going to start this post with an apology for the recent scarcity in posts. Then I realized that I give you posts, and you give me nothing, and decided not to apologize. Plus, I've been mad busy recently-- August/September to a tutoring company is like the first half of April to a tax accountant.
Anyway. This weekend I was in Boston, visiting home, joined by the girlfriend. You'd think that the meat of the awkward times would have taken place in the interactions of my girlfriend with my family and friends. But you'd be incorrect. After all, what would an awkward interaction be without me involved?
On Thursday, I saw my mother's friend and proceeded to give her a hug. This seems fine. This would have been fine. Except she went for the handshake. What followed was a hideously awkward 3 seconds, whereby she jolted her arm from handshake position around my shoulder, and we hugged miserably, both wishing we were 32,ooo miles away from each other.
That night I reconnected with a guy from high school, but since we weren't that good friends by any means, I went for the handshake. I was horrified to see his arms extend in the hug stance, and jolted my arm at wretched lightspeed up to go for the hug. At that point the unimaginable happened-- while my arm was repositioning, he changed to the handshake position.
I panicked and lunged at him, and hugged him ferociously, pinning his handshake arm to my chest. I wanted to snort a ground-up suicide pill-- if the initial mismatch of greetings is a 9 out of 10 awkward, the double mismatch/lunging panic hug is a 76.
Then the next day I went to visit the grandparents. I gave my grandmother a hug-- we were in agreement. The grandfather, though, is a tricky one. But I had learned from my mistakes-- when we were still 5 feet apart I opened my arms mightily to send a clear hug signal. He still went for the handshake. I ended up giving him a slanted, one-armed hug.
For the remainder of the weekend, I made my intentions clear with at least a 10 yard buffer still intact. At one point, a friend and I who both share the same handshake/hug fear sent a text message prior to our first meeting of the weekend. He said, "I'm going for the high-five hug." Of course, I misread him and thought he was going for an intentional handshake hug mid-interaction switch (a smart move-- if it's intentional it puts a ceiling on how awkward it can be), but he was referring to the classic pound/one-arm-hug that guys do when they want to hug but not really. So I went for the switch, and his eyes lit up in horror-- "what the hell are you doing??" He had sent a text for the sole purpose of avoiding what had transpired.
It seems I always find a way.
Anyway. This weekend I was in Boston, visiting home, joined by the girlfriend. You'd think that the meat of the awkward times would have taken place in the interactions of my girlfriend with my family and friends. But you'd be incorrect. After all, what would an awkward interaction be without me involved?
On Thursday, I saw my mother's friend and proceeded to give her a hug. This seems fine. This would have been fine. Except she went for the handshake. What followed was a hideously awkward 3 seconds, whereby she jolted her arm from handshake position around my shoulder, and we hugged miserably, both wishing we were 32,ooo miles away from each other.
That night I reconnected with a guy from high school, but since we weren't that good friends by any means, I went for the handshake. I was horrified to see his arms extend in the hug stance, and jolted my arm at wretched lightspeed up to go for the hug. At that point the unimaginable happened-- while my arm was repositioning, he changed to the handshake position.
I panicked and lunged at him, and hugged him ferociously, pinning his handshake arm to my chest. I wanted to snort a ground-up suicide pill-- if the initial mismatch of greetings is a 9 out of 10 awkward, the double mismatch/lunging panic hug is a 76.
Then the next day I went to visit the grandparents. I gave my grandmother a hug-- we were in agreement. The grandfather, though, is a tricky one. But I had learned from my mistakes-- when we were still 5 feet apart I opened my arms mightily to send a clear hug signal. He still went for the handshake. I ended up giving him a slanted, one-armed hug.
