in the armed forces, there's a crime known as "impersonating an officer," which basically means i pretend i'm someone of a higher rank -- if i'm a corporal, i'd pretend i'm a sergeant. if i'm a lieutenant, i'd pretend i'm a colonel. and if i'm an incompetent house-husband, i'd ... well, i'd spend all weekend fighting with appliances.
saturday was frustrating; me and a. bought all new appliances for the kitchen, because our old range had this annoying habit of having an entire ecosphere inside the oven -- it would be 350 degrees in the front, 385 in the back, and 290 down by the broiler. never mind what you'd set it to, because fast-moving low pressure systems might cause all sorts of freak weather on the second rack.
but you can't exactly go out and buy a 10-year-old whirlpool range to match the 10-year-old fridge and dishwasher ... well, you could, i suppose, but why would you? so to replace one and not have the kitchen look too bachelor-ish, we had to replace them all.
fridge? fine -- just slide it in and you're done. range? fine -- just slide it in and you're done. above-range microwave? fine -- a bit tough to drill the holes, but after a few minutes, it's done.
dishwasher? fine -- don't bother unwrapping it. instead, go out and buy a shitload of dawn and a few washcloths, because in the end, that will take less effort than getting a dishwasher installed.
after four -- F-O-U-fucking-R -- trips to various megastore home improvement franchises, i finally get the $0.59 piece i need to make the 1/2" OD pipe from the dishwasher talk to the 3/8" OD hot water valve.
we were exhausted, and spent most of saturday night in a catatonic state. so what did i decide to do on a free-as-a-bird sunday? put in a discount light fixture we'd picked up on sale.
i'm not one to name names, though this blog doesn't care which multinational corporations it pisses off (unless said corporation happens to be the one that signs my paychecks). sometimes writing is better if it's not name-dropping people and places, right? but in this case, i'll say the name, because all my problems stem from the low-quality merchandise they sell.
i'm talking about MENARD'S!
turns out -- after my second trip to the friendly neighborhood hardware store, where the people are far more knowledgable, and the prices are far more expensive, than MENARD'S! -- that the major reason i was having problems with the light fixture is that it's a fucking piece of shit.
and how do i know it's a fucking piece of shit? because MENARD'S! sells eastern-bloc light fixtures that use metric screws. who in the fuck uses metric anything anymore? maybe in europe, africa, asia, australia, south america and canada they do, but besides that, tell me who?
MENARD'S!, as best i can tell, is based in america. the most exotic locale in which one might find a MENARD'S!, unless i'm missing something, is wisconsin. so why is MENARD'S! selling shit that's all metric? because MENARD'S sucks, that's why. if you're selling stuff in america, use english measurements. america = english. got that?
i told a. that i'm very, very disappointed that she doesn't ever come home and say "honey, i just got this awesome wireless router, but i need help setting up the network."
so maybe i can rescue this light fixture. or maybe a. will call the house husband police and turn me in for impersonating someone who knows what the hell he's doing with a hammer and nails.
2.27.2005
2.24.2005
he did sport with her. twice. oh yeah.
the missus and i visited a used book store over the weekend, and had to be carried out, drooling, on a stretcher -- and we only spent $60. that's for, i think, 12 books and a box of postcards featuring art from and inspired by "the incredibles," so i think we did well.
it's hard to leave a bookstore without something. it's hard for me to leave bookstores in general. i remember, in my salad days in college, how damn smart bookstores made me feel. as if i were surrounded by a world of knowledge, and i was proving how cool i was by hanging out there.
anyway.
one of the books i picked up was the book of j, a new translation of what scholars say is the source of the torah, along with harold bloom's interpretation that "j" is a well-placed woman in a king's court, writing about a yahweh who is smart, sassy, jealous, intolerant and insecure.
the book is full of sex, which i guess i shouldn't be surprised by, as most o life is, even if we don't realize it. what's grabbing me is the large amount of sex and/or incest in the book, and some of the interesting and colorful language j uses to describe it act at times:
and isaac did say unto abimelech, "because we dwelleth south of the mason-dixon line, that's whyeth."
and consider this, the story of how jacob gets to marry his wife, rachel:
imagine the porn possibilities ... "he went in unto her, and then did finish the deed all over the face and shoulders of her maid for an handmaid."
wait. hold on. jacob ... and his sister-in-law ... and he got a week ...
