Just got back from the movie theater. I went to see this year's most promising entry for The Longest Movie Of The Year Oscar as well as The Longest Anything Ever Guiness World Record. I am talking about The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which is currently up for a title change to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button: Told In Realtime.
It is a great joy to be writing this. This is one of those great opportunities life gives you to offend lots of people, as this movie is highly rated indeed. People take mortal offense when you attack their likes and dislikes; you say something nasty about a movie they like, and they will murder your family and put animal heads in your bed. But being an orphan, I feel relatively safe from retribution.
As I said, this movie's defining quality is length. You may consider reading the story instead, it will take you half an hour at most. I can't say that the movie is based on the story to any degree, but they do have one thing in common. They take a cool science-fictionish idea, and then proceed to do absolutely nothing interesting with it. The story, however, took me fifteen minutes to read, while the movie left me with gray hair.
The idea is simple but potentially interesting: a guy ages backwards. He's born an old man, and dies an infant. Now let's observe how one transforms this mini-gem into a bottle of sleeping pills.
Let's start with a synopsis, Book-A-Minute-Classics style
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button: Told In Realtime
(Benjamin Button is born a hideous old man played by a crudely drawn CGI actor)
Everyone: he's hideous! Freak! Freak!
Black Woman With Heart Of Gold: gimme
(Black Woman With Heart of Gold raises the freak)
(Benjamin Button lives for forty years, and then suddenly realizes he's transformed from Gollum's ugly cousin to the apotheosis of magazine-cover male sex appeal: Brad Pitt)
Benjamin Button: holy crap! Did I just get younger? Holy crap! Is that a Cate Blanchett channeling Katherine Hepburn as Female Romantic Lead? Holy crap! Did she just have sex with me?
(Benjamin gets Female Romantic Lead pregnant)
Benjamin Button: well, my job here is done, see ya later.
(Benjamin abandons Female Romantic Lead to her newborn daughter and lame leg)
(Benjamin reverse-ages into a baby and dies)
The End
If it were only that simple. Unfortunately those key events are padded with hours and hours worth of Benjamin stalking around the planet Earth on foot, car and boat, occasionally opening his mouth to say something worthless in a creaky door voice with a Southern accent. Sometimes he goes to a bar and gets drunk. Sometimes he visits his mother. It's like watching a Reality Show, but one with actual reality, and no artificial drama injection.
Blah. I don't want to think about it anymore.
(Chatting with my friend in China)
Pei: k, I am going outside
Mark: i'll go outside too
Pei: k, see u there
Mark: k, i'll be by the tree
Pei: I know where outside is, dude
Friday, December 26, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Don't do it or you'll have to do it again
Haven't written regularly in a while and haven't gotten any complaints. Time to try the opposite again.
Demonstrated ability in a domestic environment is a very dangerous thing. When I was younger, I took care never attempt to do something myself that had previously been done for me. Take for example peeling apples. My Mom and Dad can peel in an apple in 4.3 and and 4.1 seconds respectively without so much as shedding a pint of blood. It takes me a good 45 seconds to a minute to perform the same feat with the same safety margin, something I would never know if I hadn't strayed from the rulebook of my younger smarter self. But one time, long long ago, in this very same galaxy, Mom and Dad were too busy to peel an apple for on-the-brink-of-starvation Mark and offered him to try it himself with perhaps a "betcha can't do it!" for extra deceit points. And little Mark swallowed the poison pill, smashed the glass, took up the axe, and separated the peel (along with 90% of the apple) from the meat. And Mom and Dad said "Wow! Congratulations! Now you can do it yourself every time!"
Imagine what life would be like if from your very birth you held to the principle of not demonstrating ability. It would be cake with a tall glass of foaming Dr. Pepper, and someone would be spoon-feeding you both. You would still be wearing a diaper, you would weigh 800 pounds (that's 2000 pounds for you Jupiter dwellers!), and your parents would still treat you like your grandparents do - with utter disregard for responsibility and sole purpose to spoil. As it is, I have to peel my own apples, change my own diaper, and write my own blog entries.
Someone: they could get a restraining order.
Mark: restraining orders are probably expensive.
Mario: nah, at least buy one get one free.
Gene (telling a parable): There was this guy once, who had many many adventures. I'm not going to tell you about any of them, because I don't remember a single one.
(Gene is joking about some female spiritual leader)
Gene: She only holds you to five of Moses's Commandements
Boris: what about the other four?
Demonstrated ability in a domestic environment is a very dangerous thing. When I was younger, I took care never attempt to do something myself that had previously been done for me. Take for example peeling apples. My Mom and Dad can peel in an apple in 4.3 and and 4.1 seconds respectively without so much as shedding a pint of blood. It takes me a good 45 seconds to a minute to perform the same feat with the same safety margin, something I would never know if I hadn't strayed from the rulebook of my younger smarter self. But one time, long long ago, in this very same galaxy, Mom and Dad were too busy to peel an apple for on-the-brink-of-starvation Mark and offered him to try it himself with perhaps a "betcha can't do it!" for extra deceit points. And little Mark swallowed the poison pill, smashed the glass, took up the axe, and separated the peel (along with 90% of the apple) from the meat. And Mom and Dad said "Wow! Congratulations! Now you can do it yourself every time!"
Imagine what life would be like if from your very birth you held to the principle of not demonstrating ability. It would be cake with a tall glass of foaming Dr. Pepper, and someone would be spoon-feeding you both. You would still be wearing a diaper, you would weigh 800 pounds (that's 2000 pounds for you Jupiter dwellers!), and your parents would still treat you like your grandparents do - with utter disregard for responsibility and sole purpose to spoil. As it is, I have to peel my own apples, change my own diaper, and write my own blog entries.
Someone: they could get a restraining order.
Mark: restraining orders are probably expensive.
Mario: nah, at least buy one get one free.
Gene (telling a parable): There was this guy once, who had many many adventures. I'm not going to tell you about any of them, because I don't remember a single one.
(Gene is joking about some female spiritual leader)
Gene: She only holds you to five of Moses's Commandements
Boris: what about the other four?
Saturday, December 20, 2008
How To Get In Trouble
Being that I love to argue almost as much as I like winning arguments, it helps to know what one's doing in an argument. There is of course good reading material in this area that I review every now and then, but mostly it's for humor purposes, and offers little real advice. Luckily, there's what I call the 'U, U and U,' the three keys to being a winner. Everything stems from the following revelation: No one can argue as well as the Uninformed, Unopinionated, and Uninvested.