For the remainder of the weekend, I made my intentions clear with at least a 10 yard buffer still intact. At one point, a friend and I who both share the same handshake/hug fear sent a text message prior to our first meeting of the weekend. He said, "I'm going for the high-five hug." Of course, I misread him and thought he was going for an intentional handshake hug mid-interaction switch (a smart move-- if it's intentional it puts a ceiling on how awkward it can be), but he was referring to the classic pound/one-arm-hug that guys do when they want to hug but not really. So I went for the switch, and his eyes lit up in horror-- "what the hell are you doing??" He had sent a text for the sole purpose of avoiding what had transpired.
It seems I always find a way.
Michael and Me
My poor grandmother has been sick in the hospital for the past week. My aunt had emailed me the phone number of her hospital room, and today I called her.
She picked up, and I explained that it was Tim calling, and that I hoped she was doing alright. She explained that she wasn't doing alright, and when I said that she'd be back at home soon, she said she probably wouldn't. She sounded a bit different, but she had had a minor stroke a week ago, and I knew that a stroke can affect speech. She asked how I was doing, and I told her a bit about what was happening with me. Our conversation continued for a few more minutes-- we talked about her condition, and life here in LA, and my grandfather. Then she said, "Is this Michael?"
I was talking to someone else's grandmother.
I explained that I wish her the best, but that I had to go.
She picked up, and I explained that it was Tim calling, and that I hoped she was doing alright. She explained that she wasn't doing alright, and when I said that she'd be back at home soon, she said she probably wouldn't. She sounded a bit different, but she had had a minor stroke a week ago, and I knew that a stroke can affect speech. She asked how I was doing, and I told her a bit about what was happening with me. Our conversation continued for a few more minutes-- we talked about her condition, and life here in LA, and my grandfather. Then she said, "Is this Michael?"
I was talking to someone else's grandmother.
I explained that I wish her the best, but that I had to go.
Sunday Morning
Nothing is better than waking up on NFL opening day. It's the closest I'll ever get to Christmas. Usually I wake up by my own means and as soon as I remember that the NFL starts that day I become giddy and arise.
This morning, though, I was awoken by a phone call to my newly purchased home phone. Which is odd since I haven't initiated any kind of phone service yet. I picked up and heard my landlord (a 90-year-old South African woman) say, "hello?" Then before I could say something else, I heard a third person start saying something. Then the landlord started chatting back and I realized that I had not been an intended participant in the call. Naturally, I eavesdropped. After a minute or two, though, my mischievous excitement turned into sheer boredom, as they discussed the new recipe for custard that she had discovered. I hung up. A few minutes later, another call. Eavesdropped. Hideous boredom. Then a third call. I'm bored just writing about the third call (she was upset with the air-conditioner guy for not doing a good job on the repair in one of the apartments). So this is a new, mundane wrinkle in my existence.
Anyway, a couple simple Sunday rules will apply today, namely that there will be no showering or getting remotely dressed, and that I'll eat only snack food. And not three meals-- a constant flow of eating. And that applies to everyone else, too. I'm happy to invite people over, as long as they understand that they have to watch in their underwear and eat snack food with me. (Some people are thinking, "Whoa, man...that underwear shit's not cool." These are the same people who were not cool at day camp when they were 9, but they were really good at archery so they had this swagger about them every time their group had archery, but no one else thought it was cool. In fact, because of these people, it became kind of uncool to be good at archery.)
Finally, I got another call this morning from a woman named "Lara." Logically, I said "Hi, Lara." At this, she became uppity and explained that it was pronounced "Laura." Yet, it was spelled, "Lara."
If you want it pronounced "Laura," why the fuck would you spell it "Lara?"
Worst is the fact that she was actually uppity about it.
This reminds me of a guy I worked with when I was a waiter in college who I loathed, named Kniq. He couldn't just be Nick.
Kniq.
