Just a Job

Maybe it's because I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but I really dislike being labeled by my job. I've held some very different positions, but I've never been comfortable saying "I am a [fill-in-the-blank]." I'm much more comfortable with phrasing such as "I work at . . ." instead of boxing myself in.

Not that people make it easy to distance myself from labels. Often the first questioned people ask after we're introduced is, "What do you do for a living?" To me, that is a personal question, akin to asking how much money I have or how much I weigh. A job or profession should be a topic that arises only after extensive conversation, not as an immediate label of status.

Having to wear a uniform to my current workplace doesn't help. People stop me in parking lots to comment on my outfit, or feel the need to grill me on my job simply because I'm in work clothes. Yes, I'm wearing scrubs, but that doesn't mean I want to discuss my employment with total strangers. Worse, some of my scrubs are embroidered with the name of the vet clinic that provides my paycheck. "Oh, you work in a vet hospital? How cute! That must be SO interesting." It makes me want to respond, "I see you're wearing an ugly shirt. You must be an accountant."

Maybe I'm too private, but I appreciate cultures in which jobs don't define a person. I think it's refreshing to have numerous meetings with people and realize later that I have no idea what kind of work they do. Perhaps I just feel this way because I have no job-related status in this society. Maybe I would love to brag about my career if I were a best-selling novelist or successful stockbroker. I could then show off my importance with a Lexus SUV, designer clothes and a McMansion in a lovely suburb.

See, I can be judgmental, too.

Handbags, Gladrags and Indiana Jones

Paul Tropische recently posted a psychotic comment on my "Fork" entry. While the tone and content of his posting were utterly insane, I appreciated the time it must have taken Paul (if that is his real name) to write such a thorough response to my restaurant issue. I've decided, therefore, to respond in turn to each of his odd little points.

First of all, the Trop suggested hauling around some silverware in a handbag for cutlery emergencies. Besides the obvious problem of keeping forks clean in a purse full of other junk and the bigger issue that any passerby or restaurant worker would assume you were stealing the restaurant's silverware and cause an uncomfortable commotion, the main drawback is that I hate carrying a handbag. A purse--a cumbersome, girly accessory and stupid waste of money--would be utterly unnecessary if designers made women's clothes more practical and comfortable. I could easily fit a fork or two along with a wallet and keys in the pocket of men's clothes, but many articles of women's clothes don't have even a single pocket. I've seen some clothing in which the pockets are purely decorative! This complete nonsense makes me even angrier than not getting a second fork, so it can hardly be a solution to my problem.

Second, Paulo mentioned using forks as weapons. Now this is a great idea. I'm always looking for new ways to attack people who irritate me. I mean, they'd never expect that innocent looking utensil to come charging at them, would they? Indiana Jones is my hero. You'd never see Indiana Jones carrying a purse.

Incidentally, whatever happened to Lao Che? In the "Temple of Doom" movie, he organizes the almost certain death of the good guys by arranging for their plane to crash, but through quick thinking and a remarkably well-made inflatable dinghy, they survive to reach India, eat eyeball soup (grossest idea ever), escape ritual sacrifice to a catchy chant, and race around in a runaway mine car. Of course, Indy saves the day (yes, it may seem condescending for an outsider to solve the mystery, but Harrison Ford can pull it off without seeming like a pompous American), but where is his thirst for revenge? I imagine that James Bond would have been on the next flight to China to take out Lao Che and his little empire. Dr. Jones is either too forgiving, too forgetful or too chicken to return to Shanghai. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him forgiving. I guess every hero has a tragic flaw.

In his comments, the tropical mischief-maker then tried to bring politics into the issue. While I refuse to blog about politics (triple the anger of fork problems and wretched hand-gags), I will say that my darling significant other agreed that we'd never live in a red state unless it came with the benefit of a spectacular, mountainous natural environment (Alaska or western Montana). So that can't be a factor.

Thanks, PT. You've been very helpful. You'd better hope I'm fork-less if we ever meet.