The uninformed:
Nothing is more deleterious to your arguing capacity than a trunk full of actual facts. This is one of those uncommon common wisdoms. Knowledge is like a rug that you stand on, a rug with multiple handles on all sides for people to yank. So all knowledge is excess knowledge, when it comes to an argument.
Knowledge hurts you in several ways. First of all, it makes you cocky. Little feels better than proving your opponent an ignoramus, and this makes it hard to resist throwing a little quote or worse - parable, or (don't ever do this) actual news or scientific findings. Unfortunately, that 'little' contains among other things, the satisfaction of being that ignoramus, and knocking your four-eyed, egg-headed and degree-laden opponent on his figurative ass.
And second, knowledge is highly correlated with verbal incontinence. When you know something that could further your case, stifling it is like stifling salivation when faced with an eighteen course Thanksgiving meal. Pavlov laughs in your face.
On the other hand, being uninformed gives one wings of freedom. Not knowing anything, you can make up whatever you want and be equally convincingly convinced of it.
So, the best option is to be uninformed. Alzheimer's is a cromulent path to take, but I hear the side-effects are a bitch. For us mortals, refusing to learn to read is a good alternative. Parents, this is your chance to ensure your child's happiness. And don't worry about school, no one's ever learned anything there anyway.
The unopinionated:
This one's more obvious than a monster truck sitting on your face. If you have an opinion, you hazard agreeing with a potential opponent. While agreeing with him/her does release a certain amount of endorphins, it pales in comparison with ridiculing them.
The uninvested:
Having a stake in an argument is almost as bad as having an opinion. It's not quite as bad, because opinions are usually rock solid, and stakes are made of paper or plastic money. (However, "paper covers rock," so it's mildly debatable).
Now you're ready grasshopper, go and make people lose their cool and hurt you.
(Mario's walks past me wearing a thin see-through white shirt. Meanwhile I can barely see anything, I'm so wrapped up in clothes to keep warm)
Mark: aren't you cold?
Mario (with a look of dawning realization): oh my God! I'm freezing! Where's my sweatshirt!?
The uninformed:
Nothing is more deleterious to your arguing capacity than a trunk full of actual facts. This is one of those uncommon common wisdoms. Knowledge is like a rug that you stand on, a rug with multiple handles on all sides for people to yank. So all knowledge is excess knowledge, when it comes to an argument.
Knowledge hurts you in several ways. First of all, it makes you cocky. Little feels better than proving your opponent an ignoramus, and this makes it hard to resist throwing a little quote or worse - parable, or (don't ever do this) actual news or scientific findings. Unfortunately, that 'little' contains among other things, the satisfaction of being that ignoramus, and knocking your four-eyed, egg-headed and degree-laden opponent on his figurative ass.
And second, knowledge is highly correlated with verbal incontinence. When you know something that could further your case, stifling it is like stifling salivation when faced with an eighteen course Thanksgiving meal. Pavlov laughs in your face.
On the other hand, being uninformed gives one wings of freedom. Not knowing anything, you can make up whatever you want and be equally convincingly convinced of it.
So, the best option is to be uninformed. Alzheimer's is a cromulent path to take, but I hear the side-effects are a bitch. For us mortals, refusing to learn to read is a good alternative. Parents, this is your chance to ensure your child's happiness. And don't worry about school, no one's ever learned anything there anyway.
The unopinionated:
This one's more obvious than a monster truck sitting on your face. If you have an opinion, you hazard agreeing with a potential opponent. While agreeing with him/her does release a certain amount of endorphins, it pales in comparison with ridiculing them.
The uninvested:
Having a stake in an argument is almost as bad as having an opinion. It's not quite as bad, because opinions are usually rock solid, and stakes are made of paper or plastic money. (However, "paper covers rock," so it's mildly debatable).
Now you're ready grasshopper, go and make people lose their cool and hurt you.
(Mario's walks past me wearing a thin see-through white shirt. Meanwhile I can barely see anything, I'm so wrapped up in clothes to keep warm)
Mark: aren't you cold?
Mario (with a look of dawning realization): oh my God! I'm freezing! Where's my sweatshirt!?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Home
Today, I flew back to NJ. Mario dropped me off at Houston Hobby Airport, and after we soaked each other's well-muscled shoulders with veritable cataracts of tears, we parted ways. I went to find my plane and Mario went to go buy some tissues.
Hobby Airport is like a trailer compared to the grandiose mansion airports I'm used to. It only has one employee - Carl Fratratchet, a middle-aged clone of a middle-aged black man. When I came in, Carl ushered me to the ticket window. After he maxed out my credit card on account of my bags having one too many dimensions (AirTran charges you an extra $500 for each dimension past 2D), he took me through security, where he patted me down and took a urine sample. Luckily I haven't done any hard drugs since I was in my mother's womb, so I passed with flying colors.
After the carry-on flammability test which relieved me of both carry-ons, Carl took me over to the terminal, made sure I knew where to find my plane should I wish to follow through with my ticket purchase, and then walked me over to the duty-free shop and sold me some Starburst. When I'm on a plane and it changes altitude, my ears tend to complain with blood and brain tissue discharge. Starburst keeps my saliva running, so I can equalize pressure at a greater pace.
Finally Carl walked me to the plane - a Boeing 707 two-seater discontinued in 1956, got in the pilot's seat and flew me home. Now that's what I call a valuable employee.
Mark: I took your stuff out of the dryer.
Mario: because you were washing?
Mark: no, drying. But good guess.
(at Starbucks, last day in Houston)
Mark: does the Pumpkin Spice Latte sound good?
Mario: to me? No. But to you it sounds good. Dang! Really good!
(talking about someone at Mario's work)
Mark: is she hot?
Mario: she's 80 years old, at least.
Mark: answer the question!
Yesterday we found out that Mario thinks 'Jew' is a racial slur.
Hobby Airport is like a trailer compared to the grandiose mansion airports I'm used to. It only has one employee - Carl Fratratchet, a middle-aged clone of a middle-aged black man. When I came in, Carl ushered me to the ticket window. After he maxed out my credit card on account of my bags having one too many dimensions (AirTran charges you an extra $500 for each dimension past 2D), he took me through security, where he patted me down and took a urine sample. Luckily I haven't done any hard drugs since I was in my mother's womb, so I passed with flying colors.
After the carry-on flammability test which relieved me of both carry-ons, Carl took me over to the terminal, made sure I knew where to find my plane should I wish to follow through with my ticket purchase, and then walked me over to the duty-free shop and sold me some Starburst. When I'm on a plane and it changes altitude, my ears tend to complain with blood and brain tissue discharge. Starburst keeps my saliva running, so I can equalize pressure at a greater pace.
