31 May: A "This I Dig" Audio Daily Double! (Er, triple)

I love game shows (see several entries). When I was a freshman in high school, I had the opportunity to audition for the teen version of "Jeopardy!"; I was one of nine people who passed the written test in my group (and the only girl), but my failure to distinguish between important knowledge (like rock band front-men, which I didn't know) and trivial horseshit (like US history, literature, or the New Testament, which I did) led to my failure to move on to the actual show. It's just as well, I'm guessing -- my little bit on the test which asked me if I had any interesting facts/anecdotes about myself was left essentially blank. It'd probably be blank if I took the test tomorrow, come to think of it.

Why do I bring this up? Besides the whole "Audio Daily Double" pun (if it is indeed a pun, which I'm pretty sure it's not), no reason. I just never know how to open these silly things. Maybe go blog-generic and post a cute picture or something. Sure, let's do that:

This is literally the first thing that came up when I 

did a google image search for "cute picture".

Now on to the wit, insight, and humo(u)r that you've come to hope for (but never quite get).

Postcards From the Edge of Sanity: The Fish Tanks

This is the first in a multi-part series, in an effort to remind myself that my job, while 200% more tolerable than it was just a few weeks ago, is still crap.

Wish you were here (so I wouldn't have to be)!

When I was told that I would be working the pet department at my store, I was originally thrilled. Firstly, and most importantly, I wasn't going to be a cashier anymore, and somehow, I felt that the idiots would magically disappear once I was out on the wide open space of the floor; alas, that was far from the truth, and the aforementioned idiots will doubtless be the subject of several of these little postcards, but that is not the topic for tonight. Secondly, I thought that it would be fun to fiddle around with dog and cat stuff, gain some muscles by schlepping the large bags of food everywhere, and basically have an all-around good time.

That was when I met the fish tank. I hate those damned things.

This I Dig of Thee: 23 May 2010

I think that's the name of a song -- "This I Dig of Thee" -- but I can't find any mention of it anywhere on the world wide interwebs, so maybe I made it up. I couldn't have, though; it sounds way too hip to be anything I created. Hank Mobley rings a bell... oh wait, it's "This I Dig of You," not "thee." I'm an idiot. But it's a good tune -- nay, a great tune:






To the jump!

Housekeeping, and a Birthday update!

First off, a few announcements:

1) In an effort to write regularly, I'll be doing two regular bits a week -- my always-disappointing "3 Things I Dig (this week)" on Sundays (that's today!), and a new(er), more ranty feature, which is tentatively called "Vignettes From the Edge of Sanity" on Thursdays, and will predominately feature crazy stuff that happens to me personally at work. In other words: if you read this, and you happen to work with me, reading the Thursday will be a high-risk, high-reward venture, hilarious and depressing at the same time. Again, I'll try and be as consistent with this as possible (more for me than for you, trust me), and you can all feel free to yell at me if I fail in this epically simple task.

2) The other bits of this blog will be, basically, one-off rants and philosophical musings which, I'm warning you now, may not be of interest to anyone. Suggestions for rants and general comments, as always, are welcome.

26 Things I Want (but won't get) For My Birthday: 1-10

And yes, I know that I did my countdown backward in the title; it just seems so weird typing "10-1," like it's a baseball game gone wrong or a police code or something. Anyway, it's time to get on with it, I suppose, but before that, a bit of an update: #24 on my list was something I actually got as an early gift -- not only that, but I now have a grand total of elven -- 11! -- followers, including my own dear mother (hi Mom! Love you!), which is about 11 more followers than I thought I'd get. So thank you, all eleven of you, and on with the countdown.

Incidentally,  I have been informed that, in some respect, my blog titles are purveyors of false advertising, as several of the items are things that I actually could conceivably get for my birthday (see: #24), and that I'm sort of letting some people down. Well, let me promise you now that this final ten will be all completely unattainable -- at least in the next month or so. This I promise you. On we gooooooo.....!!

$160 million Picasso painting: Not on the list

26 Things I Want (but won't get) For My Birthday: 20-11

Seriously, I'm having a hard time making this list, kids. Most things I want are, conveniently, things I'll never have, but they also tend to be things that no one else but me would want, which tends to make for a difficult time, if my aim is to bring people into my world through the tubes of the internets. Still, I started, so I guess I'll trudge on.