I Deserve Two Forks (if not more)

Is there a shortage of forks in the restaurant business? Do cafes save big bucks on dishwashing bills by skimping on the silverware?
All I want to do is place my fork on my salad plate when I'm finished. The mostly-empty plate seems like a logical place for a used utensil, and placing the fork thus signals to the wait staff that the plate can be removed. Yet, unless I shell out big bucks for a caviar and linen tablecloth kind of place, I am apparently only allowed one fork per meal.
Numerous times I have been astounded by a server's request that I keep my used salad fork. Keep it? Should I hold it in my hands until the next course arrives? Am I to put it down on the potentially grimy tabletop after meticulously licking all the remnants of salad dressing off? I guess I could rest it on my napkin, but isn't that supposed to stay in my lap? Should I put the fork in my lap, too? Maybe I'll just forget about using a napkin and wipe my hands on the salt shaker.
If they want to skimp on forks, perhaps we should forgo knives as well. Who needs a knife when you can tear food really well with your teeth and hands? If they continue this downward slide, soon we'll be drinking straight from the wine bottle and slurping right out of the soup bowl, which would indeed speed things up considerably.
In the end, I guess it all comes down to speed and convenience. All that silverware is just too time-consuming for the frenzied American lifestyle. I always feel rushed when eating out in American restaurants. The restaurant staff, while probably trying to cater to those who are in a hurry, end up making me feel pressured to scarf my meal in record time. I don't want the main course when I am still eating the soup or the salad, and I hate being brought the bill when I am still enjoying my entree. Even in an uncrowded place, it feels impossible to linger. When I get the check without asking, I feel like I am being firmly shown the door.
I don't need a formal place setting or a ten course meal, but when I'm paying to go out to dinner, it should be a little more civilized and classy than pizza and beer night in front of the telly. If not, then I'll just stay home and have more pizza and beer.

Internet Wonders

It's easy to waste lots of time just clicking around on the internet. I can read articles and blogs, watch The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, write emails, check my accounts, choose movies on Netflix, Google strange words and buy things on Amazon.com.*
Even with all these distractions, nothing eats time like a bad quiz. "What's your dating style?", "Who's your inner diva?", and "What American Idol contestant are you most like?" don't interest me, but I was suckered in by the "What animal would you be?" quiz. When my results came up, I just had to laugh:

This horoscope is the best I've ever read. Except for the last bit--do people really think I'm that bad?--it was spot on. I am grumpy and cynical and striped and grizzled and I enjoy living in British Columbia or the British countryside. I think this website may be on to something.(http://quizilla.com/users/EmrysWolf/quizzes/What%20Is%20Your%20Animal%20Personality?/)

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our fuzzy little friends that we are underlings.

*free advertisement, but I'm willing to negotiate.

Government Priorities

The city leaders of St. Petersburg, Florida have decided that recycling is a luxury that need not be pursued. Although they would like their town designated a "Green City", they'd rather not have to act environmentally conscious to achieve it. Apparently, it would cost approximately $3 a home to establish curbside recycling, but they deemed that too much of a burden on local citizens. They must have thought it was against our national freedoms to enact a mandatory fee for recycling. Maybe we should also go back to the medieval ways of throwing refuse out of the closest window to avoid the unfairness of having to pay for garbage pick up.

In other ridiculous news, the U.S. Government is cracking down on the sale of European Kinder Eggs in American stores. A hollow chocolate egg, a Kinder Surprise contains a small toy in a plastic cylinder that the government has designated dangerous for children under 3. So instead of just labelling the product as unsafe for toddlers (a warning which was already on the package), they've banned the sale completely. I think my right to enjoy chocolate is being infringed, but I guess it's probably for the best, since the plastic in their eggs would just end up in the landfills around here, anyway.

Plagued by Prince

All this week I've had some mysterious part of my brain torturing me by repeating the few Prince lyrics I know. I'm not a Prince fan and have never thought much about his music, but I've also got nothing against him (although that whole changing his name to a symbol was pretty weird). I've never felt the urge to run screaming when one of his songs came on the radio, but now that's my first impulse. I can't seem to escape them. They're playing in the back of my mind on a constant loop and I'm wondering what's the cause, or better yet, who's to blame.

Right now my brain is going, "Two-thousand-zero-zero-party-over-it's-out-of-time". It's utterly embarrassing. Not only is it an annoying song, but it's pretty lame to want to party like it's 1999 now. I totally see the appeal of ideas like those of "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". I want that guy's songs out of my mind. Erase them, please. I'm sure I could use the space for something else.

Raaaaspberry beret....

The other day I had a dream that my clock radio was playing "When Dove's Cry" and no matter what I did, I couldn't get it to stop. I banged it, smashed it, threw it, but the song played on. Doot doo doo doo. Doot doo da doo. I woke up, confused, to find the song still going. My (undamaged) clock radio was playing it right by my head. Talk about nightmares coming true.

