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May 1st, 2009
08:55 pm
So they have cancelled the tornado watch, which lessens my nervosity but a trifle, since several giant ugly supercells have sprouted out to the west of me. And although it seems that they are moving southeastwardly, I am probably incorrect. Also, have returned to the trailer because I thought the weather was finished being stupid for the night.
I am tired in that sick person way.
See, this is why we need to be living in a camping trailer. We could just *drive away* from any inclement weather, and also spend the month of May on the west coast.
So the NBA playoffs have yielded this priceless terminology:
During a tense Mavericks/Spurs game (which Kristi would define as "any Mavericks/Spurs game") I was partially paying attention and mostly playing Scramble on my phone when Kristi yelled at a Taco Bitch to stop doing something or other basketball bad thing.
"What is a Taco Bitch? What a creative insult, and yet it makes absolutely no sense."
"I have no idea what a Taco Bitch is, because *you* are the one who just made it up. I was talking about Popovich, you know, the Spurs' head coach?"
"Now, why would I make *that* connection with the basketball game we are watching, which features the Spurs, and their head coach, whose name I know because he leads the forces of evil, and realize that you in fact *were* referring to Popovich? I mean really, why would I leap to that particular conclusion? When I had the opportunity to hear something wildly off base and nonsensical?"
"You have a point."
I am enjoying the basketball, seeing as how I have adopted JJ Barea as my own personal pet who can do no wrong. This heartfelt attachment developed last season at the Mavericks Fan Jam, a free-to-the-public pre-season scrimmage game of the Mavericks vs. some other Mavericks. At the time, Barea was pretty much just a random guy on the bench, but I turned to Kristi during the scrimmage game, and drawing on my vast repertoire of basketball knowledge ("their shoes make squeaky noises") and said, "that short guy is my favorite. He is going to be great. Mark those words."
And now he is starting in playoff games, and getting named Player of the Game, and it is all thanks to my passionate, impulsive adoration. Not bad, considering I made my prediction based on the following facts:
1.) He was (and I think still is) the shortest guy on the team, and you just want to root for a short basketball player. It's like, "awww, one of these things does not belong, and it's the one that's under six feet."
2.) Dude had a LOT of fun at the scrimmage game.
Everyone underestimates this guy, because he is so much smaller than everyone, but he is quick like ninja and crafty like ninja and might actually BE a ninja. I love him.
And I think it's possible I'm out of things to talk about. I have this ennui. It is eating me, possibly eating my *toes.*
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/snore.gif) tired
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06:54 pm - An attempt to make a thing out of ... another thing! Liveblogging the severe weather outbreak!
So I was trying to get through my blogging life without bringing up tornados ever EVER AGAIN, because JESUS ENOUGH ALREADY, and if I realize this, you are all groaning with the realization, too.
However, nothing is really occurring in my life these days, apart from a cringing kind of constant disappointment that the partner and I are not yet living in a camping trailer and having wacky adventures all over the country (and don't think you are safe, Canada and Mexico, with your alluring contiguousness!) coupled with the grumbling realization that due to its unique and easily-connectable-to-one-nerd-from-Texas nature, I cannot write about my job.
Which is a real crying shame, if you ask the people who are in the know, because dude, that shit, I am telling you. Or not, as the devastating case actually is.
So I am tucked away this evening in The Bunker, which also goes by the less inviting name of My Parents' House, because it is an actual house and has a "tornado-proof room." How tornado-proof is it? Well, I submit to you the highly credible evidence that no one in the room has ever been blown away by a tornado. (In the interest of scientific accuracy, I must also point out that there has not been a tornado in this area while we have been living here, and also that no one has ever really set foot in the tornado-proof room. Its current occupants are a ladder and a five-gallon can of paint.)
Whither came I here?
NOAA website: The atmosphere is very unstable and therefore large BOOMS for you and your 37 dogs.
The radar: Greetings! I contain large blobs of various deadly, bloody colors!
The sky: Hey, there! I am blobby in the way the radar is blobby, and also I am the color of future giant BOOMS.
So I predict a night like Wednesday night, a night which I spent in a recliner up here in The Bunker, because I could not sleep in the spare room, because the spare room was occupied by Belle and her six newborn puppies, and not only did Belle decide to leave an artistic arrangement of doodies on the bed, I will tell you now that six newborn puppies are extremely loud.