so jacob got to sleep with leah, who had gorgeous eyes (so sayeth the book of j), but only for a week -- his honeymoon week, mind you -- and then got to sleep with rachel, into whom he also went in ... to ... uh, wait. that should be "into that which he" ... you get the idea.
either way, it took jacob 14 years to work off that nookie. that's a long damn time to pay for sex, though if one were to look at it in contemporary times, entering into thine sister-in-law -- BEFORE entering into thine wife ... well, i'd probably take 14 years of indentured servitude over the cost of that divorce.
it's hard to leave a bookstore without something. it's hard for me to leave bookstores in general. i remember, in my salad days in college, how damn smart bookstores made me feel. as if i were surrounded by a world of knowledge, and i was proving how cool i was by hanging out there.
anyway.
one of the books i picked up was the book of j, a new translation of what scholars say is the source of the torah, along with harold bloom's interpretation that "j" is a well-placed woman in a king's court, writing about a yahweh who is smart, sassy, jealous, intolerant and insecure.
the book is full of sex, which i guess i shouldn't be surprised by, as most o life is, even if we don't realize it. what's grabbing me is the large amount of sex and/or incest in the book, and some of the interesting and colorful language j uses to describe it act at times:
And it came to pass, when Isaac had been there a long time, that Abimelech king of the Philistines looked out at a window, and saw, and, behold, Isaac was sporting with Rebekah his wife. And Abimelech called Isaac, and said, Behold, of a surety she is thy wife: and how saidst thou, She is my sister?
and isaac did say unto abimelech, "because we dwelleth south of the mason-dixon line, that's whyeth."
and consider this, the story of how jacob gets to marry his wife, rachel:
And it came to pass in the evening, that [Laban -- father-in-law] took Leah his daughter, and brought her to Jacob; and he went in unto her.
imagine the porn possibilities ... "he went in unto her, and then did finish the deed all over the face and shoulders of her maid for an handmaid."
And Laban gave unto his daughter Leah Zilpah his maid for an handmaid. And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn. Fulfil her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years. And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week:
wait. hold on. jacob ... and his sister-in-law ... and he got a week ...
and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also. And Laban gave to Rachel his daughter Bilhah his handmaid to be her maid. And he went in also unto Rachel, and he loved also Rachel more than Leah, and served with him yet seven other years.
so jacob got to sleep with leah, who had gorgeous eyes (so sayeth the book of j), but only for a week -- his honeymoon week, mind you -- and then got to sleep with rachel, into whom he also went in ... to ... uh, wait. that should be "into that which he" ... you get the idea.
either way, it took jacob 14 years to work off that nookie. that's a long damn time to pay for sex, though if one were to look at it in contemporary times, entering into thine sister-in-law -- BEFORE entering into thine wife ... well, i'd probably take 14 years of indentured servitude over the cost of that divorce.
2.21.2005
he-bop
Keller also sees “blogging,” or online writing that blurs news and commentary, as a mixed blessing. While he celebrated the blogger’s ability to uncover breaking news, he noted that a blog’s inherent bias might be detrimental to the reader. “A blog is still a view of the world through a pinhole,” he said, noting that it can sometimes fall as low as being a “one man circle jerk.”
that's masturbation, mr. bigshot-editor-of-the-new-york-fricking-times. sheesh.
2.18.2005
infidelity
in 1989, the iron curtain fell in eastern europe.
in 1991, a cash-strapped yugoslav government sold off several former soviet-era artifacts, including many gray-concrete office buildings. one was sold to some developer, who then picked it up, had it transported to my city, placed it on a street corner and opened it for business.
in 2005, i moved into a cube in this former eastern-bloc building.
the end.
***
i was reading a story in the new yorker on the bus ride in this morning, and it centered on infidelity, rape and turkey hunting.
i'm not a "writer," though i do fancy myself good enough to string a few sentences together now and then. it always amazes me that writers find something to write about -- something worth 4,000+ words, because every time i try to star that myself, i am stymied over what, exactly, i can say about something. to me, most things are self evident, or evolve slowly, over time.
so in this story, everyone involved has secrets about infidelity, and over the course of a hunting weekend in michigan, some of those secrets come bubbling out.