This morning, after being awoken by a similar song, I whined in discomfort and pleaded for it to go away. I've come to the conclusion that the media conglomerates are conspiring against me with their repeating playlists. Damn you, ClearChannel. I changed the station to modern rock. I don't think Prince is allowed in that category, so I'll probably be woken tomorrow by Nickelback or some other whiney, cringe-inducing garbage that will make me just as angry. I'm angry right now just thinking about it.

I discussed my troubles with my man, hoping he could help explain the sudden influx of Prince songs. He proceeded to hum "If you get caught between the moon and New York City....", which, if nothing else, proves that no matter how bad you think your problem is, you can always have a worse song stuck in your head.

Undedicated Follower of Fashion

I think I'm fairly observant of pop culture. I usually know the popular singers even if I don't listen to their music. I've heard about many shows and movies even though I don't have cable or satellite TV. I can figure out what styles of clothes are stylish from people-watching or window-shopping. Today, however, I read a newspaper article that made me feel completely clueless about current fashion.

The article (thankfully in the "Style" section, not in "News of the World") gave tips for spring looks. It began by positing that white will likely be the trendy color of spring. Fair enough, I can handle that simple tidbit. It seems like too normal of a color to be trendy, but maybe it's an anti-trend.

From her simple beginning, the writer then quickly progressed to a recommendation of espadrilles. I don't know what those are, but I bet I don't have any. It sounds like some unpleasant French food: would you like some espadrilles with your escargot? I Googled the word and it turns out to mean canvas sandally shoes with ribbons. Nope, don't have any of those. It will probably slip my mind to go out and buy some.

The fashion guru then suggested flowery dresses to evoke the feel of spring. I generally don't do flowery. Or dresses. I have one skirt that has small flowers on it, which I guess will have to do. I can wear it with a white shirt and go barefoot. I'll just pretend I left my espadrilles in my Hummer.

Her next tidbit for a fresh, spring look: "anything seersucker". This mysterious word sounds parasitic and uncomfortable and I'm guessing that I don't have any of that in my closet, either. Helpful Google tells me that it is a wrinkly fabric, usually striped. Can you get seersucker espadrilles, or would the two trends negate each other?

Finally, I am supposed to accessorize with a hobo bag (sounds expensive), a macrame belt (sounds summer camp-ish) and a hat (she probably doesn't mean baseball cap).

What must people be thinking of me when I'm out in public in my unwrinkled, solid clothing? My entire wardrobe is totally passe. I don't even have anything fit to wear to the mall to stock up on spring fashions. I'm so embarrassed.

Best Supporting Blog

Starting a blog was just the beginning. I am going mainstream. I actually watched the Academy Awards the other night (not to mention that I also tuned in to the Super Bowl this year). I found it a strange way to pass the time, but an interesting spectacle nonetheless.

I hadn't seen many of the nominated films, mostly because they didn't seem exciting enough to draw me and my wallet to the theater. I did go to see Munich, which I found interesting but unbearably violent, and Narnia, which I enjoyed immensely as a wonderful adaptation of the book. (It won for Best Make-up.) I recently saw Walk the Line and March of the Penguins on DVD. Walk the Line would have been better with less melodrama and more of Johnny Cash's real singing voice. March of the Penguins could have been much improved by some actual scientific narration (Morgan Freeman may have a nice story-telling voice, but let's get Marty Stouffer from "Our Wild America" out there to fill in all the actual details of wildlife in Antarctica. I've seen better "National Geographic" or "Nature" specials.)

Hearing that John Stewart would host this years awards attracted my attention. I knew he couldn't fail to be funny, but he could fail to get a laugh from an audience taking itself too seriously (millionaire movie stars). I thought he did pretty well, balancing political humor with gentle mocking of the whole Hollywood spectacle. He poked fun at himself enough to soothe the egos in the theater. Some of the funniest bits included fake lobbyist commercials for the various nominees as well as a montage of homosexual innuendo in old Westerns. I also enjoyed seeing Tom Hanks get clobbered with a violin and stung with a poisoned dart during a mock acceptance speech. Serves him right. Did you see his mullet (hair, not fish)? And he's the lead in the Da Vinci Code, a role that specifically calls for a handsome, intellectual adventurer along the lines of David Brancaccio of PBS's "Now". That book was totally ridiculous, but still, Tom Hanks?

I had expected the Oscars to attract more stars. The only actors in the audience seemed to be nominees or presenters. Where were the cool action stars like Jason Statham, the Rock and Mos Def? Where were the attractive leading men Colin Firth, Rupert Everett and Joseph Fiennes? I mean, there weren't even any Luke Perrys or Jason Priestleys around. They had to keep showing the same few people like boring Naomi Watts or lame Ben Stiller. Or Jack Nicholson. Poor Kiera Knightley--probably scarred for life by having to sit right next to that star of the creepy list for three straight hours.

