Thursday, April 20, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
When the zombies come.
When the zombies come, many people will not realize what they are. Those people will get bitten quickly, and turned into zombies. This will be sad, as they go to bed at night, feeling slightly sore where that strange man bit them, saying goodnight to loved ones, and wake up with a terrible complexion and lust for blood.
After those people, who didn't expect there to be zombies, become zombies, next will come the people who do not want to believe. These people will see their children, their wives, their co-workers, acting strangely. They will be concerned. Mothers will reach for their children's foreheads, to feel for a temperature, and have their arms ripped off.
And they will become zombies, too.
After a while, either the zombie problem will become acute, and most people will become zombies, or it will be managed as a chronic problem. Like homelessness, or immigration. But zombies are the only thing that can solve homelessness, and immigration. If the problem is acute, the few people left over will band together, have adventures, learn about themselves and each other, have gritty sex in post-apocolyptic urban wastelands, and fashion a makeshift life for their small tribe, all the while strategizing, waiting, and planning.
T
here will be a moment of hope, as it seems they've found a solution. But, alas, in-group fighting, jockeying for power, and banal human frailty will lead to their getting picked off, one by one.
If zombies become a chronic problem, the following things might happen, that may be interesting to watch.
After those people, who didn't expect there to be zombies, become zombies, next will come the people who do not want to believe. These people will see their children, their wives, their co-workers, acting strangely. They will be concerned. Mothers will reach for their children's foreheads, to feel for a temperature, and have their arms ripped off.
And they will become zombies, too.
After a while, either the zombie problem will become acute, and most people will become zombies, or it will be managed as a chronic problem. Like homelessness, or immigration. But zombies are the only thing that can solve homelessness, and immigration. If the problem is acute, the few people left over will band together, have adventures, learn about themselves and each other, have gritty sex in post-apocolyptic urban wastelands, and fashion a makeshift life for their small tribe, all the while strategizing, waiting, and planning.
T
here will be a moment of hope, as it seems they've found a solution. But, alas, in-group fighting, jockeying for power, and banal human frailty will lead to their getting picked off, one by one.
If zombies become a chronic problem, the following things might happen, that may be interesting to watch.
- some guy will get scratched or bitten at a zombie fair, and, not realizing it, or not believing it, will go to the post-apocolyptic gay porno store, and sit down in a booth. He'll start up a loop, and start going at himself, hoping for someone to get into the next booth. Feeling ill, he'll pass out. He'll zombify. Too late, someone will go into the next booth, and poke an optimistic dick into the glory hole. Which our new zombie will bite off. This also works at rural rest stops. With gay zombie truckers.
- people will have to explain zombies to children, in a non-traumatic, yet firm manner. This will resemble the "stranger danger" presentations of current society, yet more colorful, and with a sense of urgency. "Remember, children- If our mommies and daddies get all pale and stinky, what should we do?" "Cut off the head or destroy the eyes!" "Very good! Gold star!"
- zombies will become a fixture of scientific inquiry first, documentary next, politics after, and pornography last. After it's realized that becoming a zombie, consuming zombies, or implanting parts of zombies has no medical, military, or aesthetic value, filmmakers will start setting up blinds in zombie-blighted areas and making films about their quiet dignity. After "Silent Uncle" wins an academy award and spurs on both non-zombie Baldwins to advocate for the creation of a zombie preserve in wyoming, pornographic spin-offs featuring living people who can pass for zombies performing drippy, gory, slobbery sex acts on up-and-coming starlets, gonzo porn will push the envelope and start featuring actual zombies. Becoming a zombie will be considered a reasonable career move.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Know what I haven't had in a long time?
Lobster pie.
Normally I'm against recipes that disguise expensive foods- truffle mashed potatoes, lobster neuburg, crab quesadillas.
But lobster pie, a relic, not of jaded chefs seeking novelty, but thrifty new englanders stretching ingredients, and eating something previously thought of as inferior bait. As is common knowledge, lobsters were once so cheap, only the poorest and most protein-deprived would eat them.
Thus. Lobster pie.