being a new yorker story, the protagonist is a manhattanite, married to a actress, and he's in a very unfamiliar territory -- turkey hunting with his macho father-in-law and several of the old man's friends. they've been doing more drinking than hunting, and after the turkey is shot, this exchange happens:
but we never know what it is, another hallmark of "good" storytelling.
later, after the turkey is brought home and cooked, this exchange:
and it all unravels from there. we learn all about everyone's infidelities, including the protagonist's wife, who has been having several affairs for years now, with her milquetoast husband just accepting it. the story ends with him and his wife out in the snow, with some sort of symbolism stuff about him not being close to her.
this story isn't poorly written -- it's very gentle and lilting with its descriptions of winter-time michigan, and some parts of the story ring true, especially when the guys pay someone to allow them to poach on another person's property.
my question: how realistic does the infidelity angle seem? to me, it rings hollow, fake and contrived. not to mention that most people don't talk like they're in an off-broadway drama or woody allen movie ... i might try rewriting this story myself. it'd be fun to try.
in 1991, a cash-strapped yugoslav government sold off several former soviet-era artifacts, including many gray-concrete office buildings. one was sold to some developer, who then picked it up, had it transported to my city, placed it on a street corner and opened it for business.
in 2005, i moved into a cube in this former eastern-bloc building.
the end.
***
i was reading a story in the new yorker on the bus ride in this morning, and it centered on infidelity, rape and turkey hunting.
i'm not a "writer," though i do fancy myself good enough to string a few sentences together now and then. it always amazes me that writers find something to write about -- something worth 4,000+ words, because every time i try to star that myself, i am stymied over what, exactly, i can say about something. to me, most things are self evident, or evolve slowly, over time.
so in this story, everyone involved has secrets about infidelity, and over the course of a hunting weekend in michigan, some of those secrets come bubbling out.
being a new yorker story, the protagonist is a manhattanite, married to a actress, and he's in a very unfamiliar territory -- turkey hunting with his macho father-in-law and several of the old man's friends. they've been doing more drinking than hunting, and after the turkey is shot, this exchange happens:
“You don’t like me, do you? You got a problem with me.”
“Jesus, how’d we end up here?” Mr. Jansen said. “Let’s just everybody shut up for a minute.”
Steve said, “There’s key shit Sandy doesn’t know and never will. Stuff about Katrina, and that whole saga, right?” He sniffed and spat through the window. “And yeah, every Friday about eleven, twelve o’clock you could always find Lindy’s car parked outside the massage parlor on Warren. Those Oriental girls, they look like teen-agers until they’re forty, eh Lindy? And you,” he said, turning on my father-in-law. “You—”
“That’s enough, Steve.”
“Hey,” Lindy said.
“And you,” Steve said to me. “You obviously got some kind of fucked-up agenda—”
but we never know what it is, another hallmark of "good" storytelling.
later, after the turkey is brought home and cooked, this exchange:
“Those aren’t bullets, for fuck’s sake,” her husband said. “It’s just shot, No. 6 shot.”
Sandy said, “I like to make believe my turkey was grown on a tree or bush.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t,” Mr. Jansen said.
“You liked that fancy squab in Paris plenty,” Steve said to his wife, working the hypocrisy angle that always seemed to crop up at the end of these discussions. It was as if the interminable debate—men on one side, women on the other—would end only when it swallowed its own tail.
“You owed me that squab,” Sandy said. She was drunker than the rest of us, or less capable of hiding it. “You owed me that squab for fucking Katrina.”
“Sandy,” my wife’s mother said.
“Ten years. Ten goddam years.”
and it all unravels from there. we learn all about everyone's infidelities, including the protagonist's wife, who has been having several affairs for years now, with her milquetoast husband just accepting it. the story ends with him and his wife out in the snow, with some sort of symbolism stuff about him not being close to her.
this story isn't poorly written -- it's very gentle and lilting with its descriptions of winter-time michigan, and some parts of the story ring true, especially when the guys pay someone to allow them to poach on another person's property.
my question: how realistic does the infidelity angle seem? to me, it rings hollow, fake and contrived. not to mention that most people don't talk like they're in an off-broadway drama or woody allen movie ... i might try rewriting this story myself. it'd be fun to try.