C'mon, how loud can six newborn puppies really *be,* I am sure you are asking. And I will reward your curiosity by telling you that SQUEEEEESQUEEEEEE. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. mmmmmmrrrrrRREEEEESQUEEEEE! EEEEEK! EEEEK! EEEEK!
However, they are cute, fat and multicolored, and I quickly forgave them and WOOKIT THE WITTLE RAT BABIES.
I did not forgive the severe thunderstorms that awakened me at one in the morning, and again at three in the morning, and again at five in the morning. Now, I have a strained relationship with those hours of the morning as it is, and I am afraid that this meterological offering did nothing to reconcile me to them. At least two of those storms contained hail which CLICKETY CLICKETY PLINK PLINK RATTLE WHACK and at least one of them contained stronger winds than were strictly necessary, and at least one of them contained excessively large wads of lightning, each accompanied by the sound of an enormous truck backing up to the house and depositing exactly one thousand bowling balls on the roof. (No, I do not know where one can come by a truck of this size, it could have been a Transformer for all I know, I was VERY TIRED.)
And I was out of work today due to having fluey symptoms which made my coworkers nervous and I got tired of being chased with Germ-X, which led to vegetating on the couch all day, being fluey and intermittently being whacked in the side of my head with the skull of a puppy.
The Weather Channel: Hey, you should watch Vortex 2! It might sound like a ride at Six Flags, but it's actually our awesome new show in which deranged individuals deliberately drive into the path of tornados!
The Erika: I will.... actually totally watch that.
Let's check the radar!
.... are you KIDDING ME? I am NOT IMPRESSED, atmosphere. What is that, blue spray paint? I am not afraid of those colors, Doppler radar. You've really got to give me something to WORK WITH.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/sick.gif) sick
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April 19th, 2009
05:28 pm - Aimless driving! Now with 100% more Kansas!
Kansas looks like Oklahoma, y'all.
This brings my tally of "states I have personally set foot in to 31," a number that is certain to change daily depending on my crappy memory. I'll have to seriously revisit a couple of states I either don't remember that well (sorry, Indiana) and others that I didn't pay much attention to (um.... sorry Mississippi).
None of which is as exciting as how, thanks to an enterprising Australian Shepherd puppy and her unrestrained bouncing, we were nearly locked out of the car in Hunnewell, Kansas. (if anyone ever brings up Hunnewell, Kansas in conversation, you know, like people do, I can say, "you know, I almost got locked out of the car there once." Try it, you'll sound worldly and traveled!)
So why were we out of the car, you might ask. Well, Nosy Pants, after that many miles, Kristi and I had to be let out to pee. There. You've gone and embarrassed me again, Internet. You jerk.
No, seriously, the truth is even more embarrassing. We'd missed the Welcome to Kansas sign on the interstate, which made me crabby, so we found this one on this little country road, and of COURSE I am one of those State Line Picture People, and it took Katie stomping on the door lock and giving us heart attacks and nearly getting pasted by an 18-wheeler, all for the sake of a picture in which I am holding my left hand in a toolish position because the dogs had sprayed Kansas slush all over it and it looked poo-like and I didn't want it in the picture and I am ending this sentence now.
I look like an ass in this picture is what I'm saying. Thankfully the passenger side door was still unlocked, or none of you would have been treated to this unique and special tale.
I want food.
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03:48 pm
See amazing Guthrie! It has a territorial capital! When other capitals get near it, it starts growling and peeing on everything in sight!
Kristi is wanting to figure out where Greensburg, Kansas is. I'm thinking it's too far for us today, but that would be cool. Greensburg, as you remember, is famous for getting wiped out by a tornado (as usual, there is a tornadic undercurrent to my posts, discuss) and then having it's own TV show on Planet Green where they wanted to rebuild the town in a green way, only the townspeople were not so much for it, at least in the two or three episodes I saw.
Mishty. Twitter? You think I need to be on Twitter? Social networking sites make me LAZY, dude. All I have to do is post three hundred pictures of my dogs, make lame jokes about tacos., and call it a day.