It's buttery, breadcrumby, sometimes cheesy, sometimes creamy. And these days, it's far too expensive to be worth it. But the weather is getting warm. And with warm weather, the new england girl's thoughts turn to seafood. And as a middle-class new england girl, my seafood cravings tend more to the fried, broiled, and baked than the mango-chutneyed, sashimi'd, grilled, stylish fishes that well-to-do pregnant women despair of eating, lest their well-to-do fetii get some very lower-class brain damage.
I'd love clam strips, broiled scallops, fried scallops, broiled cod, fried haddock...schrod, even, whatever it may be at that moment. Crab cakes. Clam cakes. Summer time, greasy face and smile food. Served openly with corn and potatoes in any incarnation.
But lobster pie is what I'm thinking about, right now. I haven't had any in years.
Normally I'm against recipes that disguise expensive foods- truffle mashed potatoes, lobster neuburg, crab quesadillas.
But lobster pie, a relic, not of jaded chefs seeking novelty, but thrifty new englanders stretching ingredients, and eating something previously thought of as inferior bait. As is common knowledge, lobsters were once so cheap, only the poorest and most protein-deprived would eat them.
Thus. Lobster pie.
It's buttery, breadcrumby, sometimes cheesy, sometimes creamy. And these days, it's far too expensive to be worth it. But the weather is getting warm. And with warm weather, the new england girl's thoughts turn to seafood. And as a middle-class new england girl, my seafood cravings tend more to the fried, broiled, and baked than the mango-chutneyed, sashimi'd, grilled, stylish fishes that well-to-do pregnant women despair of eating, lest their well-to-do fetii get some very lower-class brain damage.
I'd love clam strips, broiled scallops, fried scallops, broiled cod, fried haddock...schrod, even, whatever it may be at that moment. Crab cakes. Clam cakes. Summer time, greasy face and smile food. Served openly with corn and potatoes in any incarnation.
But lobster pie is what I'm thinking about, right now. I haven't had any in years.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Another easter at work: Uneccessary Post About Penis Size
I worked today. I've worked, now, since starting my current job-
Three easters.
Two christmases.
Two christmas eves.
Two thanksgivings.
Two halloweens.
And countless arbor days.
It was dead tonight. Mostly it's busy on holidays. Next to the pharmacy, we're the only thing in the neighborhood open on holidays. The first thanksgiving we were open, we sold more milk and cream than coffee.
My coworker told me a joke, because it was so dead. Normally, we can't say vulgar, obscene, funny, critical, controversial, etc- things in the cafe area, but tonight there were hours at a time where no one came in. We tried to stay away from the doors so people might drive by real quick and think we were closed.
Q. How do you tell when a woman's having an orgasm?
A. Who cares?
It could just as easily be, or more honestly be, "How can you tell if a woman is happy?".
Who cares, who knows, who can even judge the criteria these days. It's a dark, damp, and scary subject. Who knows if a woman is happy? Who knows what a woman is even getting out of a relationship? Who knows if she's enjoying herself in bed?
You can't know. You have to depend on her for all of it. Men are easier. Even if they hide their emotions and motivations, anyone can tell if a man is enjoying himself in bed. Anyone can tell if a man is grossly unmotivated to perform sexually. His body is a fairly reliable indicator (see how I resisted that pun there? See. I'm such a grownup. I'm an intellectual) of his level of arousal, and the effectiveness of any sexual technique used on him.
Women- there's no way to tell. They can lie. Their bodies can be out of sync with their emotional state. They can be mentally aroused and sahara down below. They can display all indicators of emotional and physical enjoyment of the sexual act, while trying to watch televison in the reflection in the bedroom mirror. How frustrating!
It is the male dedication to the sexual act, and only the male dedication to the sexual act, that makes it possible. A woman can be entirely passive and unaffected, while theoretically participating in the exact same experience.
The penis size debate, penis size anxiety, mostly grows from the paradox of uneven sexual requirements. As a measure of sexual success, it bypasses mutual enjoyment entirely. It reframes the debate- rather than a question of sexual ability and talent, it becomes about capacity and potential. Filling, rather than fulfilling.
By making length and girth the measure of himself, a man takes his sexuality back into his own hands (as it were). Female arousal and enjoyment is abstract, unreliable, easily misinterpreted or falsified. The size of the erect phallus is a constant. No woman can, during a break up, flippantly declare that she faked your penis size for the entire relationship. Your penis size is unchanged by the time she tried to change channels during sex. Your dick doesn't get smaller when she leaves you for a woman.
