Thursday, April 29, 2010

words week

"I doubt that. Who would drop a whole candy bar and not know it? That's like leaving a statue in a taxi. Someone put it there on purpose. Someone who pushes dope. I read once that they feed dope in chocolates to litle kids, and then the kids become dope addicts, then these people sell them dope at very high prices which they just can't help but buy because when you're addicted you have to have your dope. High prices and all. And Jamie, we don't have that kind of money."

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

consider the sentence

A pausing, enraptured reader should be able to look deeply into the sentence and discern among the words all of the traits and characteristics they share. The impression to be given is that the words in the sentence have lived with each other for quite some time, decisive time, and have deepened and grown and matured in each other’s company—and that they cannot live without each other. 
Here is what I believe seems to happen in such a sentence: 
Once the words begin to settle into their circumstance in a sentence and decide to make the most of their predicament, they look around and take notice of their neighbors. They seek out affinities, they adapt to each other, they begin to make adjustments in their appearance to try to blend in with each other better and enhance any resemblance. Pretty soon in the writer’s eyes the words in the sentence are all vibrating and destabilizing themselves: no longer solid and immutable, they start to flutter this way and that in playful receptivity, taking into themselves parts of neighboring words, or shedding parts of themselves into the gutter of the page or screen; and in this process of intimate mutation and transformation, the words swap alphabetary vitals and viscera, tiny bits and dabs of their languagey inner and outer natures; the words intermingle and blend and smear and recompose themselves. They begin to take on a similar typographical physique. The phrasing now feels literally all of a piece. The lonely space of the sentence feels colonized. There’s a sumptuousness, a roundedness, a dimensionality to what has emerged. The sentence feels filled in from end to end; there are no vacant segments along its length, no pockets of unperforming or underperforming verbal matter. The words of the sentence have in fact formed a united community.
from "The Sentence is a Lonely Place"  
via

bear (enthusiast) of the week

meet bear. meatbear. haha! fuck.

bear is born from the stupidrighteous web log hyperbole and a half

hyperbole and a half is a great name, and its keeper makes self portraits like this: 

well now i do.

i'm currently seeking legal advice on how to force this person to be my friend. 

Saturday, April 24, 2010

our lil devil gets sleepy

let's get electoral*

Though I have some real strong and generally obnoxious opinions on charitable giving, I want these people in upstate new york to get $50,000:


So please vote for CAC Woodside. My friend and yoga teacher Karen Faith can tell you all about how wonderful that place is. And Pepsi won't spam you.** And every day since I've voted, it's gone up the ranking ladder. So be like me: Make a difference.


*somehow, I feel that I may have already used this title for a blog post. how embarrassing to be so redundant.
**I know absolutely nothing about computers and will spam the shit out of you even if pepsi won't .

Friday, April 23, 2010

bear of the week

bear of the week is wasted.


bonus: baseball, flannels, beard.

this commercial is my springtime god.

the happiest version of 'the gift of the magi' ever

by currey d.

me: "i bought you a meat sandwich."
you: "i bought you a meat sandwich."

Monday, April 19, 2010

jimmy john's sandwiches changed my life.

more specifically, my affinity for the #6 (dijon'd, and none of that "dijonnaise" crap either. this isn't the suburbs.) delivered straight to my mouth 1-3 times a week has finally paid off, you guys!

today's minor sandwich emergency potentially* became my life's major game changer.

now i'm not exactly proud to admit that i know all the jimmy john's sandwich delivery bros. but i do. i know them all and they know me, probably as "#6 with dijon and the constant state of dread in the office 'neath the stairs."

hence my shock - yes my SHOCK! - when after finally sorting out today's lil mishap and patiently awaiting my sandwich, i receive a phone call from a young man who cannot seem to find the office 'neath the stairs.

"the hell?!" think i, who is so accustomed to the tall one bursting through the door in a stuttering flurry, or the asian one with the hardcore winter riding gear in fuckoff neon yellow, or the other one who's always offering to bring me tacos instead (racist); they know where i am! they probably judge me! so who on earth is this feller stumbling 'round the building with a wayward sandwich that longs for my stomach-shaped home?!

he is:

  • 19, maybe 20 years old.
  • full of the cocksure swagger of a 19, maybe 20 year old. 
  • unabashedly sporting a single diamond stud in the right ear. a cannibis leaf shaped stud. 
  • unaware of how rote the sandwich/receipt transaction has become after a year of few sandwichless weeks. i know where to sign, kid! now gimme my lunch and let me get back to collating! 
i ought maybe to have known this morning, having woken up hours - literally, hours - late and still finding a fucking sweet parking spot right outside my office that it was to be a monday of magic. not "fuckin' magnets" magic, but the quieter kind, the kind that feels how you suspect a promise might and sets your loins on fire with the certainty that fortune may in fact touch you in your touch places and make  it feel good.

ol' diamond bud, signed receipt crumpled in hand, takes one last look around, and i start to busy myself about the unwrapping of sandwiches. at the door, he unexpectedly and fortuitously turns around, positively brimming with aforementioned cocksureness and smarm, and says to me, he says:
"you should take your glasses off. let your hair down. you'd look cuter." 
batter my heart, three-person'd kitchen, i've seen the goddamn light. so simple! so true!  i could have it all: boats, friends, marriage proposals, freddie prinze jr. inexplicably hackey sacking his way into my heart, dogs that won't ever die ever, cable television, art shows, and real wisdom (but only after a brief flirtation with vapidity and self-indulgent hissy fits that mercifully, albeit melodramatically, culminate in my unattractive but true blue childhood pal reminding me where i come from) if i just take my glasses off. and let my hair down. and maybe vaseline myself into a pair of pleather tights. 

this could be huge.

we're talking going from this:

i just want someone to love me for who i am on the inside. and my art.
to this:

i was just eating this salad, thinking of you. 

queue up the frilly pop soundtrack, friends. fucking epic monday.

