Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Apology
Shannon would like to apologize for the post directly below this one because it doesn't make any sense. But I'm going to keep it up anyway. You've been warned.
Random Selections From the Dictionary Series
AVERSE
To use the word averse in a sentence, "I feel averse to accept the reality of my living situation at this moment."
I do not like waking up to news copters hovering above my house. And the number of people who honk right outside my window at all hours has led to the belief that there is sign somewhere saying something to the effect of, “Honk. I dare you assholes!” There is a line around the block of garbage-bagged folk waiting to go through my neighbor’s garbage can like it’s full of chilly dogs and ice cold Coca-Cola, and not just beer bottle caps and condom wrappers. However, back to the point, I am also reminded that “averse” is the combination of the words “a” and “verse”.
Little known fact, back with in the ancient world, when the Greeks were still running around naked all the time, there was a Global Cooling crisis, which forced them to learn how to put on their clothes for the first time. To make this new task more fun they would sing a melody. A Verse, if you will.
“Tra la la”, Apalpogenous the brown-eyed beauty chirped. “Gee, I hate this putting-on-clothes business” she mumbled.” But slipped her bed sheets on one cautious wrap after another with the brave stoicism we have learned of her people. She warbled again, “Tra la la laaa. Tra la lie…”
As if she had been wrapping herself in bed sheets for years--and she kind of had been, just not vertically--with one delicate movement she slipped the end of the sheet into the nook of her armpit and she was clothed.
“I may be um, against... No. Upset? No. No, I may be AVERSE to this getting dressed thing,” she proclaimed, “but a verse sung during the interim distracts me from this deplorable act.”
Henceforth we have the word, averse.
To use the word averse in a sentence, "I feel averse to accept the reality of my living situation at this moment."
I do not like waking up to news copters hovering above my house. And the number of people who honk right outside my window at all hours has led to the belief that there is sign somewhere saying something to the effect of, “Honk. I dare you assholes!” There is a line around the block of garbage-bagged folk waiting to go through my neighbor’s garbage can like it’s full of chilly dogs and ice cold Coca-Cola, and not just beer bottle caps and condom wrappers. However, back to the point, I am also reminded that “averse” is the combination of the words “a” and “verse”.
Little known fact, back with in the ancient world, when the Greeks were still running around naked all the time, there was a Global Cooling crisis, which forced them to learn how to put on their clothes for the first time. To make this new task more fun they would sing a melody. A Verse, if you will.
“Tra la la”, Apalpogenous the brown-eyed beauty chirped. “Gee, I hate this putting-on-clothes business” she mumbled.” But slipped her bed sheets on one cautious wrap after another with the brave stoicism we have learned of her people. She warbled again, “Tra la la laaa. Tra la lie…”
As if she had been wrapping herself in bed sheets for years--and she kind of had been, just not vertically--with one delicate movement she slipped the end of the sheet into the nook of her armpit and she was clothed.
“I may be um, against... No. Upset? No. No, I may be AVERSE to this getting dressed thing,” she proclaimed, “but a verse sung during the interim distracts me from this deplorable act.”
Henceforth we have the word, averse.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Voice Lesson 5 (the un-lesson)
As in all critical moments in my life I find myself in a public restroom pondering my future, the past and the uneasy present. I've been putting off lessons for three weeks now. I've tried to be optimistic and courteous. I will practice, I tell myself, and then I don't, so I email my teacher and request we reschedule.
Last week she sent me this message in response to me postponing our lesson for another week, Of course, lovely red-headed goddess!
Tonight I have told myself that I must go, no more putting it off. I must confess that I am the same person who for three months didn't practice the guitar in high school but attended the lessons with a guilty conscience and the acid of guilt in her tummy.
God, I hate re-runs. I look at my phone, 5:24. Six minutes. Be honest with her, Shannon. Don't chicken out.
A couple weeks back Brijesh, a Ph.D. student in my department who I have found on more than several occasions singing Gershwin tunes to himself in the hallway, gave me a hint. "You can enroll in a music class and not go. That's what I did."
Brijesh has a very beautifully modulated voice carrying both the Indian and British accent. "I'm enrolled in beginning piano or some such nonsense, that way I am a student and can rent the practice rooms for my own sake."
He hinted too that no one used those rooms before 9 am, so I might be able to sneak in before work.
"Really!" My voice broke. "How great would that be?!"
