Saturday, August 27, 2005

the communication age

Once again, I’d just like to reiterate that “Toastios” look a lot like Cheerios, but they sure as hell don’t taste like ‘em. And that’s the truth.

More importantly, I’d like to express a genuine concern. For years, the “drunk dial” to me, was one of life’s great mysteries. Why did alcohol create a motivation for communication of a cellular nature? I never understood it. While under the influence, I certainly never felt any of these dialing urges bubbling up within myself … until recently. I fear I’m becoming the drunk dialer I used to mock.

I’ve started trying to play it off as just a normal phone call, but that just doesn’t work. The reason I tend to regret these drunk dials is because oft times, it feels like the person on the other end is being patronizing, when really, they’re just being sober.

But then I realize that in a state of inebriation, I have the same level of legal contractual capacity as children and the mentally ill, both of which are in the heavily talked-down-to sector of the population. So maybe I have a right to receive that patronizing treatment. But you know what, maybe no one should be talking down to anyone. This is my plea to the sober and the world at large: Put away your condescension trucker hat and slip on the beret of equality and understanding.

I think I’ve made my point.

Friday, August 26, 2005


So, Florida. Hurricanes just keep smacking into that peninsula. Whassup wit dat?

In an attempt to be as frugal as possible, I've learned that generic cheerios are not my cup of tea. Toastios-- not so great.

I procured melmac dishes from my grandma's house for our new apartment. For those who don't know, melmac is a plastic-like substance that predates microwaves. Roommate Kara says the substance is known to crack in the microwave and leak formaldehyde. details.

[edit] clarification: After reading that last paragraph, it sounds like my grandma and I are moving into a new apartment. As much as I'd like to start a new reality show entitled "Grandma goes to College!" (I'm sure it would trump Tommy Lee) I live with Kara, not Grandma.
As an editor, I tend to make wretched grammar and spelling mistakes on a regular basis.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

and now we play the waiting game

I’ve learned an important lesson. Clicking the refresh button on your web browser won't will email into your inbox, no matter how badly you want it to, which is disheartening. I’m about to crack.

PS - the waiting game sucks, let's play hungry, hungry hippos.

(Yes, I ripped off The Simpsons. The daily news is sucking the creativity [life] out of me. But come this weekend, when my co-editor finally gets here, it should be relatively smooth sailing from then on.)

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

oh god

I've been in the newsroom for over 7 straight hours. My soul is crumbling away as I listen to the police scanner. Yippee!

Monday, August 22, 2005

bang! there goes the news

Before I say anything else, I’d just like to acknowledge how much I’m enjoying Colin’s cable TV. I didn’t realize how much I missed shows like Celebrity Fit Club. When I lived at home, my mom cut down to basic cable, so all I really watched was C-Span and Passions. I should enjoy my whiney celebrities while I can, because come tomorrow, when I actually move into my apartment, ain’t gonna be no mo’ TV. [me & roomie is too cheap for that shit. (expect me to be crashing your pad to watch the Daily Show, etc.)]

Also, the world of the daily news is newstastic. Being an editor at a large student newspaper is quite a change from being an intern at a small, nonexistent magazine. I’m still incompetent and have no experience, but the biggest change is that I’m real real real busy and I have less time for rubber band fights. I’m not sure if my current headache is from stress or a lack of caffeine, but I assure you, this whole not being a deadbeat thing will be a monumental change for me.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

pottery is fun

I was forced by my mother (who happens to be a potter) to aid in vending her pottery at a pottery market the other day. Upon arrival I discovered that there wasn't much helping to be done, I was just being exploited.

"I wanted your pretty face to be here to sell more pottery," said my mom.

My pretty face couldn't even get people to take free magazines, how is it going to get midwestern women to purchase ceramic bowls? Think about it.

I noticed my mom had a very tiny bowl and I wondered at its purpose. I returned from a lunch break to discover that someone actually bought the teeny tiny bowl. I demaned to know what kind of creature would buy a teeny tiny ceramic bowl. I got my answer: a man who owns a shadow box just for tiny pottery. (such people exist.)

Today I made the move back to Bloomington, IN. I just ate microwavable macaroni & cheese with my fingers. Ah, college life.