These are jeaniuzzz (see below) and ooh, ohh let me play!
Making up words is so fun that I got followed by @collectivenouns on twitter for doing just that — that’s a neat game too. I believe my entré entry was “a drift of hippies.”
Okay, ahem, here goes:
Stuck pebble= plodge. “Wait up, I have a plodge.”
Capri Sun= suck tease. “My Maui Cooler is being such a suck tease.”
Cursive= eponygraph. That one actually uses the ol’ Latin. Like eponymous and graph, to write…itself… you know. Beat me up and take my lunch money.
Sidewalk= a dance encounter. See also: awkward and inevitable.
Chicken Nugget= nugging disgusting. “Eating Chicken Nuggets is nugging disgusting.”
Aaaand now I just feel like a New Yorker cartoon caption contest.
A pebble gets stuck on the bottom of your shoe.
You can’t get the straw through the Capri Sun.
You write the word “cursive,” in cursive, or scribble the word “scribble.”
Two people walking towards each other try to get out of each others way, but keep moving over to the same side of the street.
You get that deformed Siamese twin Chicken McNugget, and it counts as two pieces.
I SEE YOU!
I got all excited running last night because I spied legit signs of fall and the end of the arbitrary clock tampering that is the abomination of DST.
Or, as wikipedia so delicately claims, “The practice is controversial.”
I, however, am a known DST denier. Like if clocks had Tea Parties, I’d be a birther. Or something.
I figured the foliage must be a harbinger that I was about to get my hour out of hock.
NOVEMBER 7, people. NOVEMBER.
Hideous. So to help you mark the days until Standard Time is restored to its rightful throne, I created a snazzy little impartial countdown clock for you. The code is below. Install as you see fit.
And now the rallying cry: GET UP AN HOUR EARLIER.
It’s a crossroads of interwebbin’: The New York magazine profile of Nick Denton, the opening and hubbub around The Social Network, and my wonderment over people’s distinct difference in approach to sharing on this crazy forever machine.
I have a very outsized reverence for the power of this beast. “Post nothing that which is subject to change,” and all that. But now that everyone and their dog has a Twitter and a Facebook (true fax not cliche—I follow two of said canines) the vague “ask me more about this update” is more than ubiquitous.
YOU KNOW. The “Katiebear ‘wishes tomorrow will be a better day.’” Of course setting off the thread of “OH NOES. Wha happa?” comments. It’s weird to me. Along with the extreme caution with which I post, I also post nothing that isn’t under my real name, lock down that which should be (not that he would want it, but Mr. Denton would not have access to my Facebook,) and figure if you’re going to allude to it, you should either just post the whole shebang or keep it to yourself.
Maybe it’s that I’m the exact age whereby the only internet I’ve known has been in my adult life. There was no such thing until I was precisely 18. Add to that, it’s been basically a tool and necessary platform for work—it’s a utility, not a toy. But not everyone sees it that way.
To wit. So one of said “A TERRIBLE THING HAPPENED” posts showed up this weekend. It sounded legitmately dire enough that I inquired about it (in person, because I do not participate in teh “wha happas?”) and the response was “I don’t want to talk about it.”
But. Um. You posted it. On the internet?
“Yes, but that was how I felt about it, not the thing itself.”
I guess I didn’t know you could separate the two? As very nearly everyone now dabbles in some form of World Wide Disclosure, the juxtaposition between the shocking amount people are willing to share and that which they should, is like the new tattoo. The “that’s forever, and someday you’re going to regret it” of yore.
Though I suppose since somewhere on the triple dubs I’ve posted something about how the ultimate goal of anything around here should be to inform or entertain…yeah. I figure, say the whole thing or don’t. You are your own privacy setting. Question its contribution before you post. And for the love of Dishwasher Pete, any tease should have a payoff. There’s an audience to consider.
It might be a series of tubes, but this thing ain’t no vacuum.
