October 27, 2006
You know you've been working from home too long...
...when you find yourself standing alone in the kitchen having an imaginary conversation with Helena Bonham Carter. Out loud.
Posted by didofoot at 06:12 PM | Comments (2)
October 25, 2006
Love literacy? Love standing six hours a day?
I saw an ad on Craigslist this morning with the heading "Love the written word? Love jewelry?" Yes and yes. I clicked it open and found a jewelry store in search of a counter jockey. Why was this placed in the Writers section? Because the jewelry has lines of poetry written on it, and the ring monkey would have to "assist customers with finding the perfect piece of jewelry to suit their mood, sentiment or special occasion."
I know there's no category on Craigslist called "People who can read and that's about it," but this still doesn't belong in Writing Gigs.
I do have other, better job sources now, but the Craigslist format is so darn seductive that I keep coming back. I like the plain, clean screens. I like the anonymous flagging that allows me to narc on bad kids to my heart's content. Most of all, I like looking at the three new ads in the morning -- one for a Spanish translator, one for a prohibited data entry scam, and one for a brand new website offering "exposure" instead of payment -- then sighing about how there are no jobs out there and returning to my book.
Posted by didofoot at 08:49 AM | Comments (5)
October 17, 2006
Cheeseburger/blow job
Lad: I was watching an episode of Frontline that claimed cheeseburgers and orgasms release roughly the same amount of seratonin into the brain.
Didofoot: I am skeptical.
Sean: Was it a gender-specific study?
Didofoot: Good question, because that just doesn't sound right to me.
Sean: Whereas Gene and I are thinking, 'Hm...cheeseburger...blow job...yes, that seems fair.'
Posted by didofoot at 10:28 AM | Comments (2)
October 16, 2006
Happy birthday to me (on Tuesday)
I turn 27 this week. (On Tuesday.)
It's big: it's my bimodal peak. (On Tuesday.)
Your Dido's all grown
This rhyme makes me groan
And now it is your turn to speak. (Today or Tuesday.)
Got a villanelle? A limerick? Haiku, couplet, free verse, two words that rhyme? I turn 27 tomorrow, and for my birthday I'd like some poetry. Don't feel you must, but if you are inspired to write me a sonnet or a chant, I would be so delighted. I welcome all subjects.
Posted by didofoot at 09:47 AM | Comments (13)
October 12, 2006
The children's crusade
Right now there's a protest march of school children (with some chaperones) shouting their way through the little patch of Market Street we can see from our windows. Because they're kids, with their shrill alien voices, it's impossible to tell what they're shouting about.
It's funny to think that these kids, or the marchers in any of the many marches and parades that happen in front of our apartment, have been preparing for this for weeks, or maybe months. This is going to be the most exciting moment of their day. And for me, this moment is just a break between working on my latest job and checking my email.
They've stopped somewhere near me; they're out of sight but I can still hear them. There's an adult with a megaphone who's encouraging them by yelling things like "What do you want?" and "I can't hear you!" It would maybe be more effective if she yelled the actual chant now and then, since I might be able to understand her.
I have to say -- and this seems maybe a little too self-evident to be blogging about -- people yelling at me just outside my house don't usually move me to join them. Living at the center of, well, everything, I have some experience with this. The drunk girls who invariably yell their "whoo"s from midnight to two a.m. every weekend don't compel me to go drink with them. The occasional angry homeless rant hollered from five corners doesn't make me wish I was homeless. So I'm not clear what purpose a small march like this really serves, except to be a little bit irritating.
Interesting side note: at the recent set-up for the Castro Street Fair, I noticed that over a hundred people setting up large booths just outside my house didn't wake me up on Sunday morning, yet one drunk girl leaving a bar in the wee hours can and will rouse the entire neighborhood with an ill-timed shriek.
Posted by didofoot at 04:03 PM | Comments (4)
The colour of tea pudding
Last night, irritated by the peaceful sleep of the Lad, I said "Why do English people call all desserts 'pudding'?"
