I wear cowboy boots to class. So sue me. I am a resident of the Central Valley of California. My dad is a farmer. I voted for John McCain in the last election (the cowboy boot-toting Sarah Palin was on the ticket). I drove a tractor before I drove a car. My favorite author is Louis Lamour. I have ridden a horse. To me cowboy boots are footwear, just like sneakers, sandals or those cork soles I purchased at a flea market (great for the locker room, my swollen big toe!).
Location defines appropriate attire. I learned this at the age of five when I attended my best friend's birthday party in a onesie pajama. Did I say five? Actually I was eight, the onesie was light red (not pink, you insensitive self-esteem destroyer!) and I completed the outfit with a white sleepy cap that had closed eyelashes painted on the front.
That said, I have recovered substantially. With a few notable exceptions, I no longer wear sandals to weddings or butterfly shorts to church.
Cowboy boots are appropriate attire in many college classes. They can be worn to mathematics or advanced science courses without raising an eyebrow. I had a soil science instructor who wore nothing else (on his feet). Boots are even okay in some history and economics classes. You won't be the most popular kid, but you can get by.
Boots are, however, implicitly prohibited in my French classes where the footwear shouts "Bush-supporting-redneck-hick-whose-only-ties-to-the-ivory-tower-are-non-inherited-wealth." To me, boots are emblematic of masculinity and strength. It's what Chick Bowdrie would wear as he narrowly escapes dry gulching on the way to capturing the outlaw rustlers. It's what Batman modified for his flying getup as he rid Gotham City of human filth. But strength -- at least the strenght of the boot -- is frowned on in the enclave of French represented by the 18 females and me in my French class.
French males are to be thin, wafty human beings with the resolve of a Benjamin Kunkel novel. They are to wash down their croissants and pain au chocolat with piping expresso and an air of superior "leger." Venerable, cultured and European. Not strong, manly and booted. The French man cries, wimpers and grovels. He is a good runner and a poor fighter. And everyone knows that boots are made for walking, not running, so the French male avoids that genre of footwear.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Cowboy boots
Monday, June 08, 2009
Ettiquette Monday: How to Panhandle
We've all been panhandled. Most of us have given money. Most of us have also refused to give money. The difference between a successful beggar and an unsuccessful one is a fine one, and when you're in a pinch and need dough fast you don't have time to get good. This is a critical skillset to the modern human being; so you really ought to start practicing panhandling right away, using the techniques and methods described below.
First, what is panhandling exactly? According to the interwebs, panhandling is "to request a donation in a supplicating manner. Beggars are commonly found in public places, such as street corners or public transport, where they request money such as spare change. They may use cups, boxes or hats to receive the donations."
Panhandling is about getting money from people and getting nothing in return. Pretty sweet deal, right? Right. But less than 5% of people do it properly. Learn these methods, carefully perfected over many years of incredibly tacky poverty:
Get up in the prospect's business and beg loudly and insistently for money until they give it to you. Do not attempt on men with tattoos or women with large purses.
Walk up to the person and stand about ten feet away, then stare at them so sadly that they ask you how they can help you. This method is much more effective on women.
You don't have to have ever been in Vietnam to be a Vietnam Vet. Just pull on a dirty green jacket, boots, and don't shave for a few days. Talk about how you can't find work because of wounds you sustained serving your country.
If you're panhandling someone with an Obama bumper sticker, say you were wounded in Bush's illegal attack on Iraq.
If you see a young couple on a date, tell the guy that he looks like the sort of upstanding charitable person who can spare some money for the poor. Without waiting for a response, compliment the gal on how lucky she is to have such a generous guy.
Tell the prospect you need five bucks or they'll take you back to rehab. Surprisingly few people question this logic.
Immediately thank the person for the five bucks they are about to give you. This is most effective on people who have just been in a car accident or are having an asthma attack.
Run up the prospect frantically and say you need five bucks. Be jumping up and down. Panic. Communicate that it's a matter of life and death. Clap your hands quickly and motion at the wallet or purse. Remind the person to hurry before it's too late. Then - and this is important - run like heck.
In a popular twist on the Matter of Great Urgency, tell the prospect that your wife is having a baby and you need gas money to get her to the hospital.
Tell the prospect that you're going to be completely honest with them, and that you'll use the money to buy drugs.
Tell the prospect that you're going to be completely honest with them, and that you won't use the money to buy drugs.
Hold one hand to your ear. Tell the prospect you need them for a matter of national security. Lead them around a corner. Then peak around and say: "Rats! They followed me. Okay, quick - give me five bucks." When finished, tell the person to wait there because They didn't see your face yet. Then run like heck.
After watching someone exit a store, tell them that a lot of counterfeit fives circulating in the area. Offer to to check theirs to see if they're okay. Then run like heck. This tactic is ill advised for prospects who can run faster than you.
Tell the prospect that you're a world-class violinist who hit harsh times. You had to sell your family heirloom violin and now you're on the streets, but with a few more bucks you can get your violin back.
Print out erroneous lottery tickets and sell them for a dollar each. Remind suspicious prospects that direct selling is "the old fashioned way."
These are, of course, just a few methods to get you started. Now go out and practice! Got your own ideas and methods? Comment below and help out your fellow washed-up readers.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Facebook Research: News Feed
Hmmm… let’s see here. Jessica and Bryan just ended their relationship… bummer, I expected that to last longer.
Susan Jefferson is omigosh, I just like totally stubbed my toe! ouch lolz!!!!!!! Does she just keep getting blonder, or is it just me?
Collin Michaels wrote a new note. “16 random things (lol).” That’s only like the 12th one of those I’ve seen this week.
Dave Stewart just changed his about me to “I am a womanizer, and I’m not ashamed. I have a corvette and I…” I really don’t feel compelled to read the whole thing. There was more than enough information in that lovely preview.
Amelia Flannagan joined the cause “Save the rocks, don’t use pencils” Wow, that's so random. I think I’ll join just for the heck of it. Where would donations go? School of Rock? Maybe I'll write that on her wall...
Laura Warren commented on Ashley Weber’s photo. “Lololol idk y u taged me in this I look like a giraffe lol” Holy smokes, she does look like a giraffe in that picture… now that I think about it, she looks like a giraffe in real life too. Woah, bad mental image there.
Julia Nelson wrote on your wall. “you are so hott. we should hang out sometime! call me.” She’s desperate. But wait… I’m desperate too. Nevermind. Delete. It's nice to know I'm somewhat attractive, though.
Susan Jefferson became a fan of Charlie the Unicorn. So, that’s why she keeps saying “Shun the non-believers!”
Nate Harmon and Chris Gordon are attending “Hug a cheerleader day.” Slightly disturbing, but an intriguing concept. I bet a cheerleader with low self-esteem created that event.
837 of your friends changed their profile pictures... I have way too many Facebook friends.
Time for a new status change. Hmmm… “(my name deleted) is realizing how much time he wastes reading his news feed. I am such a creeper.”