Let's keep going to Kansas, though, for reals. I could stand to add another state to the list. Might get me through the upcoming week.
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03:31 pm - OK city! Actually kind of ok!
So I had this persistent mental image of Oklahoma City as a place altogether dark, stormy and being constantly destroyed by tornadoes.
Turns out it hasn't been eaten up by tornadoes! Who knew? It's actually kind of a pretty place. Of course, we accidentally took some random highway spur and ended up somewhere unplanned. But we've found 35 again and are headed ever northward, after a ridiculously curvy onramp that caused the dogs to careen sideways and knock each other down like a row of dominoes with really rancid breath.
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02:47 pm - Oklahoma, where the bored go driving up the plains!
Ways to Annoy the girlfriend #397: Sing along to "Come on Eileen" in the voice of Beaker from The Muppets. ( note: this is difficult to sustain for more than 30 seconds, but that's really all you need.)
Y'all know I only travel so I can stick pins in that Facebook application about where I've been, right?
We are now in Norman, notable for containing the headquarters of the National Weather Service, fine folks whose relentless work ensures that I will be notified by text message if my doublewide's about to get blown away by a durn twister.
Apparently, they don't have gas stations, at least not along the highway.
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02:29 pm - Driving thru OK! Take two.
80s on 8 shoutout to Jean: Manic Monday!
To Ali: whoaaaaohh, sweet child of mine!!
Ok, so those aren't shoutouts so much as they are songs I heard that remind me of people.
Things I have seen so far in Oklahoma:
A piece of plastic stuck in a fence, flap flap flapping in the breeze.
A "scenic turnout," which contained such stunning and soul-refreshing natural sights as a discarded Sonic cup and eight million power lines.
Some red hills with grass on top that were very pretty.
Kristi stabbing the radio button with impressive ferocity when an Uncle Kracker song came on. Maybe it was Sugar Ray, but who can TELL?
The Oklahoma Horseshoeing School, South Campus.
An exit advertising access to both Wayne, OK and Payne, OK.
Clark Griswold, I think.
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01:54 pm - Driving through Oklahoma for no apparent reason: the liveblog!
First of all, I am posting on my iPhone, which is El Enormous Asspain, so forgive any spelling hiccups, iPhone likes to take legitimate words like "assburger" and turn them into "askbinder," which is actually also a pretty cool word.
Hmm, seems like southern Oklahoma was on fire recently.
So we have all three dogs in the car with us, which serves the double function of proving that we are functionally retarded and also makes the car smell like dog breath.
I realize that the Internet has been positively frothing at the mouth for these insights.
Oklahoma contains many cows. Perhaps too many.
XM radio kind of inspires me to eternal devotion. We are listening to an actual episode of American Top 40 from the 80s, hosted by Casey Kasem. (note to young people: Casey Kasem is an immortal radio god who continued to broadcast up until people got suspicious of his eternal youth. He then shapeshifted into Ryan Seacrest and that is where we stand today.)
The number one song? Kiss, by Prince. Remember when that was his name?
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March 15th, 2009
09:07 pm - Scenes from the ranch, Take Two
I had asked an innocent question, really I had. Not quite as innocent as "Mommy, is rain the tears of angels?" but nevertheless, relatively innocent.
"So, Mom, what do you have on your DVR right now?"
This usually nets an interesting response, and always a quite predictable one, which is the stock answer of "lots of Judge Judy and SpongeBob SquarePants." (I would like to point out, for the record, that the latter is always included despite the clear lack of grandchildren in the picture.)
"Oh, right now it's pretty full of Big Love and Flight of the Conchords."
"Don't forget Blazing Saddles," said the father. "I have Blazing Saddles on there, and it is NOT coming off."
I realized that I had perhaps triggered an ongoing marital argument, although it was not nearly the one I thought it was.
"Oh, that's just a *crappy* version you got from Comedy Central! It has *commercials*! It's *edited for content*!"
"Does it not say 'somebody's going to have to go back and get a shitload of dimes'," I threw in fearfully. "It's not Blazing Saddles if it doesn't specifically include 'shitload of dimes'."
I must, in the interest of complete disclosure, admit that "shitload of dimes" is really the only thing I can clearly remember from Blazing Saddles, since I haven't seen the movie in its entirely since I was approximately ten. (No, my mother was not involved in the decision to allow a ten-year-old to watch Blazing Saddles.)