I imagined the satisfaction of getting up with the roosters and singing my guts out as the sun rose on a new day. What I liked about the idea was its clandestine nature and it's organic parameters. I was to sneak into one of the soundproof rooms to perform ancient melodies to an imagined crowd for simple joy of experiencing a sublime sensation before beginning my straight job as a department schmo. It was just so moderately dangerous, goofy and romantic. The kind of thing you want to be discovered for doing. But I never did it.
I pushed the snooze button from 5:25 to 7am and did not regret it much.
Tonight I wait for my teacher to call me. 5:31, she does, and she knows. "Hey... You there?" Meaning, am I at the practice space.
I'm here. I've strayed from the restroom and now I'm in mid-pace in the halls planning my confession.
I've just not practiced. Simple. I love these lessons, but I don't know what to do with them. Maybe I'm not a soloist, but a choir girl. I don't know.
Like everything else I'm doing, it seems I'm looking desperately at all these other things to stand in for something else. Something much grander then singing, dancing... maybe more to do with that part about my heart opening up. Something like that. To be moved and to share that moment. Really, that's where the satisfaction is.
"I need to confess..."
"You haven't practiced..." She asks without accusing.
"I haven't. And I've failed to articulate what it is I want from this."
The word "articulate" was chosen early on as a good word for a confession.
It's not that my teacher was not impressed with my verbiage, it's just that it's not the words that matter. She just knows the signs of someone loosing steam when they've been fueled solely of their own kooky visions.
"You can call me when you have a song..." She says. "It's not about pressure. I'm here when you're ready."
Imagine if it were not my teacher but someone else saying something like this...
This is what I'm imagining.
Last week she sent me this message in response to me postponing our lesson for another week, Of course, lovely red-headed goddess!
Tonight I have told myself that I must go, no more putting it off. I must confess that I am the same person who for three months didn't practice the guitar in high school but attended the lessons with a guilty conscience and the acid of guilt in her tummy.
God, I hate re-runs. I look at my phone, 5:24. Six minutes. Be honest with her, Shannon. Don't chicken out.
A couple weeks back Brijesh, a Ph.D. student in my department who I have found on more than several occasions singing Gershwin tunes to himself in the hallway, gave me a hint. "You can enroll in a music class and not go. That's what I did."
Brijesh has a very beautifully modulated voice carrying both the Indian and British accent. "I'm enrolled in beginning piano or some such nonsense, that way I am a student and can rent the practice rooms for my own sake."
He hinted too that no one used those rooms before 9 am, so I might be able to sneak in before work.
"Really!" My voice broke. "How great would that be?!"
I imagined the satisfaction of getting up with the roosters and singing my guts out as the sun rose on a new day. What I liked about the idea was its clandestine nature and it's organic parameters. I was to sneak into one of the soundproof rooms to perform ancient melodies to an imagined crowd for simple joy of experiencing a sublime sensation before beginning my straight job as a department schmo. It was just so moderately dangerous, goofy and romantic. The kind of thing you want to be discovered for doing. But I never did it.
I pushed the snooze button from 5:25 to 7am and did not regret it much.
Tonight I wait for my teacher to call me. 5:31, she does, and she knows. "Hey... You there?" Meaning, am I at the practice space.
I'm here. I've strayed from the restroom and now I'm in mid-pace in the halls planning my confession.
I've just not practiced. Simple. I love these lessons, but I don't know what to do with them. Maybe I'm not a soloist, but a choir girl. I don't know.
Like everything else I'm doing, it seems I'm looking desperately at all these other things to stand in for something else. Something much grander then singing, dancing... maybe more to do with that part about my heart opening up. Something like that. To be moved and to share that moment. Really, that's where the satisfaction is.
"I need to confess..."
"You haven't practiced..." She asks without accusing.
"I haven't. And I've failed to articulate what it is I want from this."
The word "articulate" was chosen early on as a good word for a confession.
It's not that my teacher was not impressed with my verbiage, it's just that it's not the words that matter. She just knows the signs of someone loosing steam when they've been fueled solely of their own kooky visions.
"You can call me when you have a song..." She says. "It's not about pressure. I'm here when you're ready."
Imagine if it were not my teacher but someone else saying something like this...
This is what I'm imagining.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Dance Moves to "It's Good to Be King"
Words and Phrases to consider:
Karate
Channeling
Possession
David Bowie Haircut
Protestant Upbringing
Laundry
Karate
Channeling
Possession
David Bowie Haircut
Protestant Upbringing
Laundry
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Porn for Plumbers
Even though you could imagine The Plumber and his preferences. His facility for intricate adjustments matched with raw strength for heavy lifting. His intimate affection for tiny parts and their proper location. The knowledge of piping, the in's and out's, and the management of fluids on the brink of overflow... Well, I'm just saying he might be a hard one to please, but as it turns out my plumber's taste in porn is pretty boring.