Friday, February 06, 2009
"I'll just work it off tonight"
I just left a particular well known sandwich franchise that serves all manner of bread and meat combinations in "submarine" style sandwiches. I am reticent to name the franchise because to do so might constitute libel and render FCN vulnerable to a lawsuit that could result in the loss of all of its meager resources to the ensuing litigation. I will, however, tell you that the restaurant has over 30,000 locations in some 87 countries and was named the #1 Franchise in 2009 by a really fat fast food connoisseur. I'll also tell you that the company has ads featuring "Jared" who dropped a bunch of weight by "eating fresh." Oh, what the heck, you have it figured out by now. It's Subway. So go ahead and sue us Fred DeLuca. I read about your innovative business strategy in my economics class, but Fortune 400 members don't scare me. Well, most of them don't. These two guys (here and here) look a tad scary. But Fred, go ahead and try to take us down!
So there I was - at Subway - about to order the least healthy thing on the menu. Subway puts unhealthy things on the menu so that we guys can go there for lunch, scarf down a thousand or so quick calories and show our moms the partially redacted receipt so they will be proud of our health-conscious decision. Meanwhile our moms don't understand when we try to make health-conscious decisions at In-N-Out.But whatever. This post is about neither our moms nor Fred DeLuca. It's about two middle aged women who entered the subway after me looking disheveled - as if they just returned from promenade. There is no polite way of saying this. These women were overweight. They were fat. They looked like contestants in the first week of "Biggest Loser." Okay, maybe the third week. They were corpulent, fleshy, obese, overblown, procine, portly and stout. They suffered from gut overflow, they overstocked the adipose tissue, they were ready for winter, they were running a surplus, they were a nightmare in a 2-piece, they were oleaginous and unctuous in the storage area. And I do mean that with all respect, because there is no nice way of saying it. None at all.
We'll call them Rosalie and Carol, for no particular reason.
Rosalie told Carol that she had eaten a burrito and a donut (or is it a doughnut?) for breakfast and that she wasn't that hungry. Carol confied in Rosalie that she had eaten a box of oreo cookies and a whole box of taquitos for breakfast and that she didn't have a big appetite either. I had eaten a burrito, donut, and a box of taquitos that day, but I didn't say anything.
Both entered the store complaining about the walk across the parking lot, a complaint I found dumbfounding given the gorgeous day outside. In fact, I was planning on eating my sandwich outdoors in order to take advantage of the sunlight and catch some unprotected ultraviolet rays. I know, I live dangerously.
When Rosalie and Carol ordered my distracted interest turned into focused attentiveness. They both commanded footlong sandwiches with everything. And they sat down in the store to eat their caloric feast. Carol told Rosalie that she would "just work it off tonight" a promise that rang hollow.
It rang hollow because she didn't like walking across a parking lot on a gorgeous day. It rang hollow because she couldn't possibly work off all the food she'd eaten that day unless the "work" was done by a licensed plastic surgeon. It rang hollow because health is a lifestyle and habit - it isn't a twenty minute decision before dinner. Dang, that was painful to type.
Anyway, in case you think we're picking on those who lack self control just for the heck of it, know that the only thing separating us from Rosalie and Carol is a few years. We'll get there eventually...and when we do, we'll be ready to confess.
Friday, August 08, 2008
A Bottled Devil
I am sleeping deeply in all the blessed oblivion I have earned by long, late hours of watching movies. My dreams are as captivating as they are surreal; they even have butterflies in them. My blankets are warm, my mattress is soft, and my pillow is just cushy enough. In a word, I am in paradise.
Suddenly, every ounce of serenity is gone. In a magnificent jolt, my toes go taut, my hair raises, and my eyes spring wide open. On the table, not a foot from my bed, is a shrieking ghoul that I am powerless to stop. Shriek! Brinnnnngggg! It’s the kind of high-pitched cross between a wildcat’s scream and the cranking of broken machinery that every diabolical two-year-old longs for. It sounds exactly like (forgive me, gentle readers) a bottled devil.
Perhaps you have heard such phones. Sometimes, on more peaceful occasions, I like to daydream about maniac geniuses who sit around in antiseptic, sound-proof labs and concoct rings. I am sure there are some humane, intelligent, sensitive creatures among them. They are the ones who make sissy rings like “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” (Try saying that three times fast. Heck, try saying it one time slow!) or “Für Elise.” But there are other brawny giants who grin evil smiles through broken teeth, pull their ear-muffs tighter, and apply themselves gustily to creating instruments of torture.
“Well Todd, what do you think of this one?”
“I don’t know Bill. The little white rat in the box can still walk. Why don’t you add a few more jolts of that really dissonant tone?”
“Great idea. The fella can’t even open its eyes anymore!” Todd's evil laugh sits dead in the air like an insensitive remark.
You would think, in a day when cell phones are ubiquitous and new ring tones rarely cost more than seventy dollars or so apiece, that there would be no need to endure such aural agonies. After all, there's always a sissy tone available. But that, dear reader, would be an underestimation of human innovation. There are raving lunatics in the world who find every misery they deserve and heap it upon not only themselves, but their friends as well. They connive in back rooms and plot methods to torture the human ear. Yes, these misanthropes are a wretched lot, and you should do your best to avoid us. Yes, us.
Take, for example, me and a recent conference: I attend a conference with my parents and friends. The friends decide to do uncool things. The parents leave to watch boring workshops. I go to look at exciting vendor displays. The friends wouldn’t notice if I got eaten by a vendor monster, but the parents like to keep in touch. They call to check on me. I, having carefully set the phone’s mode to “normal,” ought to hear the ringer, but I don’t. They call again, I miss the call, and they conclude that I have been eaten by a vendor monster. Pretty soon I hear my name on the loudspeakers, on the list of casualties. Apparently, I am dead to the public address announcer.
So I do what any moron would do. I scroll through my ringtones and choose the loudest, most obnoxious ring I can find, one of those metallic nightmares that sound like a phone from the thirties. (People in the thirties must have been rather deaf, both as a cause and an effect of such ringtones.) Now when my phone rings, I feel like the frazzled executive in Spiderman 3 whose wife had a secretary vibrate his desk with a buzzer every time he got excited. A call comes in and—Brinnggg!—there is a bottled devil in my own pocket. I smile nonchalantly and check the caller ID. My friends gape wide-eyed and smooth their hair back down from its newly acquired upright posture. At this point, my friends would notice if I got eaten by a vendor monster. In fact, they would probably hold a party of celebration—provided the phone got eaten as well.
Friday, July 04, 2008
FCN Classic: 4th of July "Tribute"
We have all heard, I am sure, some enthusiastic mantras of praise for the United States of America; expressions of affection that are normally reserved for lovers or little children are extended with unwavering confidence to a nation of 300 million and no time of year is more prone to these tributes than the 4th of July, the day set aside to celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence, an act that took place a couple centuries and one day earlier.
Do you realize that was all one sentence? Yay for me.
Anyway, FCN hates to be left out of the fun, but we feel that single-minded praise of the USA is nation centric, selfish and egotistical and we therefore craft our 4th of July Tribute with a focus on other countries. America might be the greatest nation on earth, but that doesn't mean we do everything the best. In fact, if you take apart many of the things that make America “great” we find that other nations may have a better claim to “best.” Take a look at the following examples...
