Thursday, September 08, 2005
Here We Go Again
Here is the second return of my blog in two months. Sad. Pathetic. Fuck.
But now with school back in session I'll be able to keep a more regular schedule that will allow for some thought spewing.
This is the 7th time that I will make the statement I'm about to make. The results from the first 6 times are mixed, barely. I would say I'm 1-for-6 on those. But I'm trying to end the skid. I hope the cliche is wrong and the charm is actually the 7th time, not the third cause my third time certainly was not it. But, let's throw it into the wind and see where it goes...
I'm going to really try hard in school this semester and assert myself.
Yes, folks, I'm your Classic Underachiever. With plenty of ability and hardly a glimpse of ambition, I am the model equation for the Classic Underachiever. Many teachers have picked up on this, but the first to verbalize it was a math teacher I had senior year. In class he would not use my name, instead I was called "The Underachiever."
Oh well. Seven, that's the charm. I'm off to a good start, 3 for 3 in class attendance so far.
Achieving. What does that mean? Some people overachieve, some underachieve, but when have you just achieved. And which of the three feels the best, the worst? Which is expected of you? It's a complex thing, achieving.
Academically I've underachieved.
Athletically I usually underachieved, but sometimes achieved and on a few occastions overachieved.
With the ladies, well, let's just say that I think that The Big Lebowski would have no problem calling me a Little Lebowski Urban Achiever.
Subject Change:
Here's some shit that really annoys me:
Voicemails on cell phones.
- First, when I call you I don't want to hear, "This is FuckFace, I can't answer my phone right now, please leave a message and I'll get back to you." Nope. Make me laugh, do something clever.
- Second, when the robot kicks in after you've finished your basic message and gives me the menu, I want to throw my phone at the nearest Radical Right Uber-Christian Republican. "Press One to leave a message, Press Three to leave a callback number, Press Five to page this person, Press Seven to have Peter North come to your house and fuck your girlfriend." All I want to do is leave a fucking message. Just give me the beep. I don't want to have to push a button to get the beep, just give me the bleeping beep so I can leave my ultra-clever message and move on with my day while I futily gaze into the lit screen of my cell phone waiting for you to return my call so we can have a 45 second conversation on plans for the night. You would save me a lot of time by just answering the first time I call. Thanks for your future consideration.
Next. You've just put gas in your car. You've pumped 5 gallons of gas for $15.50, two semen samples, and a pint of blood. You put the nozzle back in place, screw the cap back on and shut the little door.
Q: What is the first thing you hear?
A: A sound that I might think could possibly be maybe the most annoying sound I've ever heard, but I'm not certain: (If I could spell it, the spelling would go here). It is the beeping that reminds you that you have not yet paid for your gas. It reminds you this approximately 15 seconds after you've purchased it, as if you are Guy Pearce in Memento. (Jesse, that was not a shout out to you, but just a reference to the movie.) Is this necessary? Am I insane for allowing this insignificant sound get beneath my epithelials? Listen for this obnoxious sound the next time you get screwed with your pants on at the pump.
Subject Change:
I was thinking about something the other day. I was thinking about funerals. Some words that describe the feelings of most people at funerals: Somber, Sad, Sympathetic, Empathetic, Awkward, Uneasy, Uncomfortable.
I don't want people to feel that way at my funeral. No way. My funeral is going to be a party. I will provide the playlist. I will provide readings and request speakers who I think can mold people's (hopefully) sad feelings into laughter and joy. Almost always at funerals someone stands up and says this is a time to celebrate so and so's life. But the celebration never really happens. Maybe it does in small, one-on-one convo's, but not on a grander scale. I want there to be booze and snacks and balloons instead of flowers.
People will not wear black. There will be no suits. The dress code will be beer shirts, sweatpants, sweatshirts, sports aparrel, fuck me boots, and sombreros.
I don't want my family to have to field peoples' comments for a few hours either. People will not be able to say the following things:
"You're in my thoughts and prayers." Cliche! And, nobody cares that you're praying for them, how would they know if you didn't?
"I can't believe he's gone..." Did you check the casket? Yep, I'm dead. Believe it.