Finally Carl walked me to the plane - a Boeing 707 two-seater discontinued in 1956, got in the pilot's seat and flew me home. Now that's what I call a valuable employee.
Mark: I took your stuff out of the dryer.
Mario: because you were washing?
Mark: no, drying. But good guess.
(at Starbucks, last day in Houston)
Mark: does the Pumpkin Spice Latte sound good?
Mario: to me? No. But to you it sounds good. Dang! Really good!
(talking about someone at Mario's work)
Mark: is she hot?
Mario: she's 80 years old, at least.
Mark: answer the question!
Yesterday we found out that Mario thinks 'Jew' is a racial slur.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Marathon?
Today was the marathon attempt. I'm cracking up even calling it an attempt. Nevertheless, something happened, it was more or less 7 miles long, so let's just call it that - an attempt.
There were several revelations that came during the during and remembered themselves to me during the after (obviously none of them concerned grammar). Here they are in no particular order:
1. A marathon is about 26 miles long...er than you think.
2. Optimism only gets you through about 1 mile.
3. Vomit burns. Both times. And in between.
4. I have the lungs of a chain-smoker.
5. Mario's lungs are actually made up of stacks of Camel Golds.
6. Those stacks of Camel Golds are made of real camel essence. Because that boy sure has endurance.
7. Sitting at the computer for four months is probably only the second best way to prepare for an attempt.
8. Typing speed and running speed are uncorrelated.
9. Running is not the best time to work out personal problems. The only thing I could think about was the personal problem of having decided to run a marathon.
10. Doing is highly highly overrated. I'm going to stick to 'planning to do' and 'lying about doing' from now on instead.
11. Not only can Mario not run a marathon, he can't even run a marathon while carrying me on his back.
The attempt started auspiciously. After half a mile, Mario was celebrating the 2% mark. "Dude, we already ran 2%! Just fifty of those, and we're done. Cake. Wait, it's only forty-nine more! How can we not finish?"
The first mile was indeed cake, and no, we weren't in a car. Unfortunately there was a second, which didn't go over so well with my head and stomach. At around two miles, they suddenly teamed up and betrayed me, with a pain-in-the-ass thing called pain. And the next five miles after that were pretty much a bloody haze of running and walking, though I'm reasonably sure it wasn't my blood. I may have strangled Mario a bit, and perchance some worthless passerbys.
Anyway, it's all over. Now I get to sit back and enjoy the perks of having attempted to run a marathon. These include not being able to walk, lots and lots of complaining about not being able to walk, having to take frequent sips of water between complaints because of a burning throat, and of course blushing and running out of the room when the word marathon clears the air.
There were several revelations that came during the during and remembered themselves to me during the after (obviously none of them concerned grammar). Here they are in no particular order:
1. A marathon is about 26 miles long...er than you think.
2. Optimism only gets you through about 1 mile.
3. Vomit burns. Both times. And in between.
4. I have the lungs of a chain-smoker.
5. Mario's lungs are actually made up of stacks of Camel Golds.
6. Those stacks of Camel Golds are made of real camel essence. Because that boy sure has endurance.
7. Sitting at the computer for four months is probably only the second best way to prepare for an attempt.
8. Typing speed and running speed are uncorrelated.
9. Running is not the best time to work out personal problems. The only thing I could think about was the personal problem of having decided to run a marathon.
10. Doing is highly highly overrated. I'm going to stick to 'planning to do' and 'lying about doing' from now on instead.
11. Not only can Mario not run a marathon, he can't even run a marathon while carrying me on his back.
The attempt started auspiciously. After half a mile, Mario was celebrating the 2% mark. "Dude, we already ran 2%! Just fifty of those, and we're done. Cake. Wait, it's only forty-nine more! How can we not finish?"
The first mile was indeed cake, and no, we weren't in a car. Unfortunately there was a second, which didn't go over so well with my head and stomach. At around two miles, they suddenly teamed up and betrayed me, with a pain-in-the-ass thing called pain. And the next five miles after that were pretty much a bloody haze of running and walking, though I'm reasonably sure it wasn't my blood. I may have strangled Mario a bit, and perchance some worthless passerbys.
Anyway, it's all over. Now I get to sit back and enjoy the perks of having attempted to run a marathon. These include not being able to walk, lots and lots of complaining about not being able to walk, having to take frequent sips of water between complaints because of a burning throat, and of course blushing and running out of the room when the word marathon clears the air.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Slitting Wrists and Other Hobbies
After yesterday's viewing of Run Fatboy Run, Mario and I were inspired. This morning we headed over (drove) to his aunt's house and ate about sixteen pounds of food a piece. After that motivation session, we feel ready to run a marathon. We have all the requisite characteristics - we're weak, out of shape, and now we're fat. Armed with these superpowers, we will run not one, but two marathons! One for Mario and one for me. The date is Friday, and we've told everyone we know that we're doing it to ensure the most happiness in the event of failure.
Like every year around this time, the world is beset with nagging but unanswerable questions, most of them having to do with Kwanza, such as:
What in the world IS Kwanza?
Is it spelled with a K or a Q? Or perhaps both? Qkwanza? Kqwanza?
What group of people is responsible for K(Q)wanza's existence and what does the event commemorate?
How many candles should there be on the eighth night of Kwanza?
Ok, I will answer some of these, though I guarantee no amount of truth.
First of all, you uncultured ignoramuses (this is the 'you' that no longer includes 'me'), Kwanza is actually spelled Kwanzaa, or so is the humble opinion of Wikipedia. It's a week long, so if we take length as a measure of importance, it's somewhere between Christmas and Hanukkah but closer to the latter. It's celebrated by lighting a candle, which explains why Kwanzaa subscribers are impossible to recognize in the sea of minorahs and Christmas lights.
Umm...ok that's enough for this year. Next year, we'll learn who celebrates Kwanzaa and what they're actually celebrating.
Speaking of depression, Leaving Las Vegas. Do NOT see this movie. It might put your life in perspective, and that's the last thing anyone wants.
Like every year around this time, the world is beset with nagging but unanswerable questions, most of them having to do with Kwanza, such as:
What in the world IS Kwanza?
Is it spelled with a K or a Q? Or perhaps both? Qkwanza? Kqwanza?
What group of people is responsible for K(Q)wanza's existence and what does the event commemorate?
How many candles should there be on the eighth night of Kwanza?