Free Speech
America's founding documents say that the dark beauty of the mind of every man, woman and monkey should be pasted for all to see on every newspaper, wall and museum. The result is personal ads, graffiti and the taxpayer funded “artwork” like the unclothed mannequin squatting on the raw chicken. How much more American can you get?
Perhaps the biggest flaw in our speech laws is that websites like Funny Class Notes are allowed to continue sans sanction or punishment. Regular citizens who make fun of elected leaders and deride the policies of our government are not shut down or even punished. Complete fabrications are allowed unaltered and dry comedy that isn't funny or even inspiring is published anyway. In fact, the White House has been known to give press passes to bloggers and encourage independent journalism by issuing press releases to the pajama media.
A better approach to speech regulation is embodied in China's “One-Word” policy. If one word is out of line, there is no limit to the excruciating pain the government has license to level against you. The flag of China is as red as the blood that runs in the citizens' veins and an acknowledgment of that and subsequent regulation to preserve the serenity and tranquility of Chinese life justifies speech controls.
Quite frankly, we need to be protected from ourselves. When we talk, we use the weapon of James, a terrible tool that can cut down friends, families, and even governments, the most sacred institution of all. A standard that no law can restrict speech is wholly at odds with the realities of today.
Wake up, America; China's got it figured out!
Marriage Laws
For some biological reason, America has it in its thick scull that the only people who can marry are men and women and they can only marry people of opposite genders in units of one. While this policy isn't codified nationally, almost every state has a marriage standard that destroys any chance of turning the love of man and monkey into a legally recognized spousal relationship. Tragic.
In the Netherlands, anyone can get a “Geregistreerd Partnerschap.” Well, more specifically, any quantity of anything and/or anyone can go before the altar (or bookshelf for all the law cares) and lynch the knot. These Partnerschaps can include two or even three partners of any gender background or identity. (Due to a lobbying effort on the part of the canine community, the law currently prohibits unions of four, but the Dutch parliament is working to resolve that and full freedom of spousal interaction is on the horizon).
For a nation that promotes freedom at every turn and prides itself in being the land of opportunity, America sure does limit its citizens' ability to hook up creatively. We allow free speech to run rampant but restrict marriage to the most narrow minded definition. Maybe we can learn something from our Dutch brothers and sisters (and barnyard animals).
The Netherlands are, indeed, the land of the three, home of the brave. America needs to leave behind the antiquated views of marriage and adopt a more progressive view that includes, well, everything.
Wake up, America; the Dutch have it figured out!
Currency
Turning our attention briefly to the somewhat dry – but always crispy – topic of finances, our monetary policy is hoisted (that means it's bad). Our inflation rate is so low and uninteresting, most of you probably couldn't even cite it. In fact, the last time anyone in your family worried about inflation was when your daddy was in diapers. The dollar is just too stable.
In Zimbabwe, a country that wins the award for the best name, inflation hovers around 5,000%. That means that in Zimbabwe money is like a car: It loses most of its value the moment it leaves the mint. But there are some awesome things about having an super high inflation rate. For instance, the currency is printed with an expiration date like milk or yogurt and businesses are not legally obligated to accept old bills as legal tender. This means that immediately before money is about to expire, the economy is boosted with a huge injection of activity, helping keep one of the poorest nations in the world afloat.
If America printed bills with an expiration date, greenbacks would find their way out of mattresses and into the hands of Wal-Mart cash registers, thus helping both the American and Chinese economies. An expiration date is a brilliant way to stimulate economic growth, throw the American consumer for a loop and give Ben Bernanke something to talk about.
Wake up, America; Zimbabwe has got it figured out!
Equality
Somewhere along history's timeline, America picked up a perspective on gender relations that promises equal treatment and the same rights for men and women. That's all fine and dandy in a political sense, but in the real world, where only the strong survive and the weak must wear headscarves for protection, a different perspective is appropriate.
Iran, the land of the great Imams, which gave the world camels and burritos, takes a more Darwinian approach to gender equity. Women are given all their rights by men. As three teenage guys living in America, we think that's pretty cool. Not everything about Iran is that awesome. We can do without the noontime wailing and the bed spreads that pass as casual wear, but the idea of subservient women is attractive. Guys, imagine being able to silence any female with a snap of the fingers. Heck yeah.
Instead of enslaving our female population, America has granted the fairer sex suffrage, land ownership rights and drivers licenses. Women are put as equals to men in government and business and are given the choice to work wherever they want, as corporate executives, small business owners or even mothers.
The day of the liberated woman is over. Iran has recognized this and recaptured the women that were never set free. What a picture!
Wake up America; Iran has got it figured out!
That's our tribute. Hopefully we've provided more evidence in favor of free speech restrictions. We've looked at four countries from five continents to find just a few examples of where the greatest nation on ever is behind the curve. Sorry to rain on the “America is awesome" party. Maybe next year we can celebrate reforms that bring us closer to having an unbeatably great country. Until then, we can continue to suffer - as is FCN's habit - under mediocrity.
Friday, June 06, 2008
F abandons FCN
"Commitment" is a hard word. It's three syllables long and has a lot of repeating Ms and Ts, which renders the spelling arduous. The principle behind the term is similarly formidable. Commitment requires not backing down or giving up, even in the face of, well, artistic differences.
Here at FCN, we've never laid much of a claim to commitment. "Lackadaisical" seems like a better description of our approach to life and we've never had a hard time changing course if it meant finding an easier path. But we demand a higher level of integrity from others. Nobody kicks us to the curb, leaves us out to dry, runs out on us or abandons our ship. No siree, sir! When the wind blows against your sales, we expect you to make good use of the jib to keep your sloop on an honest bearing.
This is more than a credo. It is a mandate; a directive so puissant, no amount of badgering can get us to renege. Ever. We expect others to never give up. Not after six pieces of pizza, three coke classics and two bowls of onion rings. Never.
In fact, we expect out of you and each other the same thing the Obamination sees in Billary: the can't quit attitude.
At least that's what I thought until last week, when I got a rude awakening to the realities of today's internet world. Apparently "yes" doesn't always mean what the Greeks said it means, because F gave the world a new interpretation of the term, and entered a another chapter in the FCN Manifesto, by packing his cyber bags and walking out on FCN.
That's right. No last post; no train of long goodbyes (or even a single adios). Just a forlorn and empty user where F used to write his funny tomes, cutting social criticism and relevant satire. It's an empty locker where Mean Joe Green's jersey once hung. It's a deserted and quiet Carnival after a night's frivolity. It's Seattle after Boeing left.
And now it's just me and N and, of course, Chip, our guest contributor. We'll do our best, but things won't be the same without you, F. If you are reading this, please come back. We need you. Heck, I need you. I'm a mess without you. I miss you so dang much. I miss being with you, I miss being near you. I miss your laugh. I miss your scent; I miss your musk. When this all gets sorted out, I think you and I should get an apartment together. Maybe I should stop talking for a little while.