This morning, though, I was awoken by a phone call to my newly purchased home phone. Which is odd since I haven't initiated any kind of phone service yet. I picked up and heard my landlord (a 90-year-old South African woman) say, "hello?" Then before I could say something else, I heard a third person start saying something. Then the landlord started chatting back and I realized that I had not been an intended participant in the call. Naturally, I eavesdropped. After a minute or two, though, my mischievous excitement turned into sheer boredom, as they discussed the new recipe for custard that she had discovered. I hung up. A few minutes later, another call. Eavesdropped. Hideous boredom. Then a third call. I'm bored just writing about the third call (she was upset with the air-conditioner guy for not doing a good job on the repair in one of the apartments). So this is a new, mundane wrinkle in my existence.
Anyway, a couple simple Sunday rules will apply today, namely that there will be no showering or getting remotely dressed, and that I'll eat only snack food. And not three meals-- a constant flow of eating. And that applies to everyone else, too. I'm happy to invite people over, as long as they understand that they have to watch in their underwear and eat snack food with me. (Some people are thinking, "Whoa, man...that underwear shit's not cool." These are the same people who were not cool at day camp when they were 9, but they were really good at archery so they had this swagger about them every time their group had archery, but no one else thought it was cool. In fact, because of these people, it became kind of uncool to be good at archery.)
Finally, I got another call this morning from a woman named "Lara." Logically, I said "Hi, Lara." At this, she became uppity and explained that it was pronounced "Laura." Yet, it was spelled, "Lara."
If you want it pronounced "Laura," why the fuck would you spell it "Lara?"
Worst is the fact that she was actually uppity about it.
This reminds me of a guy I worked with when I was a waiter in college who I loathed, named Kniq. He couldn't just be Nick.
Kniq.
In So Many Words
Over the weekend, I attended a raucus concert. It was wild. I'm still recovering. Yes, there's no more exhilerating experience than attending "An Evening with John Williams and the LA Philharmonic" at the Hollywood Bowl.*
It's great, because it was in a large enough venue that I could constantly draw comparisons to normal concerts. It was like a normal concert's ridiculously nerdy twin. For example, instead of lighters, people actually held up lightsabers when they played the music from Star Wars. Only in LA do you have a packed 16,000 person stadium filled with film-music buffs. And these people knew their John Williams-- the orchestra would play the first note and people would scream with delight, knowing immediately which "smash hit" they were hearing.
Poke fun as I might, I'm blatantly one of these nerds. I completely idolize a dozen or so film composers, with J-Wills heading the list. I secretly think film music is the best music that exists, and could not possibly have been happier than in the Hollywood Bowl on that night.
See the problem in our time is that, as great as songs are, there is almost no love for music without words and a singer. When classical music dominated, composers just wrote music, and people just listened to music. Today, music needs to be accompanied by lyrics to be marketable. If you look at your iTunes, 98% of the songs have words.
Now I'm not suggesting that lyrics aren't pleasant and all, but it just seems odd to me how little interest there is in just pure music. It's almost as if we've gotten so used to lyrics with music that music sans lyrics just seems boring to us. And of course, since there's no market for plain music, no one's writing it-- all the talented composers are writing songs with words.
All except film composers. Movies are the only major venue for composers to make a living writing simply music. In a sense, film music is our modern day "classical music." The major film composers of today are as musically brilliant as any songwriter in the world-- and their music is fucking fantastic-- but very few people ever listen to film scores outside of the movie theatre.
I don't know how I got here. The intended purpose of this post was to make fun of the people with the lightsabers.
*Some of you don't know who John Williams is. I don't like you.
It's great, because it was in a large enough venue that I could constantly draw comparisons to normal concerts. It was like a normal concert's ridiculously nerdy twin. For example, instead of lighters, people actually held up lightsabers when they played the music from Star Wars. Only in LA do you have a packed 16,000 person stadium filled with film-music buffs. And these people knew their John Williams-- the orchestra would play the first note and people would scream with delight, knowing immediately which "smash hit" they were hearing.
Poke fun as I might, I'm blatantly one of these nerds. I completely idolize a dozen or so film composers, with J-Wills heading the list. I secretly think film music is the best music that exists, and could not possibly have been happier than in the Hollywood Bowl on that night.