2.17.2005
we don't live here anymore
so my team moved yesterday.
i don't have much emotional tie to the space we were in, but many people around me -- most have worked there for five years or longer -- were visibly sad about it all. one good friend almost threw himself on our boxes and said "don't leave!" i suggested he get into a box and label it for my cube, but something about agoraphobia came up and nothing ever happened.
whenever you move, you should be forced to go through your stuff and discard what's no longer needed. i say "should" because we've done at least one move where we told the movers to just box everything up and promised ourselves we'd go through it later.
that "later" never happened.
i amazed myself at the number of things i'd hidden in my cube. i had a 20 oz diet coke bottle saved for an emergency, as well as a bottle of water ... i had a dvd i bought for a dollar at target, full of "tom and jerry" cartoons that weren't exactly the cat and mouse -- there is a "tom and jerry" that's a ripoff of laurel and hardy, and these cartoons were bad videos of films of those cartoons.
i kept them because in one of them, tom and jerry go to africa and decide the best way to blend in with the populace is to go into full blackface mode. and this was on sale at a major retail outlet, in the dollar store section, where any unsuspecting parent or child might pick it up.
i found myself throwing away an alarming percentage of my accrued items, which is good -- i can start re-accruing crap in my new space, which, alas, is far less colorful than from whence we left. we were housed in the marketing department, which as you can guess is full of dope-smoking hippie liberal macintosh users.
regardless of your political bent, you gotta admit that being around a bunch of dope-smoking hippie liberal macintosh users is a hell of a lot of fun.
now we move to one of the most bland, non-descript concrete eastern-bloc office towers in town, full of computer nerds and wafts of curry in the elevators.
sigh.
i don't have much emotional tie to the space we were in, but many people around me -- most have worked there for five years or longer -- were visibly sad about it all. one good friend almost threw himself on our boxes and said "don't leave!" i suggested he get into a box and label it for my cube, but something about agoraphobia came up and nothing ever happened.
whenever you move, you should be forced to go through your stuff and discard what's no longer needed. i say "should" because we've done at least one move where we told the movers to just box everything up and promised ourselves we'd go through it later.
that "later" never happened.
i amazed myself at the number of things i'd hidden in my cube. i had a 20 oz diet coke bottle saved for an emergency, as well as a bottle of water ... i had a dvd i bought for a dollar at target, full of "tom and jerry" cartoons that weren't exactly the cat and mouse -- there is a "tom and jerry" that's a ripoff of laurel and hardy, and these cartoons were bad videos of films of those cartoons.
i kept them because in one of them, tom and jerry go to africa and decide the best way to blend in with the populace is to go into full blackface mode. and this was on sale at a major retail outlet, in the dollar store section, where any unsuspecting parent or child might pick it up.
i found myself throwing away an alarming percentage of my accrued items, which is good -- i can start re-accruing crap in my new space, which, alas, is far less colorful than from whence we left. we were housed in the marketing department, which as you can guess is full of dope-smoking hippie liberal macintosh users.
regardless of your political bent, you gotta admit that being around a bunch of dope-smoking hippie liberal macintosh users is a hell of a lot of fun.
now we move to one of the most bland, non-descript concrete eastern-bloc office towers in town, full of computer nerds and wafts of curry in the elevators.
sigh.
2.14.2005
'don't worry -- they're too tired to do anything about it'
so i was in the the throes of my latest 24-hour illness, and i was awake. wide awake. two-cups-of-coffee awake. no combination of bed, blanket, pillow and mvp-of-the-super-bowl fantasy could get me to sleep. so i did the only thing you can do in such a situation:
i got up and watched tv.
a show called "unexplained mysteries: planet earth" was on, and it blew the lid off the UFO visitations of the late 1940s in southwestern america, and detailed the government's campaign of lies and imtimidation to keep this secret a secret.
and i thought to myself, "why is it that you never see these kinds of shows during prime time?" it's almost as if the feds are taunting the citizenry by telling all the truth about all the scandals, but only after 1 a.m. PST. the fbi and cia don't fear the insomniacs, because though we might know the truth, we'll probably fall asleep on the bus on the way to the newspaper ...
i got up and watched tv.
a show called "unexplained mysteries: planet earth" was on, and it blew the lid off the UFO visitations of the late 1940s in southwestern america, and detailed the government's campaign of lies and imtimidation to keep this secret a secret.
and i thought to myself, "why is it that you never see these kinds of shows during prime time?" it's almost as if the feds are taunting the citizenry by telling all the truth about all the scandals, but only after 1 a.m. PST. the fbi and cia don't fear the insomniacs, because though we might know the truth, we'll probably fall asleep on the bus on the way to the newspaper ...