No! I can't be groveling. We cannot reduce ourselves to sniveling dogs, circling the table for morsels that drop from our master's table. I will command. F? You come back and make a public apology. You have lost all credibility, like the time on the local news channel when the camera panned back and revealed the anchor was barefoot. You need to earn back your respect in the humor community. You grovel; cry and fill a cereal bowl with tears. Then we'll see about letting you back into our little club.
Please, man? I mean, you'll always have a place here if you want to return.
FCN readers, your consideration and condolences are appreciated during this particularly difficult time for the FCN team. We want to be cheery and happy, light and funny, but it's hard when you lose such an integral piece. Please use the comment section to remind F about how much he means to you and maybe we can get enough of an outcry to bring him back even if it's just to say goodbye.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Fashion #4: Yeah, I wear a speedo.
People like athletes. They are a tad like airline pilots, military personnel and Carrie Underwood in that few have anything negative to say about them and their good faith and humor is almost universally assumed. Some of my less athletically minded friends have considered introducing themselves as athletes to girls, just to get more positive attention. When asked how he would answer an inquiry about what sport he plays, one of my more innovative friends answered he would brush it off with a "you know, the one with the ball and the points that requires great feats of physical prowess." Yeah, that one.
It may be because people like to watch those who are in shape perform at their best. Or maybe it's just that people are awed and intrigued by all those impressive feats. It could also be that people like the thrill of a being in a cheering stadium, the shocked feeling of seeing someone stomped to a pulp, or the tingling butterflies they get in their tummies when a hush falls over the crowd at the climax of a game.
So when people ask me what I do, I bring up my best feature first. I confess that the first thing I tell them is that I am a swimmer. It usually works well for a few moments. The other person is impressed that I would devote so much time to swimming back and forth in a body of water with no one chasing me and they ask about how many people I've seen drown.
Then comes the test. There is no foolproof profession or extra-curricular activity. Lawyers may be wealthy, smart and well dressed, but their ethics put them in the same category as the smaller members of the Mustelidae family. Plumbers may work hard and have strong bodies, but their salaries and close proximity with "ewwey" substances makes their work imperfect. For extra-curricular activities, members of the debate team may be intelligent and have good prospects for the future, but their meager social skills and utter nerdiness balance out these qualities. Jocks may compensate for the deficiencies of debaters, but they carry their own liabilities.
Turns out, there are two types of people in the world. The ones who ask a swimmer what his favorite stroke is and the ones who ask if you wear a Speedo. Invariably, on a bad day, it will be the latter. The conversation usually goes like this:
"Do you actually wear a Speedo?"
"Well, if you mean Speedo brand, yes." [note, the question is left unanswered]
"Whew, for a second I though you were, uh, one of those kind of people..." [laughs]
"Well, I kind of am. I prefer to call it a competitive suit." [gulps]
"Wait; say what?"
But for a swimmer, wearing a suit isn't a fashion statement. It's a tool for speed. The electrician doesn't remove a pair of pliers for its aesthetic appeal; rather he worries about how well it will snip a wire. Similarly, we swimmers are not concerned about our apparel - until, of course, a friend asks the fateful question.
My new approach is to make like Billary and avoid the question entirely. I talk about how full body suits are becoming the norm for professional athletes (you know, the clothes that Jessica Alba wears to parties?) and start to talk about the greats in our activity. Heck, I'll even get into a conversation about my sister's music before I answer the speedo question straight up.
But just because we're athletes doesn't mean we never think about how we look. Just stop at a finish sometime and watch the guys and girls adjust their hair after a race and we most definitely still care about our tan lines.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Why don't you link to other blogs?
If you have followed my web publishing career for a long time (by "a long time," I mean at least fourteen dog years), you may recall the tall, vapid list of links that became a staple on my earlier blogging endeavors. These scrawling shout outs cluttered the page unnecessarily and camouflaged new content to such an extent that readers had to hunt for actual posts. I thought I'd created a website adventure but the not-so fun loving who read the site were irritated out of their minds. The blogroll wasn't attractive, useful or necessary, but it reigned supreme on my sidebar like a vestigial organ waiting for it's listectomy.
A well meaning friend asked me the other day why FCN doesn't have any such blogroll. Of course, I say he was "well meaning" because I am about to insult him. Of all the questions to ask about FCN, is our lack of a blogroll the most earth shattering? Why not ask why Todd dies in his second episode only to live on through several more? Why not ask how three derelicts manage to rise so early to get a post on the internet (Pacific Time, doubters!). Why not ask about Desperate Student? There are plenty of valid questions there.
Then again, the germane question is usually the one that goes unasked, so maybe I shouldn't be too hard on my friend.
Here at FCN, we maintain no list of friendly, reciprocal or even fanciful "blogs we like." In fact, our linkage is very minimalistic. While most sites keep at least a small blogroll with friends' sites or other interesting fare, we don't. Why?
There are many easy answers: We don't have any friends. We don't have any friends who blog. Even if we did have friends who blog, we wouldn't link to their sites. We have such varied taste in blogs that the disputes created by a definitive list would cause a rift between us contributors. Linking to other blogs is morally wrong. No other blogs would like to link to us. Linking requires work.
Like most easy answers, all of the above options are false. The real reason has to do with our rebellious nature. Remember those association games you played as a kid? Blue > water, water > thirsty, thirsty > hungry, etc? Well, oe more we can add to that list is "blog > link list." Where a blog is a useless amalgamation of hyperlinks will be also. Links are considered the "currency" of the internet, whatever that means. They open the door for other sites and the truly globalized internet is the blogrolled one, or so they taught us in blogger 101. "You gotta have 'em," as one wizened author once told me.
This culture of "I'll link to you if you'll link to me" has become standardized across the great servers of the world. Blogs have come to demand links from others, as if it is their birthright to see their name underlined. Don't link and you are using cash in a Visa check card world:
To us here at FCN, nonconformity is more than a virtue, it is a creed. We aren't normal people (who is?) and, in case you hadn't noticed, we broadcast that abnormality through this site. When others say jump we think twice and prepare our estate before asking "how high?" When others write sincere essays for their college entrance, we prepare a passel of indefensible lies.
That doesn't mean we haven't provided some links now and again. To continue an already tenuous analogy beyond its expiration, some hairs do manage to escape our cyber razor. To wit, see here and here.
Keep in mind that our content exists for the entertainment of ourselves and, of course, our moms. We also sometimes consider the faithful few, but only for fleeting moments. If you want us to link to you, your content needs to be entertaining and captivating. It needs to grab us by the chain and yank, in exactly the way PETA wouldn't approve. Alternatively, it can be funny. We have twelve readers, most of whom will probably at least look at your page if we provide a link, but your material needs to be worthy of their attention.
Please remember that the mere fact that you have a blog is not worthy of our reader's attention. Heck, I have a blog. That's my four word refutation. If you want a link, send us a page of your best content and we will give it fair consideration. That is, we will assign it heads or tails on a coin and make sure the toss is conducted properly.
