8.31.2010
8.26.2010
Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-raugust? Fa-ing Raugust.
I love Christmas just as much as the next person; the consumerism, the crowds, the merchandise based affection, the slow advancing fervor that culminates in a sloppy religio-economic orgy; what's not to love? It's a time of Joy™, Generosity®, and Caring©. I once made a tongue-in-cheek reference to the very obvious fact that retailers were jumping on the Sell Christmas Shit Express Train way too early. But it turns out that I was wrong... in the context of underestimation. If you're keeping score at home, that's the first and most likely last time that it will ever happen. So soak it up. Today, August 26, 2010, I took the following photos:
That last one was actually just an IV from paramedic class yesterday. It wasn't one that I did. All the ones I did bled a lot more. Actually, I guess now would be a good time to let everyone know that based on extensive research conducted yesterday, there has to be way more than 10 pints of blood in the human body. Anyway, I think the last photo illustrates an important point about the other two photos. They're trying to bleed us dry. Christmas in August? What's more, I live in Arizona. The temperature is still regularly breaking triple digits. Santa's fat ass would literally die if he came down here with his furry jacket and arctic reindeer. This is getting ri-goddamn-diculous. It sort of makes me want to renounce everything upon which I've been raised and join one of the more rational countries and/or religions. I wonder if there are any North Korean Raelian missionaries in my neighborhood that might be able to offer me a promise of eternal happiness and guarantee that all holiday seasons will commence on an appropriate timeline. I would seriously consider it. At least in North Korea they're up front about the fact that you'll be worshipping a short fat guy with delusions of grandeur. Here they don't tell you that. They just quietly slip some Christmas paraphernalia in between the 40 lb. containers of Slim Jims and the 50 gallon drums of Jose Cuervo and hope the fish start biting. We're the fish, in case you have the devastating learning disability known as analagexia. It's not as dirty as it sounds.
The most startling thing to me is the very real possibility that all that Christmas crap was there even before today. I haven't been shopping in a long time. The toilet paper situation at my house was dire. I've been rewearing well used underwear for weeks because we ran out of laundry detergent. My beloved canine (pictured below) has been subsisting on a diet of dryer sheets and nickels for like a month. So for all I know, they put that stuff in the store around the same time every ethnic Albanian that I knew was celebrating Sultan Nouruz Remembrance day. But I don't know. Because I didn't go to the store. I was helping my Albanian friends celebrate.
So listen to Molly. You can tell by her photo that she is both swift and wise. Molly wants the order of holidays to remain. Molly says it goes Halloween, My Birthday, Thanksgiving, theeeeennnnn Christmas. Not fucking... Christmas pre-season, Labor Day, Christmas Lite, normal December 25th style Christmas, then like, Christmas Extra Time brought to you by FIFA World Cup®. Have some decency American retailers. Let us pay off our credit cards from last Christmas before you start flaunting stuffed Rudolphs in our financially overextended faces.
I would boycott Christmas altogether. But let's be serious. Harry Potter Lego Hogwart's Game is out this year. And I can't risk getting trampled in a Wal-Mart style Christmas Sacrifice Ritual. That's a role only a mother could fill. Hint Hint.
And if you're wondering about the title, think of the Chinese restaurant scene in A Christmas Story.
That last one was actually just an IV from paramedic class yesterday. It wasn't one that I did. All the ones I did bled a lot more. Actually, I guess now would be a good time to let everyone know that based on extensive research conducted yesterday, there has to be way more than 10 pints of blood in the human body. Anyway, I think the last photo illustrates an important point about the other two photos. They're trying to bleed us dry. Christmas in August? What's more, I live in Arizona. The temperature is still regularly breaking triple digits. Santa's fat ass would literally die if he came down here with his furry jacket and arctic reindeer. This is getting ri-goddamn-diculous. It sort of makes me want to renounce everything upon which I've been raised and join one of the more rational countries and/or religions. I wonder if there are any North Korean Raelian missionaries in my neighborhood that might be able to offer me a promise of eternal happiness and guarantee that all holiday seasons will commence on an appropriate timeline. I would seriously consider it. At least in North Korea they're up front about the fact that you'll be worshipping a short fat guy with delusions of grandeur. Here they don't tell you that. They just quietly slip some Christmas paraphernalia in between the 40 lb. containers of Slim Jims and the 50 gallon drums of Jose Cuervo and hope the fish start biting. We're the fish, in case you have the devastating learning disability known as analagexia. It's not as dirty as it sounds.
The most startling thing to me is the very real possibility that all that Christmas crap was there even before today. I haven't been shopping in a long time. The toilet paper situation at my house was dire. I've been rewearing well used underwear for weeks because we ran out of laundry detergent. My beloved canine (pictured below) has been subsisting on a diet of dryer sheets and nickels for like a month. So for all I know, they put that stuff in the store around the same time every ethnic Albanian that I knew was celebrating Sultan Nouruz Remembrance day. But I don't know. Because I didn't go to the store. I was helping my Albanian friends celebrate.
So listen to Molly. You can tell by her photo that she is both swift and wise. Molly wants the order of holidays to remain. Molly says it goes Halloween, My Birthday, Thanksgiving, theeeeennnnn Christmas. Not fucking... Christmas pre-season, Labor Day, Christmas Lite, normal December 25th style Christmas, then like, Christmas Extra Time brought to you by FIFA World Cup®. Have some decency American retailers. Let us pay off our credit cards from last Christmas before you start flaunting stuffed Rudolphs in our financially overextended faces.
I would boycott Christmas altogether. But let's be serious. Harry Potter Lego Hogwart's Game is out this year. And I can't risk getting trampled in a Wal-Mart style Christmas Sacrifice Ritual. That's a role only a mother could fill. Hint Hint.