It's actually quite liberating, when you think of it. And, it explains why men are never comforted by such platitudes as "It's the motion of the ocean, not the size of the boat." Of course it's the motion of the ocean, not the size of the boat. But if you can't tell whether you've got a Tsunami or not, or if that's a good thing, or if lapping waves are really the way to go- maybe you'd be happier knowing it's a canoe.
Three easters.
Two christmases.
Two christmas eves.
Two thanksgivings.
Two halloweens.
And countless arbor days.
It was dead tonight. Mostly it's busy on holidays. Next to the pharmacy, we're the only thing in the neighborhood open on holidays. The first thanksgiving we were open, we sold more milk and cream than coffee.
My coworker told me a joke, because it was so dead. Normally, we can't say vulgar, obscene, funny, critical, controversial, etc- things in the cafe area, but tonight there were hours at a time where no one came in. We tried to stay away from the doors so people might drive by real quick and think we were closed.
Q. How do you tell when a woman's having an orgasm?
A. Who cares?
It could just as easily be, or more honestly be, "How can you tell if a woman is happy?".
Who cares, who knows, who can even judge the criteria these days. It's a dark, damp, and scary subject. Who knows if a woman is happy? Who knows what a woman is even getting out of a relationship? Who knows if she's enjoying herself in bed?
You can't know. You have to depend on her for all of it. Men are easier. Even if they hide their emotions and motivations, anyone can tell if a man is enjoying himself in bed. Anyone can tell if a man is grossly unmotivated to perform sexually. His body is a fairly reliable indicator (see how I resisted that pun there? See. I'm such a grownup. I'm an intellectual) of his level of arousal, and the effectiveness of any sexual technique used on him.
Women- there's no way to tell. They can lie. Their bodies can be out of sync with their emotional state. They can be mentally aroused and sahara down below. They can display all indicators of emotional and physical enjoyment of the sexual act, while trying to watch televison in the reflection in the bedroom mirror. How frustrating!
It is the male dedication to the sexual act, and only the male dedication to the sexual act, that makes it possible. A woman can be entirely passive and unaffected, while theoretically participating in the exact same experience.
The penis size debate, penis size anxiety, mostly grows from the paradox of uneven sexual requirements. As a measure of sexual success, it bypasses mutual enjoyment entirely. It reframes the debate- rather than a question of sexual ability and talent, it becomes about capacity and potential. Filling, rather than fulfilling.
By making length and girth the measure of himself, a man takes his sexuality back into his own hands (as it were). Female arousal and enjoyment is abstract, unreliable, easily misinterpreted or falsified. The size of the erect phallus is a constant. No woman can, during a break up, flippantly declare that she faked your penis size for the entire relationship. Your penis size is unchanged by the time she tried to change channels during sex. Your dick doesn't get smaller when she leaves you for a woman.
It's actually quite liberating, when you think of it. And, it explains why men are never comforted by such platitudes as "It's the motion of the ocean, not the size of the boat." Of course it's the motion of the ocean, not the size of the boat. But if you can't tell whether you've got a Tsunami or not, or if that's a good thing, or if lapping waves are really the way to go- maybe you'd be happier knowing it's a canoe.
Mysteries of Suburbia and Fat Children: Reprise
So.
I have no time right now.
(then why are you blogging?)
(shut up)
So I've been eating off the fat of the land. I live in a suburb, so the fat of the land comes wrapped in paper and handed through the window of my car. Tonight I went to KFC. By the benificence of Yum Brands, my local KFC is also a Taco Bell. Being naturally perverse, I can't order just KFC, or just Taco Bell, or any rational, suggested, combination of the two. No crispy strips and tacos combo for me.
I got a bean and cheese burrito, a small mashed potato, and a biscuit. And a pepsi. Diet. Because diet tastes better. Hippy. I got home and unpacked my colonel/south of the border booty on the floor. They pack the biscuit in a little envelope now. As if you're going to eat it like a hamburger, on the go. When I'm actually in a can't-stop-can't-sit-down hurry, I don't go for a biscuit. I don't go for pudding or yogurt, either. I go for foods designed for convenience. A stick of butter wrapped in bacon- something sensible like that. Makes its own lube.