Okay. Who am I kidding? We are so strapped for content we'll probably post anything. Send us a picture of your Grandma and you'll get face time. Well, maybe not, but it's worth a short, isn't it?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Kelsey get low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low.
I was well on my way to living an incomplete life.
There's nothing like getting elbow-deep into college and then realizing you never really went to prom. You get a sort of vague uneasy feeling like you forgot something – the kind of feeling you get just before you realize you locked your keys in the car. When I dropped out of college and got a minimum wage shift job, I more or less forgot about that nagging feeling in the back of my head.
Then one day, I overheard a friend of mine in discussion with someone else. We'll call her Kelsey, because that is her name. Kelsey was lamenting the fact that everyone had recruited prom dates months before she even thought about it. “I've asked everyone!” She said. “They're all booked.”
I unleashed my FCN wit to make a stupid smart-alecky joke. “You haven't asked me.”
She whirled to face me. “Are you serious?'
“Hm? What? Me?”
Four weeks later, I found myself rushing home from work to pull on a tux I borrowed from a friend of mine whom we will call John, because that is what everyone else calls him. Then came the florist: “Oh, you're the yellow sunflower boy! Issues. You should seriously have gotten something red or white. Yellow? Come on now. Issues.” Then pictures at Kelsey's house. Kelsey's parents were friendly but vaguely suspicious. I decided to keep my driver's license in my pocket where it belonged. They didn't need to know I was a college dropout bum who writes for FCN.
Then off to someone else's house, where flash bulbs chattered like machine gun fire. You know that last scene in The Rookie where he hits the lights and everyone is taking pictures? Yeah. It felt like that. My eyes were a bit off after the pictures – I remember a 20-passenger white hummer limo (heck yes) professional photos, and a restaurant. I also remember my trophy date, Kelsey, constantly telling me to suck it up and/or deal with it. Whatever that means.
So after about five and a half hours of hanging out, someone finally got the bright idea of actually going to the prom itself. After a short and very exciting breathaliticizer-o-matic test, we got rid of most of the accessories/jackets/etc that we'd carefully donned to go to the prom. This seemed very counterintuitive. Why bother dressing up if it's all going to go in a numbered paper sack anyway?
I learned the reasoning as soon as I hit the dance floor. See, I come from a background of what I call “morphed” dancing. That is, if you trace social dancing back a few hundred years, you find waltz, swing, line – stuff like that. You can put all these different dance styles on a timeline and see how they've morphed from one to the next. But this was not morphed dancing. This was dancing evolved.
A SHORT HISTORY OF PROM DANCING
The first prom ever was at Cambridge High in 1740. Everyone got all dressed up and got their pictures taken, then went into a big room and talked. It wasn't much of a hit, but the school staff was determined to make prom a success. So the next year, they brought in some violinists who played background music. This enhanced the atmosphere significantly. Prom started spreading to other schools. Everyone liked standing around listening to music.
Proms remained largely unchanged until 1912, when Jojo Spudwink of Miami Unified snuck a bongo drum past security (security wasn't nearly as advanced back then as it is now, in a post-9/11 world). About an hour into the violin music, Jojo whipped out the bongo drum and started pounding. The beat was so overwhelming that the party goers couldn't resist nodding their heads to the rhythm. Jojo became an instant legend. The drums continued to be popular at Miami Unified but didn't really catch until heavier rhythms because popular in music around the sixties.
Not that much has changed since the bongo drum days. The head bobbing had become marginally more complex, and the music has become marginally simpler.
/A SHORT HISTORY OF PROM DANCING
And that's about what we experienced. It doesn't take any skill or practice to Prom dance. You just walk into the crowd with your date and start feeling the beat. Of course, there are a few no-nos. The most popular is freak dancing, (also known as booty dancing – avert your eyes children!).
But perhaps the biggest no-no is not feeling the beat. About two hours into the dance, ignorant of this important convention, I launched myself off into the crowd in agonizing slow motion, gradually turning and stepping in what I wanted to think was graceful elegance. Almost thirty seconds later, a school official tapped me on the shoulder.
“Are you okay?” He asked. Now there are two ways you ask if someone is okay. The first is the way he didn't do it, which is to ask in a concerned way as if to offer help. The second is the way he did do it, which is the way police ask if they can help you when they really want to know if you need to be shot to improve the gene pool. I got back into the crazy bopping and the official backed up, grudgingly satisfied.
Nothing individually was particularly special about prom. It was the whole collected experience – dressing up, photos, limo, good food, a friend winning the title of Prom Queen – that really made it a night to remember. Had I not gone, my life would just not have been complete.
Now all I have to do is check out this whole Disney Land thing everyone's talking about.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Back behind the wheel...
Boy it feels good to be back. This is my first post since the hijacker frenzied around our little baby, made child's play of our template and generally was cantankerous.
While the hijacker was in control of FCN, I got to know what it's like to be one of the faithful few. I didn't know what a post would be until it came out. When it did arrive, I'd be disappointed.
Throughout the hijacker's brief but notorious tenure, I rose early for my morning FCN fix, only to discover that our hijacker kept a different schedule than I and posted much later whilst I was in class. So my mornings, all four of them, were much more dour.
Every day held a scary moment, a few terrorizing seconds as my browser connected with the blogger servers and made its request. As the information was exchanged between my local terminal and the Big Kahuna central, I found myself holding my breath, even when my lungs had already expired their last oxygen (Big Kahuna central can take a while to respond). So any reports you hear about an FCN author fainting yesterday had nothing to do with the hijacker and everything to do with forgetting to breathe.
I know this is the second reflective post on the nefarious activity of one hijacker - and believe me, that fact weighs so heavily on my conscience that I will find a way to introduce new content into this tome - but it's worth delving into the issue once again to discourage any copycats. Acts of senseless terrorism invariably engender mindless duplication. School, Olympics and mall shootings have all been tried, but idiots keep on doing them anyway, thinking their take on mass killing is unique. So taking over a FCN, a crime so similar in magnitude to senseless murder that we dare not dwell for too long on the link (we've young readers, folks), is likely to encourage further attempts.
Like our elected leaders, FCN had to change its policy to reflect the open animosity and, let's be frank, actionable hostility toward friendly humor blogging. That's right, ladies and gentleman (not a typo), from this day forward FCN will make like a Danish newspaper and negotiate with terrorists. The next time someone offers to guest blog (with an implied "or else), we will be much more inclined to say yes. When an anonymous heckler sends us a letter with a copy of a picture we would rather you all not see, we will write a check before calling the authorities.
Heck, if you get me in an armbar I'll do pretty much anything. But I'd like to see you try.
OK, so that new content I promised earlier. Touching fingers to keyboard again reminded me of my first experience driving a tractor on an April morning some years ago. I couldn't have been much older than Dakota Fanning when I slid behind the wheel of our family's powerful Kubota and listened attentively as my father taught me the basics of driving. That's right: I learned to drive a tractor before I learned to drive a car. Maybe that's why I drive at such safe speeds.
The rumble of the diesel engine erased all my father's warnings about maneuverability and safety, but didn't keep me from having a riot on my first tour of agrarian authority. At least for the first twenty minutes. See, the thrill of controlling a cumbersome and slow craft over rough terrain turns from exciting to dull faster than molten iron in a bucket of cold water. What started as a novelty soon became a chore.
