Ted Talk

corinne: but John Muir is SO COOL

 

tornadoslide: "John Muir liked the out of doors. The End."

 

corinne: yah, yah

but, oh, the anecdotes!

he walked from madison, wi to california!

he climbed trees in thunderstorms so he could experience what the tree experiences in a storm

 

tornadoslide: he fucked a horse. GUARANTEED.

 

corinne: ted makes those jokes all the time!

ted also pretended to be the ghost of john muir when we were hiking in the muir woods

he pretended that Teddy Roosevelt had killed him

and I needed to avenge his death

 

tornadoslide: haha

Wherein I Find Something To Say About A Movie That Was Meh

Corinne always talked about this party idea. She'd get a bunch of people to show up dressed in 1912 garb, and she'd play -- let's see here: Irvin Berlin's "He Played It On His Fid, Fid, Fiddle-dee-dee" or his "Pick, Pick, Pick Pick On The Mandolin, Antonio" or, if for some reason she got sick of Irving Berlin on her phonograph, if that's even possible, she could switch to "Beans! Beans!! Beans!!!" or "Daddy Has A Sweetheart (And Mother Is Her Name)" or a song party guests might actually recognize, "It's A Long Way To Tipperary". So people would be partying like it was 1912, and then the news would break (via hand-cranked telephone? A newspaper boy selling extras?) that the Titanic had sunk, and the party guests would act as if they were truly in 1912. "Why, the unsinkable luxury oceanliner? Why, 'twas to make port in New York only this week! Any word on John Jacob Astor?"

Ignoring the logical implications, I thought it was a decent idea. Until I watched Cloverfield last night -- it makes disaster parties seem a lot less fun.


Somewhat Fun Fact: I met the actor holding the videocamera for most of Cloverfield twice, back when he was the fellow troupe member of a friend of a friend of a friend. He was in an improv group called Chuckle Sandwich -- they were so good that I waived the chance to see Carlos Zambrano pitch at Wrigley for the opportunity to eat stuffed pizza and watch comedy.

Childrens' Garden

As of today, a certain special someone has been hired as a kindergarten teacher. Looks like a certain special someone is going to exponentially increase her consumption of Mr. Graham's crackers.

The first time I stepped into my kindergarten classroom, I was handed a pencil and asked to draw a circle (or maybe the letter "O" or a zero). When I finished, I was told that I did it correctly -- I started my circle at the 12:00 position, drew clockwise, and ended where I began. Twenty-whatever years later, I still don't know why it's essential to draw a circle in that fashion, or why it was necessary to begin my education with that particular "skill".

Here's everything else I remember about that year:

*Our teacher was Mrs. Murphy.

*Each student planted some grass in Styrofoam cups filled with dirt.

*Milk and graham crackers.

*No one really slept during nap time.

The South American Experience: Matt's Letter

[NOTE: Matt has expressed an interested in being a guest blogger in the future. If you'd like to read more of Matt in future Tornado Slide posts, make your feelings known in the comments.]

“A Letter Written For Two Women I Saw On The South America Trip”

Hello again. Do you remember me? We met at the harbor in Montevideo where you work. You helped my good friend Dan and I after some retard in Buenos Aires fucked up our ferry reservations. I must say that I was entranced by your beauty. Your bright blue eyes were islands in a torrential sea of dark eyed Latin chicks. Your full, round, voluptuous breasts did not go unnoticed.

Let me get to the point. I love you. I think we should get married. I can just imagine how perfect our life would be together. I am not rich, but I could give you a decent life here in the United States. You wouldn’t even have to work. Our days would be spent hand in hand walking down tree-lined boulevards with flowers and bunny rabbits. Our nights would be filled with the mirth and moisture of love. Soon you would be pregnant with our first of many lovebabies.

I know that you will be a good mother to our children. The way you handled the problem with the reservations is proof of that. You made me feel so safe, so warm when all hope seemed to be lost. For the most part I will ignore and detest our children. Not so much because of the strain they will inevitably put on our finances, but because of the toll they will take on your body. After three or so children I will barely recognize you.