Anyway. I unwrapped my saturated and trans fats, and found, at the bottom of the bag, something bizarre. Four little packets of ranch dressing.
I ask you: What was I supposed to do with that ranch dressing? Before you jump to conclusions, remember, KFC mashed potatoes come pre-drenched in gravy. To compound the absurdity, the total volume of ranch dressing exceeded the volume of any food item ordered, excepting the burrito. It was less a condiment than a terrifying bonus side-dish, or beverage.
Hidden valley.
Goes down easy.
Last night I saw a new show on TLC. I really, really shouldn't watch anything from the discovery channel family of programmes. This was called "Honey, We're killing the kids." I was so delighted to be able to watch this show, as it's basically just an hour of belittling families with fat children, without even the warmth, efficiency, effectiveness, or british accent of any of the nanny programs.
I missed the first few minutes of the show, because the celtics were just finishing their brutal, fourth quarter humiliation at the hands of the evil, evil New Jersey Nets. When I tuned in, the thin and perky nutritionist/hostess of the show was giving the family some rules and suggestions for how to make their kids be not such dismal little pigs. (Although, as dismal little pigs go, these were a little more endearing than most. I would have recommended against the etiquette classes, though- they were already tending towards mamma's boyishness)
The new family rules included: Five fruits and vegetables a day. No junk food. No tv in the rooms. Be good. Have a block party and share what you've learned. Seems sensible. Seems like things the british nannies would endorse.
But this program doesn't seem to be engineered for impressive success, like the nanny show. Because impressive success in not making your kids dismal little pigs can't happen in two weeks; behavioral interventions for selected problem behaviors can show success in that period. Punishment and reinforcement act more quickly than caloric restriction and lifestyle change. The other family projects (block party, etiquette lesson) were just gimmicks, to fill time.
And since there could be no success demonstrated in such a short period of time, TLC was left with a boring show. So, like the fine people at Fox (who, if you recall, nearly employed me, so they must begetting pretty desperate saints), they manufacture drama.
How?
By making the program the family must follow deliberately more difficult than it needs to be. The first night with the new diet, the father is instructed to make something called "Tofu-onion-bok choy stir fry". Which wouldn't be gross to me, but certainly would be gross to any eight year old who didn't grow up on it. The fat twelve year old rebels. The fat eight year old rebels. The still-miraculously-skinny six year old vomits.
Children don't need to eat Tofu to eat right. A much more palateable program would be more sustainable in the long term- breaded baked chicken tenderloins, roast potato wedges, and a fruit plate would have been a better balanced meal. It's also a much better lesson to learn about portion control with foods that actually taste good.
They also could have substituted the world of cheap indulgences- cookies, mini-muffins- much more successfully by introducing small amounts of great-tasting foods, as a treat- instead of the large volumes of over-sweet crap we pawn off on kids. You find me a kid who would rather mini-muffins for breakfast, oreos with lunch, and an ice cream sandwich for dinner- to a huge, warm, fresh baked cookie right after school. Just one. But a good one. And that's what fat kids have to learn- it's not about volume. Fat kids don't know there's a tomorrow, a later.
And, they could have done more to get active. They could have introduced the kids to a ton of sports and activities to see if they find one they like. Kids like to move. Trampolines. Hikes. Swings. Bikes. Rollerblades. Give a kid a new bike on the day you take away the TV- that works better than just unplugging it.
But unplugging the TV and taking away the cookies sure does cause colorful tantrums.
I think I've shown that "Honey, we're killing the kids" won't really stop anyone from killing their kids.
We can't even stop from killing ourselves. I went to a fast-food restaurant, didn't order anything fried, but didn't even delude myself into beleiving that my meal was healthy. But it wasn't fried. It wasn't buttered. It wasn't covered in cheese. So what did I get, by default?
Four packets of ranch dressing.
Yikes.
I have no time right now.
(then why are you blogging?)
(shut up)
So I've been eating off the fat of the land. I live in a suburb, so the fat of the land comes wrapped in paper and handed through the window of my car. Tonight I went to KFC. By the benificence of Yum Brands, my local KFC is also a Taco Bell. Being naturally perverse, I can't order just KFC, or just Taco Bell, or any rational, suggested, combination of the two. No crispy strips and tacos combo for me.