"It doesn't say 'shitload of dimes,' because it is a crappy Comedy Central edited version," groused my mother.
"It DOES SO say 'shitload of dimes'!" raged the father. "You can say shitload on Comedy Central."
"You CAN NOT!" returned the mother. "You absolutely can't say shitload on Comedy Central!"
"Have you seen Dave Chappelle's show?" rejoindered the father. "*That's* on Comedy Central!"
"Does Dave Chappelle say shitload?"
"Dave Chappelle swears all the time! On Comedy Central!"
"That is NOT what I asked you!"
"Dave Chappelle says SHIT. A lot."
"But does he say SHITLOAD? Does he?"
"I'm sure he has!
"AHA!"
"Maybe you can say 'shit' on Comedy Central," I added helpfully, "just not *shitload.* It's like, maybe they can say *fucker* but not *motherfucker.*"
"ERIKA, WATCH YOUR MOUTH!"
"Mother, that was not prurient usage. I was using those words in the context of an intellectual discussion."
"Oh, okay then."
Meanwhile, the father has exited the building to have a cigarette, a rather suspicious maneuver to my way of thinking, when what he *ought* to have been doing was stomping over to the DVR to prove my mother wrong.
Which I guess answers the question entirely.
(Also, I know this is a long shot, but if you live in Wise County, Texas, and are missing a very sweet, very large buff-colored Great Daney mastiffy kind of dog, he misses you and wants to come home.)
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/annoyed.gif) cranky
Current Music: I DON'T WANNA GO TO WORK TOMORROW
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March 1st, 2009
07:59 pm - Scenes from the ranch, Take one
"I think I would make a really terrible prostitute."
With undue alacrity, I wrenched myself away from setting a personal high score in Text Twirl on Facebook (which resulted in whiplash that will have my neck twitching for *days,* as if my coworkers needed any additional reasons to regard me as a freak) and regarded Kristi, who was standing over the sink, idly scrubbing a plate, face upturned and awash in the glow from the florescent lights, a trailer-dwelling Botticelli angel if there ever was one. (And there was one, I have just pointed it out, do try to keep up.)
"May I inquire as to the reason for this startling statement?" said I serenely, casually arching random body parts off of the couch in an effort to take an unobtrusive glance at the sink to determine if the dirty dishes had suddenly sprouted predatory sexual qualities.
"I just think I would make a really terrible prostitute. I mean, look at me."
The unarguable truth of Kristi's statement warred with my personal bias of not being able to imagine anyone *not* wanting to have sex with my girlfriend. I weighed my response carefully. Kristi, at the best of times, is prone to setting amazing new personal high scores in the field of self-deprecation, so I wondered if it were actually my partnerly duty to assert that her massive sexual appeal would in fact make her a terrific prostitute, a sort of "you'll always be beautiful to *me,* honest, and no one can tell that you're bloated" ploy.
Then I remembered that I am massively, stupidly insensitive when it comes to Relationship Situations such as these. I rank about an 8 out of 10 on the Hilariously Insensitive Sitcom Husbands scale, which makes me simultaneously both Ray Romano and the dude in this relationship. ("Every woman bloats! Every single one of them! None of us are special! And no one is really looking at you THAT HARD, okay? OKAY? Now stop worrying! Now stop making that FACE! What did I SAY?")
I then recalled that I usually dodge potential bullets such as this with either shrill invective or questionable humor, and in order to determine the best course of action in the present situation, I skillfully inserted a clarifying question.
"What on Earth led you to evaluate your potential prostitution skills?"
"I was thinking about jobs I would never want to do. I think that would suck. I would be patently terrible at it."
Whew! We were in safe territory! This was merely Vocalization of Random Thought Process! I could play this game!
I went old school, and reverted to the "Oh my God! *You* love the song 'Pancho and Lefty' by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard??!! *I* love the song 'Pancho and Lefty' by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard!!" pattern of our early dating days.
"I would *also* make a terrible prostitute! What a coincidence! I don't submit well to authority, and most prostitutes have to listen to pimps. Also, I have thighs that should not be viewed by any except those that profess to feel romantic love for me. Because then it is too late for them."