"I wish I would have seen him more before he died." This is an important one. I think everyone should go through the names on their cell phone and if there is someone on there who you feel you have not seen enough of, someone who you could see yourself saying this about if they died tomorrow, then you need to call that person and figure out a time to get some dinner or a beer or some shit with them. Just do it, you'll feel better. Then thank me for it. Sorry, that was a pitiful request for feedback, just like John Tesh does. "Tell everyone you heard it on the John Tesh Radio Show." It's about as shameless as J-Kwon on SNL a year or two ago yarping, "J-Kwon in stores right now!" to the beat of one of the shittier hip hop songs ever recorded.
"If you need anything, just let me know." For everyone who says this to one of my family members at my funeral, that family member will be required to ask something completely over the top of the person who spoke the phrase we do not speak. And if the person says, "No, sorry, I just don't have time reshingle your house," then that person will be made to feel as guilty as possible. If you feel yourself saying this, stop. Just do something for them if you want to, but don't feed this line to people. As good as the intentions may be, it's crap and everyone involved knows it.
"I just wish I could have told him..." First, my family doesn't care what you wish you would have told me. Second, just fuckin' tell me now. What's the big deal?
Moving on, I want to be roasted at my funeral. I want 4 or 5 of my closest, crudest friends to stand up and humiliate me posthumously. Laugh at my fuckups, remember my finest and most embarrassing moments. Drink together for all of my of follies. Laugh at my expense, for putting up with me, you've earned it. Take me to the cleaners. And do it with my dieing blessing.
I want my funeral to be one fucking convivial event. Cry later if you need to. But when you're together, have a good time. I asure you that I will also save a few surprises that the executor of my will will put together for me.
Can poor people have an executor of a will, or is it reserved for the rich? Or is the person who does the poor guy's will just called "the guy who did the poor guy's will" while the rich get an "executor." I don't know.
You know when you are really tired and you start to get a funny taste in your mouth? It's kind of sweet, kind of bitter, maybe it's adrenaline trying to keep you awake. Somebody tell me what it is if you know. But anyway, I'm getting that taste, so now I need to sleep.
Have a kickass semester.
I was looking at some freshman the other day. I feel old. Dirty and old. My destiny.
Back in the game.
Note: If you access this blog through the link on my AIM profile, you ought to bookmark the site or something because my computer has issues and shuts down sometimes... and John Tesh forbid you not be able to get to my blog when you want to.
Programming Note: The OC kicks off Thursday Night, so get ready for those recaps again. Prediction: This season will suck and I'll be done with it by Christmukah.
Until The Next.
But now with school back in session I'll be able to keep a more regular schedule that will allow for some thought spewing.
This is the 7th time that I will make the statement I'm about to make. The results from the first 6 times are mixed, barely. I would say I'm 1-for-6 on those. But I'm trying to end the skid. I hope the cliche is wrong and the charm is actually the 7th time, not the third cause my third time certainly was not it. But, let's throw it into the wind and see where it goes...
I'm going to really try hard in school this semester and assert myself.
Yes, folks, I'm your Classic Underachiever. With plenty of ability and hardly a glimpse of ambition, I am the model equation for the Classic Underachiever. Many teachers have picked up on this, but the first to verbalize it was a math teacher I had senior year. In class he would not use my name, instead I was called "The Underachiever."
Oh well. Seven, that's the charm. I'm off to a good start, 3 for 3 in class attendance so far.
Achieving. What does that mean? Some people overachieve, some underachieve, but when have you just achieved. And which of the three feels the best, the worst? Which is expected of you? It's a complex thing, achieving.
Academically I've underachieved.
Athletically I usually underachieved, but sometimes achieved and on a few occastions overachieved.
With the ladies, well, let's just say that I think that The Big Lebowski would have no problem calling me a Little Lebowski Urban Achiever.
Subject Change:
Here's some shit that really annoys me:
Voicemails on cell phones.
- First, when I call you I don't want to hear, "This is FuckFace, I can't answer my phone right now, please leave a message and I'll get back to you." Nope. Make me laugh, do something clever.
- Second, when the robot kicks in after you've finished your basic message and gives me the menu, I want to throw my phone at the nearest Radical Right Uber-Christian Republican. "Press One to leave a message, Press Three to leave a callback number, Press Five to page this person, Press Seven to have Peter North come to your house and fuck your girlfriend." All I want to do is leave a fucking message. Just give me the beep. I don't want to have to push a button to get the beep, just give me the bleeping beep so I can leave my ultra-clever message and move on with my day while I futily gaze into the lit screen of my cell phone waiting for you to return my call so we can have a 45 second conversation on plans for the night. You would save me a lot of time by just answering the first time I call. Thanks for your future consideration.
