Category: Uncategorized

I can’t tell if I have a problem with follow-up or with commitment.  From the looks of my Gmail account, I’m willing to wager that it’s a little bit of both.

Despite the massive inventory of my inbox, I was more fascinated by the population of my “drafts” folder.  Upon closer inspection, a vast majority of these emails were intended responses to pre-existing threads, incomplete compositions to ex-boyfriends (almost all of which, unfinished, and rightly so) and quite a few addressee “draft” and the subject line left unforgivingly blank.

I confess an urge to simultaneously hit “send all” on the long-forgotten compositions, if only to confuse/astound would-be recipients.  The “draft/blank” entries would sadly be omitted, unless I just type in random letters and let autocomplete populate the email addresses as they will.  I could just attribute the en masse mailing to the recent Gmail glitch and thereby avoid any and all accountability.

The “inbox” situation I have no decent excuse for.  It’s merely a testament to my email laziness.  I was one of the rare few who was pleased that Gmail opted to segregate incoming messages into perceived “legitimate” emails versus “promotional”, “updates”, “social” and “forums”.  The downside to this high-level of Gmail organization is that I now realize how very few emails I receive that are genuinely intended for my eyes only.  They’re either bulk mailings, special offers or mass invites to an event.  To the point where I will oftentimes email myself with a reminder, or a URL, and then I see the (1) next to my inbox I think, “Oh!  I got a messa – oh, wait.”  =/

Voulez-voulez-vous you’ve not got mail.

Last weekend I learned the mechanics of creating a typeface.  In case you didn’t know – making a font is mind-bendingly complicated.  It’s like photo editing gone mad.

This was my result after three days of bad posture and squinting at my 15-inch laptop screen.  I was trying to find a word that featured the best fruits of my labor.  Apparently a wizened wizard from Middle Earth was the only thing that would suffice.

Oh, and then there’s pi:

I named my font “pomme”.  It started out as “pomplemousse” but I got bloody fucking tired of typing out “pomplemousse” every thirty minutes and abandoned the idea of naming my font after French citrus.  Great workshop though; three days, 10 hours each day.  The instructors were funny.  They wore t-shirts with typography jokes on them.  We went to happy hour.  We had painfully long critiques.  People opined.  And now I can’t stop working in Font Lab.  My Doctor Who scarf, as a result, is being largely ignored.

I’m currently watching a documentary called “Room 237”.  Well, ok not really.  It’s on in the background while I’m in the midst of this feeble attempt to crank out a blog entry.  Facebooking is killing my blog.  The irony?  I pay for the blog.

I am Jack’s epic facepalm.

I actually find myself scrolling through old Facebook posts looking for ideas to blog about.

Ok, so I’m ‘sort-of’ watching this Shining documentary.  On that note, careening head-first down a large flight of stairs looks painful.  I wonder if that was really Jack Nicholson or a stunt-double. My vote is for stunt-double.  Also, whatever happened to the Big Wheel?  I had one as a kid; I remember that the front wheel, over time, developed a flat edge on a ten-inch section of the arc of the wheel as a result from braking at what would appear to be the same spot repeatedly.  The result was an audible “thunk-a thunk-a thunk-a” during normal operation.  I suppose that’s motivation to learn to ride a bike.

Something occurred to me yesterday while I was sitting at my desk snacking on  gluten-free granola from Pike Place Market and becoming increasingly focused on extracting the raisins from aforementioned bag:  just why do raisins plucked from a cacophony of other ingredients taste so much better than raisins à la carte?  Rochelle claims that Jesus would know.  I can’t say I agree with that assessment…I mean, how popular could  gluten-free granola be in Galilee or Judea in 36 AD?  Perhaps if I’m ever witnessed to I will ask them.

– “Excuse me, but have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”
– “Uh, no…but I have a question.  Does Jesus know why raisins extracted from a bag of gluten-free granola are so much tastier than raisins on their own?”
– “So you haven’t opened your heart up to Jesus?”
– “Not unless he can answer intelligently about my raisin question.”

Voulez-voulez-vous pomplemousse.