Ok, I will answer some of these, though I guarantee no amount of truth.
First of all, you uncultured ignoramuses (this is the 'you' that no longer includes 'me'), Kwanza is actually spelled Kwanzaa, or so is the humble opinion of Wikipedia. It's a week long, so if we take length as a measure of importance, it's somewhere between Christmas and Hanukkah but closer to the latter. It's celebrated by lighting a candle, which explains why Kwanzaa subscribers are impossible to recognize in the sea of minorahs and Christmas lights.
Umm...ok that's enough for this year. Next year, we'll learn who celebrates Kwanzaa and what they're actually celebrating.
Speaking of depression, Leaving Las Vegas. Do NOT see this movie. It might put your life in perspective, and that's the last thing anyone wants.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Brits Are Slowly Unclenching Those Well-Dressed Buttocks
Just watched Run Fatboy Run, the relatively recent movie with Simon Pegg's crew (Shaun of the Dead). It was hilarious, but let's give credit where it's due. It's at least half due to the fact that British people have done a great job of representing themselves in movies as reserved, rational, and gentlemanly. In other words, as utter tightasses. The American view of the British film character is one inevitably played by Michael Caine, who is articulate, natural, believable, and also the most quick-acting over-the-counter soporific on the market. It is because of Michael's skill that we have our current view of the Brits.
Enter Simon Pegg and crew. Suddenly we see British people doing all sorts of strange things: grimacing, wearing booty shorts, being fat, walking around naked from the waist down, and doing all sorts of physical comedy that require stuntmen and stunt genitalia. And here you can't help but laugh. The stereotype is so strong that when you break it open, there are hysterical giggles inside. I laughed so hard I needed three separate ribcage replacements.
Now that I've explained the reason this movie's so funny, you should by no means ever watch it. Being conscious of the contrast effect I described will undoubtedly break the spell, and you'll just be seeing another Hollywood slapstick with a cliched plot and stupid jokes.
So, to summarize (just saying those words makes me feel like I'm trying to meet a word count), this movie's pretty lame. It put me to sleep just fine even without Mr. Caine's professional help.
(Franco put up some Christmas and Hanukkah decorations including some uncircumsized reindeer, Mario comes back from work)
Mario: a menorah? I don't think God would approve of that. The God I worship I mean, not your heathen God.
Mark: then we shall have a battle of the Gods.
Mario: or we could sit there and stare at each other until one of our Gods kills one of us.
Mark: or lets one of us starve to death.
Enter Simon Pegg and crew. Suddenly we see British people doing all sorts of strange things: grimacing, wearing booty shorts, being fat, walking around naked from the waist down, and doing all sorts of physical comedy that require stuntmen and stunt genitalia. And here you can't help but laugh. The stereotype is so strong that when you break it open, there are hysterical giggles inside. I laughed so hard I needed three separate ribcage replacements.
Now that I've explained the reason this movie's so funny, you should by no means ever watch it. Being conscious of the contrast effect I described will undoubtedly break the spell, and you'll just be seeing another Hollywood slapstick with a cliched plot and stupid jokes.
So, to summarize (just saying those words makes me feel like I'm trying to meet a word count), this movie's pretty lame. It put me to sleep just fine even without Mr. Caine's professional help.
(Franco put up some Christmas and Hanukkah decorations including some uncircumsized reindeer, Mario comes back from work)
Mario: a menorah? I don't think God would approve of that. The God I worship I mean, not your heathen God.
Mark: then we shall have a battle of the Gods.
Mario: or we could sit there and stare at each other until one of our Gods kills one of us.
Mark: or lets one of us starve to death.
Friday, December 5, 2008
If It's On Sale, It's On The Bank Statement
Michelle's birthday's coming up soon. She's turning 12 plus or minus 6; it's hard to tell at that age. As always, I'm short on ideas for presents. It's been a long time since I was a twelve year old girl, and with all these "forty is the new twenty" and "seventy is the new twenty one" I can't even narrow down which millenium she belongs to. Should I get her a tricycle or some razors (for shaving; it's too early for her to be clinically depressed), a bib or a wheelchair? I've asked some experts, they're still analyzing the data. Wish me luck.
We went to Kroger's for some grocery shopping today. They're all set for Christmas, and there's a massive sale. Except for grapes, which at $964.99/lb seemed to be compensating for all of the other items put together, literally everything was marked down. So now, not only are we broke, but in two days time we'll be fatter than Señor Christmas stuffed with Dasher and Blitzen's entire family trees. Christmas trees of course.
I followed a schedule today for the first time in 22 years. Not the whole day of course, but from 1:00PM to 4:30PM I lived a life of order and premeditated action. This included an hour of Chinese, half an hour each with two guitar books, and half an hour of ear training. I am not skipping out on the chance to brag about it since there's no predicting how organized I will feel tomorrow. Clap your hands if you believe I can stick to this for more than just today. Now if you clapped your hands, go see a shrink. Clapping to yourself for no reason is a first-rank positive symptom of schizophrenia according to the Schneider classification. Either that, or you're a Nazi for following orders blindly.
An hour and a half ago, Mario put a 10oz frozen pizza in the oven. Usually within 10 minutes we hear the first hissing sounds of cheese globs committing suicide on the red-hot coils. I just went to check on it. The oven was set to a comfortable defrosting temperature of 0. Fahrenheit of course - this isn't a magic oven, and only I'm loony enough to take a pizza out of the box and plastic wrap and put it back in the freezer to cook.
Mario (seeing me at the oven): is it burning?
Mark: dude, you forgot to turn the oven on.
Mario: that wasn't the question. I said, is it burning?
Mark: nope, this one's a champion.
We went to Kroger's for some grocery shopping today. They're all set for Christmas, and there's a massive sale. Except for grapes, which at $964.99/lb seemed to be compensating for all of the other items put together, literally everything was marked down. So now, not only are we broke, but in two days time we'll be fatter than Señor Christmas stuffed with Dasher and Blitzen's entire family trees. Christmas trees of course.
I followed a schedule today for the first time in 22 years. Not the whole day of course, but from 1:00PM to 4:30PM I lived a life of order and premeditated action. This included an hour of Chinese, half an hour each with two guitar books, and half an hour of ear training. I am not skipping out on the chance to brag about it since there's no predicting how organized I will feel tomorrow. Clap your hands if you believe I can stick to this for more than just today. Now if you clapped your hands, go see a shrink. Clapping to yourself for no reason is a first-rank positive symptom of schizophrenia according to the Schneider classification. Either that, or you're a Nazi for following orders blindly.