That is where you come in girl number 2. We caught eyes from a few tables away at Café Stranger in Buenos Aires. Your beauty is stunning. I would very much like you to consider the position of mistress. Although not glamorous, it does have perks: a private apartment, money for lingerie and a gym membership.

We could go on trips together to all the places you want to see. My wife will be busy at home taking care of our lovebastards. We will dine at the best restaurants, laze on private beaches and make sweet fuck on a nest of sea turtle eggs under a palm tree. I have to say “fuck” and not “love” because I am married and that would just be wrong, you understand. All this I offer. Also, I promise never to hit you, unless, of course, you were the stupid bitch that took the ferry reservations.

Affectionately,

Matt

House Rules

I stayed at Matt's while he was in Barcelona for the holiday. I arrived in his home to find the following note:

There are a few things, just simple tasks, I would like you to take care of while you stay in my home. I have prepared a short list. Please put a checkmark next to items you have finished so I can inspect when I return.

1. Don't fucking order any movies. I will find out about them when I receive my bill.

2. Please put the mail on the blue chair in the living room. Don't fucking read my mail.

3. You can eat anything you want, but I would stay away from any dairy products you might find in my fridge.

4. You can use my bed, the sheets are clean. When I say use I mean it is a place in which you can sleep, NOT fuck. Or anything that might lead to fucking in other parts of my house. If you want to fuck, do it on the porch or in the garage like the thousands of cats that roam my neighborhood. It is OK to fuck in the shower.

5. NO fucking parties. A few friends only, you motherfucker.

6. If you see a mouse, fucking kill it.

7. My computer is not for porn. Got it, freak. Do not fucking masturbate to images you might see on my computer.

8. My pistol is in the nightstand next to the bed. Don't fucking touch it. I don't want to come home to find your or someone else's fucking brains all over the wall. There are exceptions to this rule all of which I am certain you can figure out on your own. I trust your judgement.

9. The rifle by the front door is for raccoons and those fucking Seventh Day Adventists. Watch your fucking back because they are all over the place. It is basically silenced so don't worry about attracting any attention. All corpses should be put in the crawl space in the basement next to the hookers I have murdered.

10. Don't turn on the fan in the computer room. It will knock my fucking house down.

11. HAVE FUCKING FUN. I'll be in Barcelona. How's that feel?

He sent some text messages while he was away, while I was wondering why he had an HDTV but no HDTV channels:

11/21 7:24 pm

I'm in Minnesota. Not a single person here remembers you.

11/22 5:47 am

I'm in Amsterdam. I want to use the restroom. I walk in. There are 15 or so dudes in also. I notice a woman with a mop cleaning between occupied urinals. Weird.

11/23 8:11 pm

It's after three. Just getting in. Too much fish.

11/24 3:09 pm

You need to come to Barcelona. Saturday night is fucking crazy. If I never see another Japanese person it would be fine with me.

11/24 3:19 pm

Why do blind people wear sunglasses? Seriously, why. I am not being an asshole. Just noticed that every blind person I have ever seen was wearing sunglasses

11/25 5:45 pm

So I got into an argument in the customs line. This guy called me an asshole because I passed him getting off the plane while he was putting his two coats on.

I simply stated that only a stupid piece of shit would spend five minutes putting on two coats when everybody was leaving the plane after we all stood there for twenty minutes.

And also it's not as if we were going outside and also he was just going to have to take them off to go through security. The girl next to me said, "Game, set, match," and we all laughed and I called him a stupid ass. Did I mention I was tired?

11/25 6:46 pm

I met a girl from Uruguay. I told her you would bone her sans condom.

11/26 8:52 am

...I came home to a dead mouse in the kitchen. I gave it the finger.

Remember, Remember, The 5th Of September

[The title of this post comes from the subject line of the email I received from Matt this morning. Nearly all of that email is pasted below.]

The following story is true. I have written out what happened so all feelings and emotions (anger, grief, sense of nothingness, fuck it, let's call in what it is, utter despair) would not be lost to that inevitable ebbing of pain that time brings...

... on Wed Sep. 5th... I got on a bus headed for Vilnius, Lithuania. The events that occurred on this bus have forever changed my life.

