july 2004
Nice box
A recently purchased home appliance came packaged in the box pictured below:
We left the box in the living-room for a few days, and it got a laugh from everyone who saw it.
And yes, if you’re wondering, it was bottom-heavy.
29 july 2004 ~ 18:40 
The annals of humiliation
I’m not sure why I’m making this public - to attain some kind of catharsis, possibly - but here it is anyway: five of the most embarrassing moments of my life (so far), in no particular order:
- A quick dip. I was just a few years old, on a trip to the seaside with my family. I dashed to the water’s edge to snatch a pebble, tripped, and was instantly submerged by a wave. As I struggled to my feet, my coat heavy with ice-cold salt water, I looked up to see a group of fishermen laughing at me. (England, early 1970s)
- Moment of silence. Forced to participate in a “musical soirée” at my school, I walked to the piano in a room packed with expectant parents and peers, sat down, and could not remember how to play the piece, even though I had the sheet music right in front of me. I sat there for a while as people coughed nervously, then stood up and went back to my seat. A few people clapped politely; all I wanted to do was run out the door. (England, late 1970s)
- A short trip. At my school, those who were no good at any sports whatsoever were entered by default in the Steeplechase at the annual Sports Day (because everyone had to take part in at least one event). In front of hundreds of people, I took off half-heartedly at the sound of the starting pistol, cleared the first bend with no trouble, and, approaching the water jump, launched myself feebly into the air. My foot caught on the wooden beam, and I tumbled head-first into the water trough. I walked the rest of the race, dripping wet and shivering, and came in a couple of minutes after everyone else. (England, late 1970s)
- An accident waiting to happen. I waited tables in a restaurant for a while. One evening a large party from London came in, dressed to the nines. While pouring wine, I accidentally poured some all over a man’s dinner jacket. Red wine. On a white dinner jacket. I apologized, walked out of the dining-room, and never waited tables again. (England, late 1980s)
- Sing, sing it loud. I was sharing a house with four college friends in Liverpool. One day, when everyone had left for their classes, I cranked up the volume on my stereo and sang my heart out to Louder Than Bombs by the Smiths for about half an hour before heading out to the university. The next day, one of my housemates, Becky, told me - in front of everyone - that she and her boyfriend had been upstairs, listening to me singing the whole time, and that my enthusiasm partly compensated for my lack of talent. (England, early 1990s)
I can see patterns emerging here: public humiliation, being forced to do things against my will, water and other fluids, and just plain idiocy. It’s also interesting to note how the incidents described above are so similar to the situations one finds oneself in in nightmares - being trapped somewhere frozen with fear, or doing something ridiculous in front of a crowd of strangers.
And now, here’s a bonus - an incident worse, for me, than those described above:
- Foot in mouth disease. At a party in Atlanta, after several drinks, I was talking with a friend and a female stranger when I spotted another friend of mine - let’s call him John - on the far side of the room, talking to a woman who had bored me senseless for twenty minutes earlier in the evening. Laughing, I said, “Oh look, John’s stuck with that awful woman over there. I bet he can’t wait to get away!” The woman we had been talking to gave me a funny look and walked away. My friend turned to me and said, “That awful woman, as you put it, is that woman’s mother.” I honestly wished the ground could have opened up and swallowed me down right then and there. (Atlanta, late 1990s)
I do not exaggerate when I say that I still physically wince and shudder whenever I remember that incident. The very thought of it makes me want to bury my face in my hands and shrink into a corner.
All I can hope is that the worst is behind me, and that I’ll never make such a grotesque faux pas again.
28 july 2004 ~ 22:02
Mental ’Elf
I think I’m losing my marbles.
Last night, while waiting for Morrissey to perform on the Late Late Show - which he finally did, at around 1:30 in the morning - I watched Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King for the second time. And very enjoyable it was too.
This morning, walking to work as usual, I couldn’t stop myself converting every street sign and geographical landmark I passed into a cod-Tolkien, Middle Earthesque entity of my own invention. My stream of consciousness flowed in this general fashion:
“Pleonasm eagerly left his modest dwelling in the Shire of Rolando, and, carrying his belongings on his shoulder, trudged up the hill to the Great Fork of Aragon. Following the curves of the shady lane, he skirted the Flatland of Clay - its Dwarvish inhabitants not to be seen during the summer - and passed the towering Rite Aid of El-Cajon. Before him lay the final gruelling stretch of his journey, across Catoctin to the ravine of Montezuma, and onward to the (sub)domain of Rohan, where, near the foraging ground of the East Commons, he would find the precious treasure: the magic Pipe of Ethernet, which he could use to gather the Sacred Torrents ...”