George Clooney, Rachel Weisz and Reese Witherspoon gave poised, original acceptance speeches. They seemed like true, glamourous movie stars. Other winners with their lists of names to thank were less entertaining. I thought it amusing that everyone seemed to want to thank their moms this year. One time I watched an award show in which everyone thanked God, but He must not have had a hand in this year's movies.

I would like to thank all of those people who made this blog possible. A special thanks to all five of my known blog supporters: Marsha, Jen, Dee, Stig, and of course, Mom.

I Would Walk 500 Miles, But Not In Circles

My recent study of the sports page during the Olympics has brought to my attention large gaps in my sport knowledge. Although I think I understand the general rules of many games, I have become astounded by discovering the finer details of many sports. For example: Did you know that a baseball team has almost twenty different pitchers? That's twice as many pitchers as positions on the field, and these pitchers don't play any of the other positions. Many of them don't even take a turn at bat! I would find the game much more interesting if the players had to switch positions every inning to prove their worth.
One of the most astounding facts I discovered recently concerned race car driving or NASCAR, a competition which I truly don't understand. Driving cars round and round in a circle just doesn't seem like good entertainment or athleticism to me. Then I discovered, to my complete amazement, that the 500 in "Daytona 500" and "Indianapolis 500"--races that even I had heard of--meant 500 miles. MILES! These guys drive 500 miles and don't get anywhere! If I drove 500 miles, I would like to think I would be in a completely different state or country, having enjoyed some interesting scenery on the way. Although I've heard of people like Dale Earnhardt and Jeff Gordon, I had no idea that they drove such considerable distances. My brother always joked, "Turn left! Left again! Another left turn!" when the subject of NASCAR came up, but I thought these races were about speed and maneuvering for the lead. I had no idea that it was also about stamina for surviving a long, monotonous drive. I thought traveling the interstate was boring; these guys can't even read billboards to pass the time. Do they listen to music? I bet they can't snack on gummy bears and pretzels while driving so fast.
I read somewhere that NASCAR was the most popular sport in the country. I just don't get it.

The Winter Olympics

Just about the only time I read the sports page is during the Olympics. It's hard for me to muster enthusiasm about golf, spring training or anything related to NASCAR, but I enjoy the Olympic stories. Of the thousands of competetive athletes, journalists pick a few faces to hype prior to the games and closely follow their progress and behavior through the events. Although most articles focus on the young American athletes most likely to win gold medals, I don't think hearing the Star Spangled Banner is the most important part of the Olympics (besides, they play it enough at every other sporting event). The Olympics generate worthy underdog stories in which athletes from smaller or poorer or otherwise unexpected countries win medals or simply fulfill personal goals. The sports page then occasionally becomes filled with dramatic tales of accomplishment, sacrifice, and luck.
These people spend their lives perfecting their skills in sports I've never even heard of and have no chance of even attempting. It's amazing to watch the athletes perform and celebrate being one of the world's best in their field. It's fascinating to think about the cultures and histories of the participants even while being mesmerized by their agility.
Athletes have a natural desire to excel, and their countrymen and women want to share that victory with a high rank in the medal count, but the Olympics are also supposed to foster world peace and cooperation. When people around the world can watch competetors from different cultures shake hands or hug and earnestly congratulate one another on their efforts, it creates a little spark of hope, turning me into a temporary sports fan.

A Manatee Spa

Apparently, manatees don't fully appreciate the Florida winter. I guess that even in the sunniest state, living under water can get a little chilly at times, so these strange creatures have decided to take advantage of the human effect on the environment. Using the industrial revolution to their advantage, some sea cows congregate near a coal power plant and soak up the warm water emitted from within. This virtual hot tub attracts manatees (and curious people like me) throughout the winter.

I felt quite skeptical about going to see manatees in an industrial location, but I was impressed with the effort at education and conservation that was presented at the viewing center. The need for safe areas for these threatened animals outweighs my unease at the human effect on the water temperature. The manatees still have to feed elsewhere--their vegetarian diet doesn't grow in the power plant inlet--so they remain wild, foraging and fending for themselves. They then can return to their spa and nap in the warm water, giving people the unique opportunity to view these creatures without taming or harming them. It's a good example of the necessary compromise between environmental protection and modern development.