My specified seat number, 51, was occupied by a stinky asshole and his band of equally stinky pals. Well, through a series of grunts and hand gestures, the stinky asshole appeared to say, "Look, there are many seats available, please choose another." So I, in my own unique grunting and sign language, said "Fine, fuck you. I didn't want to sit next to you anyway." I selected a seat closer to the front of the bus and for some time it seemed I would have the two seats to myself, for which I was extremely thankful. Until a blonde haired Lithuanian woman, who seemed to be in her late forties said what could only be "Is this seat taken?" "Goddamnit, no." And she sat. She kept getting into her bag and I kept to myself, minding my own business.

At this point in the story it is important to remind the reader that every time I travel, something ridiculous happens. Whether it is arguing with a Mongolian cab driver, accidentally eating seahorse or meeting the girl of my dreams, it happens. So the woman starts poking me in the arm and saying things in Russian or something. She finally gets out her passport and points to her name, Natalja. Why she didn't just say her name and point to herself is beyond me. I would like to think I would have caught on to that.

So, in an act of diplomacy, I showed her my passport. She edged closer and kept saying her name until I repeated it. She handed me her passport. Not knowing what the fuck was going on I perused her various stamps and visas. I looked at her picture. She used to be kind of hot. Upon closer inspection I realized her birthdate. 1974. She is only four years older than I. "Why the hell does she look so old?" I thought. I looked over at her and it hit me. I saw her take a four second tug on a bottle of vodka. She said, "Ahh!" As in "Yummy."

She tried to hand me the bottle. "No thanks. You can keep the hepatitis Q." I heard a chuckle from the seat in front of me. An Australian woman found humor in my plight. I didn't.

After a few more tugs, Natalja started getting handsy. Rubbing my arm and leg. So now I'm nervous. She leans in for a kiss and I quickly turn my head. I feel her hot, stinky drunk breath on my cheek and neck. She then violently grabs my face and turns it towards her own, showing me how she is unzipping her shirt. "Oh this is so gnarly!" I said (understandable if you've seen Grandma's Boy). Followed by, "No thank you". She took this as "Please, grab my crotch". Which she did. It took about five seconds to pry her fingers from my schmack.

Afterwards, she said something and pointed her finger at me. I took it as "Your loss". Again I hear giggles from in front.

"Hey Chuckles, I'm glad you think this is funny."
"I'm sorry. Need any help?"
"I think we're done."

We were not done. The woman started laughing and banging her head on the seat in front of her. I watched in horror. She finally rested her head on the seat and let out a belch and laughed. I was on pins and needles. One more belch and she puked all over the seat in front of her and on the floor. I gagged and said "Oh motherfucker." She looked at me, covered in vomit, and smiled.

"This is fucked up," I said. She opened a new bottle and took a few sips, puked on the floor and passed out.

"At least that is over." said Chuckles (who turned out to be Sarah). "You don't have to sit by her".

She remained in her self-induced coma for about two hours. When we crossed into Latvia, she would not wake for passport control. Because I was sitting next to her, PC thought I was with her and removed me for questioning. They checked my passport on their computers and asked me about the woman. I told them what happened and they laughed. I began to think I was the only one who did not think it was funny.

I got back on the bus and tried to get some sleep. I kept my bag on my lap, not wanting any unexpected hand jobs.

I got maybe thirty minutes of sleep before I heard a thud. The woman had fallen out of her seat and into the aisle and her own vomit. This woke her and she stumbled to the bathroom. I watched the clock. She was gone for over an hour. I feel no shame in telling you this, but I was hoping she was dead. Dead in a pool of her own piss and vomit. It is a bad thing to say, but it is the truth.

She came back and handed me her passport, apparently to hand to PC when we crossed the Lithuanian border. Then she drank some more and sang a little song. Probably about waiting in line for potatoes and bread or some shit.

Shortly after Lithuanian PC we stopped and half the bus left. I jumped over Natalja and her sick piles and into two seats that were open. I noticed Mr. Stinky Asshole stretched out across the four seats that made up the back row, one of which was 51. "What a fucking dickhead" I thought.

