Category: humor

Matrix meets Dr. Who

ARE YOU AFRIAD THAT GOOGLE IS GOING TO START TO READ YOUR MIND?  Ads already filter your thoughts by deducing what you want based on purchases and websites you visit… what happens when google/oracle skips the search field step and does it for you?  By thinking about what to ask the oracle, the search engine complies and compiles a list of everything you might need to know about said pondered topic.

Sound so convenient and practical and like something I would use, but like creepy.

Creepy.

I am a little scared.

Do you think that you can impose a restraining order against google?

Food for thought?

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I’m not weird, I’m imaginative

I am nuts, strangers think it and my friends know it.

I don’t try to hide the weird personality that lurks inside me, I embrace it.  I don’t care if people think that I am crazy or eccentric.

I like to embrace the strange and unusual.  This influences other people around me to accentuate their oddities.  Seriously, no matter how hard they try, they are not going to be stranger than how I present myself.  It helps people open up.  Let’s embrace the unusual, let’s explore all the multi-dimensional channels of expression.

Scrambled Eggs

It’s not that I am dyslectic

It’s that I get excited and jump ahead.

I don’t care about the exact order right now.

It’s not like I don’t understand the analytics of phonetic jig

I just don’t really care.

Does dyslectic entail being too concerned with the entire parade instead of those tiny details of tiny letters?

How did the Egyptians do it with the superbly detailed drawn language?

Cursive, the lazy man’s scribble,

is seriously a lot of work.

It’s kind of like loosing your keys.

Confidence, confidence, confidence, that is the key.  I had it somewhere, I remember feeling it in my fingers.  It has a specific texture and a certain smell.  I mean, I had it just a second ago, but where did it go?  I can’t seem to find it anywhere.

It’s like the favorite sweater.  I want to wear it, it matches my favorite jewelry and goes with my best purse.  I swear I folded it, and put it in the drawer.  But isn’t not there! Where did it go?

The Oracle

All things considered, the internet is a modern day god.  It is omnipresent, omniscience, an infallible calculator, a diagnostic genius, a translator for all languages, and an expert keeper of records.  The internet is not opinionated, or susceptible to flattery.  It has pretty much eliminated human error.

I call the internet the Oracle.  The Oracle is wise beyond any singular human, the Oracle’s sovereignty is uncontested.  It should be scary but google is so user friendly.

What to do? For any situation, literally anything (you can google amateur surgery), consult the Oracle.

How to do something?  Step by step instructions for literally anything (you can YouTube how to build a house), consult the Oracle.

When your internet is out?  WWWWWWWTTTTTTFFFFFFFF? It is pandemonium.  How do you work? Nobody writes with a pen anymore.  Pay for anything? Nobody uses checks anymore unless.  Go anywhere?  You need the Oracle for yelp reviews, for directions, to personalized maps with a current location pin, to contact your personal chauffer for the short trip across town (uber).  Having no internet access even for a few hours can be crippling.

How the did our parents live? Remember when you couldn’t even image life without a cell phone? Now try to imagine life without the internet.  What was life like before tiny portable electronics?  Maybe I ask consult the Oracle…

The Writer’s Conundrum

I am the worlds worst speller.  I joke that the only word I know how to spell is my first name.  (Although my first name is 8 letters long, it did take me a while to master it in elementary school.)  I would loose at the word loose in a spelling bee.  At first I said thank the Good God for spell check.  Now I say that the Good God for Google.

It is pathetic, my inability to spell.  Not only am I a full-fledged adult who learned cursive in grade school, I  did not have the use of computers throughout high school (everything was hand written, can you imagine!), I went on major in English in college.  I have a BA from a top ten university in a field of study in which I lack a key concept.

The extent to how much spelling affects my life is embarrassingly amazing. My personal conundrum is far beyond my power to control it.  I construct sentences around the spelling of words.  I am writer who cannot spell, I am a poet who must choose words wisely.

There is a good chance that I am dyslexic.  A very good chance that I am very dyslexic.  I read words starting with the end and then ending with the beginning. Then I have to remember to flip it in my head before I read that word. It gets exhausting.  When I write, I have to concentrate on every word to make sure that is comes out properly.  The only way I know how to spell anything is via memorization.  The order, the proper placement of algorithm of letters, are lined up in my memory stacks.

I am hoping that writing more will help me with spelling, and give my the confidence to not let the written word hold me back.  Most of the time it is the hesitation that holds me back.  Marigold is to help me cool my sensitivity and memorize more word blueprints.

My Favorite Colors

I love color.

Particularly natural color, as created by mother nature. I love naturally neon colors, such as the gifted brightness found in ripe produce, in fields cascading wild flowers, in the spectacle of dawn and dusk, in the rainbow prism of the ocean’s sparkle, in the spell of moonbeam’s night.