An hour and a half ago, Mario put a 10oz frozen pizza in the oven. Usually within 10 minutes we hear the first hissing sounds of cheese globs committing suicide on the red-hot coils. I just went to check on it. The oven was set to a comfortable defrosting temperature of 0. Fahrenheit of course - this isn't a magic oven, and only I'm loony enough to take a pizza out of the box and plastic wrap and put it back in the freezer to cook.
Mario (seeing me at the oven): is it burning?
Mark: dude, you forgot to turn the oven on.
Mario: that wasn't the question. I said, is it burning?
Mark: nope, this one's a champion.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Life in Chinese
Read an article today about a funny study. Apparently, people who handle a warm object will be more positive for a short period afterwards than people who handle a cold one. For example, if you meet a friend for a hot coffee, you'll be more "generous, caring and happy" (scientific terms used by the study that have little to do with their layman counterparts) than if you have an ice coffee. This is going straight into my bank of studies on how to control people. Next time I ask someone for a favor, I'm sticking them in the oven first.
I've been cruising through Chinese the past few days, and their incessant politeness is getting to me. They are not my people. I always accept praise like it's due, regardless of how astronomically far I am from meriting it. When praise isn't being showered upon me, I manifest my own and collect nods of agreement. When there are no nodding people around me, I satisfy myself with echoes.
The Chinese take the extreme in the opposite direction. They tiptoe on their pinkies so as not to inspire jealousy. They verbally abuse themselves to not appear cocky. The last time a Chinese person accepted a compliment was in 1643, and it would have remained a secret if not for the security leak in 1984. Here's a typical conversation between two Chinese people, adapted from my textbook:
Old Wang: Li! How are you doing, long time no see.
Old Li: Oh, I'm doing great...but actually, I'm doing very poorly.
Old Wang: No, come on, no need to be polite, you're looking as handsome as you were when you were twenty years old.
Old Li: (takes out a knife and cuts off his face) Please! I am uglier than a lion's stomach lining.
Old Wang: Anyway, we both know beauty doesn't matter. What's important is cooking ability, and you are the best chef from here to Alpha Centauri B.
Old Li: (rips off his right arm) Cooking?? I can't even hold a pan and a pair of chopsticks at the same time. Anyway, my meager cooking skill pales in comparison with how you handle a soccer ball.
Old Wang: (takes a baseball bat out of his wallet and breaks his legs) What are you talking about? I can't even walk, let alone play soccer.
Old Li: Soccer's for little boys anyway. What matters is your wife is more beautiful than ten million dollars in an offshore bank account.
Old Wang: (takes out his nunchucks) I have to go Li. I'll see you later, you king of fashion you.
Old Li: See ya later, emperor of hair style.
(Old Wang goes home and murders his wife.)
How is there a billion and a half of these people?
Mario: apparently it's impossible to eat a teaspoon of cinnamon
Mark: that's ridiculous, i could eat a gallon of cinnamon
Mario: ugh. that's not the challenge. anyone can eat a gallon
I've been cruising through Chinese the past few days, and their incessant politeness is getting to me. They are not my people. I always accept praise like it's due, regardless of how astronomically far I am from meriting it. When praise isn't being showered upon me, I manifest my own and collect nods of agreement. When there are no nodding people around me, I satisfy myself with echoes.
The Chinese take the extreme in the opposite direction. They tiptoe on their pinkies so as not to inspire jealousy. They verbally abuse themselves to not appear cocky. The last time a Chinese person accepted a compliment was in 1643, and it would have remained a secret if not for the security leak in 1984. Here's a typical conversation between two Chinese people, adapted from my textbook:
Old Wang: Li! How are you doing, long time no see.
Old Li: Oh, I'm doing great...but actually, I'm doing very poorly.
Old Wang: No, come on, no need to be polite, you're looking as handsome as you were when you were twenty years old.
Old Li: (takes out a knife and cuts off his face) Please! I am uglier than a lion's stomach lining.
Old Wang: Anyway, we both know beauty doesn't matter. What's important is cooking ability, and you are the best chef from here to Alpha Centauri B.
Old Li: (rips off his right arm) Cooking?? I can't even hold a pan and a pair of chopsticks at the same time. Anyway, my meager cooking skill pales in comparison with how you handle a soccer ball.
Old Wang: (takes a baseball bat out of his wallet and breaks his legs) What are you talking about? I can't even walk, let alone play soccer.
Old Li: Soccer's for little boys anyway. What matters is your wife is more beautiful than ten million dollars in an offshore bank account.
Old Wang: (takes out his nunchucks) I have to go Li. I'll see you later, you king of fashion you.
Old Li: See ya later, emperor of hair style.
(Old Wang goes home and murders his wife.)
How is there a billion and a half of these people?
Mario: apparently it's impossible to eat a teaspoon of cinnamon
Mark: that's ridiculous, i could eat a gallon of cinnamon
Mario: ugh. that's not the challenge. anyone can eat a gallon
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
I Believe Shaved Is The Expression
Dreamed of a cool invention, but unfortunately not of how it works. It was a laptop, and the speakers worked in such a way that you could turn them on full blast and yet not hear anything. So far, very useful. Then, when you put your head at the right distance from the screen, you hear everything normally. You move your head out of the magic spot and again you hear nothing. There's also a dial you can use to adjust the location of the sweet spot.
Yesterday Gene shaved his head. I thought about it, flexed my Photoshop muscles, and shaved mine as well:
There are lots of reasons to shave one's head. Like most reasons, they split up into good reasons and bad reasons.
Some good reasons:
Your friends hate you, and you need another chance for a first impression. Chances are they won't recognize you with you new 'no do' do.
Your girlfriend did it, and she looks horrible. Trust me, this will get you laid. Or married. Hmm...maybe not such a good reason after all.
You just realized you already shaved half of your head.
You're butt-ugly, or in PC terms - aesthetically offensive. Your 57 makeovers didn't help. This is your last resort before you go under the knife.
The Apocalypse has come and gone. You're hungry and you're out of food. Hair has protein.
Some bad reasons:
You're an aspiring neo-Nazi, and they won't let you hate Jews with your Jew-fro.
You think you're black.
You just found your first grey hair.
Your head won't fit into that jar of honey, and you really really want those last few drops.
Unfortunately, even the good reasons rely heavily on situation. If you're only going by them, you might never shave your head. Luckily, there's a great third category, called the 'no good reason' category - one I subscribe to daily.
Some no good reasons to shave your head:
You want to know when it's raining as early as possible.