[Come home safe, Matt.]

The Other Archives - Italian Heat

I found this in an email Corinne sent while she was "studying" abroad:

Oh, also, at the bar on Friday night, there were some amazing pick up attempts made my Italian guys to various girls in our group. Here they are, use them well...

Number 1: (really politely taps Nora on the shoulder) "Excuse me....will you fuck me?"

Number 2 and my personal favorite: "Lets get naked and see if my balls are bigger than your boobs"

Number 3: After Meg drops a battery and creepy guy picks it up "Your battery is in my pants, come look for it, now I am supercharged"

The Good Way, The Badwey, And The Elway

This morning, Paul sent along news of his recent vacation:

This past Sunday I went to a Chris Cornell concert in Detroit. We arrived about 30 minutes before the opening act, which we had no idea who it was. So, when they introduced the band "Juliette and the Licks", I was still clueless. Then, it became quickly evident that this is Juliette Lewis's band. Needless to say, it was a frightening and gut-wrenching experience. I really don't even know how to describe this train wreck. She tries to look like a cross between David Bowie and David Lee Roth and tries to strut around like Mick Jagger. When you add these weak impersonations in with her voice, it's not a good combo.

Then, I heard her being interviewed on the radio the next morning, and the DJ made the mistake of asking "How would you describe your sound?" She said that people have compared them to everyone from Aerosmith to Ted Nugent to Henry Rollins to Patti Smith. If she's the intersection of those 4 artists, somebody needs to rework the recipe.

A quick follow up email clarified:

I forgot to mention that I spent most of Juliette Lewis's set waiting for Robert DeNiro to wander onto stage so she could suck his fingers as in Cape Fear.

* * *

In contrast, I had a great time this weekend in sunny, elevated Denver. Luke and Jessica brought Gav and I to a friendly backyard BBQ that slowly turned into a Beckham Madness watch party. We cheered when Becks sat on the bench, adjusting his shoes. We shouted with disdain toward his Galaxy teammates: "What the fuck! Get Beckham in the game! This asshole can't bend it worth a shit!" When the game ended, we remembered that we're American, and soccer can bugger off, and so can Sportcenter's repeating reel of four Beckham "highlights": running into the locker room, running out of the locker room, tripping over a dude and pretending to be injured, and failing to eponymously bend a corner kick.

Earlier that evening, as partygoers attempted to toss beanbags into small holes (Gav was the night's big winner), I made a passing jab at another past-his-prime superstar, former Denver Broncos quarterback John Elway. Luke and Jessica quickly glanced around the patio to be sure the other guests hadn't heard my comment. They solemnly explained that Elway could not be mocked in Denver. "It's like if you said something about George Brett in Kansas City, but a thousand times worse," they said. In fact, one of the locals, sitting just a few feet from me, had recently analogized Jay Cutler's succession of Elway to Pope Benedict's replacement of John Paul II.

This fanaticism fed the weekend's running joke -- the pinnacle was late Saturday night, at a bar near Coors field, at a time I'll call "before we took those additional four shots". Gav was pondering what shot he could order after the requisite Tuaca. We imagined a shot named "The Elway" -- Gav postulated that it would contain, "One part effort, and one part heart."

An annoyed bartender confirmed that The Elway did not yet exist.

* * *

Sunday was bracketed by two impressive events, beginning with a superb breakfast of Denver omelettes smothered with green chile sauce, and ending with the best concert experience of my life.

I was prepared for my high expectations to render the concert mediocre, but The Polyphonic Spree did not disappoint. They made me smile, they made me laugh, they cured my hangover, and they rocked my shit for nearly two and a half hours. Did I mention the confetti cannons? I mean, does it LOOK like everyone was having fun?

The concert was so perfect that I considered not attending their upcoming show in Kansas City. It's destined to be a less impressive concert -- they'll be playing an outdoor venue, after performing in Columbia the previous night, and they're due to play Lollapallooza the following afternoon. Still, a half-assed effort from the Spree -- if such efforts exist -- is likely to be more entertaining than most any alternative. At the cost of $19 and a few hours of sleep, I'll embrace the risk.

