I hope other international instruments become popular too.
Like the didgeridoo.
I actually spelled that right on the first try.
But look,
It almost has the same chick appeal.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
thoughts as a ukelele is played outside my window.
What is it with this guitar that didn't drink it milk?
I hope other international instruments become popular too.
Like the didgeridoo.
I actually spelled that right on the first try.
But look,
It almost has the same chick appeal.
I hope other international instruments become popular too.
Like the didgeridoo.
I actually spelled that right on the first try.
But look,
It almost has the same chick appeal.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Juice Press
One of my professors recently said that the best questions are the ones with no answers.
The best questions are the ones with no answers.
Huh. Maybe it’s just me, but I was blown away, and sat there in class ignoring the geologic history of Utah and instead trying to think if I’ve ever asked a “good” question. Because, call me crazy, but I rather like having answers. They’re warm and fuzzy and fit into neat little compartments like a plastic bead organizer.
It’s like this one time, in math, one of the nerdy -“I love pi” T-shirt -wearing TA’s did a proof that showed 1 +1 does not equal 2. It left me fidgety and uncomfortable, because he basically told me that everything I ever thought I knew was actually wrong.
Anyways, I’m moving my lawn chair outside the box now, and have recently compiled a list of life-changing questions to which I have no answer.
(Not all original thoughts, so sorry if I stole yours)
Why is processed meat in cylindrical form (i.e. hot dog, sausage) acceptable but not in cube form (i.e. Spam)?
Why do you grow up thinking there are only two kinds of apples?
Whatever happened to the scrunchie?
Are Elvis and Michael Jackson in the same place?
Why are girls in large groups incapable of making decisions?
Why does it require scissors to open a new pair of scissors?
Why hasn’t someone installed the no-touch bathroom door yet?
That’s all I’ve got for now. Send your unanswerables my way.
The best questions are the ones with no answers.
Huh. Maybe it’s just me, but I was blown away, and sat there in class ignoring the geologic history of Utah and instead trying to think if I’ve ever asked a “good” question. Because, call me crazy, but I rather like having answers. They’re warm and fuzzy and fit into neat little compartments like a plastic bead organizer.
It’s like this one time, in math, one of the nerdy -“I love pi” T-shirt -wearing TA’s did a proof that showed 1 +1 does not equal 2. It left me fidgety and uncomfortable, because he basically told me that everything I ever thought I knew was actually wrong.
Anyways, I’m moving my lawn chair outside the box now, and have recently compiled a list of life-changing questions to which I have no answer.
(Not all original thoughts, so sorry if I stole yours)
Why is processed meat in cylindrical form (i.e. hot dog, sausage) acceptable but not in cube form (i.e. Spam)?
Why do you grow up thinking there are only two kinds of apples?
Whatever happened to the scrunchie?
Are Elvis and Michael Jackson in the same place?
Why are girls in large groups incapable of making decisions?
Why does it require scissors to open a new pair of scissors?
Why hasn’t someone installed the no-touch bathroom door yet?
That’s all I’ve got for now. Send your unanswerables my way.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
one day I will conquer it.
Not to make this blog a public forum about stupid things that happen to me, or rather I cause to happen to myself, but some things are too good for me to resist the opportunity to talk about myself.
So I had issues with Dr. Pepper but apparently that’s not the only thing that generally disagrees with me.
Let me tell you a story, or two.
Three days ago my two roomies and I were walking aimlessly by the fenced- in apartment pool when for some reason an irresistible compulsion to climb the fence came over me and I could not ignore it. It was completely illogical; we had a key, which would have been a much easier way to get in the pool, but who wants easy when you can have fun? I just needed to see if I could climb it (foreshadowing: I couldn’t).
So I begin the ascent and discover my imminent success or failure depends on a skillful leg throw over maneuver.
I’ll let this picture do the talking of how well that went:
it bit me!
Both leg and swimsuit got caught on the fence. But considering the swimsuit is far less replaceable, it’s a good thing that one came out unscathed. Thanks be to Kylie for kind of .. um.. unhooking me.
Sadly, however, this is not the first time I’ve been unhooked.
The last time happened out about a year ago.
This time the fence climbing was out of necessity. My sister and I got locked in to our high school track. And since my high school has become increasingly ghetto since I left, there was barbed wire everywhere, except for one small patch of chain link. I climbed it but lingered at the top because I was being a wussy-pants who did not want to jump. Well, the uneven chain link was poking my butt in a rather uncomfortable manner, so I took the plunge. Except mid jump I got caught mid-air, my feet dangling just inches above the ground.