*pending makeover montage

here's the plan, beauregard

when i become real life famous and very wealthy with macarthur genius grant dollars, you can bet your ass i'll fund your shits and giggles, too serious.

in the meantime, just take my excellent advice.

hither: manly slang from the 19th century


and then:
                   B: i need to memorize these colloquialisms from the 1800s
 me: i think the trick is to first write them down in a sentence. and then hurl the sentences at the first lout who crosses you. and then blog about how you totally wordshanked that boner with your scathing anachronisms. and then you will a) memorize effectively and b) become INTERNET FAMOUS.
 B: holy shit
could you become my mentor, or at least benefactor?
 me: when i win my genius grant, benefactress for realz.
  WHY THE FUCK WON'T JIMMY JOHNS DOT COM LOAD WITH MY SANDWICH WISHES.


finally: please send sandwiches, attn: my mouth. the internets are defying me.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

tic tack talk

guess what? I ripped this picture off of the Internet because I didn't want to walk to Naomi's
and get our authentic bottle to photograph and include in this post. Deal with it!



there's nothing like the national drink of el salvador mixed with pineapple juice and orange drank to get the old chatterboxes going. I'm not sure if it's the rooster on the front of the bottle, or the size of the alcohol content disclosure (30%), but it really helps young ladies fact hard facts:
  • spring is a good way to get ready for summer, which is the best;
  • kittens win at everything;
  • more school might be okay sometime;
  • there are more good people in the world than we know what to do with;
  • we know some fine* artists;
  • and, most importantly, hangovers are best done with scrabble boards.
I recommend that you get yourself a career coffee friend (you may borrow ours as necessary with appropriate qualifications**) and make her bring you some Tic Tack from her next coffee adventure.


*"fine" always indicates "fine" in the Kerlin style of diction; that is, "fine" as in "my wife is fine" rather than "fine" as in "oh, okay, yes, that."
**old naomerbear will keep the company of only the greatest among us. inquire within regarding appropriate credentials for applicants.

Friday, April 16, 2010

we are keeping our liability limited, day traders


CC I think he wants a closer affiliation with the corp.
me: of course he does. everyone wants to buy into our stock.

 
CC: the IPO is tempting
  but not really worth the scrutiny
  or the pressure from shareholders
me: or all the formal letters and memos we'd have to prepare.
 CC: exactly
 me: carrie, i've about had it up to my tits with formal communications.
 CC: fucking disclosure statements
  haha
  Best regards,
  Carrie
  you know what?
 sometimes my regards are mediocre at best

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

bear of the week

dude's all:
i fucking rule at softballlll!!!!

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Monday, April 12, 2010

good questions.



please direct all questions regarding just who the hell i think i am to getoverit.com. 

spring gimmicks. thank god.

spring 2.0: 2009 you are not. 

many thanks for that. 

this, it turns out, is a season for high spirits and mesmerizing moustaches, unintentional alliteration and new friends

a long and luscious backyard season under way now with yesterday's sunday having happened as beautifully and jovially as it did. some showed up with brand new facial hairs - brilliant, manly facial hairs; the sort that on some would scream "ATTENTION: I NEED ATTENTION" and on others would eerily whisper "so where do you keep your moisturizer?" but on this one, oozed the justifiable smarm of an all-star second baseman and demanded your rapture and respect. 

i'll never understand how some people just pull off gimmicks. i can't wear a tube sock without being accused of trying too hard. 

others showed up with ipads they didn't bother to share with us despite our unabashed enthusiasm and wanton cravings for toys. 

most just showed up with a case of beer and a great attitude. 
barbecue attitude. 
barbetude (thank you for that, simon. a good portmanteau is hard to find).

we inadvertently (and also, not really) invented a brand new and exciting party game: rock, papers, scissors, slam poetry. (thank you, aforementioned new friend for that.) 
it's as intense and mind-blowing as it sounds and you should probably come over some sunday to learn how to play.

oliver continued to not be dead, but to bark along to a capella renditions of the ice cream truck song. 

the point is this: it's only april and already i'm sitting around wistfully regretting not saving my v-card for chicago spring/summer 2010.

kyle (of recent moustache fame) and i consider the approaching season not so long ago and he says to me, he says, "what's your plan?" 

i was, of course and unsurprisingly, unaware that i ought to have one. but i did get to thinking, not too much and certainly not too hard, about the last year and last spring and maybe lessons or revised approaches and what i come to after at least days maybe weeks of relaxed meditation is this:

i don't need a plan.

i will continue to yoga and bike and cook and love and dance and dance (and that includes softshoe) and write and traipse and with just a little bit of luck and some fine weather, i've faith it'll all (continue to) work out just fine.

so we'll call that chicago 2.0. a renewed faith in and affection for sundays and pals. 

we will spend many sundays on 12th street beach and on various patios with tacos and pitchers. 

we will celebrate our dreadfully accomplished friends. 

we (read: you, not i, for i bronze like a champion) will sustain sunburns and argue unnecessarily about the intersection of whimsical and melodramatic pop, and how that may or mayn't relate to how surreal and awesome it is to see broken social scene and raekwon in one clusterfucked weekend.

we will listen to a lot of the song "english garden."

not even zuckerberg can stop this. 

not this year, zuckerdude. 

Saturday, April 3, 2010

such prescience




because awkward is the new graceful, and because if (like summer), I haven't seen you in a while, I probably miss you.

Friday, April 2, 2010

bear of the week


this panda bear is not a pervert.
boo-yah

enjoy your weekend, maniacs.