And so on. Honestly, I couldn’t stop.
Speaking of Tolkien, my French professor at the University of Liverpool, back in the early nineties, used to regale the class with stories of his own studies at Oxford under the tutelage of the author, who was then Professor of English Language and Literature at Merton College. I remember most vividly his accounts of Professor Tolkien arriving at the lecture hall dressed entirely in green clothing, including a pointed hat, cape, and elven boots, as if that were perfectly normal attire for an Oxford don.
I have no idea how accurate that story is, but if there’s any truth to it at all, then it’s clear that I’m not the only insane one.
Currently crumbling my cookies:
- Parkspliced - Blur’s classic album Parklife mixed and mutilated by some of the best mashup artists
- Da Ali G Show - the second US season started last Sunday, and the man just keeps getting funnier
23 july 2004 ~ 13:22
Y3K compatible
Unlike my friend Karl, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about spoiled dairy products any time soon. I was inspecting a package of Philadelphia cream cheese in my fridge, and saw that it had the following “Use By” datestamp:
I don’t know what kind of preservatives they put in cream cheese these days, but that’s pretty amazing!
Currently enamoured with:
- The Streets, Original Pirate Material - I’m a bit behind the curve on this one, but I’m catching up by listening to this almost nonstop
- My 80GB USB2 SmartDisk external hard drive - it’s so great to be able to carry all my files around with me, without lugging my laptop around
14 july 2004 ~ 16:29
My life as a college girl
When I sit by the fireplace in my cardigan and slippers, with a glass of sherry and a pipe, as I often do, and reflect upon my youth, no phase of my life seems more strange to me than my time as a college girl in the Deep South.
Yes indeed, in the mid-nineties this ruddy-cheeked lad, fresh off the boat from England, attended the all-female Agnes Scott College in Decatur, Georgia for one full semester. I was the only male among approximately a thousand students.
What on earth was I doing there? You may well ask. Because the moribund Classics department at my regular school, Georgia State University in nearby Atlanta, was no longer offering any Ancient Greek Literature classes, I had the opportunity to take a class either at Emory University or at Agnes Scott. I had once lived in Decatur, right across the railroad tracks from the College, in a converted children’s theatre that later became a restaurant (the St. Agnes Tea Garden) and then a lesbian bar. I knew the area well, and was already fond of the College’s elegant red-brick buildings and pleasant, leafy grounds. So, whereas all my classmates chose the more prestigious Emory, I plumped for good old Agnes.
If you have ever seen the film Scream 2, then you have seen Agnes Scott - which a friend, who is a resident of lesbian-packed Decatur (aka “Dick-hater”), rather amusingly calls “Anxious Twat.” The movie was filmed on the campus. In fact, people always seem to be making movies there, as it looks very much like the archetypal small-town college, with its lawns, spreading trees, and stone arches.
It was odd being the only male on campus. The day I registered, standing for hours in lines in a huge hall, I could feel dozens of pairs of eyes on me, their female owners doubtless wondering what the hell I was doing there. Later in the semester, whenever I checked my mailbox or went down to the basement to get something from my locker, I received the same concerned glances. I don’t think most of my fellow students ever figured out who I was, or why I was there.
The course itself was a Greek Literature class on Medea by Euripides. It was just the teacher (a wonderful woman with an encyclopædic knowledge of Ancient Greek), two young women, and myself. (One of my fellow students, who would slump over the table with a glazed look of boredom on her face, vanished around halfway through the semester, leaving just the three of us.) I can honestly say that this was one of the most fascinating classes I have ever taken. Medea is a thrilling play, and we would rip through the verse, stopping only to debate a syntactical conundrum or discuss the finer points of an etymological oddity. As the days grew shorter toward the end of the semester, we would stay late, reading and arguing excitedly as the classrooms emptied around us and the sky darkened through the leaded windows. Then, realizing the time, I would pull on my heavy woollen overcoat and kick my way through piles of leaves to the station to catch my train home, still reading the play by the flickering metallic light of the creaking streetlamps.
At the time, I remember wishing I could take all my classes at Agnes Scott. Why not? After all, there had been just one girl among 700 boys at my high school in England, and she seemed to get by just fine. I would gladly have traded the brutalist grey concrete and treeless plazas of State for Agnes Scott’s Victorian sedateness, but it was not to be. As a State student, I could attend other schools only to take classes for which there was no equivalent at State. After my Greek class was over, I left Agnes Scott, never to return. But even though I didn’t graduate from there, I will always consider myself an Agnes Scott alumna.