I got a bean and cheese burrito, a small mashed potato, and a biscuit. And a pepsi. Diet. Because diet tastes better. Hippy. I got home and unpacked my colonel/south of the border booty on the floor. They pack the biscuit in a little envelope now. As if you're going to eat it like a hamburger, on the go. When I'm actually in a can't-stop-can't-sit-down hurry, I don't go for a biscuit. I don't go for pudding or yogurt, either. I go for foods designed for convenience. A stick of butter wrapped in bacon- something sensible like that. Makes its own lube.
Anyway. I unwrapped my saturated and trans fats, and found, at the bottom of the bag, something bizarre. Four little packets of ranch dressing.
I ask you: What was I supposed to do with that ranch dressing? Before you jump to conclusions, remember, KFC mashed potatoes come pre-drenched in gravy. To compound the absurdity, the total volume of ranch dressing exceeded the volume of any food item ordered, excepting the burrito. It was less a condiment than a terrifying bonus side-dish, or beverage.
Hidden valley.
Goes down easy.
Last night I saw a new show on TLC. I really, really shouldn't watch anything from the discovery channel family of programmes. This was called "Honey, We're killing the kids." I was so delighted to be able to watch this show, as it's basically just an hour of belittling families with fat children, without even the warmth, efficiency, effectiveness, or british accent of any of the nanny programs.
I missed the first few minutes of the show, because the celtics were just finishing their brutal, fourth quarter humiliation at the hands of the evil, evil New Jersey Nets. When I tuned in, the thin and perky nutritionist/hostess of the show was giving the family some rules and suggestions for how to make their kids be not such dismal little pigs. (Although, as dismal little pigs go, these were a little more endearing than most. I would have recommended against the etiquette classes, though- they were already tending towards mamma's boyishness)
The new family rules included: Five fruits and vegetables a day. No junk food. No tv in the rooms. Be good. Have a block party and share what you've learned. Seems sensible. Seems like things the british nannies would endorse.
But this program doesn't seem to be engineered for impressive success, like the nanny show. Because impressive success in not making your kids dismal little pigs can't happen in two weeks; behavioral interventions for selected problem behaviors can show success in that period. Punishment and reinforcement act more quickly than caloric restriction and lifestyle change. The other family projects (block party, etiquette lesson) were just gimmicks, to fill time.
And since there could be no success demonstrated in such a short period of time, TLC was left with a boring show. So, like the fine people at Fox (who, if you recall, nearly employed me, so they must be
How?
By making the program the family must follow deliberately more difficult than it needs to be. The first night with the new diet, the father is instructed to make something called "Tofu-onion-bok choy stir fry". Which wouldn't be gross to me, but certainly would be gross to any eight year old who didn't grow up on it. The fat twelve year old rebels. The fat eight year old rebels. The still-miraculously-skinny six year old vomits.
Children don't need to eat Tofu to eat right. A much more palateable program would be more sustainable in the long term- breaded baked chicken tenderloins, roast potato wedges, and a fruit plate would have been a better balanced meal. It's also a much better lesson to learn about portion control with foods that actually taste good.
They also could have substituted the world of cheap indulgences- cookies, mini-muffins- much more successfully by introducing small amounts of great-tasting foods, as a treat- instead of the large volumes of over-sweet crap we pawn off on kids. You find me a kid who would rather mini-muffins for breakfast, oreos with lunch, and an ice cream sandwich for dinner- to a huge, warm, fresh baked cookie right after school. Just one. But a good one. And that's what fat kids have to learn- it's not about volume. Fat kids don't know there's a tomorrow, a later.
And, they could have done more to get active. They could have introduced the kids to a ton of sports and activities to see if they find one they like. Kids like to move. Trampolines. Hikes. Swings. Bikes. Rollerblades. Give a kid a new bike on the day you take away the TV- that works better than just unplugging it.
But unplugging the TV and taking away the cookies sure does cause colorful tantrums.
I think I've shown that "Honey, we're killing the kids" won't really stop anyone from killing their kids.
We can't even stop from killing ourselves. I went to a fast-food restaurant, didn't order anything fried, but didn't even delude myself into beleiving that my meal was healthy. But it wasn't fried. It wasn't buttered. It wasn't covered in cheese. So what did I get, by default?
Four packets of ranch dressing.
Yikes.
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