"I don't know," the newly-awake Lad responded gamely. "It's like tea, I guess. Tea the meal, I mean."
"You know what's funny," I said, "is that young children don't even get to drink tea with their tea, they drink milk. At least in the books I've read."
"That is funny," the Lad yawned.
"But at least with tea, the drink tea goes along with the meal tea. Whereas you don't necessarily eat pudding for dessert, I mean what we call pudding -- pudding the flavored glop, you know."
"But you don't necessarily drink tea with tea," the Lad pointed out reasonably, "as you just said, about the kids."
"But it's supposed to go along with the meal. Kids don't count. Whereas with pudding -- "
"Kids don't count?"
"Come on, you see what I'm saying. It doesn't make sense. Why do they call it that?"
"Why do they spell 'color' with a 'u'?" the Lad asked.
"That is not the same thing," I said, fuming. "Spelling in the English language is just stupid. None of it makes sense. But pudding -- "
"Go to sleep," said the Lad, and eventually I did.
Posted by didofoot at 10:00 AM | Comments (3)
October 11, 2006
This entry is only for Buffy fans. Seriously.
I guess it's inevitable that in seven seasons of Buffy, Joss Whedon was going to make a few errors of logic. I usually run crying to Michele when I find one, but today I've decided to run crying to the internet. Why? Because Michele is busy.
So here's my problem: we know the first slayer was pre-Christian, because the scythe they find in season seven was made before Christianity and was forged for the slayer line. That means vampires, which came before slayers, are also pre-Christian. So why do crosses and holy water work against vampires?
One could theorize that this is what evolved out of whatever pre-Christian holy symbols were used to repel vamps before, except if it's just about holiness then why don't Jewish symbols work? (In season two when she's fortifying her home against bad Angel, Willow is worried that her Jewish parents will see her nailing a cross to her wall, so obviously she'd be using a Jewish symbol instead if she could.)
One could also theorize that Whedon is making a subtle statement about Christianity being the true religion, except he's very careful not to do that. When Buffy dies and comes back (the second time), she could have been in "any one of a number of heavenly dimensions," rather than heaven, and while there is a hell mouth, there are countless hell dimensions (as we are told when Angel comes back from death, and when they find out where Glory is from). Buffy also tells a vampire in season seven that "there's no word yet" on whether God really exists.
Finally, one could assume Whedon is just using what he's been given in terms of vampire lore by making vamps allergic to Christian totems, as is traditional. However, Whedon never has a problem bending that lore to his own use. For example, apart from Dracula in season four, vamps can't transform themselves or fly. They don't fall into a deathlike sleep during the day. They do have blood circulation, which as the dead they technically shouldn't, and while the characters frequently remind us that vampires don't breathe, when it suits Whedon's purposes they can smoke, be choked, and be drowned. So we can assume he could have dropped the cross and holy water business if he'd so chosen.
What is most likely is that he never gave much thought to it. Certainly he gave it less thought than I've used just writing this entry. So who's the dope: him for creating a poorly-imagined plot point, or me for watching so much Buffy that I'm able to write all this? I think you all know the answer.
Posted by didofoot at 05:08 PM | Comments (2)
October 10, 2006
What I really want for my birthday
Last night over dinner, I said "You know what are small and cute and not yappy but still a perfect size for an apartment? Beagle puppies."
"Nope," said the Lad. "I don't want to live with an animal in my home."
Later on that night I got down on all fours and crawled around being an armadillo for awhile. Then I put on my princess pants and did a dance around the house. I really do not see how a beagle puppy could be any more disruptive than me, and he likes me just fine.
Posted by didofoot at 11:28 AM | Comments (11)
October 05, 2006
My raincoat to little girls
What tickles me is seeing how many freelance writing ads on Craigslist offer "exposure" in place of "salary." Fellas, if I wanted exposure I'd be opening my raincoat to little girls. What I want is rent money.