You want to test whether your head is hot enough to cook an egg.
You flipped a coin. Heads = shave your head, tails = ____ your _____. (Imagine you're Chinese, and use your imagination to fill in the blanks). You got lucky - the coin landed heads.
You're a heroin addict and all of your other exposed veins are infected. No...wait...that belongs in good reasons.
Anyway, making this decision is a headache. Good thing there's Photoshop. You can shave your head in there, and no one will ever interrogate you about it. And then when you're done, you can grow half of it back, if you want.
Or you can just shave it for real.
Yesterday Gene shaved his head. I thought about it, flexed my Photoshop muscles, and shaved mine as well:
There are lots of reasons to shave one's head. Like most reasons, they split up into good reasons and bad reasons.
Some good reasons:
Your friends hate you, and you need another chance for a first impression. Chances are they won't recognize you with you new 'no do' do.
Your girlfriend did it, and she looks horrible. Trust me, this will get you laid. Or married. Hmm...maybe not such a good reason after all.
You just realized you already shaved half of your head.
You're butt-ugly, or in PC terms - aesthetically offensive. Your 57 makeovers didn't help. This is your last resort before you go under the knife.
The Apocalypse has come and gone. You're hungry and you're out of food. Hair has protein.
Some bad reasons:
You're an aspiring neo-Nazi, and they won't let you hate Jews with your Jew-fro.
You think you're black.
You just found your first grey hair.
Your head won't fit into that jar of honey, and you really really want those last few drops.
Unfortunately, even the good reasons rely heavily on situation. If you're only going by them, you might never shave your head. Luckily, there's a great third category, called the 'no good reason' category - one I subscribe to daily.
Some no good reasons to shave your head:
You want to know when it's raining as early as possible.
You want to test whether your head is hot enough to cook an egg.
You flipped a coin. Heads = shave your head, tails = ____ your _____. (Imagine you're Chinese, and use your imagination to fill in the blanks). You got lucky - the coin landed heads.
You're a heroin addict and all of your other exposed veins are infected. No...wait...that belongs in good reasons.
Anyway, making this decision is a headache. Good thing there's Photoshop. You can shave your head in there, and no one will ever interrogate you about it. And then when you're done, you can grow half of it back, if you want.
Or you can just shave it for real.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Women
You know how women are sensitive about their age? 'Sensitive' is a bit of a euphemism here, though not quite as much as 'bit.' They're like third degree burn victims. The damaged nerves lie directly in the memory bank next to "Age: "
But this doesn't go for everyone. It appears to only affect women up to a certain...maturity, though the closest guess I have for that certain age is a 30 year range: 50-80. I would have narrowed it down but for a known case that throws the chart. One of my grandmas is around 70, plus or minus 10. She still hangs onto that last sensitive nerve ending. And believe me, that nerve ending is about as sensitive as an eyeball is to a fork.
Men, on the other hand, have no such problem. Strange? Not really. This cartoon, which you've probably seen before, explains all.
The key here, obviously, is the abundance of narcissism in the male psyche, and the equal but opposite feeling - eternal self-loathing - in the female. This cartoon could be remade to show that effect in the "age sensitivity" problem. This guy:
undoubtedly has a residual self-image that looks like this young Tom Cruise:
Can you imagine what the residual self-image of young Tom Cruise is? I can, but I don't like to post pictures of myself online.
(I will not show the counterpart images for women for reasons of personal safety)
Anyway, this may all be what snooty vocabulary dorks call 'moot,' because recent evidence points in another direction. It now seems entirely possible, no, plausible, NAY!, statistically and scientifically incontrovertible, that women are just completely bazonkers:
Pei: they say, if people dream of someone hurt their feelings in dreams, they will get angry about that person in real world. true?
Mark: of course not
Pei: maybe only women then
Mark: u would get angry at someone if they made u mad in a dream?
Pei: I would , and I know it's insane
Mark: i would ask them to tell me what i said in the dream, so i could say it in real life
Mark: then they wouldn't feel bad about being mad, or about being insane
Pei: what? u want to say it again in real life?
Mark: i deserve to say it, if they're going to be mad at me
QED.
PS: Didn't I say I was charitable?
Mario: do you think you can feel pain when you're asleep?
Mark: definitely
Mario: psh, there's no way you can
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mario: i'll prove it to you. you'll wake up a bloody mess tomorrow and you'll have no idea how it happened
Mark: deal
...
Just went to Target and bought a new spiked baseball bat to make the bet more fair, because I sleep so soundly. Mario's taking practice swings. Can't wait to win!
But this doesn't go for everyone. It appears to only affect women up to a certain...maturity, though the closest guess I have for that certain age is a 30 year range: 50-80. I would have narrowed it down but for a known case that throws the chart. One of my grandmas is around 70, plus or minus 10. She still hangs onto that last sensitive nerve ending. And believe me, that nerve ending is about as sensitive as an eyeball is to a fork.
Men, on the other hand, have no such problem. Strange? Not really. This cartoon, which you've probably seen before, explains all.
The key here, obviously, is the abundance of narcissism in the male psyche, and the equal but opposite feeling - eternal self-loathing - in the female. This cartoon could be remade to show that effect in the "age sensitivity" problem. This guy:
undoubtedly has a residual self-image that looks like this young Tom Cruise:
Can you imagine what the residual self-image of young Tom Cruise is? I can, but I don't like to post pictures of myself online.
(I will not show the counterpart images for women for reasons of personal safety)
Anyway, this may all be what snooty vocabulary dorks call 'moot,' because recent evidence points in another direction. It now seems entirely possible, no, plausible, NAY!, statistically and scientifically incontrovertible, that women are just completely bazonkers:
Pei: they say, if people dream of someone hurt their feelings in dreams, they will get angry about that person in real world. true?
Mark: of course not
Pei: maybe only women then
Mark: u would get angry at someone if they made u mad in a dream?
Pei: I would , and I know it's insane
Mark: i would ask them to tell me what i said in the dream, so i could say it in real life
Mark: then they wouldn't feel bad about being mad, or about being insane
Pei: what? u want to say it again in real life?
Mark: i deserve to say it, if they're going to be mad at me
QED.
PS: Didn't I say I was charitable?
Mario: do you think you can feel pain when you're asleep?
Mark: definitely
Mario: psh, there's no way you can
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mark: can too!
Mario: can not!
Mario: i'll prove it to you. you'll wake up a bloody mess tomorrow and you'll have no idea how it happened
Mark: deal
...