"Um... those are also the reasons why I would make a terrible prostitute!" said Kristi, in a certain fervor-free tone which made me feel that she is not nearly as enamored of the line "he wore his gun outside his pants, for all the honest world to feel" as I am. Though I have to admit that it also underscored her inexplicable fondness for hearing me talk.
"Do you think," I speculated gleefully, "that after nearly two years, we have *finally* discovered the basis for our entire relationship?"
"Apparently, we are saving each other from a lifetime of subpar prostitution," said Kristi, flopping herself amongst the couch and immediately attracting the amorous attentions of several corpulent cats.
"Oh, look!" was the sprightly exclamation that intruded on Text Twirl (high score: 512110!!!) a few minutes later. "Arachnophobia is on!"
"Excuse me, I have to go out to the pasture now and spend the next two hours with the cows. Nothing *personal,* you understand, I am simply necessary out there for reasons of... cow... stuff."
.... and I live to dodge bullets another day.
My personal bias may be intruding again, but how can anyone *not* love this woman?
And now, a shameless plug for this here blog, which I suppose is not so shameless, seeing as how it is my blog, and if I didn't want it read, I would keep on updating at my current pace, which actually sort of *does* make this shameless, if you ask me, and if you *don't* want to ask me, why read this blog that is never updated OMG PLEASE READ MY BLOG PLEASE LIKE ME INTERNET, I DON'T WANT TO HAVE A REAL JOB ANYMORE.
Stay tuned for the ever-evolving and occasionally interesting saga "How To Quit Your Job and Live On the Road," a moderately engaging account of Kristi's and my attempt to do just that.
Current Location: Raaaaanch
Current Mood: squishy!
Current Music: And now... "Backdraft!" Ain't nothing ON Sunday.
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February 15th, 2009
07:21 pm - For Shiner, 1994-2009
This is a story about life.
It started with a broken-down beagle roaming our South Carolina neighborhood. A tiny tri-color with a chewed-up ear and a crooked knotty tail. One with mud caked on his belly and breath that could fell a bison at fifty paces. A dog that everyone felt sorry for, but no one could quite manage to add to their canine collection. But he was friendly and personable, and quickly became a favorite of the neighborhood kids. In fact, it was one of them, a tiny chatterbox of a kid with questionable judgment, who decided to name him... Freckles.
( The rescue dog. )
( The world's ugliest puppy. )
( The Greater North American Nerousis Hound. )
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/sad.gif) sad
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07:11 pm - A brief statement on exhaustion
Holy crabcakes, am I tired.
You know what kind of tired I am? I am tired like the sixty-five year old waitress in the Hooterville diner is tired, the kind of tired in which my face is wrinkled like a foot, the kind of tired in which you just write "hell" over and over on the order pad instead of "waffles" or "BLT" or "coffee" or whatever the same-looking diner patrons are requesting. The kind of tired you get to be when your kids don't call and food doesn't taste like food anymore, more like toothpaste, and you shuffle home to your trailer that smells like ashtray and force yourself to laugh at Howie Mandel's jokes because that might prove that you still have some joy left in your existence. The kind of tired where your diner nametag has been broken in half for years, only you don't have the energy to glue it back together, you just Scotch tape over it again and again, a new piece for every clean break, and you think that's going to have to be good enough.
That's the kind of tired I am. Just DORIS with Scotch tape over it, all the time.
Tired.
Current Mood: exhausted
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January 19th, 2009
08:51 pm
You know what, kids?
Two years IS too long. Therefore, due to a conspiring conspiracy conspired against me by two co-conspirators, I fly to New York on 6 February.
On the way, I get to land in Pennsylvania, a state to which I have not been! This is ridiculously important to me.
Even more important is that it's been TWO YEARS since I've seen the Ali. Although I acknowledge the unfortunate truth of it, this fact is patently ludicrous.
If you live in Guam, I advise you to invest in earplugs NOW. And stop cowering under your beds, it's only an Ali, it's not scientifically recognized as any sort of viable predator, and it only squees for the next 16 days. Why am I telling you this, Guamians? You should already be familiar with the concept of an Ali, since her shrieks have often echoed the length of your tropical isle(s). (See how elegantly that parenthesized letter covers my geographic ignorance? You can't even see the seams!)
