Someone swiped my pen at work today.
It was a marvel of modern engineering: all smooth, blue plastic and expert writing ability. It made me want to sign some important document, like the Declaration, with it. But like all beautiful things doomed to fail, it disappeared from my desk sometime while I was at lunch. The bastards tried replacing it with a common American 1 pen, which - as loyal as I am - doesn't hold a candle to the variety Visa produces.
They've got the wealth, surely, and it shines through in their writing utensils.
Goodbye, dear pen. My words looked better because of you.
[update: it was my boss. She took it on "accident."]
* * * * *
I've been trying all week to come up with some unifying concept to wrap-up my Seattle/Yellowstone/all points west trip last week, but the words fail me.
Beauty I saw, and wonder I discovered, in the valleys of Mt. Rainier and the docks of Seattle. Creates great and small noted my presence in Yellowstone, and my footprints grace the trails of Roosevelt National Park.
But I think the pictures do it the best justice. So go check them out yourself. Maybe someday I'll share my thoughts, but some things - toothpicks, tortured humor, and ten bottles of Moose Drool beer - are mine alone to keep.
* * * * *
I'm thinking of leaving the cruel world of MySpace behind.
After my account was hacked while I was away, I have to admit feeling violated and unnerved. The whole thing shattered my sense of online security (mostly because I've never had any problems until now).
Suzanne thought maybe my password wasn't strong enough, but does coolness count for nothing in today's grim world? Must I develop a forgettable amalgam of dates, addresses, and initials so some creep living in his mother's basement can't send stupid comments to all 300 of my MySpace comrades?
Is there no decency?
It will be a slow transition, I think, because I like to maintain some sort of online presence. My photos and Google maps and rants will still have a place online. But going through my friends list with Katie the other night, and explaining who each person was ("How the heck do you have over 300 friends?" she asked in disbelief) left me with a hollow feeling.
I once had a Blogger account, and I think I'll resurrect that. But maybe I'll keep this MySpace account a shell, just in case some sap who graduated with me eight years ago decides to look me up. It happens, and then we don't talk again. That's MySpace.
That, and I'm finding less and less time to devote to this thing. Like everything else in our fickle culture, New Things last only as long as our attention span. And I hear there's good things coming out of Cupertino that deserve more of my attention.
And frankly, it's only the spare 20 folks or so who regularly talk to me on this thing, anyway. To hell with the rest of you.
I started my MySpace career doing research on bands for the music website I was writing for, and quickly found it a worthy replacement to the ultra-personal LiveJournal and Blogger stuff I was participating in. I've done a decent job of keeping my personal life off the screens of others, and for that I can be proud.
So stay tuned. Big changes are coming.
* * * * *
If you've eaten in one Chinese take-out, you eaten in them all.
That's what I've learned after grabbing dinner for grandma and I a few weeks ago. At the recently-opened China Garden on West Ave., I faced existential terror at the prospect of sitting in another bland, institutionalized Mandarin eatery serving the same neon pink sweet & sour sauce as everyone else.
The place was truly spartan. The only attempts at decoration were soy sauce containers on the tables, and etched glass partitions with bamboo and dragons engaged in constant struggle. Bare walls. Tile floors. Creamy, mauve, hospital-waiting-room decor. It was depressing, and as the cashier handed me a bag of almond chicken and egg rolls, I had nightmare flash of deja vu: this happens in the same way, in the same manner, with the same duck sauce, as every other town in America.
If MSG and bland, battered chicken is your gig, then Chinese places are the last refuge for the hungry and bored. Don't feel like spending the 15-20 minutes it takes to make a decent meal at home? Order the Peking Duck, and hope for the best.
General Tso was a bastard, and his legacy lives on in the same sort of cuisine the Red Chinese have learned to hate, much as the Mexicans almost started a second War with Texas over Taco Bell.
Real Chinese cuisine is a marvel of tradition and ceremony. American Chinese cuisine (it's big in Ireland too, I guess) sticks Moa's people in restaurants whose name can feature a combination of "China," "Garden," "Buffet," "City," "Yen," "Lucky," and "King" (go ahead - make your own business by mixing and matching the words).
You have to travel to a big city to sample any kind of authentic Chinese meal, so in the meantime grandma and I will travel to Yen King, the classiest Chinese joint in town, and enjoy our fried rice and glowing sauce amid steaming bowls of egg drop soup.
Good luck, comrades, and may fortune cookies rain down upon you.