The chain link, had, uh, caught my pants. And yes, I was dangling by my pants that I could hear slowly ripping, as I hung there helplessly, getting the biggest wedgie of my life.
This would be the result of that fence encounter:
Those are my shorts. Those are my hands going through the giant holes in my shorts.
Thanks be to Becki Lyn, for, yes, definitely unhooking me.
So I had issues with Dr. Pepper but apparently that’s not the only thing that generally disagrees with me.
Let me tell you a story, or two.
Three days ago my two roomies and I were walking aimlessly by the fenced- in apartment pool when for some reason an irresistible compulsion to climb the fence came over me and I could not ignore it. It was completely illogical; we had a key, which would have been a much easier way to get in the pool, but who wants easy when you can have fun? I just needed to see if I could climb it (foreshadowing: I couldn’t).
So I begin the ascent and discover my imminent success or failure depends on a skillful leg throw over maneuver.
I’ll let this picture do the talking of how well that went:
it bit me!
Both leg and swimsuit got caught on the fence. But considering the swimsuit is far less replaceable, it’s a good thing that one came out unscathed. Thanks be to Kylie for kind of .. um.. unhooking me.
Sadly, however, this is not the first time I’ve been unhooked.
The last time happened out about a year ago.
This time the fence climbing was out of necessity. My sister and I got locked in to our high school track. And since my high school has become increasingly ghetto since I left, there was barbed wire everywhere, except for one small patch of chain link. I climbed it but lingered at the top because I was being a wussy-pants who did not want to jump. Well, the uneven chain link was poking my butt in a rather uncomfortable manner, so I took the plunge. Except mid jump I got caught mid-air, my feet dangling just inches above the ground.
The chain link, had, uh, caught my pants. And yes, I was dangling by my pants that I could hear slowly ripping, as I hung there helplessly, getting the biggest wedgie of my life.
This would be the result of that fence encounter:
Those are my shorts. Those are my hands going through the giant holes in my shorts.
Thanks be to Becki Lyn, for, yes, definitely unhooking me.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
True Expectations
I’ve decided something.
He’s Just Not That Into You is one of the worst movies. Like ever. First of all, it was terrifyingly informative. Thanks to it, no one can go on innocently believing that that certain person maybe just dropped his phone in the toilet or was kidnapped by aliens who ate each one of his fingers thereby rendering him incapable of any text messaging abilities.
But really the worst part involves little Miss Scarlett Johansson and her hussy ways. For those of us who haven’t been unenlightened by this movie, let me fill you in. Scarlett Johansson hits on a dude, who she finds out is married, but continues to chase anyway, because after all, as her devoted friend Drew Barrymore tells her –--- she knew someone who knew someone who was married to a “nice lady” for 15 years but had an affair and only then found the love of his life. Wow, hello Selfish. And may I add, yeah right.
Obviously an affair is bad. But the harmful thing to those with consciences is that it shows reality as truth.
I was talking with a friend about this movie, and that part in general, and getting heated as it made me increasingly upset, when he said the most alarming thing:
“Well, it’s true! It happens!”
Whoa. By no means is it true. Maybe it’s real. But not true.
There is reality and there are expectations. There is the POWER of expectations. And then there is the power of expectation tainted by reality but not bolstered by truth.
I could probably find eighteen super Velveeta quotes about what people can become, etc, but I’ll just leave it at one to prove my point:
“If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming."-Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe (German guy who wrote Faust)
We often say that people are greedy.
We say they’re lustful.
We say they’re lazy.
We say that people act on impulses and can’t be trusted.
But consider this:
“Truth is knowledge of things as they are, as they were, and as they are to come. “
As they are to come.
Which I can spin this way: If we expect people to be good; if we expect them to be giving and clean and industrious and trustworthy, then that is what they are to come, and that is true.
"Truth, and goodness, and beauty are but different faces of the same all."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
He’s Just Not That Into You is one of the worst movies. Like ever. First of all, it was terrifyingly informative. Thanks to it, no one can go on innocently believing that that certain person maybe just dropped his phone in the toilet or was kidnapped by aliens who ate each one of his fingers thereby rendering him incapable of any text messaging abilities.
But really the worst part involves little Miss Scarlett Johansson and her hussy ways. For those of us who haven’t been unenlightened by this movie, let me fill you in. Scarlett Johansson hits on a dude, who she finds out is married, but continues to chase anyway, because after all, as her devoted friend Drew Barrymore tells her –--- she knew someone who knew someone who was married to a “nice lady” for 15 years but had an affair and only then found the love of his life. Wow, hello Selfish. And may I add, yeah right.
Obviously an affair is bad. But the harmful thing to those with consciences is that it shows reality as truth.