And if you're wondering about the title, think of the Chinese restaurant scene in A Christmas Story.
8.04.2010
Baby Got (hurt) Back...
Last week I did what any rational adult male would do on a normal weekday. I went to the gym and injured my back. Having no experience with back injuries aside from seeing other people have them and knowing that I never wanted one, it was a bit disconcerting. Back injuries were the realm of old people and I guess, at 27, I've finally become one. It's unfortunate that it will still be another 38 years before I can claim the true and rightful spoils of my status, the glory that is the senior citizen discount. Until then, I exist in sort of a generational limbo. And anyone who has actually been to limbo knows there's not much to do there except think. So even though my back has mutinied against me, not being able to climb, run, hike, tattoo, or do anything really except watch TV and contemplate, this event has thrust me into a clarifying introspection and I realized a few things about myself.
In an act of uninsured desperation, I went to the chiropractor (the short story is that it worked in spite of my preconceived notions) and while filling out the necessary forms, there was a simple question that struck me as odd. The question asked "What is your level of health and fitness?" And the multiple choice answers were as follows:
-Below average
-Average
-Above average
The choices seemed simplistic. And even though it wasn't asking me to integrate a differential function, my mind began reeling. Level of health compared to what? Averages are by their very definition comparative. But the question offered no further information. Compared to the patients at a heart hospital in Kentucky? Probably above average. Compared to the predators I've been watching during Shark Week? Below average. Not knowing exactly what they were asking I just went with the safe bet and circled average. But then I started to think about my efforts toward health and fitness and began to wonder what other people were circling on this form. I imagine there must have been humble triathletes who would have circled below average because their 3 hour 22 minute marathon time was 27 minutes shy of the world record. And I'm sure there were the delusional ones who circled above average when they have been existing on a diet solely consisting of foods with Mc in the name but they walked 12 minutes on the treadmill last April while waiting for the results of one of Maury Povich's paternity tests.
It got me to thinking about averages and self perception. So I did a bit of research, which, in honor of tradition will be presented without sources. On another blog (I guess that's a source, secondary at best, probably tertiary) I found this:
Just click through to the other blog. Because that guy sums up my thoughts with way less peripheral BS. If I had written an article on the same concept it would have been 45 times as long. You know, because I think I'm awesome and I love to hear myself talk.
This sort of outlines the stance one must take when undertaking any endeavor in life. From the artist's perspective, the moment you don't think you suck, you stop learning, you stagnate, and you die. So even if from the aspect of comparison to the general public, someone is talented at drawing, in comparison to their unrealized potential they might as well be smearing dog poo on a piece of paper.
And this is the big issue I have with mothers. You know who you are. You all think your kids are so great. I'm sure this instinct is related to some kind of evolutionary survival imperative. But try and understand the disparity between what you think of your kids, what the rest of the world thinks of your kids, and what your kids actually think of themselves. It's a delicate balance between developing self esteem and reaching one's potential. So even though a child might do something good or even extraordinary every once in a while, years of empirical research by teams of doctors and scientists have repeatedly shown that the sun does not shine out of anyone's ass. Except mine. Just ask my mom.
In an act of uninsured desperation, I went to the chiropractor (the short story is that it worked in spite of my preconceived notions) and while filling out the necessary forms, there was a simple question that struck me as odd. The question asked "What is your level of health and fitness?" And the multiple choice answers were as follows:
-Below average
-Average
-Above average
The choices seemed simplistic. And even though it wasn't asking me to integrate a differential function, my mind began reeling. Level of health compared to what? Averages are by their very definition comparative. But the question offered no further information. Compared to the patients at a heart hospital in Kentucky? Probably above average. Compared to the predators I've been watching during Shark Week? Below average. Not knowing exactly what they were asking I just went with the safe bet and circled average. But then I started to think about my efforts toward health and fitness and began to wonder what other people were circling on this form. I imagine there must have been humble triathletes who would have circled below average because their 3 hour 22 minute marathon time was 27 minutes shy of the world record. And I'm sure there were the delusional ones who circled above average when they have been existing on a diet solely consisting of foods with Mc in the name but they walked 12 minutes on the treadmill last April while waiting for the results of one of Maury Povich's paternity tests.
It got me to thinking about averages and self perception. So I did a bit of research, which, in honor of tradition will be presented without sources. On another blog (I guess that's a source, secondary at best, probably tertiary) I found this:
96% of cancer patients in a hospital claim to be in better health than the average cancer patient.
93% of motorists consider themselves to be safer-than-average drivers.
90% students see themselves as more intelligent than the average student.
94% of college professors said they are better-than-average teachers.
Ironically, 92% said they are less biased than average, too.
Just click through to the other blog. Because that guy sums up my thoughts with way less peripheral BS. If I had written an article on the same concept it would have been 45 times as long. You know, because I think I'm awesome and I love to hear myself talk.
This sort of outlines the stance one must take when undertaking any endeavor in life. From the artist's perspective, the moment you don't think you suck, you stop learning, you stagnate, and you die. So even if from the aspect of comparison to the general public, someone is talented at drawing, in comparison to their unrealized potential they might as well be smearing dog poo on a piece of paper.
And this is the big issue I have with mothers. You know who you are. You all think your kids are so great. I'm sure this instinct is related to some kind of evolutionary survival imperative. But try and understand the disparity between what you think of your kids, what the rest of the world thinks of your kids, and what your kids actually think of themselves. It's a delicate balance between developing self esteem and reaching one's potential. So even though a child might do something good or even extraordinary every once in a while, years of empirical research by teams of doctors and scientists have repeatedly shown that the sun does not shine out of anyone's ass. Except mine. Just ask my mom.
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