2.13.2005
getting stoned with delilah
"misery loves company," the site says, and right now, i'm most likely not alone in my misery from having to listen to delilah, a nationwide syndicated radio host that my lovely wife, A., is enjoying with me in our newly remodeled "sitting room" upstairs.
we discovered delilah in st louis, and hearing her just makes a little more bile rise to the edge of my palate -- anything that reminds me of that city lately has had that effect. now she's here in my current city of residence. thank goodness.
sad housewives call her and cry on her shoulder, and she's oh-so-comforting to them. then she plays one of three songs: "right here waiting for you" by richard marx ... "you gotta be" by des'ree ... or anything by peter cetera. and any of those apply to whatever advice she's pushing out.
it's like oprah for the radio -- nothing controversial, nothing cutting, nothing the least bit substantive or that strays too far from a hallmark card.
and people just eat it up.
**
i finally told BHF about the site friday night ... i wasn't concerned, because in a month or so of posting, i've not written anything about porn, breasts, five-ways with the neighborhood cheerleader group, etc.
and yet at a dinner party friday night, BHF was going on and on about anal waxing and her husband. i figured what the fuck -- if she can be dirtier than me, why not tell her about the site?
the party was another one of A.'s friends' gathering ... another trip down memory lane for her and her high school friends. i was done long before the evening ended, but that's just me, a stick in the mud.
A. and her circle were what i would consider bad kids as teenagers. it made me sad to hear them tell these stories. i kept putting myself in the parents' place -- how would they feel knowing their kids were doing this? and then i have a worse thought: maybe the parents all knew and didn't care anyway. to me, that'd be the worst feeling of all.
and then we started talking about marijuana, and one of the group's husbands shocked the hell out of me by proclaiming his massive pot usage in college. he's not the guy i would have guessed to be that way. and that led to the inevitable "do you remember the time" stories about partying and tha chronic.
(insert ironic eyerolling emoticon here)
i'm all for legalization, because let's face it -- making it illegal sure hasn't worked, and the side effects are close to those of liquor, and yet that's celebrated all over TV every weekend. but to revel in "oh man we were so stoned" stories ... that's just sad. those stories got old when i was 19.
i never understood why people go to such great lengths to celebrate being trashed. it's nothing to be proud about, and certainly nothing to look back on with nostalgia, i don't think.
but i wasn't the one in the car, driving home from a skiing vacation, totally stoned. so what do i know?
we discovered delilah in st louis, and hearing her just makes a little more bile rise to the edge of my palate -- anything that reminds me of that city lately has had that effect. now she's here in my current city of residence. thank goodness.
sad housewives call her and cry on her shoulder, and she's oh-so-comforting to them. then she plays one of three songs: "right here waiting for you" by richard marx ... "you gotta be" by des'ree ... or anything by peter cetera. and any of those apply to whatever advice she's pushing out.
it's like oprah for the radio -- nothing controversial, nothing cutting, nothing the least bit substantive or that strays too far from a hallmark card.
and people just eat it up.
**
i finally told BHF about the site friday night ... i wasn't concerned, because in a month or so of posting, i've not written anything about porn, breasts, five-ways with the neighborhood cheerleader group, etc.
and yet at a dinner party friday night, BHF was going on and on about anal waxing and her husband. i figured what the fuck -- if she can be dirtier than me, why not tell her about the site?
the party was another one of A.'s friends' gathering ... another trip down memory lane for her and her high school friends. i was done long before the evening ended, but that's just me, a stick in the mud.
A. and her circle were what i would consider bad kids as teenagers. it made me sad to hear them tell these stories. i kept putting myself in the parents' place -- how would they feel knowing their kids were doing this? and then i have a worse thought: maybe the parents all knew and didn't care anyway. to me, that'd be the worst feeling of all.
and then we started talking about marijuana, and one of the group's husbands shocked the hell out of me by proclaiming his massive pot usage in college. he's not the guy i would have guessed to be that way. and that led to the inevitable "do you remember the time" stories about partying and tha chronic.