Next. You've just put gas in your car. You've pumped 5 gallons of gas for $15.50, two semen samples, and a pint of blood. You put the nozzle back in place, screw the cap back on and shut the little door.
Q: What is the first thing you hear?
A: A sound that I might think could possibly be maybe the most annoying sound I've ever heard, but I'm not certain: (If I could spell it, the spelling would go here). It is the beeping that reminds you that you have not yet paid for your gas. It reminds you this approximately 15 seconds after you've purchased it, as if you are Guy Pearce in Memento. (Jesse, that was not a shout out to you, but just a reference to the movie.) Is this necessary? Am I insane for allowing this insignificant sound get beneath my epithelials? Listen for this obnoxious sound the next time you get screwed with your pants on at the pump.
Subject Change:
I was thinking about something the other day. I was thinking about funerals. Some words that describe the feelings of most people at funerals: Somber, Sad, Sympathetic, Empathetic, Awkward, Uneasy, Uncomfortable.
I don't want people to feel that way at my funeral. No way. My funeral is going to be a party. I will provide the playlist. I will provide readings and request speakers who I think can mold people's (hopefully) sad feelings into laughter and joy. Almost always at funerals someone stands up and says this is a time to celebrate so and so's life. But the celebration never really happens. Maybe it does in small, one-on-one convo's, but not on a grander scale. I want there to be booze and snacks and balloons instead of flowers.
People will not wear black. There will be no suits. The dress code will be beer shirts, sweatpants, sweatshirts, sports aparrel, fuck me boots, and sombreros.
I don't want my family to have to field peoples' comments for a few hours either. People will not be able to say the following things:
"You're in my thoughts and prayers." Cliche! And, nobody cares that you're praying for them, how would they know if you didn't?
"I can't believe he's gone..." Did you check the casket? Yep, I'm dead. Believe it.
"I wish I would have seen him more before he died." This is an important one. I think everyone should go through the names on their cell phone and if there is someone on there who you feel you have not seen enough of, someone who you could see yourself saying this about if they died tomorrow, then you need to call that person and figure out a time to get some dinner or a beer or some shit with them. Just do it, you'll feel better. Then thank me for it. Sorry, that was a pitiful request for feedback, just like John Tesh does. "Tell everyone you heard it on the John Tesh Radio Show." It's about as shameless as J-Kwon on SNL a year or two ago yarping, "J-Kwon in stores right now!" to the beat of one of the shittier hip hop songs ever recorded.
"If you need anything, just let me know." For everyone who says this to one of my family members at my funeral, that family member will be required to ask something completely over the top of the person who spoke the phrase we do not speak. And if the person says, "No, sorry, I just don't have time reshingle your house," then that person will be made to feel as guilty as possible. If you feel yourself saying this, stop. Just do something for them if you want to, but don't feed this line to people. As good as the intentions may be, it's crap and everyone involved knows it.
"I just wish I could have told him..." First, my family doesn't care what you wish you would have told me. Second, just fuckin' tell me now. What's the big deal?
Moving on, I want to be roasted at my funeral. I want 4 or 5 of my closest, crudest friends to stand up and humiliate me posthumously. Laugh at my fuckups, remember my finest and most embarrassing moments. Drink together for all of my of follies. Laugh at my expense, for putting up with me, you've earned it. Take me to the cleaners. And do it with my dieing blessing.
I want my funeral to be one fucking convivial event. Cry later if you need to. But when you're together, have a good time. I asure you that I will also save a few surprises that the executor of my will will put together for me.
Can poor people have an executor of a will, or is it reserved for the rich? Or is the person who does the poor guy's will just called "the guy who did the poor guy's will" while the rich get an "executor." I don't know.
You know when you are really tired and you start to get a funny taste in your mouth? It's kind of sweet, kind of bitter, maybe it's adrenaline trying to keep you awake. Somebody tell me what it is if you know. But anyway, I'm getting that taste, so now I need to sleep.
Have a kickass semester.
I was looking at some freshman the other day. I feel old. Dirty and old. My destiny.
Back in the game.
Note: If you access this blog through the link on my AIM profile, you ought to bookmark the site or something because my computer has issues and shuts down sometimes... and John Tesh forbid you not be able to get to my blog when you want to.
Programming Note: The OC kicks off Thursday Night, so get ready for those recaps again. Prediction: This season will suck and I'll be done with it by Christmukah.
Until The Next.