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Thoughts At Sea Level

It's been over six months since I've hiked up a mountain. That statistic probably doesn't mean too much since it's February and worthy mountains are completely snow-covered. I should say instead that it's been over six months since I've seen a mountain. The past half year has contained no hiking, no skiing, no scenic drives with picturesque viewpoints. I've left the west far behind.

I can walk on pleasant beaches, see alligators in the wild and bask in the sun year-round, but nothing compares to the beauty and peace of an alpine hike. Climbing a summit brings a calm feeling of accomplishment along with the fantastic views. The fresh air rejuvinates like nothing else. I miss stepping over roots and rocks, smelling the pines, feeling the spongy moss along the trail, and rounding a bend to discover a beautiful vista.

My photo albums of the past few years are filled with pictures of mountains. I have pictures of nearly every hike, and it's hard to find a bad shot (unless it's of me, dirty and tired and trying to cross a river). What should I photograph now? I can only have so many pictures of my cats (even though they are precious treasures), and I've already snapped plenty of photos of pelicans, lizards and sand.

I like the Spanish moss dripping from the trees and the exotic birds near every stream. I appreciate sunny beaches and lazy rivers. I delight in seeing dolphins and manatees playing in the open water. I enjoy riding my bike for miles without getting winded. But I still miss the mountains.

Chocolate Conundrum

I'm in need of some chocolate, but February is causing trouble. I don't want heart-shaped chocolate or chocolate with pink foil wrapping. I have no interest in mystery chocolate containing fluffy goo or fruity liquour. I want smooth, dark chocolate without nuts or caramel or nougat. And I don't want to wait for February 14.

I've always felt Valentine's Day to be a stressful popularity contest. As a kid, receiving Valentines from friends was fun, but getting one from someone uncool risked making you look uncool, too. Since my mom made sure I gave a Valentine to everyone in the class, I was unable to show my true feelings except by giving the ugliest ones to the kids I didn't like. I'm sure no one but me noticed, which defeats the cruel spirit of Valentine's Day.

As a teenager, to get no flowers or presents was highly embarrassing: it meant no one thought you were special. To get tokens of affection from an unwanted admirer was worse. Could you accept the gift but not the giver on such a day?

The only good Valentines I remember came from my dad. Those were kind and chocolatey and without hidden meanings or agendas. It also meant I got a present and my brother didn't, ha ha. (See how nasty this holiday is?)

As an adult, I find the mandatory tokens off-putting and tacky. Valentine's Day seems simply a day for show-offs, with men staging elaborate displays in order to score points. Sending flowers to a woman's work may look like a gesture of love, but it is really a political move. A public display provides proof that she is important and allows her to gloat over her co-workers.

Valentine's Day is all about status and pride, not romance, and I am just going to try to ignore it. I neither need nor want anything promoting such a vicious holiday.

Besides, I hate pink.

Anyone wishing to show their affection for me in chocolate and flowers is welcome to do so any day except 2/14. Especially on 2/8...

Groundhog Day Means Nothing in Florida

Does anyone really celebrate Groundhog Day? I've never heard of Groundhog Day parties or presents--except for Bill Murray humorously trapped by tourist festivities in Puxatawney, PA--and it makes absolutely no sense in a place like Florida. When winter days can be sunny and 80 degrees, who would want a rodent to predict an early spring?
I do find it interesting that Grounghog Day appears on calendars as a day to be remembered, yet I never even can remember if I'm rooting for that manipulated beast to see his shadow or not. I am, actually, rooting for him to clamp his nice big chompers down on some reporter's nosy finger and escape into the hills (again, something that would never happen in Florida, because, besides the lack of winter, there's no such thing as a Florida hill. Come to think of it, there are probably no Florida groundhogs, either. They should have Lizard Day or something where the lizard emerges from under the palm tree, and if he feels the need to do a push-up, it will be a long, humid summer. If he runs straight across the path, there will be a risk of hurricanes.)
Well, at least it's a holiday without much commercial value. At least I'm not expected to send Groundhog Cards or attend a Prairie Dog Parade. I'll save my ire for Valentine's Day.
Happy February.

