"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep"
Back after the holiday.
The Hotel Illness will be closed until Dec. 1st so that all employees may participate and celebrate in the annual turkey slaughter (not to mention the pumpkins). We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.
Ice Rollerblading and Digital Dating
It snowed all day and froze as soon as the sun went down. Saw some fool out on rollerblades tonight on my way home. Wonder how far he made it before he busted his ass.
So, changing subjects as I'm prone to do . . . Anyone have any experience with online dating? Tell me, what's the story, Morning Glory? Is it all sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll?
It's like, all cold and stuff
Ok, so who's the snapperhead that left the door open and let winter in? Who's responsible for this snow and ice?
May you get hit by a slushball.
In the ear.
I think my electric razor needs new blades. I have to go over and over the same spot so many times I think it might be quicker and less painful if I grabbed some 60 grit paper and sanded it off . . . or maybe I could just use a cheese grater.
Yet another fox pass
When I was growing up I attended church every Sunday with my parents, and inevitably, every Sunday the preacher would in some way refer to the northex of the church. I always assumed this was some kind of abbreviation for 'north exit', but everything he mentioned was always in the east side of the church. Even more disturbing, was the fact that there were no real exits on the north side of the church, just fire exits. I guess I just dismissed him as some city-slicker that couldn't find north with a compass, because I pretty much forgot about it for years. Eventually, I was reading something or other and came across the word "narthex." I ran to the dictionary. A vestibule leading to the central part of a church. Stunned, I was. All these years it was I who had been the idiot.
Almost fifteen years ago, the first half of Communion nearly terrified the adolescence right out of me. A month ago, I thought it would be a good idea to revisit it. Although, the first half still kind of freaks me out, what I kept noticing were the logical flaws and incessant attempts to persuade the reader of its factuality.
"But why do I need these absurd stories? They are not lies; when I tell them, I myself believe them. I don't lie. Perhaps I tell them to myself when I tell them to others, so that I can hide from myself whatever has made me a refugee in my own life."
Ah, so if you tell yourself a story enough to believe it, it is no longer a lie? Later, in Appendix II, Strieber recounts the results of his polygraph test:
13. Did you ever lie to anyone in a buisiness venture prior to 1984?
No. (Evaluated as possibly untrue. A correct response. I've been in business for twenty years and I'm not sure I haven't lied occasionally.)
Am I picking nits here? Possibly, but "I don't lie" is one hell of a strong statement, which, as shown in the polygraph, isn't quite as true as he initially would have us believe.
It should also be noted that Strieber is a horror writer by trade, and in that respect, Communion is a pretty good novel. Is it true? I remain doubtful, but that does not mean I completely disregard the possibility of life existing outside the Earth's atmosphere. It is, after all, an awful big universe.
A friend of mine used to say that the definition of an asshole is someone who believes his or her own lies. Perhaps asshole is the wrong word here, considering Strieber's claims, 'mooncalf' might be more appropriate. Read Communion and make up your own mind.
I've found a new home
All future calls, emails, etc. should be directed here. OK, so my current budget won't allow me to go there very often or to stay for an extended length of time, but mmm I love it. How can I not love a place that serves quesadillas bigger than Brittany's, er, um . . . ego, and an endless selection of beer on tap. Had a pitcher of Bell's Porter last night - exquisitely dark, and delicious. Bell's website states that "A blend of dark malt gives this beer flavors of coffee and chocolate with some smokey roasted notes," which is slightly misleading. Normally, I would gag at thought of flavoring my beer with chocolate or coffee, but any hints of these are extremely subtle and perfectly balanced. Although it's hard to beat Guinness in the dark beer department, this one definitely holds its own.
*Side note: Did you know Britney is an expert in semiconductor physics?
Schtuff and stuff
Clark is at it again.
Would you like a side order of corn, beans, or medicine?
Damn, I'm smooth
I found out the hard way that Kara gets startled rather easily. Leave it to me to scare a defenseless little girl right out of her wheelchair. Actually, it wasn't anything quite so dramatic, but it still feels pretty shitty to know you scared someone you're trying to help.
Paths to my door
Actual Google and Yahoo search strings:
"Tense neck Nausea"
Out ta Get Me
And you thought I was just paranoid. They're lookin' for me. One on the east coast and one on the west, by two different search engines. It's a conspiracy, I tell you. (Bonus, I'm the top listing for my name even though it doesn't appear on this site.)
My Mind is a Cowboy
want to roll laughing down lonely canyons,
- James Kavanaugh
Dawn's post on her desire for solitude made me examine my own. Unlike Dawn, I do not naturally display the magnetism that draws strangers into conversation, and for the most part, I do not want it. I enjoy my solitude. I enjoy my privacy. I enjoy my own thoughts. Yet, there is a part of me that desperately wants to connect - and therein lies the rub. I've read enough about kinesics to identify some of the physical suggestions I display in order to maintain that moat of reserve around myself. I recognize that it is largely a self-imposed exile. The catch, as I said, is that this clarity only comes after the fact - which suggests that these cues are an extension of my natural inclination, or, at the very least, a deeply ingrained habit.
So what happens when I meet someone I would like to know better? My mind becomes a cowboy. A cue herder (a cueboy?), constantly rounding up these unconscious actions, and searching for stragglers - all, mind you, while I'm trying to hold a conversation.
What's that? Just let go? Ah yes, well . . . easier said than done. That monkey on my back can be a real clingy little bastard.
"Good God, what a mess of draggle-tail impulses a man is - and a woman too, I guess." - Steinbeck
"Never feel sorry for a guy like me." - Rollins
Hopelessly Out of Fashion
I don't get the jeans with the big white streaks down the front and back of each leg. Somebody explain this fashion to me. What is the look they are going for here? Is it supposed to look faded? Looks like they wollered around in a puddle of bleach. Are we about over it?
War of the Rooms
Ok, somebody above/beside/below me is testing the structural integrity of the building with their dooga-dooga-DA dooga-dooga-DA dooga-dooga DOOG-DOOG-DOOG (repeat ad-migraine). Time to blow the cobs out of the towers. Hmm . . . where's my Ozzy?
Yes, this is juvenile vindictiveness. Ask me if I care.