Also, I am still trapped in aviation and require the assistance of a rescue party. At least airlift some supplies, it will not be hard, I can tell you where to find some planes. Scroll down to discover their secret location!!!!!
.... They are *on the tarmac.* Many Bothans died to bring us this information.
This post brought to you by giddiness, boredom, and the letter "Alpha." I am no longer allowed to call it an "A."
Look, y'all, I LJ-ed!
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/hyper.gif) giddy
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November 25th, 2008
08:44 pm - I AM NOT DEAD.
... I just have really, really spotty Internet access, and will until the middle of December. I have had issues with the wireless card in this computer from the start- apparently it's not Vista compliant, which is no great shocker because I am starting to think that kilobytes are not Vista compliant.
And the fact that Kristi's laptop charger cord doesn't work is NOT AT ALL MY FAULT, except that I totally tripped over the fully functional manufacturer's cord months ago and shredded it to bits, and she's had to contend with crappy replacements from the wilds of eBay, all of which burn themselves out within weeks.
I also have a fantabulous new job (I run reception and do various nerdy record-keeping things at a flight school, I cannot seem to escape aviation, and if you know my angsty history PLEASE LAUGH AT ME BECAUSE IT IS FUNNY) but I unfortunately cannot surf the 'Net, even during down time, because the powers that be have long been wise to the distractatory nature of the Interwebs and have blocked virtually every site that is fun and useful.
I can still be sporadically found lurking around Facebook, which lends itself well to stealthy, ninja-like updates.
We are moving to a cattle ranch. NO REALLY. My dad goes through these phases. If that is not enough of an explanation for you, then.... we are moving to a cattle ranch.
Everyone have a happy Thanksgiving! If you do not celebrate Thanksgiving, then cook a turkey and eat it with relish. Then watch a sporting event while gesticulating wildly and shrieking incoherently.
There. You have just celebrated Thanksgiving. You're welcome.
Now, I'm off to pack, which means I get to decide what to throw away (crap) and what to keep (crap with the glow of sentimentality attached.)
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September 19th, 2008
08:01 pm - Discard your literary pretentious and embrace the shallowness within! Find out how inside-->
This past evening or so, I came to some troubling conclusions. This concluding episode took place in front of my bookshelf, specifically the bookshelf on the right, which is not the bookshelf that contains books that are currently for sale on Amazon.
You know, my "keeper bookshelf."
I was scouring it with my eyeballs (my eyeballs have amazing scouring abilities; I can scrub out a bathtub with a mere *glance*) when I realized that I was not at all certain of what exactly my standards of "keeper book" were in my brain.
(Brain: Uhhh, trust me... there is a LOT of room in here!)
For example, my keeper shelf contained Jane Eyre. Now, I HATE Jane Eyre. I do not care that it is one of the standards of the bildungsroman genre, the romance genre, the Gothic genre, or that it addresses the role of women, or that there's a crazy lady in the attic or that it has long been regarded as one of the cornerstones of the canon of Western literature. I hate it. Jane is the original freakin' Mary Sue in a lot of ways, and Rochester is a jerk and I wish crazy attic lady had bitten all of their noses off.
So the question is begged: why do I still own the damn thing?
I'll tell you why, because to do otherwise at this point would be kind of rude. It's for the same reason that I have Moby Dick and War and Peace on my bookshelf. I have never read Moby Dick or War and Peace. I petulantly and angrily and sometimes obnoxiously refused to read the former in college, no matter how many times it was assigned to me, and I apparently purchased the latter to take up four inches or so on my bookshelf, because that is all it has ever done.
In fact, now that I come to ponder it, I think Moby Dick is what caused me to drop out of college. "IF ONE MORE PROFESSOR TRIES TO LOB THIS BOOK AT MY HEAD, I WILL SWEAR A GREAT AND BLOODY VENGEANCE AGAINST THAT PROFESSOR AND I WILL HUNT THEM DOWN AND DESTROY THEM, EVEN ACROSS THE SEVEN SEAS! ...SEE, I DON'T NEED TO READ THE DAMN BOOK!"