Just went to Target and bought a new spiked baseball bat to make the bet more fair, because I sleep so soundly. Mario's taking practice swings. Can't wait to win!
Dream #64,875
This blog is turning into a dream journal. Maybe I'm just compensating for lack of social commentary.
Note: all of the following is one dream, but different scenes.
Note 2: The people I actually know in this dream are, in order of appearance, (or preference, you doubting 'Insert Name I Can't Remember'...ah! Thomas!): Min, Daniel, Diana, Natasha, Rachel. Or if it's easier to remember, they're the ones with plain boring names. The names of the transient dream-people are much cooler.
Scene one: We're playing MarioKart - Min, Shenegra, with e's pronounced like the e's in Hell's Bells or Montenegro, Daniel and me. I sit out for a round, figuring out the controller, then I completely dominate everyone. Daniel is impressed. So far, just gritty realism.
Next scene: We're in the bathroom - Fat Orthodox Jew (someone I don't know, but who fits the description), Keanu Reeves from The Day the Earth Stood Still, and me. Keanu Reeves is giving Fat Orthodox Jew his screenname in the Universe - foldinlife. I catch myself thinking it's a cool screenname. Then Keanu Reeves leaves.
Next scene: Me and Fat Orthodox Jew are in some undetermined hallway. Fat Orthodox Jew has his shirt off, exposing his Fat American Gut. He starts putting on some blue cellophane table cloth. I realize it's part of his orthodox attire and ask him what it's called. He says it's called a "shenekra," with e's like in Hell's Bells or Montenegro. Teleport to the middle of a supermarket. Some girl and some guy I know, but don't actually know, are sitting on the floor. I say to them: "Wow, did you know your name came from an Orthodox Jewish blue cellophane tablecloth called a 'shenekra?'" (but in slightly different words). Apparently I'm confusing the girl for Shenegra, even though I now know that the previous scene's Shenegra was actually named Thai. The guy and the girl look at me, justly confused, and say: "Who are you talking to?" I suddenly realize neither of them is named Shenegra. In fact, as of the latest revisionism, there never was a single person in this dream named Shenegra. I feel slightly bad because apparently this girl who isn't Shenegra and I are pretty good friends, but forgo apologizing in favor of some wisecrack now forever lost to dreamland. Rest assured it was equal measures brilliant and crass. Anyway, getting to the point, the girl starts crying because I can't remember her name. I sure hope this is a prophetic dream.
Next scene: I'm walking with Diana and trying to tell her my hilarious story - yes, in the dream I've already recognized it for what it is - making a girl cry is worth an hour of SNL's Best Of. Diana isn't listening to me very well. She's looking for Natasha, because we're supposed to meet somewhere, and Natasha is late. Then there's an announcement over the intercom: "Natasha, you're overdue on the copy." This idiotic statement makes perfect sense to me, and Diana smiles with relief - apparently she asked them to say that. We head over to where we're supposed to meet. Rachel's there, she's still crying. "Oh yea!" I scream, and burst out giggling like the Pillsbury doughboy after a good poke in his zeppelin-like belly. "Her name's Rachel, now I remember!" Strange though, Rachel looks nothing like the girl I mislabeled minutes ago. Made perfect sense in the dream though. Oh, and at some point, that guy knew but didn't actually know turned into Bobby Gant from elementary school, someone that should have vacated his place in my memory long ago. Sorry Bobby...deleted.
Note: all of the following is one dream, but different scenes.
Note 2: The people I actually know in this dream are, in order of appearance, (or preference, you doubting 'Insert Name I Can't Remember'...ah! Thomas!): Min, Daniel, Diana, Natasha, Rachel. Or if it's easier to remember, they're the ones with plain boring names. The names of the transient dream-people are much cooler.
Scene one: We're playing MarioKart - Min, Shenegra, with e's pronounced like the e's in Hell's Bells or Montenegro, Daniel and me. I sit out for a round, figuring out the controller, then I completely dominate everyone. Daniel is impressed. So far, just gritty realism.
Next scene: We're in the bathroom - Fat Orthodox Jew (someone I don't know, but who fits the description), Keanu Reeves from The Day the Earth Stood Still, and me. Keanu Reeves is giving Fat Orthodox Jew his screenname in the Universe - foldinlife. I catch myself thinking it's a cool screenname. Then Keanu Reeves leaves.
Next scene: Me and Fat Orthodox Jew are in some undetermined hallway. Fat Orthodox Jew has his shirt off, exposing his Fat American Gut. He starts putting on some blue cellophane table cloth. I realize it's part of his orthodox attire and ask him what it's called. He says it's called a "shenekra," with e's like in Hell's Bells or Montenegro. Teleport to the middle of a supermarket. Some girl and some guy I know, but don't actually know, are sitting on the floor. I say to them: "Wow, did you know your name came from an Orthodox Jewish blue cellophane tablecloth called a 'shenekra?'" (but in slightly different words). Apparently I'm confusing the girl for Shenegra, even though I now know that the previous scene's Shenegra was actually named Thai. The guy and the girl look at me, justly confused, and say: "Who are you talking to?" I suddenly realize neither of them is named Shenegra. In fact, as of the latest revisionism, there never was a single person in this dream named Shenegra. I feel slightly bad because apparently this girl who isn't Shenegra and I are pretty good friends, but forgo apologizing in favor of some wisecrack now forever lost to dreamland. Rest assured it was equal measures brilliant and crass. Anyway, getting to the point, the girl starts crying because I can't remember her name. I sure hope this is a prophetic dream.
Next scene: I'm walking with Diana and trying to tell her my hilarious story - yes, in the dream I've already recognized it for what it is - making a girl cry is worth an hour of SNL's Best Of. Diana isn't listening to me very well. She's looking for Natasha, because we're supposed to meet somewhere, and Natasha is late. Then there's an announcement over the intercom: "Natasha, you're overdue on the copy." This idiotic statement makes perfect sense to me, and Diana smiles with relief - apparently she asked them to say that. We head over to where we're supposed to meet. Rachel's there, she's still crying. "Oh yea!" I scream, and burst out giggling like the Pillsbury doughboy after a good poke in his zeppelin-like belly. "Her name's Rachel, now I remember!" Strange though, Rachel looks nothing like the girl I mislabeled minutes ago. Made perfect sense in the dream though. Oh, and at some point, that guy knew but didn't actually know turned into Bobby Gant from elementary school, someone that should have vacated his place in my memory long ago. Sorry Bobby...deleted.
Monday, December 1, 2008
I'd Make A Good Buddha
Had a bunch of weird dreams again.