Not on the list. Seriously.

26 Things I Want (but won't get) For My Birthday: 26-21

On May 31st, I turn 26. Twenty. Six. It seems like only last week I was celebrating my 18th at my parents' old house, surrounded by high school friends -- and indeed, only yesterday since I was playing a gig, hung over from my hell-raising 21st on the UO campus. If I start to think about what I should have accomplished by this point -- what my contemporaries are doing, with proper jobs and families and 401ks -- it'll be altogether too depressing for words, so instead of focusing on boring unattainable things, I'll be talking for the next few posts about superficially mood-lightening, nay, fun, unattainable things. Although I don't particularly want (or expect) anything for my birthday, it's still fun to make a wish-list, yeah? I like to think of it as a subtle hint to my non-existent wealthy friends -- you can decide for yourself if the wealth or the friends are non-existent.

The countdown begins, well, now. Numbers 26-20 are after the jump.

How Not To Eat: The Double Down

Ok, ok, I've bored you kids enough with biting political commentary and non-fiction books. It's time to talk about a universal topic: food.

I have a very strange relationship with food. You'd only need to take one look at me -- for those who can't see me through the internet box, I've whipped up this handy MS-Paint guide:

 -- to know that I, obviously, enjoy my foodstuffs, sometimes in mass quantities. I'm not particularly snobbish when it comes to food (because, honestly, someone who looks like me isn't going to be picky, is she?), but that comes less from my waistline and more from the massive variety of good (and bad) food in my immediate area; I know I don't talk about my hometown very often in these pages, but really, food is where a place like Eugene excels. It's all the small-time diners and food carts of the big city -- my personal favourite being "Off The Waffle," a roving cart that I can mostly find near campus -- but without all the overcrowded awfulness of, say, a New York hotdog stand. 

Tape-Delay Liveblog: UK Leaders' Debate (Round 2)

Fight! I did a running commentary of the first debate on my twitter feed (www.twitter.com/thecore28), but decided to move it over here so as not to completely bore/spam the bots and randoms who follow me. So, come with me to the magic world of SkyTV, with Gordon Brown, Nick Clegg, and David Cameron -- it's on! Entries are notated by time, so if you feel particularly nerdy, you can follow along at home. I wouldn't recommend it, but you're more than welcome to.

WARNING: What follows is highly charged (with observational wit! Bam!), non-biased, foreign political commentary. I'm guessing not many of you are going to read this, but if you do decide to hit the jump, you have been warned.

What I Actually Like (for now)

Off we go once more, to the magical world of things that don't suck!

3 Things I Dig (this go-round)

Well, so much for the bit about clothes -- I really have an idea for a post about fashion, but that'll have to be put on the proverbial back-burner while I continue my pursuit of the closest thing I get to normalcy, currently in the form of a Sunday "hey-look-what-I'm-into-this-week" blurb about, well, what I'm into. Yeah, yeah, I know, it's a bit late (unless you think a week is equal to about twelve days), but better late than never, right?

I'm actually getting into a lot of stuff as of late, but here's my three wonderful things this week:

Rage Against The (PS3) Machine: Madden NFL '08

'Hokay, so here's the deal:



Nah, just kidding. The real deal is this: reading back on some of my previous posts, I feel some sort of irrational need to assert the fact that, despite the fact that I'm constantly making SkyTV references, linking to the Guardian and so on, I am an American woman. American. Woman. I'm sorry if that upsets you, but it's true. I swear like an American (because Goddammit is the star-spangled curse), I definitely eat like an American, I work at friggin' Wal-Mart, and occasionally I like to ogle attractive men and get my hair done all purdy. And what's more American than Madden football?? Nothing. That's only one of three or four reasons why I decided to fire up the PS3 and play a few games in Superstar(!) mode. What happened next (with a little inspiration from here) is why I decided to fire up the rage engine and get my blog on. I do realize that this doesn't help the "woman" part of my "American Woman" argument, but my next instalment will doubtless be titled "Clothes: What are they good for, and what do they mean?"