One of my nearest and bestest inexplicably loves the movie Two Weeks Notice. I think he says it’s “cute.” I say it’s an abomination of a missing plural possessive apostrophe.
I’ve worked jobs I’ve hated so much that I printed out a Two Weeks’ letter every Monday dated for that week, just in case the mood should strike me to turn it in. Now I find myself in a job you just can’t quit. Like you aren’t allowed. Like if you decide you don’t wanna anymore, because we’re at war, it’s an offense punishable by death. I can’t remember what the video they showed us at the sign-up joint said, but I think there might have been mention of firing squad. Or if you get found AWOL, they can shoot you on sight. Something like that.
It’s a weird feeling. It’s a turning over of choice I’ve never really felt before. I don’t even like making plans for the weekend because having something on the calendar turns something fun into an obligation. Because then you aren’t just choosing to do it in the moment. And I hang out alone a lot because my way is the (wildly) preferred highway.
Though… it’s okay. Maybe because I don’t really see this as a job. I started a sentence yesterday, “When I used to work…” Yeah, this shebang takes up 12 hours of every day, and there are certainly similarities to working, but it’s more… a lifestyle? A contractually obligated lifestyle. Like marriage, maybe. I just got hitched to Uncle Sam.
But because I tithe and participate fully in the Church of Gallows Humor, I give my Two Weeks’ around here — all the time. So they ran out of soy milk before I got to chow?
“That’s it! I’m giving my two weeks’.” Heh.
And then I look around real fast just to make sure there’s no firing squad.
Somehow I don’t think it was quite the same for Sandra Bullock…
*It’s Gratuitous Military Post Monday y’alls!
- Me: What's that concoction?
- He: It's coffee and chocolate milk and some ice so I can drink it faster.
- Me: (Stunned silence.) Oh my God. ICE. You're a genius.
Barry Goldwater (via livejamie)
[I’ve also seen it quoted: “You don’t need to be straight to fight and die for your country. You just need to shoot straight.”]
It’s a snappy quote, no question.
Go, go Goldwater, indeed. Of course the sentiment is attention-grabbing because Barry is a gasp Republican oft credited with bringing Conservative back, which is perhaps the most common thing people know about him.
So military cred by which to make said assessment? Roger that. Moving on:
Politically, Goldwater opposed the New Deal; He voted against censuring Sen. Joseph McCarthy; in 1961 he said “we’re not going to get the negro vote as a block in 1964 and 1968, so we ought to go hunting where the ducks are”; And he opposed the Civil Rights Act of 1964.
Ooh, right? Gets dicey. But, but! Gay rights and don’t ask don’t tell isn’t that kinda a civil right’s issue? So why the wha now?
More than just being Conservative, Barry Goldwater was a Libertarian. He opposed the Civil Rights Act because it was an intrusion of the federal government on states’ rights and the individual liberties of private folks.
Goldwater’s Big L streak runs wide and fast. He was against any God-like encroachment on politics and wildly anti-Religious-Right (“Every good Christian ought to kick Falwell right in the ass.” Ahem.) And he’s pro-abortion-as-personal-choice.
Whatever you are, whatever you do, make the choice of and for yourself.
Yesterday the Senate voted down the defense authorization bill because it included zapping Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. The NYT editorial today says, “History will hold to account every member of Congress who refused to end this blatant injustice.” It also advocates Obama exercising executive hottentots and just stopping the ejection of servicemembers.
How Barry might have thought about that as the ultimate big government solution, I don’t know.
I do know that wearing this uniform, there’s a whole heap of parts of me I don’t/can’t/won’t mention. I know that I made the choice to wear it willingly. I know that the jobs people take within this big Army are as varied as they are on the outside, as are the soldiers who fill them. Smart, not, fast, otherwise, shooting guns, shooting cameras, filling out paperwork, filling up gas tanks. And yeah, if you’re categorizing, gay-straight-black-white-girl-boy-blah-blah whatever.
Maybe what Goldwater was saying, was… in uniform, you’re just a soldier.