In bed.Someone swiped my pen at work today.
It was a marvel of modern engineering: all smooth, blue plastic and expert writing ability. It made me want to sign some important document, like the Declaration, with it. But like all beautiful things doomed to fail, it disappeared from my desk sometime while I was at lunch. The bastards tried replacing it with a common American 1 pen, which - as loyal as I am - doesn't hold a candle to the variety Visa produces.
They've got the wealth, surely, and it shines through in their writing utensils.
Goodbye, dear pen. My words looked better because of you.
[update: it was my boss. She took it on "accident."]
* * * * *
I've been trying all week to come up with some unifying concept to wrap-up my Seattle/Yellowstone/all points west trip last week, but the words fail me.
Beauty I saw, and wonder I discovered, in the valleys of Mt. Rainier and the docks of Seattle. Creates great and small noted my presence in Yellowstone, and my footprints grace the trails of Roosevelt National Park.
But I think the pictures do it the best justice. So go check them out yourself. Maybe someday I'll share my thoughts, but some things - toothpicks, tortured humor, and ten bottles of Moose Drool beer - are mine alone to keep.
* * * * *
I'm thinking of leaving the cruel world of MySpace behind.
After my account was hacked while I was away, I have to admit feeling violated and unnerved. The whole thing shattered my sense of online security (mostly because I've never had any problems until now).
Suzanne thought maybe my password wasn't strong enough, but does coolness count for nothing in today's grim world? Must I develop a forgettable amalgam of dates, addresses, and initials so some creep living in his mother's basement can't send stupid comments to all 300 of my MySpace comrades?
Is there no decency?
It will be a slow transition, I think, because I like to maintain some sort of online presence. My photos and Google maps and rants will still have a place online. But going through my friends list with Katie the other night, and explaining who each person was ("How the heck do you have over 300 friends?" she asked in disbelief) left me with a hollow feeling.
I once had a Blogger account, and I think I'll resurrect that. But maybe I'll keep this MySpace account a shell, just in case some sap who graduated with me eight years ago decides to look me up. It happens, and then we don't talk again. That's MySpace.
That, and I'm finding less and less time to devote to this thing. Like everything else in our fickle culture, New Things last only as long as our attention span. And I hear there's good things coming out of Cupertino that deserve more of my attention.
And frankly, it's only the spare 20 folks or so who regularly talk to me on this thing, anyway. To hell with the rest of you.
I started my MySpace career doing research on bands for the music website I was writing for, and quickly found it a worthy replacement to the ultra-personal LiveJournal and Blogger stuff I was participating in. I've done a decent job of keeping my personal life off the screens of others, and for that I can be proud.
So stay tuned. Big changes are coming.
* * * * *
If you've eaten in one Chinese take-out, you eaten in them all.
That's what I've learned after grabbing dinner for grandma and I a few weeks ago. At the recently-opened China Garden on West Ave., I faced existential terror at the prospect of sitting in another bland, institutionalized Mandarin eatery serving the same neon pink sweet & sour sauce as everyone else.
The place was truly spartan. The only attempts at decoration were soy sauce containers on the tables, and etched glass partitions with bamboo and dragons engaged in constant struggle. Bare walls. Tile floors. Creamy, mauve, hospital-waiting-room decor. It was depressing, and as the cashier handed me a bag of almond chicken and egg rolls, I had nightmare flash of deja vu: this happens in the same way, in the same manner, with the same duck sauce, as every other town in America.
If MSG and bland, battered chicken is your gig, then Chinese places are the last refuge for the hungry and bored. Don't feel like spending the 15-20 minutes it takes to make a decent meal at home? Order the Peking Duck, and hope for the best.
General Tso was a bastard, and his legacy lives on in the same sort of cuisine the Red Chinese have learned to hate, much as the Mexicans almost started a second War with Texas over Taco Bell.
Real Chinese cuisine is a marvel of tradition and ceremony. American Chinese cuisine (it's big in Ireland too, I guess) sticks Moa's people in restaurants whose name can feature a combination of "China," "Garden," "Buffet," "City," "Yen," "Lucky," and "King" (go ahead - make your own business by mixing and matching the words).
You have to travel to a big city to sample any kind of authentic Chinese meal, so in the meantime grandma and I will travel to Yen King, the classiest Chinese joint in town, and enjoy our fried rice and glowing sauce amid steaming bowls of egg drop soup.
Good luck, comrades, and may fortune cookies rain down upon you.
In bed.
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