This one is dedicated to a co-worker who uses stupid repetitive phrases all the time.
I hate them. You've been them before, I've been them too, but I hate them never-the-less, the people who use catch phrases as an auto-response to a statment. I know someone who says "there ya go" whenever you've proposed a solution to a problem, no matter what it is. You could be discussing the perfect way to dispose of his decrepid rotting body and he'd still say "there you go" in non-chalant agreement. It drives me crazy. Since when did it become so taxing to actually engage in conversation that we as a society adopt a set (and I do mean set) series of responses for any given situation. Worse yet, these goddam phrases spread and infect the friends of the users. It's getting to the point, at work, that I can't say a goddam thing without hearing an automatic "there ya go". I just can't take this lazy bullshit variety of interaction that gets pushed on me at every turn. Either pay attention to what I'm saying or DO NOT RESPOND, because you can take your fucked up pile of bullshit responses and fuck yourself with them.
Love,
Daniel
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
My Day
So a double post today, I got rejected from something, so I just need to post things. This was originally titled David's day, because "my day" didn't sound right.
"David’s Day"
He awoke to the mixed sounds of Metallica and his cell phone battling for attention. Rolling over, under the burden of his clouded consciousness, he paused the alarms for a few minutes, time enough to file the thoughts of a night spent tossing and turning under the influence of an active imagination and month old salt-water taffy. The cell phone chimed in four minutes later and David passed from bed to floor in a stumbling waltz with gravity. He checked the mirror and wiped the calcium/sodium crust from his eyes before washing. “Time to wake up” he thought as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the cabinet beneath the sink. He left his apartment with the want for a nap impulsively announcing itself within his head.
The wait for the bus, in the mid-morning sun, brings a heightened sense of sound in anticipation of the coming bus. A passing bike sings by as its tires gently assault the pavement beneath, two birds discuss the curiosity of a visible sun, over David’s shoulder. He thinks to himself contently that it must be spring now, the birds are out. The bus arrives’ its normal minute and a half late. The students step on and wander to the open seats as the driver lunges the bus forward sending the wanderers into a drunken dance with momentum. They arrive at school as the driver shouts his rehearsed send-off “Behold my lord! The shining halls of acadamia, it doth glow like a zit in the night.” They stampede off the bus in a mood of amused confusion at the utterance. Led along by routine, David traversed the path to class in his familiar automated drift, carried along by familiarity in his drowsy state.
French class started like always, with a conventional French greeting followed closely by a wave of confusion. This tsunami of ignorance persisted the length of class for David, as he huddled under the safe familiarity of his day-dreams, hoping to stay dry. Every pause in the teacher’s guttural uttering’s snapped David back from his thoughts to face the fear of being called on and having his ignorance exposed. Once the teacher selected another student, David allowed himself to return to the serene state of his thoughts, until class finally ended, releasing him into the blissful relief of a five minutes walk.
English class, a time of deep intellectualizing coupled with faked understanding. The professor, hip in a fashion not fully aware to himself, professes the virtues of Radiohead as related to the transcendental travel narrative being discussed. His notes on the board appear a web of encircled plot points connected by double-backing arrows and exclamation points, a cryptic roadmap to anyone not familiar with the immediate discussion, and a confusing reminder to the linked diffusion of thought spawned from speculation, for the few who committed their attention to it. Finally he turned from the attentive class and exclaimed “Oh my God, I’ve just realized the horror I’ve placed up here.” David laughs at the lighthearted reference to the class material. After what seems a short while, class ends and David feels free to relax in a familiar setting.
He gets on the sardine can bus and returns home in a zombie trot. He steps inside the soiled apartment entrance and shuffles to his broken down department store chair, ready to end the day in an anti-climatic drone. He boots up the computer as the fans whir to life and set the mood of unshakable buzzing. When night arrives, David lazily plucks his contacts from his eyes and lays his head on the unmade bed. He drifts to sleep in the hungry stillness of his mind, stomach protesting noisily at length.
David forgot to eat.
"David’s Day"
He awoke to the mixed sounds of Metallica and his cell phone battling for attention. Rolling over, under the burden of his clouded consciousness, he paused the alarms for a few minutes, time enough to file the thoughts of a night spent tossing and turning under the influence of an active imagination and month old salt-water taffy. The cell phone chimed in four minutes later and David passed from bed to floor in a stumbling waltz with gravity. He checked the mirror and wiped the calcium/sodium crust from his eyes before washing. “Time to wake up” he thought as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the cabinet beneath the sink. He left his apartment with the want for a nap impulsively announcing itself within his head.
The wait for the bus, in the mid-morning sun, brings a heightened sense of sound in anticipation of the coming bus. A passing bike sings by as its tires gently assault the pavement beneath, two birds discuss the curiosity of a visible sun, over David’s shoulder. He thinks to himself contently that it must be spring now, the birds are out. The bus arrives’ its normal minute and a half late. The students step on and wander to the open seats as the driver lunges the bus forward sending the wanderers into a drunken dance with momentum. They arrive at school as the driver shouts his rehearsed send-off “Behold my lord! The shining halls of acadamia, it doth glow like a zit in the night.” They stampede off the bus in a mood of amused confusion at the utterance. Led along by routine, David traversed the path to class in his familiar automated drift, carried along by familiarity in his drowsy state.