I am a cab driver in a virtual city, see? There are thousands of us. Some of us drive better than others; some of us know when to tell you a long story about our weird scab and when to be all business; some of us understand exactly when we should pull over so your drunk friend can stumble out of the car and be sick. We can be clumsy, barely competent, or we can be virtuosos, kings of the road. But on the outside, all our cabs look basically the same. So no, I will not drive you somewhere simply because you "promise to tell your friends" about me. Your friends will not be able to find my cab, and they won't really care whether they do or not.
What breaks my heart is not how many world-class dopes there are who post these poorly-spelled, ungrammatical ads, but how many foolish writers must be eagerly applying for these. Come on, my people. You can do better than this.
Posted by didofoot at 10:10 AM | Comments (2)
October 04, 2006
Little House in the Big City
We had the first rain of the season in the city today. I sat gloomily at the window, wrapped in a blanket, thinking of soup.
At the first hint of being housebound for a season I am already worrying. Are we in the right place? I'm thinking of Amsterdam, trotting through the cold streets, into the warm smokey music, back out to the cold; of running around and around the hill in Malmo to keep warm while the boys set up the hookah; of sitting in Thomas's flat wearing my scarf, two sweaters and three pairs of the Lad's socks and being read everything from Milne to Milton.
Did the pioneers feel this way? The snow starts falling, you're stuck in your little log cabin for weeks, and you start to think Maybe we ought to have built four feet to the right?
I wonder what winter is like in Paris.
The rain stops. My feet warm up. I paste yet another photo of the Eiffel Tower over the kitchen sink and -- ever the conscientious housewife -- start rummaging through the take-out menus, preparing to order dinner for our little family of two.
Posted by didofoot at 06:25 PM | Comments (1)
October 02, 2006
The cure for the common cold
A week ago the Lad and I had both sets of parents to dinner at once. The evening went very well, but at one point I did talk a little about the ways I was being affected by the uncertainty of my job search.
"I get depressed some days for no reason," I said, "and then it's just cry cry cry. Then other days I'm euphoric."
"I keep telling her to call a doctor," said the Lad.
"What's a doctor going to do?" my mom asked, unconvinced. "He'll just tell her it's all in her head. You've got to have symptoms or they won't do anything."
"Well," I admitted, "my hair is kind of falling out lately. My skin is flaking off. My sleep patterns are all wonky. I'm nauseated three days out of five."
"A doctor seems like a good idea," the Lad's mom said, worried.
"You just need to exercise," my mom Tom Cruise'd. "Why don't you do that step tape I gave you? Get some cardio going. That will fix you up."
There was some further debate, but my mom stuck to her guns. A few days later I got an email from her suggesting I might also want to add some vitamin B12 to my diet. To help with the hair thing.
Since that evening, I haven't exercised or taken B12 at all, but everything has curiously cleared up. My stomach is fine, my hair stays where it should, my skin and sleep are under control, and I no longer burst into tears or euphoric dances on a daily basis, except in the way I do normally.
When I went to the booksale on Thursday I went with Michele and Ellie and Ellie's two year old son, Tyler. Tyler is a golden child, one of those laughing babies who never seems to have a real meltdown, but at one point he did hit his head and put on an "I'm going to cry" face. "Wow!" said Ellie encouragingly. "That was a good one! Come on, let's read your Curious George book now." Like magic, the impending tears disappeared.
Oh those mothers and the tricks they play us. I don't need exercise (well I do, but not for this specifically), or B12, or Curious George. Sometimes the only cure you need is some faint scorn from your mother. I wonder how far this theory could be taken? Could my mom, say, cure the flu with this? Could she cure concussion? Or leprosy?
"You are just FINE. Now pick up that leg, put it back on, and get back to work -- after your room is clean we can go get some ice cream."
Posted by didofoot at 09:12 AM | Comments (4)
