Inadvertant Colon Cleansings and Hermaphrodites

A couple things.

I meant to post this story shortly after it happened, but it had slipped my mind. Luckily, my boyfriend, who I had told before I had forgotten and whose short term memory is longer than that of a goldfish's (as mine is), had just recently reminded me of it:

While working in the cafe at Borders one evening a few weeks ago, a woman in her mid forties or so, carrying some kind of foreign accent (I wanted to initially recognize it as British, but then decided against it, because it had something more exotic to it as well, as if she had immigrated to the UK from somewhere in Eastern Europe) had come in to place an order for a drink. After ordering, I asked her if she owned a Border's Reward Card and, when she replied in the negative, proceeded to get her email address to sign her up. She starts spelling it out for me:

"S as in Sam...H as in Henry...A as in Anna...R as in Rob...T as in Tina...I as in Ian...N as in Nina...G as in Gertrude...64 at (domain name)"

I stared at the screen, dumbfounded, unsure what to make of what she just spelled out to me... Sharting64@(domain). What the fuck? Was she shitting me (no (bad) pun intended)? Had I misheard her? This middle aged woman, who would have looked right at home in an upper class environment, had friends, family, coworkers, and others send emails to her at an address that described passing some juicy, voluminous gas?
I hesitantly turned the computer toward her and asked her to make sure I had gotten it in right. She smiled and nodded, which increased both my confusion and my already reddening complexion. I was, obviously, curious to ask what (she thought) her email meant, but was also unsure how to pose the question without then explaining to her that, here in the U.S, it generally meant you happened to be blasting off a chunky, generously full-bodied fart.

Needless to say, I hope to God that it was her last name, and that that last name is common from where ever she happened to be from, and that, where ever she comes from, that particular affliction is all too common. =)

Since I'm already into a pretty spectacular subject, I may as well sidetrack into these stories, as well:

I've been helping to rearrange the layout of the store, lately, and found a book with a particularly incredible title:

They Popped My Hood and Found Gravy on the Dipstick

What does it mean? I have no idea. It certainly does its job at being an awkward, quadruple entendre, though. The best part? It was in the Christian Inspiration section =D

I told one of my managers about the title, and we had a small chuckle between us. He then related to me the story of his own:
Apparently, at one of his prior jobs, they had gift cards available with a picture of a lady holding a cocktail on the front. In the computer inventory, as is common at most retail locations, they abbreviated the names of their items in some way. The result here?

...

...

...

Wait for it...

...
...
...

...
...

Giftcard: Lady with Cock

That story made my day. I don't care what they sold there; I would buy gift card after gift card of that Lady With Cock for everyone I knew. =)

That's all.

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Monday Mornings.

Some mornings.






Are more caffeinated.






Than others.






=)

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Wrigley Field

Nothing to say; I like those days, I think.

I had a dream last night in which I took a trip to Chicago's Wrigley Field with some faceless male acquaintance. I've never been there myself, nor did I know what it looked like. The latter was evidenced by the dream's content:
The field itself was tiny. I'm confident my back yard could have bullied and then taken this field's lunch money, if it had the opportunity.
It was then surrounded by an 8 foot high chain-linked fence that I doubt could have met the height requirements at a minimum security dwarven women's prison.
There was no one playing, but there was an abundance of baby boomer hippies and large, rough looking blue-collar workers lounging around outside the fence on the matted grass, near the empty freeway, across which long rows of suburban, middle class houses stood alongside one another.

Generally, even though I don't necessarily think that dreams usually hold much more than some unfinished thoughts one neglected or didn't have enough time for during daylight, I still decide to try and interpret them. I've figured that they have the potential, anyway, to be like a good short story: packed to the brim with initially unseen analogy, metaphor, references and insight, both real and imagined.