French class started like always, with a conventional French greeting followed closely by a wave of confusion. This tsunami of ignorance persisted the length of class for David, as he huddled under the safe familiarity of his day-dreams, hoping to stay dry. Every pause in the teacher’s guttural uttering’s snapped David back from his thoughts to face the fear of being called on and having his ignorance exposed. Once the teacher selected another student, David allowed himself to return to the serene state of his thoughts, until class finally ended, releasing him into the blissful relief of a five minutes walk.
English class, a time of deep intellectualizing coupled with faked understanding. The professor, hip in a fashion not fully aware to himself, professes the virtues of Radiohead as related to the transcendental travel narrative being discussed. His notes on the board appear a web of encircled plot points connected by double-backing arrows and exclamation points, a cryptic roadmap to anyone not familiar with the immediate discussion, and a confusing reminder to the linked diffusion of thought spawned from speculation, for the few who committed their attention to it. Finally he turned from the attentive class and exclaimed “Oh my God, I’ve just realized the horror I’ve placed up here.” David laughs at the lighthearted reference to the class material. After what seems a short while, class ends and David feels free to relax in a familiar setting.
He gets on the sardine can bus and returns home in a zombie trot. He steps inside the soiled apartment entrance and shuffles to his broken down department store chair, ready to end the day in an anti-climatic drone. He boots up the computer as the fans whir to life and set the mood of unshakable buzzing. When night arrives, David lazily plucks his contacts from his eyes and lays his head on the unmade bed. He drifts to sleep in the hungry stillness of his mind, stomach protesting noisily at length.
David forgot to eat.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
There's work to be done.
"There's work to be done"
Ever since childhood this has been an important phrase to me. Waking up in the morning on a sunny day and hearing my father shout this at the sleeping bag over my head always brought a restrained eagerness to embark on whatever ridiculous task was planned. One time, this phrase meant going to the builder's supply to pick up 60 dollars worth of cinderblock to "build a wall". At 60 cents a piece, 60 bucks buys alot of block, alot. Even though my dad told my mom that we needed to build a small wall to restrain the descending hill in our back yard, he and I both had an unspoken agreement that this was to buy as many cinderblocks as we could fit in the truck without popping the tires or buckling the suspension. (Near a hundred, in case you're wondering) So there we are two men doing men's work of playing with blocks, big blocks mind you, but blocks all the same. We'ed stand in and out of the truck bed, taking turns pointing at the rear tires and saying "damn, that's heavy". this phrase would always be a queue for Dad to complain about "his back pain" and for me to start doing all the work whgile he sat and complained about going to slow. The drive back home was always slow, afraid the extra speed might pop the tires or shift the loosely stacked blocks. It was also slow so he could look over at me and give that look, the one all good dad's give to their sons when they've had too much secret fun to get away with cleanely. The look says many things, it starts with a beaming pride of the boy for doing the big job and grunting in the process, but it means soimething deeper to the giver, to him, to my dad it transmits a grateful feeling, grateful that he was allowed for a alittle while to be childish and innocent; to simply marvel at something "really big" and tired at something that was "alot of work". Someday when I'm married and tired because stupid thing have got me really tired and debt has made me marvel at how much crap I'm wading through, I'll take my son out and we'll buy bricks till he can't lift another and I'll slap him on the shoulder and give him the look while he sits there hoping that the look also translates into pizza.
I hope, someday anyway, I'll be him.
Ever since childhood this has been an important phrase to me. Waking up in the morning on a sunny day and hearing my father shout this at the sleeping bag over my head always brought a restrained eagerness to embark on whatever ridiculous task was planned. One time, this phrase meant going to the builder's supply to pick up 60 dollars worth of cinderblock to "build a wall". At 60 cents a piece, 60 bucks buys alot of block, alot. Even though my dad told my mom that we needed to build a small wall to restrain the descending hill in our back yard, he and I both had an unspoken agreement that this was to buy as many cinderblocks as we could fit in the truck without popping the tires or buckling the suspension. (Near a hundred, in case you're wondering) So there we are two men doing men's work of playing with blocks, big blocks mind you, but blocks all the same. We'ed stand in and out of the truck bed, taking turns pointing at the rear tires and saying "damn, that's heavy". this phrase would always be a queue for Dad to complain about "his back pain" and for me to start doing all the work whgile he sat and complained about going to slow. The drive back home was always slow, afraid the extra speed might pop the tires or shift the loosely stacked blocks. It was also slow so he could look over at me and give that look, the one all good dad's give to their sons when they've had too much secret fun to get away with cleanely. The look says many things, it starts with a beaming pride of the boy for doing the big job and grunting in the process, but it means soimething deeper to the giver, to him, to my dad it transmits a grateful feeling, grateful that he was allowed for a alittle while to be childish and innocent; to simply marvel at something "really big" and tired at something that was "alot of work". Someday when I'm married and tired because stupid thing have got me really tired and debt has made me marvel at how much crap I'm wading through, I'll take my son out and we'll buy bricks till he can't lift another and I'll slap him on the shoulder and give him the look while he sits there hoping that the look also translates into pizza.
I hope, someday anyway, I'll be him.
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