I invite any Kansas City area readers to join me at the venue August 2.

The Other Archives - Cooter

An old email from a friend, back when I was trying to bring "cooter" back into the colloquial lexicon:

[My roommate] does not like the term "cooter". Her reply back is "cooter" is they guy from Dukes.

I prefer the term "pooter-putter" or "hoo-hoo". When I shadowed a physician in college, a woman we examined was so upset that he was going to examine "her hoo-hoo in front of this lady...what are you trying to teach her about hoo-hoos and stuff?".

Luckily the physician was quick to say "um...first she has one of those and second, I think it is best we teach people who want to go into medicine about hoo-hoos".

Any Other Name

This week, at work, I met someone in person for the first time, and I was surprised to see a wedding ring on her hand. Why? Because her first name matches her surname so perfectly, I assumed it was crafted.

There are a few possible explanations for the discrepancy:

1. She chose not to take her husband's name.

2. Her husband's last name was the single deciding factor in her decision to marry.

3. She hired pharmaceutical executives -- the guys that turn "terbinafine hydrochloride" into "Lamisil" and brand "herpes cream" as "Abreva" -- to create an identity, and changed her name accordingly.

As a result of this experience, I'm thinking about names, and the huge impact they have. What if L.L. Bean had been named Paul Ulysses Bean? Would Britain have rallied behind Gary Churchill? Who had history's most perfect name? Besides Max Power and Lois Lane, what are the most perfect fictional names?

The Other Archives: Heather's Holiday

Good news -- I have started the Snoopy story. While you wait, breath bated, for it to be finished, please enjoy this tidbit. This is an email from two Thanksgivings ago:

Where are you? How as Thanksgiving? I watched a show on apes. I didn't want to but I got sucked in. It was about apes getting along with hoofed animals in a zoo.

Heather

Take your time cleaning out your inbox archives, kids. Hidden gems abound.

Two Years And No Peaches

I share a cubicle wall with a woman - she has a live-in boyfriend, and the two speak once or twice during the course of a workday.

This morning, she called him to report on what she purchased at the farmer's market. "I bought peaches and corn," she said. "Do you like peaches?"

I was surprised by her question. When you've lived with someone for more than a year - when you've been dating that person for even longer - wouldn't the peach issue have come up by now?

Two years, and no peach cobbler for dessert? No canned peaches? No fresh peaches? No peach pie? No peaches at all?

It gives me hope for all long-term relationships. Couples aren't doomed to stick in a rut, repeating the same dialogue between bites of the same casseroles. They can constantly learn new things about each other, and grow old together in harmony. Yes, honey. I like peaches. I eat the fuck out of peaches. How is your day going? I'll see you soon.

I'm A Believer

Everyone's talking about Dave, also known as Dave Diamond, also known as former T-Bird catcher extraordinaire, also known as the winner of the "closest to the camera" award from the most recent Catholic School Party.



Drunk or sober, I always enjoy his Neil Diamond tribute, and so should you. If you're not at the Jazzhaus Saturday night, I pity you. You'll have to settle for this:

Son of Christ's Coming Up, Got Cakes On The Griddle

[As you will recall, National Pancake Day was back before Lent began. Now, we're at Easter, and I'm purging the interview with Corinne, lover of pancakes. I originally pictured this to be a longer Q&A, but I ran out of pancake-related questions. Feel free to add your own in the comments.]


1. Why do you love pancakes so much? Can you pinpoint a psychological reason for your love of pancakes? I mean, did you have pancakes on special occasions when you were growing up, or did a pancake salesman save your father's life, or something like that?

I have always been a sucker for breakfast food in general, however, my mom would sometimes make breakfast for dinner growing up and I always loved that. However, she would always make oatmeal pancakes and would only make "all-purpose flour" pancakes when us kids had done something incredibly worthy of her praise. So she would slip in a couple "bad" pancakes with the super-healthy oatmeal ones. At one such dinner, I ate a total of 16 pancakes; a record I still have not broken. So there is a family attachment to the pancake. I also think pancakes are amazingly comforting. Wake up late on a Saturday, take your time getting out of bed, head downstairs, and cook up some pancakes....saving a special chocolate chip one as a dessert. Lovely. Pancakes encourage you to slow down, and savor something magnificient... be it the company of loved ones, or the fluffy (sometimes gooey) joy of the round little cakes.