See the problem in our time is that, as great as songs are, there is almost no love for music without words and a singer. When classical music dominated, composers just wrote music, and people just listened to music. Today, music needs to be accompanied by lyrics to be marketable. If you look at your iTunes, 98% of the songs have words.
Now I'm not suggesting that lyrics aren't pleasant and all, but it just seems odd to me how little interest there is in just pure music. It's almost as if we've gotten so used to lyrics with music that music sans lyrics just seems boring to us. And of course, since there's no market for plain music, no one's writing it-- all the talented composers are writing songs with words.
All except film composers. Movies are the only major venue for composers to make a living writing simply music. In a sense, film music is our modern day "classical music." The major film composers of today are as musically brilliant as any songwriter in the world-- and their music is fucking fantastic-- but very few people ever listen to film scores outside of the movie theatre.
I don't know how I got here. The intended purpose of this post was to make fun of the people with the lightsabers.
*Some of you don't know who John Williams is. I don't like you.
Tennis
Tennis grand-slams are hit or miss for me. During some tournaments I'll find myself skimming an occasional headline and maybe watching some of the finals. Others I'll follow closely from the start, Tivo matches when I can't watch, and become acquainted with the major storylines involved. I'm either indifferent or obsessed, and that's it. Sometimes I'll be drawn in by an article about the tournament, or a particular player, before it begins. Other times I'll be flipping through the channels and end up watching a match, remember how much I like watching tennis, and I'm hooked.*
The whole Agassi thing did it this time. I decided to watch his second round match after reading about the first round. It was a phenomenal match, and now I'm obsessed with the whole tournament. Thoughts so far:
Marc Bulger
Cadillac Williams
Kevin Jones
Torry Holt
Lee Evans
Todd Heap
Jay Feely
Tampa Bay DST
(Mike Bell)
(Fred Taylor)
(Ben Roethlisberger)
(Kevin Curtis)
(Keenan McCardell)
(Verron Haynes)
*Everything in this paragraph applies to golf majors as well.
The whole Agassi thing did it this time. I decided to watch his second round match after reading about the first round. It was a phenomenal match, and now I'm obsessed with the whole tournament. Thoughts so far:
- Normally, I quickly get sick of emotional, drawn-out retirements. But I'm pretty into Agassi's little round head during all of this. It's fun because he's got nothing left, but he's got tons of heart, and the crowd's been freaking his opponents out. Plus, he kind of looks like Elijah Wood in Lord of the Rings.
- I hate Andy Roddick. He's my Yankees in all of this. Normally, sports stars are a different species, from a different world, and I don't get very personal about it. I hate A-Rod and Peyton Manning, but I hate them like superstars. It's different with Roddick-- he's too close to home. He doesn't seem like a superstar, he just seems like some dick I know. So why the hell would I root for some dick I know.
- I don't want to be attracted to Martina Hingis. I didn't plan on being attracted to Martina Hingis. But it happened, and there's nothing I can do about it.
- During the Agassi-Becker match they flashed to the end of the Safin match. The way the guy who lost to Safin lost (an automatic winner that he botched in the 5th-set tie-breaker), and his subsequent reaction (hitting a tennis ball 4,000 feet) was one of the funniest things I've witnessed.
- Basically every one of these guys has an absurdly hot girlfriend in the stands. If these guys can land those girls, why the hell do Major League baseball players have ugly, trashy girlfriends? Every type of pro athlete can get a hot girlfriend except baseball players. It's weird.
Marc Bulger
Cadillac Williams
Kevin Jones
Torry Holt
Lee Evans
Todd Heap
Jay Feely
Tampa Bay DST
(Mike Bell)
(Fred Taylor)
(Ben Roethlisberger)
(Kevin Curtis)
(Keenan McCardell)
(Verron Haynes)
*Everything in this paragraph applies to golf majors as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)