Only until recently did I notice that the WordPress interface on my website stockpiles the comments I receive into a folder where they eagerly await my approval in order for them to appear on the corresponding blogs. When I saw the number 3,543 next to the “Comments” folder, my initial thought was, “Wow, I have far more readership than I thought!” and thus began the arduous task of perusing through the long list of commentary through my “beloved fans”, as it were. Until…

…I realized that this “comments” folder was pretty much the WordPress equivalent to my Spam folder on Gmail. The only downside is, WordPress has no method for separating the good eggs from the bad, so in order for me to cherry-pick the actual, real comments out from the “Buy your Viagra online!” posts, I have to scroll through them one.at.a.time. All 3,000+ of them.

Granted this task was not met with a great deal of enthusiasm. However, as my modus operandi as of late has been to see the Silver Lining, I figured the best approach would be to browse through all of them, looking for the valid, the mad, and inane. A shockingly large number of them were mind-bogglingly irrelevant to the post. But, I kind of invite that.

Some examples, if you are interested.

I wrote a post back in 2008 about Wikipedia Loops. Feel free to click the link and peruse at your leisure. At any rate, I found that the user “Adeyoyin” had posted the following diatribe in response to this post:

“that she’s been distancing hseerlf from everything, what sort of psychological thing does this mean. I’ve told her about how I feel and how badly I just want her to come home in person and through text messages, and when I text message her she wont answer me at all, and will only answer me if it has something to do that concerns her. She doesn’t like to be criticized at all, and she’s been screwing up a lot lately and it’s really hard for me to bite my tongue because I can’t stand irresponsibility. No matter how sweet I am, or the things I do or say, doesn’t seem to phase her at all. She left me once a while back when she got pregnant and came home 5 weeks later. So this isn’t the first time that she’s left me. I will quote her in a message she sent me. You don’t love me for who I am, you want me to change everything. You kept your hopes up that I’d change for you, but nothing will, I did the same for you. And it’s not going to bring me back. I have come to accept that if I stayed with you, we’d never be happy. We’d always have a problem, it has to be time to move on. I can’t live the rest of my life like that. The things that she’s refering to as changing for me meaning, she was a complete slob, wouldn’t clean anything, would make messes all the time, wouldn’t ever make dinner, wouldn’t buy groceries, and wouldn’t take care of our baby properly. I’d come home from work at the end of the day and our baby wouldnt be fed at all, or she would just feed her raman noodles or muffins from McDonalds. And her keeping up her hopes that I would change for her, meaning that I would lay off and stop telling her to be responsible.If anyone has experienced this in their lives, please share with me how you dealt with it, or how you got her to come home. Or in this case, if you’re a woman and a man did this to you, let me know how it worked out. I just want her to come home, and it’s been a month already and she doesn’t seem to want to come back but I’d like to change that.”

I did not correct their typos. I felt it was best to preserve artistic integrity.
I’m not sure if this person thought that my blog comment box was a personal journaling space, or some kind of message board for relationship issues, but…um. I thought about providing some feedback, but that would require me to “Approve” their post, and I like to keep my site drama-free.

“Adrian” posted on “Boon Has Tolerated this for Five Years“:
“Hey, I think this is really cool. I love the posts you make on dienerfft things you blame Lupus for. It is a funny side of blaming stray things on Lupus. Thanks for sharing.”

I assure you I made no humorous comment on lupus. What I want to know is, does this person spend their free time making this selfsame comment on random blogs? And if so…why? Do they themselves have lupus and are angry and bitter and are taking out their frustrations on the blogosphere? One can only speculate.

This one is priceless:
From “staiscite” on “STARBUCKS, SUCROSE & SUBTERFUGE”
“But if you find yourself going off on long tangents about personal matters, it’s time to get back on track. You have to find the right balance, and with practice you’ll discover it. If you would think twice before saying something in a phone call or email to a customer, you should leave it out of your blog.

cheap jordans”
My blog IS tangents and personal matters. Move along. And thanks for the Jordans link. Do people still wear Jordans?

My favorite by far:
From “diablo 3 gold”:
“obviously like your web-site however you need to check the spelling on several of your posts. Many of them are rife with spelling issues and I to find it very troublesome to inform the truth.”

Fuck you, pal. I mean seriously. Take your self-righteous ass to Reddit.

I don’t even know what the hell this means: (click to enlarge)

I’ve only been through about 500 of them thus far. I’m sure I’ll come across a few more gems as I make progress.

Voulez-voulez-vous buy Ambien online at huge discounts!