2. Dad would stack said pancakes lumberjack-style, 7 or 8 high, pouring syrup over each as he built his column. In your expert opinion, was this method an absurd way to eat pancakes? How many pancakes do you use to make each stack?

First of all, 7 or 8 pancakes is too many for me...I'm not sure of the physical stature of your father...but damn! He was smart to individually coat each pancake.

My method is as follows: I usually make a stack of 3 pancakes (sometimes 4 if I'm feeling crazy) pour syrup --mapel syrup from Canada, not the imitation 'corn syrup' of Aunt Jemima...although that shit's pretty good--over the top pancake letting it drip down the sides of the other pancakes, and then I make a small pool of syrup away from the stack to dip each individual bite. I find this is the best way, as you still get some of the sogginess of the top pancake in addition to getting each piece freshly coated in syrup. Delicious!

3. Tell me about your Pancake Day breakfast. How many pancakes did you eat? What kinds of pancakes? Which tasted the best? The worst?

I actually had my pancake day celebration midday on Tuesday. We had oatmeal pancakes with chopped pecans, fresh strawberries and bananas and maple syrup. They were amazing... the pecans were a nice touch. We also had beet pancakes. A little non traditional, and I was a little skeptical... but they were really sweet and delicious. They were a beautiful, vibrant fuscia. I ate mine sans syrup, but Corey ate his with. Then we used the remaining oatmeal batter and made chocolate and peanut butter chip pancakes which were also a new creation, but very good. So all the pancakes turned out to be delicious, and none dissapointed.

4. How do the pancakes at Perkins, IHOP, Denny's, Waffle House, etc. stack up (get it)? What restaurant has the best pancakes? The worst?

Let's just go ahead and rule out Denny's first. For a long time, I went to Denny's because it always sounded like a good idea, but my stomach always disagreed. So I don't even bother anymore...it's cheap, but probably because it's shitty. I'm a fan of IHOP, but I haven't been in a while. Their pancakes are what you would expect from a pancake, without much pizazz (sp?). Ummm...I don't go to Perkins. And waffle house...I've only had the waffles. Milton's pancakes are pretty good, but their french toast is the better menu option. The best pancakes I've ever had at a restaurant was in Colorado Springs on a family vacation at a little breakfast nook type place in uptown. That was, um, four years ago...but the taste still lingers.

There Was Something In The Air That Night

[This is the information about my old neighbors I promised a while back. This was written in July 2002.]

I was studying for the Biostatistics final in my apartment. It was night, and I heard some commotion from the apartment I share a wall with. The only things/words I'm CERTAIN I heard that night were:

"Don't EVER call me MOTHERFUCKER! Don't you EVER call me motherFUCKER!"

I believe there was a slap or hit of some kind before, after, or between these statements. There was also talk of one person wanting the other person (the one who was slapped) the fuck out of the apartment. Then there was nothing for the rest of the night - nothing I heard, anyway.

Fast forward to the next day; I, again, was dutifully studying for a biostatistics test that would turn out to be amazingly simple. I heard voices again from next door, and forced myself to write some of the lines down (these lines have been on 2 post-it notes on my desk for the last 7 months, and thank God I can finally throw those away).