I was talking with a friend about this movie, and that part in general, and getting heated as it made me increasingly upset, when he said the most alarming thing:
“Well, it’s true! It happens!”
Whoa. By no means is it true. Maybe it’s real. But not true.
There is reality and there are expectations. There is the POWER of expectations. And then there is the power of expectation tainted by reality but not bolstered by truth.
I could probably find eighteen super Velveeta quotes about what people can become, etc, but I’ll just leave it at one to prove my point:
“If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming."-Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe (German guy who wrote Faust)
We often say that people are greedy.
We say they’re lustful.
We say they’re lazy.
We say that people act on impulses and can’t be trusted.
But consider this:
“Truth is knowledge of things as they are, as they were, and as they are to come. “
As they are to come.
Which I can spin this way: If we expect people to be good; if we expect them to be giving and clean and industrious and trustworthy, then that is what they are to come, and that is true.
"Truth, and goodness, and beauty are but different faces of the same all."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Nostalgia, or a bunch of semi philosophical thoughts that don't make whole lots of sense
I can’t stop myself from thinking about THE END. Not the end of anything in particular, and not the end of all ends, but just the end of some things that do indeed end.
Like right now, it’s the end. Of the semester. And of the archetypal physics TA’s. And of working in the tennis courts every Tuesday afternoon. And of waiting for the old man with shaky knees who’s always had a bag full of tennis-ness.
Even if its’ not sad, even if you want to go, it’s a little hard to leave some places. Most places. Even if the reason you’re leaving is because there’s a puddle of hot tears that’s still pooled beneath that bed. Or even if you are saying sianara to that class which may cause premature gray hairs. When The End rings your doorbell and stands there waiting, it’s a little hard to put on your flip flops and casually walk out the door with him, isn’t it?
It’s because I want to make sure that all the little pieces resonate inside me. That when I leave the leaky fridges or the well-worn pencils, they still buzz around, making up my molecules. That The End isn’t just a benchmark but a culmination. That when The End does ring my doorbell, he reaches out to shake my hand and notices that I didn’t just live, but I lived until life got stuck under my fingernails.
Like right now, it’s the end. Of the semester. And of the archetypal physics TA’s. And of working in the tennis courts every Tuesday afternoon. And of waiting for the old man with shaky knees who’s always had a bag full of tennis-ness.
Even if its’ not sad, even if you want to go, it’s a little hard to leave some places. Most places. Even if the reason you’re leaving is because there’s a puddle of hot tears that’s still pooled beneath that bed. Or even if you are saying sianara to that class which may cause premature gray hairs. When The End rings your doorbell and stands there waiting, it’s a little hard to put on your flip flops and casually walk out the door with him, isn’t it?
It’s because I want to make sure that all the little pieces resonate inside me. That when I leave the leaky fridges or the well-worn pencils, they still buzz around, making up my molecules. That The End isn’t just a benchmark but a culmination. That when The End does ring my doorbell, he reaches out to shake my hand and notices that I didn’t just live, but I lived until life got stuck under my fingernails.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
What happened when I blew my nose today
So with a lack on anything important to say, and still having 1, 2, 3, FOUR hours of “work” left (i.e. Facebook/ truth-or-dare with coworkers) I decided to tell everyone that today I had unusually colored snot.
I have a cold which is a. weird because it’s time for hot and b. annoying because lately I have been the #1 gusher of snot.
Anyways, today when I blew my nose, my snot was a starkly different shade of burnt sienna. Like the crayon not Sierra’s imaginary twin.
For a few interesting seconds, I thought I’d discovered the secret mutant power I always knew I had and was working on my X-men alias (suggestions anyone?), but then I realized this puce brown was only due to all the DUST, AND MORE DUST, I’d been breathing today. Yes, because in my quest to become a real geologist, I got to put all the rocks in the Crusher. And the Crusher has caused me to swim in a cloud of sandstone dust that will soon penetrate every hole in everything everywhere. There are two big-giant black-vacuum-sucker- tubey things to suck dust but they are no match for the Crusher. Especially after I broke the switch for the big-giant-vacuum-sucker-tubey things so now instead of turning it to “auto” you have to turn it to “blank black area” for it to work. That was after, of course, I broke BOTH paper towel dispensers. Lesson learned the hard way: when it says pull down with both hands, you should do it. It’s not just a suggestion. Otherwise you may find yourself chasing down the custodians in the women’s bathroom to fix the precious paper towel rolls, while your coworker stands there laughing with a wet rock hammer in his hand.
The Crusher. I think I’ve got the black lung, pop.