From that, though, I guess I'm unsure what, exactly, I should decide I see within something such as that. I enjoyed it primarily because it wasn't something I can write off. It wasn't carnal, nor did it bring up someone or something I have strong (or, really, any) definite emotions about. The best I could do was come up with a list of words or terms (not including direct references to the more obvious, such as 'baseball' or 'hippie') that I thought could encapsulate different aspects of the dream and try to work from there. I tried to avoid synonyms where possible but, in some situations, was unsure which word was better suited for my purposes. A non-exhaustive list includes:

America(n), Midwest(ern), Age, Anonymity, Establishmentarianism vs. Anti-establishmentarianism, Suburbia, Middle class, Waiting, Concentrations, Scaled-down (or underwhelming), Travel or (or vs.) non travel, Emptiness, Barriers (real (or realistic) vs. imagined (or unrealistic)).

Maybe the list, by itself, could better serve myself (or others) than an interpretation, or an attempt at stringing these into some kind of mock-moral story, could.

We'll see, I guess.

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My Disappearing Act

Stop taking it personally.

It has nothing to do with depression, personal grudges, lack of time or, for all intents and purposes, introversion.

There's just this intense repetition that I end up deciding I see when I spend time with the same person/group of people (or even people in general) over certain periods of time. I dislike it and fall out for a while, before coming back into realistic contact.

It isn't too difficult for me to make and (sometimes) keep acquaintances, but it isn't viable for me to maintain any long term friendships with anyone at all who doesn't understand that I'm prone to falling off the face of the earth once in a while.

You're making too much of it to think that I've forever lost all interest and accuse me of doing so because I feel like I need to steer myself away from the repetition of activities, conversation, thoughts, and feelings that comes with spending time with someone. It has nothing to do with you and, really, nothing to do with people in general. I so dislike the idea of repeating the same courses of action with anyone or any group that I pry myself away from it so that I'm more likely to enjoy it later, and less likely to stick a pistol in my mouth now.

Bringing it to my attention without an ability to understand where I'm coming from, worrying about it in a blatant and outspoken manner, or accusing me of using someone because of it isn't going to do anything at all but increase the likelihood of my wanting to stay far away.

Just because I'm not afraid of losing those relatively close to me doesn't mean I want that to happen.

My Advice:

Calm the fuck down.

If we were worth each other's time beforehand, then I don't doubt we will be afterward.

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Synecdoche, New York

Easily one of the best movies I've ever seen. I think its true genius lies in the fact that it really doesn't try to be anything other than what it is.

A little black comedy, some metaphor, a lot of loss, obsessional/misdirected/unrequited love, a grandiose production too big in too many ways for its director or actors to fully comprehend or appreciate, all compounded by the main character's overriding neuropsychiatric disorder, and taking place over the course of 40 years.

Charlie Kaufman has always been pretty visionary with his screenplays, but I'm unsure any of his other works come close to this one.

RECOMMEND!!!

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And...Go.

HimynameisSeanandI'm21andIgotocollege=D

Right, okay. Now that we've got that out of the way, we can move on.
The first post is always the hardest, right?

(1) How (or even why) should I introduce myself?
Maybe it's beyond me, for now. I guess probably I'm hoping that through most subsequent posts, I'll be able to introduce myself in an ongoing manner.

(2) What will the posts of this BLOGZORGOMFG going to filled with?
Reviews, musings, idiosynchrosies, rants, retro/pro/intro/intra/self in and as many other 'spections' as I'm able to later come up with. Pretty common, yeah?

(3) What do I hope the above will accomplish?
I think my hopes are directly dependent on the kind of outlet this ends up providing me, if it decides to provide one at all. We'll hold off here, then.

(4) Why the name?
Social graces haven't ever been anything I've been able to get a firm handle on. It's difficult being white, lanky and 6'2" without inadvertently flailing. I'm unsure I ever plan on mastering my own arms and facial expressions.

(5) Pretenses, here or elsewhere?
Plenty.



Let's end this one with a mysterious picture of myself, to get the masses riled up and begging for more.



Did it work?

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