First there was sounds that may have been the moving of things in a closet, such as the sound that may have been wire hangers moving on a rod. Then I believe there was the sound of a door unlocking and opening, followed immediately by a "where are you going/what are you doing sort of comment by a man I believe to be Robert. (Robert, although I have never met him, must be the name, as people sometimes come around to the back parking lot and shout up to his window, "Robert!", prompting him to leave the apartment, go downstairs and let them in the building. I may have seen Robert before, but there's no way to tell, as it may have been a friend of his entering/exiting the apartment.) The following is from my post-it notes from that morning, verbatim, keeping in mind there was MUCH emotion in these words, more than CAPS or italics would do justice, so much so that I'm not going to bother:

Fernando don't go!
I'll change!
I will change
I promise you
I am sick enough
I am jealous enough
Why me?
I'll change
I promise you, Fernando!
I will I will I will
I'm sorry
I won't ever do it again
I'll be good
I'm sorry Fernando…no…NO!
I'll never do it again!
Please forgive me I will be different…no, really honey
I won't ever hurt you ever again
I promise you
I don't know, Fernando, I don't know
Will you stay for Christmas?
It's only one week
-but Fernando you don't TALK to me!
Do you think I have a right to be jealous?
I promise I will never do that again. NEVER! NEVER!!!

very long pause, Robert ends his audible diatribe, the final line belonging to Fernando:

Goodbye.

With that, it was over, and Fernando left. A few minutes later, I heard the Righteous Brothers' Unchained Melody through the wall - a touch of tenderness by this man who hit his boyfriend and positively wailed his case to his victim, only to be left alone (a week before Christmas!) I'm not sure what terms they're on now. I have heard Fernando's loud Latino music in early 2002, but I haven't seen him lately. I do not miss him.

Damn Irish

Pat had a baby...


...and, apparently, broke his foot or ankle or some shit, probably after a night of drinking Bushmills and eating hash and reading Joyce.


I'm back in Kansas. Atlanta details to come.

This Will Be Our Year

Have a happy new year, everyone.

We're celebrating the new year, rather than the conclusion of the old one. We're interested in beginnings, and the romantic optimism that surrounds them - a first kiss, a wedding, opening day. Beginnings are easier to celebrate, because endings are unpredictable.

Morning Edition aired an interview with Mike Wallace on Thursday:

Steve Inskeep: You write that you angered Mel Brooks at the age of 75 or so when you told him, "It's all downhill from now on."

Mike Wallace: That's correct. And he hated it!

SI: Let me ask you - is it all downhill from now on?

MW: Well, yes...I mean, come on. When you've been on 60 Minutes for 37 or 38 years...when you've been around the world and talked to all manner of individuals and you have the energy - psychic and physical - to do that kind of thing, and then suddenly, you prefer to nap in the afternoon...it's different. And when you say "downhill", that doesn't mean that you don't have the same energy in your mind about the stories that you would like to cover, but you don't have, really, the physical capacity.

It's not just the calendar that's changing; you are changing, and everyone around you is changing. (Look at the list of contacts in your cell phone or your email. How many of those people did you speak with this year?)

Relish the one night we consciously note and encourage the time to go by. Your relationships are constantly changing, the globe is revolving, the tectonic plates beneath you are shifting, your opportunities are shrinking; there's not much you can do about it. Lift a glass of champagne - it's all married ex-crushes, pregnant ex-girlfriends, and fighting your eyelids after a light lunch from here on out.

Horsing Around

You can learn a lot from your friends in the Peace Corps:

In the rural parts of Panama it is pretty common that young boys or even adult men will have sex with female horses, pigs, dogs, or goats. Why? Because masturbation is really taboo in these areas, so instead they experiment with animals. Well, my astonishment and curiosity as to the mechanics of having sex with a female horse led me to have a conversation with my good friend...She explained to me that they tie the horse’s head to a post, then tie the front and the back legs together so she lays down, and that is how it works. I guess every culture has its quirks.

And I say that to say this:

Cal: Oh, man, I had a weekend.
Andy: Yeah?
Cal: We went to Tijuana, Mexico, you know? And we thought it would be fun, you know, to go to a show. Everybody says you gotta check out one of these shows. And... it's a woman fuckin' a horse. We get there and we think it's gonna be awesome and... it is not as cool as it sounds like it's gonna be. It's kinda gross.
Andy: Yeah.
Cal: You think "A woman fuckin' a horse" and you get there and... it's a woman fucking a horse.
Andy: Yeah.
Cal: It was really giving it to her. And you know what? To be honest I just felt bad for her, we all just felt bad for her.
Andy: Yeah.
Cal: I kinda felt bad for the horse!
Andy: Wow, that's something.