The first: Some friend of mine is perched up in a tree and needs help getting down. The tree is pressed up against a rock wall. To help him get down, two of us partially climb the tree to bring our words of encouragement a couple of feet closer. We offer no physical assistance. A minute later, we're all hanging for dear life on branches, with our feet braced up against the wall. We're quickly getting tired, but my genius comes through. I start rationalizing: "Wait, isn't it...then it could only be...and that's why...therefore...QED," I say, ending up proving that the wall is actually the ground, and that gravity points precisely that-a-way. A few seconds later, when everyone is thoroughly convinced, we're all sitting on that wall which is now the ground, building a campfire. The moral: the placebo effect is all-powerful.
The last: Me and Paul are sitting on a cloud. We are on patrol for God knows what. The cloud is tiny, we barely fit on it. I'm curled up with my head in his lap, for protection from falling off rather than for sleeping purposes or cuddling/snuggling or proving how non-homophobic I am. I remember that we have some movies, including Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds (a boring, but fortunately non-existant movie). I have a feeling that on the ground I wouldn't tolerate such trash, but upstairs I'll take anything to distract me from the altitude. A leaflet drops from the sky. Paul catches it with a ninja-like flash of his hand. We look at it. It's some threat from aliens - they want us to evacuate Earth "or else." Curiously, it's in the form of a novel cover. Paul says something like "psh," and chucks the leaflet down. I start to protest, but then realize it's Paul, and he knows best. There's even a song about his all-around superiority. Then we confess to each other that we're pretty scared of being up there. I confess first. Paul probably confesses out of solidarity or empathy or pity or some other outdated motive. The scene is strangely unromantic given the situation. Apparently in dreams there is no "misinterpretation of arousal" - a wonderful notion from Intro to Psychology class that explains how shaky bridges make us think we're in love.
The next after last: I'm hanging out with some Russians (here's where I should have realized it was a dream) at MIT. We're in some bar/burger joint, but I'm off to myself playing charades with the word "aloof." They're getting ready to leave, I think. There's a wooden chessboard lying on the table in front of me, the kind that folds at a joint in the middle and holds the pieces inside. I'm trying to get the pieces in so I can close it, but they keep spilling out. I'm stubborn, but I'm pretty much channeling Sisyphus; the pieces just keep rolling out. Damn leaky board. The Russians are still getting ready to leave. Russians take forever coming to a decision when there's more than one of them. They live for the decision process. I played soccer with a bunch at MIT for a while - we would meet and by the time they figured out which field they wanted to play on it was morning in next September. Same in the dream. By the time they're ready to leave, it's time to stay and play more games and consume more liquid fire. Someone sees me struggling with the chess board and suggests we play chess. "No, you don't want to play," I say (stupidly, because this is my chance to hand away my Rock), "it's too damn complicated." The Russians find this extremely funny for surely no stranger a reason than placebo's victory over gravity. "Wow," one of them says, "you're a funny guy. You could be a good Buddha." And that my friends is how you tag on a happy ending to a nonsense story.
The bonus one: This one was boring. Just imagine saying that sentence over and over and you'll get the gist.
It appears that writing down dreams is the key to remembering more of them. I only planned on writing down one when I started, but then the Paul and Russians' dreams got green with envy and remembered themselves to me.
The first: Some friend of mine is perched up in a tree and needs help getting down. The tree is pressed up against a rock wall. To help him get down, two of us partially climb the tree to bring our words of encouragement a couple of feet closer. We offer no physical assistance. A minute later, we're all hanging for dear life on branches, with our feet braced up against the wall. We're quickly getting tired, but my genius comes through. I start rationalizing: "Wait, isn't it...then it could only be...and that's why...therefore...QED," I say, ending up proving that the wall is actually the ground, and that gravity points precisely that-a-way. A few seconds later, when everyone is thoroughly convinced, we're all sitting on that wall which is now the ground, building a campfire. The moral: the placebo effect is all-powerful.
The last: Me and Paul are sitting on a cloud. We are on patrol for God knows what. The cloud is tiny, we barely fit on it. I'm curled up with my head in his lap, for protection from falling off rather than for sleeping purposes or cuddling/snuggling or proving how non-homophobic I am. I remember that we have some movies, including Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds (a boring, but fortunately non-existant movie). I have a feeling that on the ground I wouldn't tolerate such trash, but upstairs I'll take anything to distract me from the altitude. A leaflet drops from the sky. Paul catches it with a ninja-like flash of his hand. We look at it. It's some threat from aliens - they want us to evacuate Earth "or else." Curiously, it's in the form of a novel cover. Paul says something like "psh," and chucks the leaflet down. I start to protest, but then realize it's Paul, and he knows best. There's even a song about his all-around superiority. Then we confess to each other that we're pretty scared of being up there. I confess first. Paul probably confesses out of solidarity or empathy or pity or some other outdated motive. The scene is strangely unromantic given the situation. Apparently in dreams there is no "misinterpretation of arousal" - a wonderful notion from Intro to Psychology class that explains how shaky bridges make us think we're in love.
The next after last: I'm hanging out with some Russians (here's where I should have realized it was a dream) at MIT. We're in some bar/burger joint, but I'm off to myself playing charades with the word "aloof." They're getting ready to leave, I think. There's a wooden chessboard lying on the table in front of me, the kind that folds at a joint in the middle and holds the pieces inside. I'm trying to get the pieces in so I can close it, but they keep spilling out. I'm stubborn, but I'm pretty much channeling Sisyphus; the pieces just keep rolling out. Damn leaky board. The Russians are still getting ready to leave. Russians take forever coming to a decision when there's more than one of them. They live for the decision process. I played soccer with a bunch at MIT for a while - we would meet and by the time they figured out which field they wanted to play on it was morning in next September. Same in the dream. By the time they're ready to leave, it's time to stay and play more games and consume more liquid fire. Someone sees me struggling with the chess board and suggests we play chess. "No, you don't want to play," I say (stupidly, because this is my chance to hand away my Rock), "it's too damn complicated." The Russians find this extremely funny for surely no stranger a reason than placebo's victory over gravity. "Wow," one of them says, "you're a funny guy. You could be a good Buddha." And that my friends is how you tag on a happy ending to a nonsense story.
The bonus one: This one was boring. Just imagine saying that sentence over and over and you'll get the gist.
It appears that writing down dreams is the key to remembering more of them. I only planned on writing down one when I started, but then the Paul and Russians' dreams got green with envy and remembered themselves to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