Caution: What follows is extremely football-centric, and by football, I mean American Football(!). If you don't like football, or don't have the first clue about football, continue reading at your own peril.

3 Things I Dig (this week)

Back in the dark ages, when I had my very own MySpace page (mostly because everyone else had one and in high school I was the type to cave into peer pressure), I began this series of love/hate mini-rants in order to feel like I actually used my MySpace page. As it stands, I probably only published about four instalments, leaving the rest of my homepage barren and allowing my comment section to serve as a halfway house for migrant spammers. I've decided to reinstate the format (obviously), not only because it's an easy way out when I want to write without an actual topic in front of me, but also because I actually feel like this blog is becoming a bit of a downer -- sometimes a comic downer, granted, but altogether a bit too negative for the tastes of the literally several people who occasionally read this slop. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I don't really want to do the comically angry bit of this, considering that the rest of my blog experience is ranting like a Tea Party member after a particularly moving episode of Glenn Beck, railing against the things in life that make me want to move to Mars. So, in the interest of sanity, this I dig of thee:

Wait, haven't I seen this before?

Whenever I teach middle schoolers the wonderful art of jazz improvisation, I always start by crushing all their dreams and telling them that there is no conceivable way that anything they do will be regarded by anyone who listens as anything other than derivative crap. Saxophonists, that obnoxious yet innovative group which happens to include me as a member, have this problem in spades. Play lots of notes in key? You are officially a Charlie Parker clone (or a Cannonball Adderley clone, who is essentially a Parker clone with a darker tone and less reliance on "I've Got Rhythm" changes). Don't play so many notes, but are still willingly playing within the chord changes? Then you must have erased everything recorded after 1950 on your iPod - I'm guessing you transcribed a lot of tenor players whose day gigs consisted of getting high/drunk and playing for one of the "big four" big bands (Glenn Miller, Woody Herman, Ellington, Basie, Benny Goodman - wait, that's five. So, "big five," then), unless your tone is so whispy the audience thinks you're using tissue paper instead of a reed, in which case you might as well be Stan Getz. Play lots of notes, but aren't so keen on playing the changes as they were intended on being played? Generic saxophonist, meet John Coltrane. Sporadic notes, no changes? Ornette Coleman. Going for your own sound? You will inevitably be compared to any one of a dozen saxophonists gigging today, who were in turn directly influenced by one or more of the preceding groups. Everything's already been done before, which is sad considering that jazz has reached this conclusion barely 100 years after its inception. And some 12 year old who discovered the joys of a 12-bar blues three weeks ago is supposed to turn the heads of the editors of Downbeat? Pssshhh.

In Defence of Idiots (before I eviscerate idiocy)

I'll be the first to admit that I am not renowned for my love of the human race. Although I may begrudgingly become fond of specific members of my species, on the whole people are awful. Most writers who cling to their clichés like one of those "Baby on Board" signs that come standard with every minivan will, at this point, tell you to simply look at the news to witness, second- or third-hand, the sheer barbarism of man: in the first world, politicians and bankers are paving the road to financial success with the despondent shells that used to be their co-workers and constituents; in the less fortunate parts of the world, war and famine rage without notice or care from the haves, leaving the have-nots to sort out their own problems by their own damn selves; countries invade other countries for reasons that give hippies aneurysms just to think of it -- in short, we're pretty messed up. I get it, we're a horrible, terrible species, and if the whole world were run by puppies or squirrels or dolphins or something we'd all be a lot better off. Maybe. But that's not what I'm arguing right now. Rather than focus on the cruelties of human nature, maybe we can find a more likely cause in examining the idiocy of the average humanoid, and to witness stupidity at its finest, you need look no further than your local retail shop - in my case, the Wal-Mart where, for four or five days a week, I labor under the delusion that escape is imminent, that I can become a teacher or a writer and make enough money with a real job that I can run from the store leaving a trail of petrol and throw a lit match behind me from the safety of the parking lot. You can take that last bit literally or figuratively. Reader's choice!

Evolution of the Novel, Vol. 1

I think I'm writing a book.