I now have a plush uterus. My magnificent coworkers felt that a plush uterus would make a fantastic placeholder for the real thing. I find it makes a fantastic pillow. I have been given a wide variety of plush gifts during my convalescence. I have now amassed a teddy bear, an otter, a Curious George, a flying screaming monkey, and now, a uterus. Complete with bendable Fallopian tubes. The manufacturer of said uterus has an entire amalgamation of organs for you to select from. Even glands. Thyroid, pituitary, hypothalamus, take your pick. Not to scale, mind you. I cringe at the thought of the size of the being constructed of these organs. The intestines alone would be enough to warrant an abdominal cavity the size of a Buick.

In related news: today I receive a link from the givers of aforementioned uterus. The saga continues:

Awesomesauce link.

I am now plagued by the desire to pack my uterus with me when I leave the house and take advantage of photo-bombing opportunities. Group of duck-face blondes on a Friday night? BAM! Uterus. Group of Japanese tourists in front of Pike Place Market? UTERUS. Oh yeah. I’ll be more notorious than the Travelocity gnome. Or possibly have a warrant for my (or the uterus’) arrest.

All of this “missing uterus” business, coupled with my plethora of free (recovery) time, has unfortunately also given me time to contemplate…whatever has become of my sad, abandoned-in-the-night ovaries?

Yes. That’s right. They left my ovaries behind. Lost in a sea of intestines and bladder and kidneys and whatever the hell else happens to reside in there. The Beatles’ White Album could be shoved in between my liver and spleen for all I know. They meant well; in an attempt to prevent the horrors of premature menopause and the ensuing emotional fits and hot flashes and hormone ugliness which I do, in fact, appreciate. But I digress.

So, you’ve got these ovaries right? And for decades they’re attached to these Fallopian tubes and separated by space and time and this seemingly infinite and vast expanse of land beyond their comprehension. They would see each other, smile, wave a friendly “hello”. Perhaps once in a while, holler across the void:

– “Hey man! How’d your egg go?!”
– “Pretty good! You?”
– “Eh. I’ve had better.”
– “Sorry to hear, man. Hey, wanna grab a drink?”
– “Dude, can’t! I’ve got this Fallopian guy all over my ass!”
– “Oh, right. Well, maybe someday…”
– “Yeah. Well, talk later!”

And on it goes.

Until one day…

A deep rumble…
A piercing ray of light…
A screeching noise…

And before they can comprehend the situation, they are ripped from the only home they have ever known…they only anchor, their safe harbor…and left adrift…to flounder in an uncertain future, their only purpose in life stolen from them.

What now? What was to become of them? DEAR GOD WHERE DO THE EGGS GO?!

It was at this point I began to conjure up images of my wayward ovaries, succumbing to their search for their own kind, becoming lodged in front of my carotid artery, forcing me to squeegee them back down my neck…or one of them inadvertently getting lost in my digestive tract…ye gods. Self-cannibalism! The horror. I do hope they manage to stay put. I never thought to ask my doctor if she thumb-tacked them down or anything. Maybe gave them life preservers or, at the very least, water wings for their entrails. I now have these unfortunate images of them as star-crossed lovers, no longer separated by anatomy, ever searching for one another. Just trying to find the one being in the world who truly knows them. I have my very own anatomical soap opera. I kinda wish they’d sewn them together so I could feel more cozy about the whole thing. Ok, now I just imagined my ovaries as testicles. Ew. Nevermind.

Voulez-voulez-vous it ain’t ova til it’s ova… (I know. So bad. My apologies.)

Upon beginning this blog I realized that my bloody Yahoo hosting interface hates Chrome, and Safari, and basically any browser but Firefox.  As a Mac user, I am a devoted Chrome fanatic.  But when I try and post a blog entry using this particular application in my browser of choice, it chokes and gurgles upon itself and no progress is made.  So I have sadly discovered that if I am to have a happy pretty blog, I must also have a douchebag browser.  Technology fail.

But I digress.

Riding the bus affords me certain unique opportunities that regular automobile (AUTOMOBIIIILE???)  commuters just do not experience.  Of course, these selfsame commuters do not realize that they have become one of my favorite forms of entertainment as we go careening down 520 during the wee hours of the weekday morn.  You people manage the most amazing feats of multitasking while driving.  Sure, most of you manage to manipulate your mobile devices with a fair amount of manual dexterity while operating a motor vehicle with relative (?) success.  But I’ve seen iPads, laptops, I’ve seen entire breakfasts being consumed, outfits changed, hairdos coiffed, makeup applied (one woman meticulously applied mascara in her rearview mirror while maintaining a healthy 55 MPH down I-5).  If I weren’t in a large, reinforced steel tube that could crush anything in its path should shit really go down, I’d never leave the house.  You people are bloody insane.  Legislators think cell phones are all they have to worry about?  Holy hell man, in my estimation Sephora is FAR more deadly than texting my “ETA” to my “BFF”.  People drive with their dogs on their laps – and I’m not talking Pomeranians…I’ve seen full-size Labradors and Cocker Spaniels cruising along with their heads hanging out the driver’s side window with shit-eating grins on their faces.