The Other Archives - Love Song

Excerpt of an old e-mail Paul sent:

as for the cure lyric that i stole, i'm going to have to first give some background on the situation. this freshman girl who i had been seeing for like 2 weeks was over one night and she was in a really bad mood. it was fairly early in the school year, and she was really homesick. so, being the consolation type of guy that i am, i was telling her that alot of people get homesick. in my mind, i was really thinking "how can anyone be homesick? college is the best situation you'll ever have." then, the following dialogue occurred, as best as i can remember:

Her: "Do you ever get homesick?"
Me: (Lying like there's no tomorrow) "Sometimes."
Her: "What makes you feel better?"
Me: "You, because when i'm with you, it makes me feel like i'm home again."

when i told my friends the next day, they almost couldn't believe that i had stooped that low. since then, i've tried to decide if it's more pathetic that i used that line or that she went for it. also, i find it amazing that i was able to get that out without laughing.

Little Trouble In Big China

Driving home today, I saw a guy driving a Toyota Prius with flames on the side. And you thought the previous two posts were about pussies. (rimshot)

I think we all miss Matt and his hilarious text messages. As a public service, I pass on some of his messages from China. Note that Matt has not given me permission, but he's in China, so what's he gonna do about it?

Saturday, September 3rd

I have been in Shanghai for about two days now. There is a new Australian girl in my room. Not sure about her yet, she was sleeping. An old lady yelled at me when I came into the room at 7:30 PM and turned on the light. I guess I didn't think anyone who would pay a shitload of money to come to China would go to bed at fucking 7:30. But then again, she is old. Met up with a British guy last night and had a couple pints of beer called Suntory. Its good. Not great. Thought you would like to know, for lunch I ate a peach. A peach as big as three of my fists. Remember that time I stuck three of my fists up your ass. Sounds impossible due to the fact that I only have two fists but as I recall you really fucking liked it, you dirty whore. Okay, I will write to you later.

Sunday, September 4th

Forgive poor spelling and grammar. I am at an Internet bar in the Fuxing district of Shanghai. It is just after midnight. I am with Will, a guy from the Netherlands and Alise (sp ?) from Paris. She is hot. I am fairly certain that Will is gay as I am 100% sure that we just left a gay bar that he said is his favorite and he knows everybody there.

Helpful hints:

1: What are listed "amenities" in the description of a hostel in Shanghai are bullshit unless it means: do not put toilet paper in the toilet as it will block it; security lockers means no security lockers, free internet means 2 RMB per 10 minutes; key card access means a chinese woman will let you into your room if and only if you show her a receipt.

2: What the amenities should say: Free lizards in every room; cheap beer; hot international women, shitty toilets.

Explanation about lizards:

Last night I went out with Will. At one point we had to go back to the hostel so he could take a shit. While there we met Alise and sat on the patio and had a few beers. Later we left, Alise stayed. In the morning I was awoken by Alise, who is also in my room, saying its time to go. This is the conversation as I remember it:

Alise: Matt, wake up.
Me: What?
Alise: Time to go to Pudong.
Me: What?
Alise: There is a lizard on your bed.
Me: Motherfucker! Get it off!
Alise: No.
Me: (after flicking lizard off my bed): Sleep.
Alise: You said you would take me to Pudong.
Me: When?
Alise: Now.
Me: No, when did I say this?
Alise: Last night.
Me: Was I serious?
Alise: Yes.
Me: I'll get up.

So we went to Pudong. Quite a ways from the hostel and not yet to Pudong, Alise says "I'm tired, lets take a break".

Me: No.
Alise: Please.
Me: (Didn't say anything, just gave her a look of disgust).
Alise: Oh look, shoes!!!
Me: You've got to be fucking kidding.

After visiting Pudong Alise needed a nap. Which I was all for. So I spoke with Will and we made plans for tonight. The plans included a really seedy bar with beers that cost about 17 cents and then we moved on to the internet/bar/snackbar place. We are leaving now to go to what is certainly a dirty, dirty bar/whorehouse.

Peace out fuckos

Matt