Category: culture

Piecing Together the Password

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You go to log into one of the million websites in which you need a password, and upon demand, you must contrive a password the is long as the Great Wall of China, as complex as Pan’s Labyrinth, as complicated as calculus, as unique as an individual’s voice. I had a entire notebook devoted to password records, but alas I misplaced it.  I would make a spreadsheet, but that is password protected.

A lesson in why password questions are unfair:

Parents wedding anniversary- doesn’t count

First job you were a manager- doesn’t count

A day that has special meaning- doesn’t count

City your father was born- doesn’t count

Best childhood friend- I have two

Favorite radio station- who listens to the radio?

Nickname of my Grandmother- you have got to be kidding

Favorite cuisine- all of them?

A relative’s telephone number- seriously?  that is a stretch.

Day your first child was born- …

Name of your first niece- Finally!  One down, two more to go until I unlock the hidden secrets of something entirely mundane.  Good to know that hacking into my interweb life that is full of meaningless details is harder than breaking into my house.

 

Music To My Ears

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The worst part about the Christmas season, even worse than the pressure to have to buy people gifts out of obligation, worse than having to reach into the depths of your creative soul because you don’t have any money to spend, worse than everyone else getting a holiday except for you because your industry is the busiest during the holidays and PTO, that is hilarious.  The worst part about Christmas is the music.  Christmas music is so terrible that it makes me shake.  It fills me with a special kind of hatred reserved for the most annoying moments of my life.  I would rather listen to top billboard hits than Christmas music.  I would rather listen to a Taylor Swift and Alvin the Chipmunks cameo than any Christmas music.  I struggle with understanding how it got this bad, this cliché, this downright awful.

Don’t these retail stores know what they are doing?  I want to get out the store as soon as possible.  In fact, I wont even step foot inside a store that is blasting jungle bells, or something about a reindeer and a snow man.  This genre of “music” is basically nursery rhymes that adults pour in their heartfelt falsetto and add a festive tambourine into the simplest of melodies and the shallowest of meaning.

Everyone is getting a hug this year, a silent glorious hug.

Eggrageous

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Eggs.  I use and eat and consume and demand a lot of eggs.  All of which are chicken eggs, not just mainly, I am talking about exclusively.  What other kinds of eggs are out there?  I feel like I am missing out on a golden egg opportunity.  The only kind of eggs available widely is quail.  Have you ever seen a quail egg? It is so tiny!  I cannot even imagine the absurdity of separating the whites and yolks!  That is hilarious.  There are duck eggs, which are much larger than chicken eggs.  The taste profile is very similar.

What about a turkey egg?  What about eggs other than poultry?  I heard ostrich eggs are delicious, and huge.

 

All In A Day’s Work

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Weary, worried, and weak, I wonder about the world.  With tired feet and joints that don’t want to roll so smoothly, with the dull hush of soft pain I ponder about art and culture. With numb fingertips and a hurried demeanor, I promote fantasies of better living.

It’s easy to sit down and forget about labor of the day, to ease into a hot shower and wash away to tightened muscles, to stretch out the swollen muscles, to erase the memory of ache.  The wandering daydreams of fictitious  harmony will return tomorrow with the soft melody of work.

 

The Tomato’s Last Stand

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I sort through the ruby red jewels, the tiny gems left from the great last garden heist.   The wonderland of tomatoes is just about depleted, just about wrinkled up, ready to wink out of existence.  There are still a few more catches to be had, then back to the grocery store to get tomatoes from Mexico, tomatoes in a can, tomato paste in a tube.

 

Blink and It’s Gone

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The year is almost over, my imaginary friends.  Another spin around the calendar globe is about to be completed my invisible companions.  Last year’s resolutions are the stuffing of history; the new year’s pledges are to be manifested after one last fruit bowl punch of gluttony and all American excess.

Soon we will regret the decisions of today, soon we will hang our heads in shame after blissfully enjoying all the rich and decadent foods that the holiday and winterizing spirit has to offer, soon we will dry our tongues of the wine and whiskey and rum spirits of celebration.  The bubbles of excitement will fall flat, the burst of energy will fall silent.   After the final shedding of the year, we clutch against winter and weight gain, we brace against the cruelty of the outside bitter world and the inside battle of diet.

Good luck pondering those forming resolutions, finding jubilee before storm, and just to be safe, be sure you go out with a particular bang.

Actions are louder than Moments

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Messing up, having bad ideas, going the wrong way on a one way street.  Making concise failures, having the abstract not the concerte, admitting the foolish thoughts.

Having the most humiliating moments in your life, thoset “I wish nobody saw that but everyone did” moments force you to remember that yes people do and will forget.  At some point, they will forget the worst thing you ever made, just like how people forget the worst pimple you ever had.  Because everyone makes mistakes.  If you are not making mistakes then you are not trying hard enough.  If you capture the stars on the first round, then maybe you should aim for the moon, or mars, whatever is your ambition.  I am from the moon, so I aim for Saturn’s rings.  Although I am terrible at basketball, why did I ever pop that shot?

Point being, people remember your spirit, not your actions.  Impression is made with invisible sounds, not always with physical acts.

Talents is louder than words, actions are louder than moments.

Grandma Still Knows Best

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Sometimes new inventions humor me, because I am like duh.  There’s this new thing about weighted blankets, and how studies show that this helps reduce stress because it is like being swaddled as an infant.

Did we really need a scientific study and a corresponding article to spell this out?  Plus why is this a new revelation?  Of course a heavy blanket makes you feel like you are being hugged tightly throughout the long, cold, and solitary night.  Its called an afghan, like your grandma used to knit, that is heavy and wraps you in ever present tight arms, smells like comfort, feels as soft as your favorite sweater.

Maybe this is new news because of the raising popularity of down comforters, fluffy as a cloud, warm as  an insulated igloo, as light as the dawn’s first rays.  It’s a great invention, but if you want to be held all night long like a child in a rocking chair, give gram’s a call.

Sometimes innovation is great, sometimes new innovation is repetitive.

Sleep good everyone, whether it is under a cloud of hot air, a family heirloom, or newly invented weighted blanket.

Hot Melody, Peaceful Fire

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Somewhere in between frozen blue finger tips, and purple prune hot bath hands, there will be the fire red finger type jazz of hot burgundy passion, both subdued like Benny Goodman and ablaze like Chuck Berry, steady as steam like Chuck Higgins, smooth like Frank Sinatra, as moody as Miles Davis.  In that short time of transition between fire and ice, my fingers jazz.

WILL YOU???

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Honestly the worst thing about marriage and the American love story is that the dude always purposes. He has to.  The women never presents the diamond ring.  Or what, she purposes with a $20 silver fake band and then hopes to get a diamond that costs her boyfriend a year’s salary.  So romantic.  God I would pay to see men in their kept diamond rings that display the paid love, the opposite of dowry.  I want to see powerful women with only the imprint of the quickly discarded ring as they relax after work, sipping on cocktails and flirting with the waitress.

Intrinsically unfair, I only date poor guys.