Begone, random minor works of random minor Brontes. Agnes Grey, I have no further need of you. The Professor, you were weird and probably wanted to try to force Moby Dick upon me. Scram, minor works of Hawthorne. I need you not.
So off they go, along with the books that I enjoyed, but will never read again. This category includes Middlemarch, The Scarlet Letter, and Anna Karenina. I've read them once, they were enjoyable, but they were taxing in one way or another, and I don't need to read them again. I got enough the first time. Ralph Waldo Emerson, you're probably headed in that direction as well. I'm keeping the Jane Austen, but I don't flatter myself that it says anything complimentary about me; I'm afraid that Austen's still kind of trendy.
Ditto Dickenson. I just don't read poetry these days. I don't curl up and *relax* with poetry, I curl up and relax with fluffy, fuzzy crap. If I want to read something with depth and heft, the most I can handle these days is Larry McMurtry. I am not erudite, I have not any literary depth. I am superficial and twee, and I accept this. Which is why I'm more likely to grab up an old volume of the Sunfire series or a most likely substandard volume of historical fiction or a collection of someone's humor columns.
So why are the classics taking up space on the top shelves? I'm afraid it's merely a diversionary tactic on my part. "Well, she's got a shelf full of historical romance and one devoted to Star Wars: Rogue Squadron and Tolkien, but oh look, Leaves of Grass! Maybe she's not shallow after all!"
And if that's the only reason I'm keeping them around, then onto the sale shelf they go.
Oh wait, I've never actually read the Tolkien either.
Comment fest! Tell me, do, which books and authors are on the keeper shelf, and which are merely occupying space on your bookshelf for reasons known or unknown? Which books do you love that you know very well are mindless brain candy? Are you kidding yourselves that you'll get around to reading certain weightier tomes that you've had lying around for years? Did anyone else read Sunfires? And still maintain a bizarre affection for them? My brain wants to know, and also, we are bored!
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September 13th, 2008
03:49 pm
You will all no doubt be relieved to know that I took great care to remove such dangerous items as plastic flowerpots, my small gardening shears, and a mysterious ceramic thing in the form of a lighthouse from my backyard, lest the mighty winds hoist them aloft and fling them about.
Also, the hatchet. Which I immediately determined was both the most likely candidate for flinging and also the last thing I wanted to come crashing through my windows.
Y'know, since all work and no play would make Ike a dull hurricane.
Although I think it'll actually be downgraded to a Tropical Sneeze by the time it gets this far north, one can never be too careful.
And if you're in Houston or Galveston, please be careful.
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September 7th, 2008
08:43 pm - Moron Vs. Wild, The Inaugural Voyage
I forgot my trail shoes.
I am certain this was accomplished through the medium of its being damn near improbable to forget to bring my shoes on a hiking trip to Colorado. Therefore, when Kristi turned to me somewhere in the midst of New Mexico and asked me, "do you have your trail shoes?" I knew instantly, without having to think about it more than once, that I did not have my trail shoes.
I tried to stall for time, to delay the discovery of my stupidity as long as possible. We all know I fail radically at excuses and subterfuge.
"How do you know how to *ask* these things?" I wailed petulantly.
Things were no different that day, apparently.
( Flailing into the wild... )
Then we hiked eleven miles, which you are welcome to either construe or not as evidence that high altitudes rot the brain. Also, if you camp on Pool Table Mountain anytime soon, you are welcome to the pile of cow poop. Bring your shriek owl repellent.
(ETA: If anyone who is on Facebook wants to see the pictures from my trip, let me know, and I'll tell you how to find me on there.)
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/bouncy.gif) bouncy
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June 26th, 2008
01:09 pm
It is a generally accepted truth that attempting to introduce a political conversation in the workplace is Bad Form, with the afore-typed capitals being a necessity. It is less well-known, but equally vital to understand, that forcing me to be a part of such a conversation is on my list of Top Five Extreme Irritants That Ought to be Legally Punishable By Sniper Fire.
As a corollary to this just and honorable truth, I would also like to say that if you simply *must* emit political remarks on a regular basis, perhaps as a result of a tragic medical condition, that is fine, but you need to try not to utter statements of sheer skull-crushing idiocy.