When I returned home to my apartment the other day I was surprised to find unique items on my computer desktop.
Pop-up windows go with porn like bread goes with butter, lubricants with dildos, so when I flipped open the screen returning from a long day of making double-sided copies and crafting the illusion of a naturally perky demeanor at my day job, I was surprised to see 3x5 windows offering me love and affections from nice blond-headed ladies.
Hmm, I thought, that's odd. Figuring the cosmos was giving me a sign. Likely, get laid girl. But a confusing sign because I don't really have a thing for blonds of either gender.
Cosmos, double check your notes!, I admonished, and closed the half-dozen pop-up windows without a further thought about it.
Seems the stars and their alignment had little to do with it. It has more to do with the plumber and his ring of keys granting him access to each unit in the building I manage.
Last week a leaky shower head in the upstairs bathroom had made it's way through the floorboards and out the ceiling of Unit 3. So this week our plumber and his buddy have been patching leaks and replacing ceiling tiles.
They did have reason to enter my apartment. I had asked them to put out bait for nasty little red roaches that, though infrequently appear in my kitchen, DO appear in my kitchen and therefore tempt my mind with their presents and require a wholesale stamping out.
However that was several days ago that they set the bait. Last night when I came home the pop-ups were back, so were a couple of downloaded pictures of international women in halter tops and cut offs leaning awkwardly on ocean-worn logs. And if that were not incriminating enough an internet browser was left open with the login name of my plumber.
I neglected to catch the name of the site, but did read the list of promises it made to it's users:
How do you know when she's ready to be kissed?
How to pick up ladies without using "pick up lines"?
Why do women want to destroy the fun in relationships? Find out how to make her enjoy the fun with you.
10 great "date night" ideas for zero dollars!
I offer my humble advise to my plumber; a husband, and father of 3 if I recall correctly. When taking advantage of an empty apartment with internet access away from the prying eyes of your wife and children be sure to destroy the evidence. Think of it like plumbing. You want all the labor to be unseen and hidden away. Just like a sewer line flowing deep beneath the surface of the earth. Because when it bubbles up for others to find, well, it's just gross.
When I returned home to my apartment the other day I was surprised to find unique items on my computer desktop.
Pop-up windows go with porn like bread goes with butter, lubricants with dildos, so when I flipped open the screen returning from a long day of making double-sided copies and crafting the illusion of a naturally perky demeanor at my day job, I was surprised to see 3x5 windows offering me love and affections from nice blond-headed ladies.
Hmm, I thought, that's odd. Figuring the cosmos was giving me a sign. Likely, get laid girl. But a confusing sign because I don't really have a thing for blonds of either gender.
Cosmos, double check your notes!, I admonished, and closed the half-dozen pop-up windows without a further thought about it.
Seems the stars and their alignment had little to do with it. It has more to do with the plumber and his ring of keys granting him access to each unit in the building I manage.
Last week a leaky shower head in the upstairs bathroom had made it's way through the floorboards and out the ceiling of Unit 3. So this week our plumber and his buddy have been patching leaks and replacing ceiling tiles.
They did have reason to enter my apartment. I had asked them to put out bait for nasty little red roaches that, though infrequently appear in my kitchen, DO appear in my kitchen and therefore tempt my mind with their presents and require a wholesale stamping out.
However that was several days ago that they set the bait. Last night when I came home the pop-ups were back, so were a couple of downloaded pictures of international women in halter tops and cut offs leaning awkwardly on ocean-worn logs. And if that were not incriminating enough an internet browser was left open with the login name of my plumber.
I neglected to catch the name of the site, but did read the list of promises it made to it's users:
How do you know when she's ready to be kissed?
How to pick up ladies without using "pick up lines"?
Why do women want to destroy the fun in relationships? Find out how to make her enjoy the fun with you.
10 great "date night" ideas for zero dollars!
I offer my humble advise to my plumber; a husband, and father of 3 if I recall correctly. When taking advantage of an empty apartment with internet access away from the prying eyes of your wife and children be sure to destroy the evidence. Think of it like plumbing. You want all the labor to be unseen and hidden away. Just like a sewer line flowing deep beneath the surface of the earth. Because when it bubbles up for others to find, well, it's just gross.
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