Blog Leeches

I'm getting a little tired of this "Stig" fellow stealing my thunder. I've graciously allowed access to my blog, and I am pleased to have friendly comments posted. I do not appreciate, however, clever little weasels posting responses that are far more funny than anything I have contributed. So, to Stig I would like to say: I started this blog, you wretched little traffic kone, and if you have so much entertaining nonsense to spew, please create your own site. Parasites like you make me want to spray pesticides all over the place, and I am a proponent of organic farming.
Incidently, Stig, you seem remarkably like a pathological liar.
There. I feel better now, getting that off my chest. Now I can spend time writing entries on my experiences fighting off Yeti attacks in Nepal and chronicling that year I excavated both dinosaurs and mummies (and a few mummified dinosaurs--very cool Pharoah Pterodactyls) in central Greenland. Not to mention the time I spent cultivating the Venus Cockroach Trap species of plant (also known as the "Venus Palmetto Bug Trap" in the Southeast) as a natural alternative to bug spray. Well, more on all of that later.

Sidewalk Worries

I have always had plenty of normal, everyday fears. I've felt afraid of drowning when on a boat, frightened of creepy lurkers in dark alleys, and panicky around wasp nests or swarming bees. These fears, while potentially embarrassing in public, may simply be survival instincts and onlookers and friends seem to forgive them quite easily. One fear, however, seems to bring only cruel, endless mockery.

I try to hide it. I nonchalantly skirt to one side of the sidewalk, pretending to look in a store window or check out a parked car. I kindly stand aside to let others pass by. I tie my shoelaces loosely so that I can move out of the way to retie them. In the end, though, no matter how hard I try, walking in the city reveals my secret fear: sidewalk grates.

My logical mind understands that the chances of a steel door crashing down when I step on it is highly unlikely. I'm sure newspapers would report tragic sidewalk grate accidents with enthusiasm if they were to occur. I must admit that I've never passed a kollapsed grate to see someone below krumpled and krying, but that fact does little to komfort me. I simply cannot bring myself to walk on any metal doors in the sidewalk unless I have no other option.

What are they hiding behind those steel doors? Do rats, bugs, and monsters lurk just on the other side? How far would I fall if the grate didn't hold? Do they really need so many openings in the sidewalk? No one will help me find the answers. If I confide my fear, I simply get pushed onto the nearest sidewalk grate in the vicinity. Oh, very funny. How would you like it if I filled your bed with spiders or shoved you into shark-filled waters?

"K" Aint Takin' No More Krap

I've always thought that "k" has been forced to take an undeserved backseat to the smug "c". "K" has so much more potential and strength than boring, average "c". Doesn't the word "klang" fit the sound much better? (Yea, onomatopoeia!) "Kake" would better fulfill its sweet destiny with two layers of "k", and "kozy" would be worth more in Scrabble. "Krispy Kreme" and "Krusty the Klown" (or is that still Clown?) have got the idea that "k" just looks more interesting. Kris Kringle, not Chris Cringle, got all that mail delivered on 34th Street. While the English Major in me automatically kringes at the use of some "k"s in advertising--"Kiddie Kollege" and "Komfort Kamper" come to mind--I think some of our standardized spellings should be revisited. I'm just saying.

Kute Kats ---------------------------------------------- Kaskade

Okay, Now What?

Now that I've started this blog, I have to try to come up with new and exciting topics: Moses supposes his toes(es) are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously. Discuss.
I like the corniness of old musicals. Life would be a lot more fun if events paused for a song and a little silliness. Most of us sing out of key and lack any skill in dancing, but I still think an attempt to convey ideas and emotions through a musical number might alleviate some of the tension and boredom of everyday activities.
I'd like to have the nerve to attempt this course of action, but I know it wouldn't be appreciated. Besides the risk of losing job and friends and being placed into protective custody, many people would just be angered by this deliberate waste of their time. They would probably even stop Fred Astaire mid-routine to insist that he get to the point. To them I say, just think: would you rather be Gene Kelly singing in the rain or the grumpy cop who treats him like a criminal nuisance?
The best things happen while you're dancing.

Joining the Crowd

My literary friend has finally plied me with enough compliments and guilt to force me to go along with this blogging nonsense. Having always been harshly critical, especially of my own life and creations, I have felt hesitant about posting my thoughts to the internet world. My journal attempts of the past have always ended up shredded or destroyed in available fireplaces, so I do have some legitimate concerns for the safety of my computer. I've decided to graciously go along with this idea in the smug comfort that all computers eventually crash and my words will soon end up in some internet black hole.

Therefore, I will attempt a healthy catharsis by foisting my opinions on the unsuspecting reader.

Some opinions hereby foisted: People should stop dressing animals up as humans. Leaf blowers are useless and annoying. Americans would benefit from a daily siesta or tea-time (or both). Watching lizards do push-ups is a worthwhile activity.