Day in the Life: January 2008 Archives

So Friday I chaperoned a First Grade field trip to see the play "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie."  I survived, is all I'm saying.

And at least no one ended up with a bruised penis, so hey!  Win-win.

How about this local race?

Run 2 miles from Bell Tower to local Krispy Kreme, eat one dozen donuts, run 2 miles back, and do it all in under an hour!

It's the Krispy Kreme challenge, and the vomiting is EPIC.

Yes, it was dreamed up by an undergrad student - what, you're surprised?  But this year we'll have 2,000 people running, eating, and yes, maybe throwing up all over Hillsborough Street.

I know, I know.  I should just back away from the internet, and I must say that I've done an admirable job of it as far as avoiding all the political nonsense that comes in an election year.  But I still like to surf during my lunch hour, usually blogs that I like and fluffy silly sites in the fandoms I enjoy, and these places are not immune to the stupid - particularly as far as commenters are concerned.  And today, the stupid?  I can't seem to escape it.

Let me give you a few cases in point.

Let's kick things off with an entire flamewar devoted to the fact that an actor in the Broadway version of The Little Mermaid was seen--Brace Yourselves, People, This One's a Doozy--SMOKING!  Outside!  While in makeup!  WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?!?!?!

Comment that brought me to the precipice of visiting fiery doom upon my fellow earthlings?  This one:

Well, us non-smokers are tired of getting lung cancer and dying because of smokers who have no problem with polluting our lungs along with theirs. I don't care whether or not it's legal. You're allowed to do it, fine. But don't ever expect to stop being treated as lesser human beings, because that's what murderers are.

Full disclosure - I am not a smoker, and find smoke gross.  But really, wtf?  I know that the internet has made it all about the Oversharing, and the Passing Judgement, and the Gaseous Vitriol, but really, I'd like to think that folks retained a sense of proportion. Especially when said folks live in NYC, which probably has some other air quality issues worth addressing...

Apparently not.  Witness the photographs of the freaking BODY BAG containing Heath Ledger (I am not linking, though if you've hit any news sites today you've probably seen them). And don't give me that tired nonsense about, "Oh, but that's what the public WANTS!  They have a right to know!"

No. Do not want. And please explain how I can't understand the concept of "dead" without a photo of the body. I'm not going to take to the streets yelling about being oppressed because I can't see pictures of a dead body, no matter how famous the person it belonged to was.  I know he's dead, and why, and that's where my "right" to information--if we even really have such a thing, which I doubt--about another human being ends.  It's called decorum.  We used to have some.

We also used to have a sense of compassion for humans. I specify "humans," because of this Amy Winehouse story.  Didn't watch the crack-smoking video, because human trainwrecks in technicolor ick me out. But I came across an article on her today, and read it.  Should have stopped before I got to the comments, is all I'm sayin'.

Why?

Because at the end of an article detailing the problems of a troubled and talented young woman, the most salient thing one respondent had to say was this:

If no one is going to help her at least can the RSPCA get the kitten out of her household? She might be chosing that lifestyle, the cat isn't.

Whoo. I need to step back - that milk of human kindness is about to drown me.  Or the kitten.  Whatever.

So to sum up - crazy people still crazy.  Internet still a live version of the DSM-IV.  I remain disappointed in just about everything, and may have to buy new shoes to fill the gaping hole in my soul.

Have a nice day.

I must be getting old.  I have seen exactly none of the nominated films, and with the exception of "No Country for Old Men," have no plans to Netflix them.

Although, given Hublet's recently revived interest in Bob Dylan and his continuing interest in Cate Blanchett, we may also Netflix "I'm Not There."

And I don't care about the 43-hour Oscar television extravaganza, either.  Let's face it - the only reason I watched in seasons past was to see who showed up wearing something completely ridiculous.  Since I now have Go Fug Yourself to sort through the chiffon-coated chaff for me, there's no longer any reason to watch the red carpet stuff, except maybe to see if Joan Rivers has finally succeeded in transforming herself into a live-action version of Madame.

I'm too young to be so curmudgeonly.  I blame Hollywood. 

How to tell that you've got middle-school aged boys in your vicinity...

This weekend as I was driving along our local highway I noticed that there was one of those portable display signs--you know, the freestanding ones with the arrow and the backlit white space that allow you to put letters on them--at the entrance to one of the neighborhoods near the elementary and middle schools.

The sign was congratulating someone's buddy on their hole-in-one at a local golf course.  It read, "Congratulations, [name of random dude] on your hole-in-one!"  Then it listed the course name and hole #. 

"That's nice," I thought, and continued on my way.

The next morning, as the family made our traditionally extremely late and harried way to church, I happened to glance at the sign.  And then I started laughing, because apparently I am a twelve-year-old boy at heart.  Because the sign now read:

"Congratulations on your butthole!"

Okay, hee.  Totally inappropriate discussion/explanation for The Boy ensued, and we guffawed our way to church.  Or The Boy and I guffawed, and Hublet looked somewhat pained.

I know, I know. Vandalism!  Low-level public vulgarity!  Corruption of young boy on a Sunday morning!

But still, the word butthole just makes me laugh.  It's an involuntary reflex left over from childhood.  Sue me.

 And before you bring it up, no, I didn't tamper with the sign.

Saw VeggieTales movie on Saturday.  Boy thoroughly enjoyed it, especially the carnivorous cheese curls.

But the best part for me was during the credits, when the cast did a riff on the B-52's Rock Lobster, entitled, Rock Monster!

I was gleeful!  And then I just felt really, really old.

Well, the house was clean for approximately four and a half minutes on Christmas Eve, so I guess I'll call that one a victory.

We're home, our arms are sore from Wii Sports, and frankly, I'm ready to plunge into the dark drudgery of the winter months, unencumbered by cheer.  I think I've used up my cheer quota for the foreseeable future. I may have even worked up the will to clean out the attic.  I know! 

Also, just so you know, I have no New Year's resolutions.  Thinking that I might be up to cleaning out the attic doesn't count.

Saw Sweeny Todd yesterday, a good movie that has the distinction of being the only time I've ever used the phrase, "Nice arterial spray!" as a compliment.  Not that I have much occasion to go around commenting on arterial sprays, regardless of what Hublet may tell you.

I'll be back to my regular ranting and raving soon - just wanted to let you know that I'm back and alive, and that I hope the same can be said for all of you.