The great thing about working on a small farm is that the boring work comes by rarely and passes quickly and a simple mind like mine can easily forget the monotony of driving given a few months of memory fermentation.
To tie the analogy back to FCN, in a couple weeks I forgot what it is like to be up at 5:30 AM sitting in front of a blank post, knowing that work and school will soon call and not having anything to write about. I am back behind the wheel and feeling as energetic about today's post as I am about the breakfast I am about to eat (you would be too if you saw these peanut butter coated waffles in which I am about to indulge).
Oh, yeah, and I'll be on the tractor again this month; I'm looking forward to it.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
hi
A couple of days ago, FCN received the following email which is reprinted below without any change to spelling or grammar:
Subject: hiMy answer:
It is too difficult to say about myself in a few words!!! I am very cheerful girl, I am an optimist. I think that I am pretty. My friends say I am a good girl :):):) Also I would like to say that I am very serious and I don t like when people play games with the feelings of other people! I have a couple of best friends and I am here to find my special one. Sometimes people come into your life and you know right away that they were meant to be there...to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson or help figure out who you are or who you want to become. You never know who these people may be...The successes and downfalls that you experience can create who you are, and the bad experiences can be learned. To meet friends is good but I have friends. Now I need my soulmate in my life. Unfortunately I couldn t find him in my city but the world is very very big!!! I can t stop hoping to find a good sincere and honest man! I woman and I am lacking the right man in my life, someone to hold on, someone to lean on, someone who could be there for me all the time, Someone to share fun with, bad times and good times, trial times, Celebration times, rainy and sunny times of life. I need an honest , trust worthy . I would like to meet a nice guy 30-45 years old, open-minded, kind and willing to have serious relationship. I want to note that he must have serious intentions and not only swap messages. Of course, he also would like to meet in person. Well, any other questions we can discuss on the phone or by mail, my adress ksendansen@gmail.com ! With the best
regards, Kseniya
Re: hiIn retrospect, I might have written something about my not being in the 30-45 age range or the probability of finding an honest man through random web searches, but I need to save some ammunition for the next girl.
Oh, Kseniya! Where to begin? Let's start with that name. Is it pronounced "Sen-eeya" with a silent "K" or are there actually two hard consonant sounds right after one another at the start of your first name? That must be a great-aunt to spell out for people. If your name is Seneeya, let me be the umpteenth to say "what a pretty name" with a somewhat confused blank look on my face. How ethnic.
I googled your name just to check out your story, and found the following picture of Kseniya Zamyslova. If this is indeed you, I will renounce the rest of this post. If it isn't, and I have a sneaking suspicion that you and Zamyslova share nothing more than a first name, you deserve every word that follows.
Thank goodness that you did find a way to use "few words." To think what your pitch would have been like had you been verbose. I get all Dr. Wright just thinking about it.
Your comment that "you think you are pretty" would be much more encouraging if it didn't follow a declaration that "I am an optimist." You may be optimistically pretty (heck, Janet Reno is optimistically pretty) but realistically, shall we say, unwholesome.
My friends say I am a good boy :):):).
I didn't just drop into your life. I am not in your life. You are in my inbox. You are clogging up bandwidth on my computer. You are distracting me from writing FCN posts and eating, my two productive pastimes.
Please, if you are really interested in my attention, call my mother and tell her we're an item or issue a death threat. Either way I will fear for my life and be forced to address your demands.
Sincerely,
C*** ******
If any of you, the faithful FCN few, are interested in sending Kseniya a message and getting onto the warmer side of her good graces, be our guest. Her email is ksendansen - at - gmail - dot - com or, for all you web 'bots surfing the internet looking for random emails to spam, ksendansen@gmail.com. Maybe Kseniya can find a soul mate in a really intelligent computer or an equally intelligent FCN reader.
Best of luck!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
FCN's Godchild needs your help
You read it right: FCN is asking you, the faithful few, to get off your collective duffs and do something for an unprecedented second consecutive day. Consider it a Valentine's day gift for three guys, who tried hard but weren't able to scare up a Valentine. Consider it an expression of goodwill and self effacement; a declaration that the self is less than the whole.
But enough with the altruistic promulgations.
Last Summer, FCN celebrated the arrival of rFCN, a website established in the vein of Funny Class Notes but with much funnier jokes (hence the name, Really Funny Class Notes). This blog was, for all intents and purposes, the Godchild of FCN: It was birthed of our seed, in its infancy it created little messes for us to clean up, later it started maturing and finally rebelled against FCN wholeheartedly during its "teenage" period.
We even share a name. Yes, "rFCN, I am your father."
Now the site is going through its midlife crisis. After a period of almost two and a half months with only one post of new content, even the most loyal rFCN fans were beginning to think FCN's spinoff blog had gone the way of Shinzo Abe. What are readers to think when an unannounced break continues into seeming perpetuity? That you've taken a extended bathroom break?
rFCN has returned from its hiatus with an ultimatum: 15 unique comments or the plug is pulled, the water will drain out and rFCN will be placed on permanent suspension. No more inspiration for us derelicts or regular, throat-clearing guffaws. Our abs will no longer be worked by uncontrollable laughter and happy tears will have to be simulated with Visine.
Yes, rFCN's position is as dire as it sounds. Unlike its Godparent, rFCN does not have Mommy G making brownies or offering an unconditional stream of motivating comments. Without such support, I might consider leaving the blog world behind as well. Heck, I've done it. Twice.
As we intoned when rFCN first broke the plane of blogosphere mediocrity last July, having a spinoff blog is the highest form of praise. It shows a level of support and adoration that cannot be duplicated by boxes of chocolates and flowers. Imitation is the highest form of praise and we here at FCN figured we'd about made the pinnacle of blog success.
For a blog that can't even muster a dozen readers, having an imitator is high encouragement. But if rFCN goes the way of the Brontosaurus, we will no longer have that acclaim. Our regular ego boost will be deflated and FCN will be back to generating its own motivation (which often means burning Supreme Court justices in effigy).
For you, the faithful FCN few, losing rFCN might mean a reduction in the quality of FCN posts, which isn't saying much, I know, but it is still something.
If this post warmed your heart at all. If it increased your blood pressure or drew one iota more color to your face, please consider visiting rFCN and commenting on their desperation post. The link, for those of you who don't click on things is:
http://reallyfunnyclassnotes.blogspot.com/2008/02/did-you-ever-get-feeling-you-were-being.html
And if that impassioned plea doesn't do the trick, maybe this will:
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Brisingr Preview
BOREDOM WARNING: The following post will hold minimal interest to those unfamiliar with Christopher Paulini's Inheritance series (including already-published Eragon and Eldest).
SPOILER WARNING: Plot and/or ending details follow.
One of the most anticipated novels of the year is Christopher Paulini's Brisinger, the 3rd installment in the Inheritance Trilogy Cycle. Folks are dying to know what happens next in the rather epic tale of Eragon and his Saphira.