12 july 2004 ~ 16:45
I can’t go to bed before 11:16pm
I’m not joking. I really can’t go to bed before 11:16 at night.
Every night at that time, the burglar alarm at home emits a very loud beep, which in turn sets the dog off on a barking spree. I have no idea why the alarm does this. Even weirder is the fact that the alarm used to go off at 9:36, then it suddenly changed to 10:26, and then to 11:16, where it has stayed for the last few weeks. So, every few weeks, it advances 50 minutes, which means that some time soon it might start going off at six minutes after midnight. Every night.
Knowing that the alarm will go off without fail every night at the same time, there’s no point in my going to bed any earlier than that, as the alarm will wake me, and I’ll be annoyed that I had to get out of my cosy bed to turn it off and calm the dog down. So I always stay up late, even if I want to go to bed early. I’m waiting for the alarm now.
Why don’t I do something about it? Well, I can’t find anything in the alarm’s menus that is making it go off every night. We’re not actually paying for monitoring service, so the alarm company won’t help us. And the previous owner of the house neglected to leave us the alarm’s manual. However, we need to keep the alarm installed, for insurance purposes.
Something’s got to give - especially if or when the alarm time advances past midnight - but I don’t know whether it will be my sanity, or the alarm box beneath a volley of hammer blows.
Currently enjoying the hell out of:
- The Britney-52s, Toxic Love Shack (DJ Dubz Mix) - genius mashup that sounds like a whole new song [download]
- Idiotech, Superchunk - half-hour mix containing some mad breaks, a peculiar trance-ish version of The Cure’s A Forest (!), and Public Enemy [download]
- Dana Wyse Aeroplastics - pills for all your lifestyle needs
11 july 2004 ~ 22:43
No fair
I went to the San Diego County Fair, up in Del Mar, yesterday - for half an hour, before the fair even opened. Robbie, who was judging a floral design contest there, took me in the back way (oh, you and your one track mind!), and I got to hang out for a while in the deserted fairground. It was quite eerie to see all the stalls and exhibits, with hardly a soul around.
The scene in the photo above would usually be crammed with people, so many that it would take ages to get from one side of the hall to the other. And as I stood in that empty hall, it suddenly occurred to me that without all those people, the fair is nothing. It’s like Las Vegas: the people make the place. The fair attracts so many different kinds of people from all over the region: filthy rich, horribly poor, all colours, all ages, all sexes (including some people about whom I like to play a game called “What gender is that?” with friends). The people-watching is amazing.
This year, the theme of the fair is Seussentennial Celebration, marking the 100th anniversary of the birth of the now-deceased Dr. Seuss, aka Theodore Geisel (whose widow, Dorothy, Robbie knows - of course, as he seems to know everyone around here). I’ll see more of the Seuss-themed exhibits tomorrow, when I’ll spend more time at the fair during the day, but I did get a couple of quick photos of some Seussian horticultural exhibits, including this:
Unlike most Americans, I didn’t grow up with the works of Dr. Seuss, but that’s pretty cool, although the photo doesn’t really capture it. I’ll try to get some better shots tomorrow.
4 july 2004 ~ 15:50
Soap gets in your eyes
Following up on last weekend’s cat/dog/rat débacle, here’s a photo of Eddy in the bath, having just had the rat’s blood rinsed out of his fur:
Poor thing. When wet, he looks twice as small as he does when dry and fluffy. And when I see him curled up asleep with his head on his front paw, as he is in front of me at this very moment, I smile and think how much he looks like the fox in the Mozilla Firefox logo.
3 july 2004 ~ 22:38
Leaps of faith
While perusing the offerings at my local faith-based recreation centre, I noticed an advertisement for Scripturcise, which “combines elements of yoga and pilates into an exercise class set to famous passages from the Bible.” Apparently, if you take this class, you can “learn the scriptures while you increase strength, balance, and flexibility in a new class format that will have you coming back again and again!”
That’s a pretty strong claim. I mean, even Jesus only came back once.
Since I read about Scripturcise, I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think what Bible passages might be paired with what exercises. I can picture the attendees “ascending into Heaven” (climbing a rope), or reënacting the Exodus (walking on a treadmill), but I can’t think of anything else. If I remember correctly, the Bible is mostly full of parables, and lists of how Abraham begat Isaac, and Isaac begat Jacob, and Jacob begat Judas, etc. That, and a lot of mass murder and stoning, which wouldn’t really be suitable for an aerobics class. Not at this recreation centre, anyway.
Maybe I’ll have to attend a class to see what the deal is. I just hope they don’t use the story of Onan as a wrist exercise.
I’m going to Hell for that.
2 july 2004 ~ 16:32