Okay, that's all for this post, I just wanted you to know a few arcane facts about me! Bye!
.....
I'm just kidding! Everyone come back! Of course I have a story! Here it is!
The following was just uttered, apropos of nothing, by a contractor in my workplace:
"You know, Obama's parents didn't stay here long enough to become citizens. Someone really needs to call him out publicly for that."
Let us calmly lay aside the fact that even if Barack Obama's parents are not US citizens, or at some crucial point in Obama's senatorial development, were not US citizens, it does not disqualify him from the presidency as long as Obama qualifies as a US citizen. I mean, let's just whisk that aside like a frolicking kitten, because we aren't dealing with logic here.
Let's attack this from a different angle: let's assume this might actually be a fact that affects anything at all ever in the history of Earth.
Somebody's US citizenship status is not the kind of fact that just sits there, buried or ignored, while the media, with all of the sophisticated research tools at its disposal, fails to unearth it, leaving it up to the likes of Average Joe to declare it triumphantly to a shocked America!
And since such status is an easily discovered *matter of public record,* even the media, with whatever kind of bias you believe it has, is not going to keep it out of the public consciousness with any degree of success. The sole possessor of this knowledge, in other words, is not going to be this one mouthy dude in Texas who has been charged with the onerous duty of repeating it to everyone he happens to bump into.
And there, my friends, is the quick and dirty way to debunk the bizarre conspiracy theories of passing loons. "My friend, do you honestly believe that you and maybe a couple other guys are the only ones who were smart enough to figure this out?"
The answer, of course, is yes.
.....
Also, what kind of bias do you believe the media has? I believe it has a bias of going around asking randomly selected individuals what they think of rising gas prices, and then pretending like the negative responses are some kind of exciting new breaking news.
"Well, it seems that the residents of Foghorn City *don't* care for rising gas costs! We now go live to Fedora McFlimsy, standing by in Gizzardville to see what *they* think of rising gas prices! Fedora?"
"Well, Jim, they just love them over here in Gizzardville!"
"Really?"
"NO, you twit."
.....
Also also, be sure and ask me what my Top Five Extreme Irritants That Ought to be Legally Punishable By Sniper Fire are! I've always wanted to have a post headlined "And now, by Popular Demand!" with the aw-shucksy opening line of "okaaaay, since you guys asked for it! :) LOL"
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/blah.gif) bored
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June 1st, 2008
09:44 pm - The Smartest Year I Ever Had
If there's anything I've learned over the past 18 months, which was the period of my life over which I learned the most, it's that it's entirely past the borders of Sad and Delusional to be in your mid 20s and just now be learning stuff, not to mention it's a sad testimonial for my formal education.
Another thing I've learned is that things tend to happen at the appropriate moment.
"I was reading a romance novel last night," said Ali, "and I observed, yet again, that once the hero and heroine find each other, everything else in their lives fades into insignificance next to their True Love.
"Then," she continued wearily, "I woke up the next morning with a feeling of restlessness. I wanted to go climb a mountain or a tree or do righteous battle with swords. I wanted some kind of *action.*"
I know Ali very well. I was reasonably sure of her next mental move. Sure enough:
( KABOOM! )
I'm still waiting on the final word from the biologists, though. Apparently, there's a backlog.
(Happy anniversary, honey!)
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/dwaggins/smile.gif) happy
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May 14th, 2008
02:55 pm - The Gall of Some Organs, or simply, Part II
Cross-posted to Minding My Own Brain. (See footnote.)
Part One can be found below! Note: Please do not read this if you are easily grossed out, or if you can't handle words like "sphincter." Personally, I think it's a funny word and I am thrilled to have a legitimate reason to use it.
( Because I can't keep anything humiliating away from the Internet. )
Dad: Either you have sublime comic timing or you are the TMI Demon From Hell. I'm hoping it's the former.
Kristi: Would your daughter enter into a relationship with a TMI Demon From Hell?
Dad: .... my daughter actually kind of IS a TMI Demon From Hell.
Yon Footnote: I'll just cross-post from now on. I don't see any reason not to. It would be awesome if you guys visited/commented on the other blog, because I'm trying to build some exposure for it, blah blah blah, but I don't want to lose touch with LJ. I'm too attached to you guys.
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