(insert ironic eyerolling emoticon here)
i'm all for legalization, because let's face it -- making it illegal sure hasn't worked, and the side effects are close to those of liquor, and yet that's celebrated all over TV every weekend. but to revel in "oh man we were so stoned" stories ... that's just sad. those stories got old when i was 19.
i never understood why people go to such great lengths to celebrate being trashed. it's nothing to be proud about, and certainly nothing to look back on with nostalgia, i don't think.
but i wasn't the one in the car, driving home from a skiing vacation, totally stoned. so what do i know?
2.10.2005
do i make you rand-y?
ayn rand would have turned 100 last week.
or maybe it was this week. who knows? i'm shocked that i care, even.
i'd read my share of nietzsche in college -- actually became quite a fan for a while -- before i got to rand. a friend and i were doing a "book club via email" in which we'd pick a title, read a chapter, then email each other impressions ... her choice was "the fountainhead," and i forced myself to read it.
to paraphrase someone else whose name i can't be bothered to google, "the fountainhead" isn't writing, it's typing.
my first thought was that it was just warmed-over nietzsche, with a bit of marxism thrown in. and imagine my surprise, lo these many years later, when i see that whittaker chambers agrees with me.
yes. "or, to say the least, intransigent." (from the simpsons)
but i bring all this up not to prove my intellectual superiority (cough) but to point out that as i've gotten older, people's artistic tastes don't mean much to me. but they did when 10 years ago, when i fell kind of head over heels for a friend of mine in chicago ...
what almost stopped it wasn't that she smoked (though that did count for something), and it wasn't that she was a different race than me (though that did give me pause at how sparsely attended the wedding would have been on my side of the church). what almost stopped it was the fact that she said "atlas shrugged" was one of the best books she'd ever read.
man, that was shocking. stunning. disappointingly crushing. i did not know what to do. how could ... she ... like ... her? it was dreck, the worst kind of writing i'd come across in my life, the biggest bunch of phony bullshit pseudo-philosophy meant to appeal to pimpled teenagers and disaffected libertarians. and she thought it was brilliance.
nowadays, i don't think such a thing would have stopped me. but at the time ... damn.
or maybe it was this week. who knows? i'm shocked that i care, even.
i'd read my share of nietzsche in college -- actually became quite a fan for a while -- before i got to rand. a friend and i were doing a "book club via email" in which we'd pick a title, read a chapter, then email each other impressions ... her choice was "the fountainhead," and i forced myself to read it.
to paraphrase someone else whose name i can't be bothered to google, "the fountainhead" isn't writing, it's typing.
my first thought was that it was just warmed-over nietzsche, with a bit of marxism thrown in. and imagine my surprise, lo these many years later, when i see that whittaker chambers agrees with me.
The full clinical diagnosis can be read in the pages of Friedrich Nietzsche. (Here I must break in with an aside. Miss Rand acknowledges a grudging debt to one, and only one, earlier philosopher: Aristotle. I submit that she is indebted, and much more heavily, to Nietzsche. Just as her operatic businessmen are, in fact, Nietzschean supermen, so her ulcerous leftists are Nietzsche's "last men," both deformed in a way to sicken the fastidious recluse of Sils Maria.
yes. "or, to say the least, intransigent." (from the simpsons)
but i bring all this up not to prove my intellectual superiority (cough) but to point out that as i've gotten older, people's artistic tastes don't mean much to me. but they did when 10 years ago, when i fell kind of head over heels for a friend of mine in chicago ...
what almost stopped it wasn't that she smoked (though that did count for something), and it wasn't that she was a different race than me (though that did give me pause at how sparsely attended the wedding would have been on my side of the church). what almost stopped it was the fact that she said "atlas shrugged" was one of the best books she'd ever read.
man, that was shocking. stunning. disappointingly crushing. i did not know what to do. how could ... she ... like ... her? it was dreck, the worst kind of writing i'd come across in my life, the biggest bunch of phony bullshit pseudo-philosophy meant to appeal to pimpled teenagers and disaffected libertarians. and she thought it was brilliance.
nowadays, i don't think such a thing would have stopped me. but at the time ... damn.
lithium that works, then doesn't
i've got a co-worker here who seems like she's stoned all the time -- very droll, very passionless ... great, great person. i love being around her. but the way she talks is like she's on lithium, but it goes away for the last two words of her sentences.
(monotone)oh i think that's a great idea but how does (voice rising)it work?(/voice rising)
(monotone)oh i think that's a great idea but how does (voice rising)it work?(/voice rising)
2.07.2005
anna
Me: hello, anna.