We wrote Paulini a very nice letter, and he agreed to send us the unfinished Brisinger manuscript. We read it, and now offer you this plot summary for those of you who can't stand to wait for September 20th:
The story begins with Eragon abandoning his freshly-victorious army so he can help his brother Roran track down his girlfriend Katrina, who has been captured by the Ra'zac. Almost immediately after Eragon loses sight of the army, Galbatorix himself swoops down with his dragon and has a Surda sandwhich with Urgals for seasoning and the Carvahall townspeople for desert. There are only a handful of survivors, including all the major characters. Nasuada is believed dead but of course she isn't really - she just got lost in a bog.
Eragon knows that he is too weak to take on Galbatorix directly, so he flees into the Spine with Roran, where they bump into Angela and Solembum. They have a lengthy and mildly amusing conversation which has no bearing on the plot, at the end of which Solembum utters some impenetrably mysterious riddles and turns into a rutabaga.
They proceed along the Spine eating less than is humanly possible. Nights are bitterly cold, but Eragon uses the magic word Brisingr (hence the name) to surround their camps with a ring of fire every time they go to sleep. This has several effects: It keeps enemies away, keeps Eragon and Roran warm and makes it obvious to anyone a hundred miles around where exactly they are.
Eventually they randomly fall into a hole in the mountain and stumble on a city hidden by magic from the eyes of those far off. It is populated by a race more or less exactly like Hobbits. You could say that Paulini ripped this race off of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, but you would be mistaken, because these people are called Bar'u'ab'dualötís, so obviously he made it up himself. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are a peace-loving people (as you know if you're at all familiar with Lord of the Rings); they want no trouble, but Eragon's ring of fire has attracted an army of Ra'zac. The Bar'u'ab'dualötís are forced to fight for their homes and turn out to be pretty good fighters for no explicable reason. Eragon's magic does plenty of damage, but the Ra'zac do something sneaky to his mind during the battle and he has strange nightmares for the rest of the book.
The good guys win of course, but they take heavy losses in the form of warm Bar'u'ab'dualötí bodies the reader barely knew the name of anyway. Of course, the heavy losses aren't actually dead - they just got lost in a bog. Eragon captures the Ra'zac leader (who's name is Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver) and finds himself in a moral quandary. He can either torture Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver to find Katrina's location or risk not saving Katrina at all. True to form, Eragon deals with this decision by hanging out and waiting for something terrible to happen.
He only has to wait two days. Arya, who found Eragon using magic instead of the rings of fire, appears that night and confides several important pieces of information. First, she explains the origin of the Bar'u'ab'dualötís. Here's a shocker: they come from Over the Sea just like everything else. Roran wonders aloud what's so special about Over the Sea that gives it such auto-generating powers. Arya curses him in the ancient language so he can never speak again. She says that these things must not be spoken of until the author figures out "where the heck this world comes from anyway."
Arya uses her magic to pry open Arbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver's mind and find out where Katrina is.
They continue on their journey. They are escorted by four Bar'u'ab'dualötí. These four are led by a slightly handsomer chap named Imn-ot'fro-do. They march to Gil'ead with no idea how they'll save Katrina. On the way, a handful of survivors from the Surdan and Urgal armies join them. "Anything Saphira's master's brother's girlfriend," They reason.
Upon arrival at Gil'ead, a terrible battle breaks loose. Just when all seems lost, Murtagh shows up out of nowhere and agrees to help Eragon because he feels bad about all that mean stuff he said at the end of Eldest. Together, the brothers defeat Galbatorix's million thousand soldiers and burn the dungeon (but only after extracting the prisoners). Katrina isn't there, which means they just wasted two hundred pages of effort. Eragon, Roran, Arya, and Murtagh have a meeting to decide what to do next. During this meeting, a wounded imperial soldier sneaks up and tries to shoot Eragon in the back. Elva shows up out of nowhere and jumps in front of the arrow. She is lost in a bog soon after. The enemy is captured but Arya doesn't want to torture him because he's human and not a worthless Ra'zac.
So Trianna, leader of the Du Vrangr Gata, shows up and tortures him instead. The poor man reveals that he doesn't know where Katrina is, but he does know a secret tunnel into Galbatorix's palace. As if on cue, a bunch of Varden show up who say they can lead him to the entrance to the tunnel but go no further because a strange and convenient force has been placed on the entrance so only dragon riders can pass into it.
They reveal several other juicy tidbits:
1) There are actually three more dragon eggs at least.
2) No one has any clue where they are.
3) That thing back in the chuck wagon wasn't a watermelon.
4) It was a dragon egg, and it seems to be hatching for Imn-ot'fro-do into a strong green male.
5) Nasuada isn't dead, she's just lost in a bog.
6) Katrina has been spotted in Helgrind, which Eragon should probably have known she was in all along. That dirty rbaghdallrencarfithroughtheriver was a liar!
On hearing this news, Arya dies of despair. Dies. Of despair.
The book ends with Eragon in a moral quandary.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
18-1
You would have to be socially illiterate to not have heard that the New York Giants upset (meaning narrowly defeated) the New England Patriots on football's grandest stage, Sunday. And you would have to be deaf to miss my screams of pained agony at the demise of my team.
1) Gisele Bundchen
Bill Belichick has gotten away from some frightful wardrobe decisions in the past (like stuffing his red challenge flag in his white athletic socks and wearing these obscene shorts). He reminds me of me in High School. Heck, he reminds me of me now. Gregg Easterbrook talks about the "gods of football" which determine who will win or lose big games. Well, the gods of football couldn't have shined on such television inappropriate garb as the Ugly Bright Red Hoodie.
In today's age of televised drama, colors are important. And red is out. Also, the head coach and the offensive coordinator (Josh McDaniels, to the left of Belichick in the above photo) have to match. That's a rule the NFL is considering as an addition to the uniform and wardrobe regulations for next year. And, that guy in the back biting his shirt. Not good. Not good at all.
4) The Cheating Giants
I know this is a heavy charge to levy with such little and circumstantial evidence, but, hey, that didn't stop the Patriot's critics. Why should reality stop FCN? Let facts be submitted to a candid world:
FACT:
FACT: David Tyree caught a ball thrown 40 yards away with nothing but his helmet. Research of the taps is continuing to see whether Tyree used an adhesive or a magnet to complete this "amazing" pass. Either way, both products are banned by the NFL for in-game use.
FACT: Peyton Manning (Eli's older brother, who had never enjoyed the national spotlight before Sunday) placed his head in his hands while the ball was in the air. We don't know for sure how that impacted the ball's flight path, but we know it had something to do with the end result.
Don't think it was cheating? Check out this video documentation and tell us in the comment section how else such a feat could have been accomplished:
Impossible. I wish you could see me shaking my head right now.
5) Bad Ads
It's common knowledge in the sports world that good ads favor the team from the smaller media market. It has to do with NFL conspiracy theories and Budweiser's secret ties to Roger Goodell's sister-in-law's parents and some extortion that happened years ago but is now very well covered up. It's all very boring and nerdy.