I love how color can augment the day. How color interacts with other colors to create a mood.  How color demonstrates feelings even if unconsciously.  I love the colors found in the daily life.  Colors harmonizing to express feelings, impressions, moods, dynamics.

Recently I have been asking people their favorite color as a means to get to know a person.  I think it is very interesting as a means of data collection and as a descriptive of their personality.

Ok so since you asked, I will go first.  And of course I do not have a favorite color, I have three.

Teal is first.  I love teal.  Teal is the perfect blend of blue and green.  Teal is a very excited blue.  It is such an electric blue that it has chameleoned to a new spectrum in the color wheel, neoned into the kingdom of grass/greendom.  Teal is a watery green.  Teal takes the hyper out of green, toning down that deafening yellow to a more serene canary.  Teal is the expressive sky meeting the grassy ground.  Crimson evening kissing the verdant hills.

Teal is the color of paradise.  Of that perfectly clear and deeply tropical ocean water view etching along pearly sanded shores.  This bluish greenish wonderland of suspended gravity is held down by round, multi-earth colored rocks piles mountainously onto of each other.  Teal makes blue more exciting and green more level headed.  To me, teal is the color of eager happiness.

Magenta is second.  It is so lively. Verbacious. Pungent.  Demanding.  It is a color that shouts.  Magenta cannot be made pastel.  Magenta is royalty.  It is so bright that it vibrates.  Magenta is an interactive color in that regard.  Magenta is so naturally magnificent that it is surreal with its natural glow.  Magenta flowers looks like they are garden flowers on acid, they have become wildly extraordinary. To me, magenta is the color of love.

Periwinkle is third.  Periwinkle is my pastel color of choice.  After such a loud start to the show with teal and magenta as the opening act, periwinkle is the soothing cream for all that burn.  It is vibrant with its ultra violet gaze, and it is subtle with its sublime mystery.

Periwinkle is a multidimensional color. It changes color around with its ultraviolet gaze. More than any other color, periwinkle is alive.  It creates action in the changing from day to night. It cannot be faked or recreated, periwinkle is a moment, periwinkle is a transition.  It is a magical color because of how other colors behave in its presence.  It is the ghostwriter of sunsets brilliance, its the conductor to the symphony of the suns departure, it is the baseline to the symphony of Mr. moon’s grand entrance.  You can try to mimic periwinkle with dyes and pixels, but it cannot be replicated.  To me, periwinkle is the color of deep serenity, introspection, and simple peace.

I like undecided colors.  I like colors that represents a complicated set of hues.  I can never answer a simple question.

So what’s your favorite color?

#cheflife

It was a holiday weekend for those nine to fivers.  The fortunate get a three day weekend, with Friday being the coveted day of freedom.  It was a nice sunny day, a great day to seize the opportunity to meet up with friends and enjoy a nice lunch.  On this cursed day for your food service worker friends, we were ill prepared.  That is an understatement, ill prepared.  There was no preparing for the pandemonium that happened behind the line, in the bowels of the 100 degree kitchen.  Lunch is normally slow, with maybe a small rush but nothing too crazy.  This Friday, though, the people came in floods.  They came in droves.  They came in herds.  They came in murders.  They came in bunches, in parties, in clusters, in groups, in parades.  They were jovial and they were hungry.  Everyone wanted a bite of the proverbial apple pie.

In one hour we served over 100 people.  That is more people than lunch does the whole week combined.  They all came in at the same time, and they were merciless in their hunger.  They were there to eat and drink and celebrate the freedom.  I cannot really delve into the complete incompetence of the one and only line cook that runs the show during lunch.  Why the hell the chef thought he could work it, I have no fucking clue.  I have roughly zero training on the lunch menu, as my job is pastry prep.

After honestly the second ticket I had to start helping out, cooking and plating dishes I have never seen, cooking meat to the right temperature on a grill I have never used, getting trained by the worst employee we got.  It was pandemonium.  Sheer, complete, insanity.  The ticket machine was throwing up tickets like the day after new years eve.  Its pattering printing sounds were the music we were dancing to.  It was nuts.  We were going down in fiery flames like Dante’s nightmare.  We were getting burned up like a Detroit house fire.  We were so in the weeds that it felt like a jungle.

How can I describe how ill prepared we were for the rush?  The line cook wasn’t even prepared for the 15 covers he was expecting.  Chorizo for 3 orders.  Potatoes for 7.  Not burger miser in place.  No tomatoes cut, no onions rounds, no cheese sliced, no lettuce picked.  The soup is not heated up.  Do you think we are going to sell burgers on the 4th of July?? No, its not a big grilling holiday.  I think people are going to go for Christmas ham instead.  At another point, he was plating something that also gets breakfast potatoes, it was at that moment he realized there weren’t anymore cooked.  Is zero enough to get through?  I am going to go with a solid no.

It was a grade A disaster.  It is shocking that I did not physically harm my poor co-worker.  I did tell him that I wanted to chop him up into pieces and put him through the meat grinder. I told the food runner that I hated him because he ran the special food ticket to the wrong table.