Anna: Welcome to IKEA. How can I help you?
Me: i need some furniture for my new mobile home.
Anna: Here you will find our latest releases!
Me: releases? what are releases?
Anna: I have detailed knowledge of IKEA products and services. How would you like to use my knowledge of IKEA?
Me: i've always wanted an ikea employee to smear one of those ice cream cones on my chest.
Anna: The IKEA business idea is: "We shall offer a wide range of well-designed, functional home furnishing products at prices so low that as many people as possible will be able to afford them."
Me: those ice cream cones are, like, 99 cents.
Anna: To which IKEA store are you referring to when asking about the restaurant?
Me: schaumburg, illinois.
Anna: Here you can enjoy a cooked breakfast, a light snack, or even dinner. Take a look at the great meal deals that IKEA Schaumburg has to offer.
Me: do you work in schaumburg?
Anna: Here you can find information related to the Schaumburg store.
Me: enough about that. tell me more about you.
Anna: There is no 'me'. I am a computer program. What would you like to know about IKEA?
Me: i'd like to know why ikea is hiring computer programs to flirt with me.
Anna: How is IKEA different from other furnishing stores? We offer a wide range, good design and function, and also low prices. That's our business idea.
Me: yeah, that -- and hiring computer applications to make me think they like me
Anna: As you are talking about computers and the Internet, I would like to show you IKEA USA website map.
Me: i would like to show you the ceiling of my bedroom.
Anna: We don't offer training.
Me: are you saying i'm not experienced in the ways of the bedroom?
Anna: Please have a look at the Beds.
Me: now we're getting somewhere. top, or bottom?
Anna: I'm very sorry, but I can't really talk about things like that at this time.
Me: you are such a tease!
Anna: If you think that I am not providing you with useful information about IKEA you can contact the Customer Service at your nearest IKEA Store.
Me: would customer service be a real person, or just another computer program designed to make my pants fit funny?
Anna: Which IKEA store would you like the contact details for?
Me: never mind.
Anna: You can find all products on the MINDE product line in the page I am now opening for you.
Me: sheesh. good night, anna.
Anna: I don't sleep, but thanks anyway. Goodnight.
Anna: Welcome to IKEA. How can I help you?
Me: i need some furniture for my new mobile home.
Anna: Here you will find our latest releases!
Me: releases? what are releases?
Anna: I have detailed knowledge of IKEA products and services. How would you like to use my knowledge of IKEA?
Me: i've always wanted an ikea employee to smear one of those ice cream cones on my chest.
Anna: The IKEA business idea is: "We shall offer a wide range of well-designed, functional home furnishing products at prices so low that as many people as possible will be able to afford them."
Me: those ice cream cones are, like, 99 cents.
Anna: To which IKEA store are you referring to when asking about the restaurant?
Me: schaumburg, illinois.
Anna: Here you can enjoy a cooked breakfast, a light snack, or even dinner. Take a look at the great meal deals that IKEA Schaumburg has to offer.
Me: do you work in schaumburg?
Anna: Here you can find information related to the Schaumburg store.
Me: enough about that. tell me more about you.
Anna: There is no 'me'. I am a computer program. What would you like to know about IKEA?
Me: i'd like to know why ikea is hiring computer programs to flirt with me.
Anna: How is IKEA different from other furnishing stores? We offer a wide range, good design and function, and also low prices. That's our business idea.
Me: yeah, that -- and hiring computer applications to make me think they like me
Anna: As you are talking about computers and the Internet, I would like to show you IKEA USA website map.
Me: i would like to show you the ceiling of my bedroom.
Anna: We don't offer training.
Me: are you saying i'm not experienced in the ways of the bedroom?
Anna: Please have a look at the Beds.
Me: now we're getting somewhere. top, or bottom?
Anna: I'm very sorry, but I can't really talk about things like that at this time.
Me: you are such a tease!
Anna: If you think that I am not providing you with useful information about IKEA you can contact the Customer Service at your nearest IKEA Store.
Me: would customer service be a real person, or just another computer program designed to make my pants fit funny?
Anna: Which IKEA store would you like the contact details for?
Me: never mind.
Anna: You can find all products on the MINDE product line in the page I am now opening for you.
Me: sheesh. good night, anna.
Anna: I don't sleep, but thanks anyway. Goodnight.
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