New York is a bigger media market than Foxborough. Admit it: If it weren't for the football team, you wouldn't even know that Foxborough existed, much less where it is.
Now take a look at the ads: For a second consecutive year, Salesgenie.com embarrassed itself and its stockholders with a couple of CEO written ads that induced more cringes than chuckles, at least where I was sitting. GoDaddy.com ran another ad that tried to be raunchy, but came just shy. Even the normally reliable Budweiser disappointed.
The only good add that aired was Pepsi Max's and, consistent with FCN's conspiracy theory, the Patriot's scored a touchdown almost immediately after it was played. Here it is again in case you missed it:
6) Massachusetts was sunk before the opening kickoff
What do John Kerry, Mitt Romney and Tom Brady have in common? All three of them are from the Bay state and have failed to meet expectations. Kerry's political nosedive in the 2004 elections and Romney's inability to get traction should have been a heads up to savvy football observers. We should have seen this coming. The Red Sox notwithstanding, Massachusetts teams have been ho-hum this year. Boston College didn't make the national championship after a promising start. Kerry couldn't win against Bush after a whipping up a lot of momentum. And Tom Brady was flat when it really counted.
The jury is still out on Romney - he may yet redeem Massachusetts - but things don't look good for the rich white Mormon (If you really feel that way, go vote! Now, before the polls close).
To extend this logic a bit further, the Boston Celtics will not win an NBA championship this year. That's right folks, the big three will not perform when it really matters. You heard it here first!
Friday, November 30, 2007
Blessed be the Busy
Political science class starts at 10:00, but the real education begins 15 minutes before that as students gather outside the door to chew the fat, compare gossip and generally mingle. At these impromptu meetings of self-interested students (not meant in the pejorative sense), derelicts like me relearn the fundamentals of human interaction. Like the good student I am not, I notice trends in conversation and am beginning to discern some social and discourse virtues.
Before class yesterday, after Drake and I exchanged pleasantries and cash (I owed him for a lost sports bet and he owed me because I didn't go out with his sister; the balance had me paying), I asked what was new in his life.
"Man, I've been so busy lately, you know?" Drake didn't strike me as the kind of student who over-commits himself, so I didn't really know what he meant. But before I could ask a clarifying question, the conversation turned to the Cowboys-Packers game and why the @#$%^&* NFL wouldn't allow such an amazing sporting event to be put on broadcast TV.
Lindsey and Nate arrived moments later, looking a little too friendly, and had a similar refrain.
"So sorry I didn't send you that article I promised. I just got so busy with everything." Nate was referencing an article on Ron Paul which compared the 10 term congressman to Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee in a key primary state. I kind of wanted to read the article and had noticed when Nate didn't send it. Thinking back on how Nate and Lindsey entered, I thought I might know what had kept Nate busy. Outwardly, I shrugged.
Lindsey had an apology as well. She'd missed the week's study group saying she was "just too busy trying to catch up" and wanted me to send her my notes.
More students joined our circle. Trevor (a poorly adjusted, heavily acned, tall kid with radical ideas about the role of people in government), James (a devout atheist) and Carrie (yes, that Carrie) already had a conversation going and, from what I gathered at the back end, James was complaining about his school schedule next year, saying that as busy as he was this semester pulling decent grades would be nigh unto impossible.
At each expression of busyness, those listening reacted with expressions of sympathy and general assent. The non-verbal message was "I know what you mean" and "life is a 200-pound dumbbell wrapped around your legs as you are thrown into the Marianas Trench."
But I said I was a student. While, I came into the discussion with a preconceived notion on the merits of busy, I came to find that my classmates were right. Busyness is a virtue.
Most of the time, when people ask me what I've been up to or why I am unavailable for some social event, I answer something like this:
"TV. Lot's and lots of TV. I am even watching shows I don't care that much for. The other day, I sat through almost an hour of ads and the show on the other end was canceled. You?"
OR
"I can't. I have to make money. I value money and the process of making it more than I value our friendship. But I still value our friendship a lot. Actually, making money is a good thing. Life is like money - it's useless if you don't spend it. In other news, I've been taking financial advice from M.C. Hammer. So, I'll be working instead of spending time with you.
OR
"I've been dating around. You know, one night here one night there. Pretty recreational, actually. I treat the opposite gender like a jungle gym and that's why I didn't get you that paper on time."
It is beginning to dawn on me, through the gel in my hair and the thick skull encasing by brain, that maybe these kinds of answers are not socially virtuous; I should just play like a phone and put up a busy signal.
There is one other cardinal virtue I would be remiss if I didn't share with you, the faithful FCN few. That is the virtue of fatigue. He who is tired can do no wrong. Make a dumb mistake at work? You were tired. Forget to phone your mom on her birthday? You were suffering from absolute exhaustion. Call your friend a bad word? Really, no-sleep in days kinda tired.
Instead of saying "heck, I forgot, sorry" or "you know, I totally mismanaged my time this weekend," you say you're wasted. And all is forgiven.
If you really need to run interference, you can use them both in conjunction. "I was really busy this weekend and super tired with everything." The deeper in trouble you find yourself, the more details you should give about what kept you busy. But make sure that these details are socially valuable activities (volunteering at the animal clinic, taking care of your baby sister or rescuing baby seals at the poles) and steer clear of any entertainment related answer, no matter how true it is.
All people really want to know is that even though you spat in their face socially, you still give a care; that their plight is high on your list of priorities, even though you just blatantly shelved it. Now we know how this can be accomplished easily through the deployment of a simple, four-letter word.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Post #366
For the last 377 days, we were eagerly anticipating an event that can never really be duplicated in the blogosphere: our first birthday. There's something about making it one whole year that establishes a blog; it gives us credibility. We've posted every day for the last year, more or less, and we've provided quality content every time, more or less. Okay fine. Mostly less.
But in any case, we're still around. We haven't grown much, but we sure haven't shrunk (probably because there was nowhere to go but up). We've added family members Uncle Wally and Mommy G. We've got much-loved readers like Adrialien, Chris, Trevor, Em, Batman, the dudes from rFCN ... even Anonymous, who really seems to get around. We've had our share of scandal and revolution. The steady downward spirals of our love lives have been carefully documented. We made contact with extra-terrestrial beings. We interviewed various leaders. We apologized 11 times. We almost drank enough Coke. We unveiled dangerous conspiracies. Heck, we even ate a whole mess of tacquitos.
Through it all, we've grown stronger as people, closer as friends, and more committed to our founding ideals of
Okay, it was clear that the above paragraph wasn't going anywhere so I jumped ship. Let's start over:
Through it all, we've posted a lot.
Well, sadly, after all that anticipation, we went ahead and missed our own birthday. We should have posted last November 4th, the day we first came to blogger. We could have blown candles and wallowed in nostalgia about how far we've come. But we totally blew it. After all that anticipation, that day was passed with no heralding whatsoever. We didn't even post that day! Sad, sad, sad.
So now, all we can do is do what we've always done.
We can apologize. We messed up again. Our first birthday is gone forever. But next year, we'll get it right. We promise. You can trust us. This time.