I have a cold which is a. weird because it’s time for hot and b. annoying because lately I have been the #1 gusher of snot.
Anyways, today when I blew my nose, my snot was a starkly different shade of burnt sienna. Like the crayon not Sierra’s imaginary twin.
For a few interesting seconds, I thought I’d discovered the secret mutant power I always knew I had and was working on my X-men alias (suggestions anyone?), but then I realized this puce brown was only due to all the DUST, AND MORE DUST, I’d been breathing today. Yes, because in my quest to become a real geologist, I got to put all the rocks in the Crusher. And the Crusher has caused me to swim in a cloud of sandstone dust that will soon penetrate every hole in everything everywhere. There are two big-giant black-vacuum-sucker- tubey things to suck dust but they are no match for the Crusher. Especially after I broke the switch for the big-giant-vacuum-sucker-tubey things so now instead of turning it to “auto” you have to turn it to “blank black area” for it to work. That was after, of course, I broke BOTH paper towel dispensers. Lesson learned the hard way: when it says pull down with both hands, you should do it. It’s not just a suggestion. Otherwise you may find yourself chasing down the custodians in the women’s bathroom to fix the precious paper towel rolls, while your coworker stands there laughing with a wet rock hammer in his hand.
The Crusher. I think I’ve got the black lung, pop.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Darwinism takes on parking
It was a crazy day at the University Mall. The weather was turning friendly again giving everyone an excuse to indulge in the new summer freedom from things with buttons and long socks and fuzzies and instead buy things that are buttonless, sockless, and fuzziless.
The parking lot was, of course, full, since mall parking lots are always full. But then as I pulled around the corner, I saw a beautiful dream park, only one spot away from the handicap.
It was then that it dawned on me that finding a good parking spot is about more than just parking. Why else would we insist on parking in the really good spot when the weather is kind and it could only be beneficial to walk a few extra feet in charitable sunshine? I know our sedentary lifestyles can get pretty exerting, but really a few more feet? A few more prancing little steps on the only lukewarm asphalt?
The reason is that parking is about more than just parking. There’s a reason why passengers twitch involuntarily when their drivers pass up the good spot.
It’s because parking is about triumph. It’s about success. Parking is survival of the fittest. No one can pass up the good spot because it makes you the alpha parker. You are closer than anyone else, which means that anything that’s going to happen after you park is gonna be good.
Getting the good spot is a success you can brag about it. No good-spot-finder walks hurriedly to their car with their head cast down at the asphalt. They strut, take their time, and dangle their keys with bravado. In a show of mock humility, they can smile, knowing there is probably a pack of thirsty good-spot-scavengers just waiting for them to hurry up and leave.
Then there are those who somehow have all the good spots completely to themselves. They are the ones that guard their territory so ferociously that they will use any means necessary – boot, tow, ticket, torture – to keep you off of it. It doesn’t matter if the lot’s completely empty and its two degrees outside and it’s snowing and you’re in heels and your perfect hair is about to get ruined. It’s theirs. Not yours.
Survival of the fittest.
If only the strong survive, it’s my guess that the first superhuman . . . will be the one that can park.
The parking lot was, of course, full, since mall parking lots are always full. But then as I pulled around the corner, I saw a beautiful dream park, only one spot away from the handicap.
It was then that it dawned on me that finding a good parking spot is about more than just parking. Why else would we insist on parking in the really good spot when the weather is kind and it could only be beneficial to walk a few extra feet in charitable sunshine? I know our sedentary lifestyles can get pretty exerting, but really a few more feet? A few more prancing little steps on the only lukewarm asphalt?
The reason is that parking is about more than just parking. There’s a reason why passengers twitch involuntarily when their drivers pass up the good spot.
It’s because parking is about triumph. It’s about success. Parking is survival of the fittest. No one can pass up the good spot because it makes you the alpha parker. You are closer than anyone else, which means that anything that’s going to happen after you park is gonna be good.
Getting the good spot is a success you can brag about it. No good-spot-finder walks hurriedly to their car with their head cast down at the asphalt. They strut, take their time, and dangle their keys with bravado. In a show of mock humility, they can smile, knowing there is probably a pack of thirsty good-spot-scavengers just waiting for them to hurry up and leave.
Then there are those who somehow have all the good spots completely to themselves. They are the ones that guard their territory so ferociously that they will use any means necessary – boot, tow, ticket, torture – to keep you off of it. It doesn’t matter if the lot’s completely empty and its two degrees outside and it’s snowing and you’re in heels and your perfect hair is about to get ruined. It’s theirs. Not yours.
Survival of the fittest.
If only the strong survive, it’s my guess that the first superhuman . . . will be the one that can park.
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