I say "I think," because I'm not quite sure that the mounds of scrap paper with clever one-liners, twenty-four word processing files with beginnings of chapters, and six hours of minidisc recordings of me talking in goofy British accents actually amount to a book. Eventually, it might. Hence, "I think I'm writing a book." Right now, it's all a collection of jumbled short stories in the life of a fictional character who's a bit more of me than I'd like to admit, but in time, it could be equivalent to my life's work, as silly as that sounds.

What gives me hope is the fact that the basic premise of the book hasn't changed in the approximately three years since I've been scribbling 21st century proverbs into half-used notebooks. I even have a title -- ironically, "Work in Progress" -- and a set of characters which have been basically unaltered. Everything else, unfortunately, is in constant flux; the motivations behind certain characters' actions, secondary characters that flesh out the main ones, narrative style, novel structure -- these things have been changing constantly to the point where I feel very tempted to burn the paper scraps, delete the .doc files, and wipe the minidiscs so I can start all over again.

Actually, I won't go that far. But I am starting over again. Wish me luck.

Hello, from School Mode

First off, I'd like to say to my friend the Shoestring Traveler that, no, I haven't been ignoring you. I've been working 30 hours a week and going to school, so anything I used to regard as "free time" has been passing me by for the last month or so. But I would very much love to walk your bike path (which isn't nearly as dirty as it sounds) and have a nice chat. We'll totally have to do that sometime.

And, for the aforementioned reason, this post is but an intermediary, "hey, I'm not dead" post. The first four weeks of my summer classes (I still have to take my 2nd year German class and finish an online Polysci course in the next four weeks) were a rude awakening for someone who hadn't been this involved in "academic" (read: not music) classes since probably high school, some, god, seven years ago now. But still, I did about as close to flourishing as I could have, given the circumstances. My Samurai in Film class, a great course but unfortunately second on my list of priorities, was more representative of what I expected all my classes to be; my laziness got the better of me, so I missed a few classes, and some mild cramming for the final enabled me to get my (I think) well deserved B in the class. Indian history was another story. That class now represents to me what I could be -- I learned, I participated, I did all the assigned readings (something which I'm not sure anyone in the class can boast), and I walked away triumphant. I'm glad that class came when it did, for now I have new confidence in my decision to pursue history, which is good.

So, all in all, I'm still in School mode. I'm learning, and I'm liking to learn. So don't be offended, all five of you who may or may not read this blog, if I'm scarce for the next month or so -- but not to worry, I have several topics to opine on, just not right now.

And if you'll excuse me, I have to go find my wallet.

Of Walks and Change, Part 2

Read Part 1 before coming to this narrative. I'm not sure it matters much, but I couldn't bear it if my three followers read things out of order.

Of Walks and Change, Part 1

People don't change. They evolve.

Sure, we might superficially alter our current interests, opinions, physical appearance, and attitudes toward others, among other things, but who we are as people -- the stuff we're made of, as it were -- remains the same. The longer you think about it, the more you'll realize that I'm correct in this. Alcoholics are a commonly cited example; it doesn't matter if someone hasn't had a drink in ten minutes or ten years, if he has the genetic disposition and the characteristic mindset where alcohol is concerned, he is an alcoholic. Likewise, as a more mundane example, someone who despises, say, broccoli, won't ever really "like" broccoli, no matter how often his parents made him eat it. Our circumstances change, as do our motivations -- and, for that matter, our motivators. Our selves have not changed. If this depresses you, I'm sorry. Join the club.

An Ode to the Match Game (or, Where Have All The Game Shows Gone?)

I was not raised like most kids of my generation. According to my mother, I taught myself to read by scanning through newspapers and picking out stories that interested me. There are home movies of me at age 4, inside my bedroom, pointing at posters on my wall of Neil Armstrong and Abe Lincoln, and reciting facts and dates like I was some sort of damned history professor or something. In first grade, Mom and I thought it would be "fun" for me to memorize Lincoln's Gettysburg Address and recite it in front of my classmates. I'm not saying this stuff to tell you how smart I am -- if I were actually as smart as all that, I wouldn't be a 25-year-old Wal-Mart cashier still working on her undergraduate degree. I'm saying this stuff because, looking back, it's a wonder that I have things like friends or social skills.