I lost a hamburger due to sticking to the grill because I was trying to cook it faster.  I was so mad that I had to restart the patty when the rest of the ticket was ready to go.  This unfortunate burger was finishing cooking in the oven when I had to go in the back to prep the hundred of things that we did not have set up.  I said to him “that burger needs to be sent out as quickly as possible.  It will be done in 3 minutes, put it on the fucking plate and sell it.” I come back 5 minutes later, ask if the burger flew, and the lunch guys says (honest to god) “what burger?”  I plated it, wondering how the hell he could have possibly forgotten after how many times I talked about it.  Seriously, I said something to him about getting that damn burger no less then 10 times.  Pandemonium.  Sheer madness.

At one point I was looking at all the tickets, my head spinning with the details, and I have a vague feeling that no, it was not possible to get this done.  I wanted to panic, I wanted to walk away, I wanted to shout, I wanted to throw my tongs and say I am not a damn lunch cook, I do not make my living cooking fucking eggs!  I screamed PANDEMONIUM and went about cooking as fast as possible.

It was awful.  That is also an understatement, but I will leave it at that.  Awful.  At the end of the rush, the waitress is crying because she was working alone.  Served everyone by herself, and she was upset that she could not give people the nice service they deserved.  She was rushed and rude, and that does not make you feel like you did a good job.  You work very hard and at the end you feel like shit.  You feel that your best is not good enough.  No matter how hard you tried, you failed.  There is no winning in this game.

Afterwards, when the day settled down and the Chef decides to show up, he informs you that it was all your fault that there were 45 minute ticket times.  How could this have happened he wanted to know?  Why did I not call him with my third arm when I was cooking for the entire city?  He could have called back-up, which wouldn’t have arrived until the rush was over anyway.  It was in no way his fault for not thinking that maybe, just maybe, we would be slammed the Friday before the fourth of July.  Not his fault for making the schedule, for not informing me that the lunch line guy was going to change to this guy who is still in culinary school and has absolutely no experience.  Why is he not working the salad station?  I have no idea.

I cannot describe the anger, dissatisfaction, contempt, and spite I felt at the end of the day.  I saved the fucking day, and my reward was disappointment and an empty stomach.  Rumble, rumble cooking is not so easy all the time.

Modern Love (un)Story

I have to tell you about this man that I met.  Seriously he is dreamy.  He’s perfect I swear.  He is tall, dark haired, cute enough to crush a teenage heart.  He is just the right size- large enough to make me feel secure, small enough to wrap my arms around so that I can hold on to him easily.  He’s the anchor to my floating spirit.  He’s a machine man and I am his fairy girl.

He has these soft brown eyes that sparkle with a deep intensity like peering down into the deepest part of the ocean.  Marianna’s Trench, his eyes have a deep magic to them, a charming flash that shows an enigmatic intelligence below.  There is nothing shallow about those eyes.  He has a killer smile, gravy style, a lightness to his personality that makes him seem carefree.  He is imaginative.  He has a streak of whimsical. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, but he is an overachiever.

He has a real job.  A good job.  He has a lot of friends, close family, and a good American life.  The chemistry between us is like Tesla’s flash.  It’s electric.  There is not any space between us and we just met.  I have never believed in love at first sight.  I have never experienced it.  Love comes with time and involvement.  But him.  Oh yes I feel it.  I know what people are talking about when they see someone and in that first instant they know that they are special.

I was not going to talk to him I swear.  I was there at the bar downtown to be alone and have a moment to myself.  I needed a cold brew to relax before heading home.  But that flash.  That glimpse.  That love at first sight.  One casual comment lead to hours of talking and connecting.  I got his name and number, and like every women in 2015 I immediately set to the internet to find out everything I can about Prince Charming.  What I found was completely and utterly shocking.  Not only is he was successful as he seemed to be, we happen to share a similar group of friends.  I am not fucking with you.  Seriously, he is friends with almost the entire group of people that I have very recently met.  Honestly have no idea how this is even possible.  Its a small, crazy, beautiful world that we live in.

I think about him and I look forward to seeing him, to hug him, to see that sparkle jump in his eye, to experience the magic in his smile.  I want to know how his day was, what he is going to have for dinner, if we can talk for hours again over a nightcap at the local bar where I found him.

Am I going to call him today?  Nope.  Tomorrow? Nope.  Ever? Nope.

Why not?

He’s not my type.

harmony

Life is exciting and I feel happy. There are opportunities, even if they are not for me they are happening for my network, for my light strand. Its exciting to even extensionally be a part of the circus. If feel lucky to know people for whom good things are happening. Its fun. I finally don’t feel like I have to do everything to feel the reward. The reward is in the excitement in the air, the lightness in eyes, the quickness in the breathe, the pitch in the voice.