Of course, the inner sanctum of public transit is not the idyllic 45-minute cruise that one would hope. You have the stereotypical anti-deodorant folks, the creepy lech guy who sits next to you even though the bus is TOTALLY EMPTY, the screaming kid downing an entire bag of Skittles and his ironically bewildered mother, the people who don’t realize the volume at which they’re holding embarrassing phone conversations…or, like yesterday, dancing pirates.  True story.  No, he did not have earphones.  Whatever he was listening to, dude had it goin’ on in his head.  Oddly, it matched perfectly with the tempo of what I was listening to at the time…got my toes a-tappin’…I’ll admit it.  Must be brilliant to have that kind of soundtrack in your own head.  He even had a feather in his hat.  And some pretty sick moves for a pirate. I don’t think I’ll be underestimating pirates for a while.  What was brilliant was the effect he was having on those around him.  I find it hilarious how when amazing and odd things happen in this city, people do the “OHMIGOSH LOOK AT THIS INTERESTING AND FASCINATING ALBEIT ATTENTION-CONSUMING THING ON MY PHONE!” bit.  They were doing anything to avoid looking at this guy busting a move on the bus.  Me? I think it would be far more interesting to join in, or at least give him a soundtrack, or maybe throw confetti at him.  Or throw confetti at the OHMIGOSH, PHONE!! people.  It’s amazing the effort we put into ignoring one another.

Voulez-voulez-vous savvy?

I’ve come to the realization that Facebook is trying to take control of humanity.

There’s a scene in “The Truman Show” – the end, actually – where after decades of mindless viewers following Truman from conception to adulthood through the medium of television the protagonist finally becomes aware that he has been the the sole source of entertainment for millions of people and, in a grand gesture, he ‘pulls the plug’, as it were.  And these millions of viewers who have been living vicariously through his eyes and neglecting their own existence for more days than they can count, for several pauses, are aghast, disoriented, and bewildered.  And you find yourself hoping that maybe, just maybe, they will hoist themselves off of the sofa and do something meaningful and profound; buy a unicycle. Learn Latin. Get a llama. Something.

But no.  They just change the channel.  Erngh.

My point is this:  whenever there’s what I call “a glitch in the Matrix”, or, to be more concise, whenever the chat list disappears from Facebook, or the masthead goes astray, or people’s oh-so-meaningful posts get sucked into the void, there is widespread panic.  The Facebook wall becomes aflood with posts from people looking for some kind of confirmation, some comfort, that someone else *out there* is also suffering. Please, please tell me your feed isn’t refreshing! Please tell me I’m not alone!!

And if Facebook were to disappear, out of desperation, would we all migrate back to the steely 140-character limit confines of Twitter?  Or even (gasp) Google+?

Ye gods. What has happened?

Facebook has made us addicted, made us twitchy, made us dependent on knowing what each of us is doing every second…and ohmigosh, please let someone have commented on that oh-so-amazing witticism I posted earlier, and did I get invited to that thing? I didn’t? But so-and-so did…does that mean they don’t like me anymore? Why did she/he/they RSVP and not tell me about it? UGH I feel like total CRAP about myself right now! No one LOVES ME! *hiccup* *muffled sob*

Facebook has made us all high schoolers again…and we’re letting it! Sad wankers we are.

I wonder how it would be possible to organize a 24 hour worldwide Facebook boycott.  No posts, no shares, no bloody ‘likes’.  Nothing.  Everyone even goes so far as to sign out of their accounts. No social media at all. Instead, we meet in person. Talk on the phone to hear each other’s voices. Read books made of paper.  Disconnect and reconnect.  Become human again.

Just a thought.

Voulez-voulez-vous Niff likes this.

I’ve noticed two things as of late.

1.  Dog people tend to speak TO their dogs.

2.  Cat people tend to speak FOR their cats.  Narrative-style.

Observe: