Things I Laugh At #5: Water on the Rocks

The New York Times published this article yesterday, reporting the discovery of water on the moon.

The article included such choice quotations from scientists and pundits:

“Indeed yes, we found water,” Anthony Colaprete, the principal investigator for NASA’s Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Satellite, said in a news conference. “And we didn’t find just a little bit. We found a significant amount.”

“We got more than just a whiff,” Peter H. Schultz, a professor of geological sciences at Brown University and a co-investigator of the mission, said in a telephone interview. “We practically tasted it with the impact.”

“We got good fits,” Dr. Colaprete said. “It was a unique fit.”

Fortunately, the New York Times decided to omit many of the other quotations that had been gathered during research and included in the original draft of the article.

"Shit yeah, we found water," Jonathan Largerock, the leading investigator for NASA's Crater Watching and Probing Probe, said in a press conference. "And not only did we find that shit, we drank that shit up."

"We are still conducting follow-up studies," said Guy Little, a professor at Brown whose research has never been published. "We are making absolutely sure that it was water and not moon sweat. Or vodka."

"I am giving birth right now," some woman who "works" for NASA wrote by e-mail. "But from what my male colleagues have told me, this discovery is awesome."

In an unexpected appearance at the NASA press conference, Neil Armstrong said softly from the back of the room, "That's one small sip for man--" before being escorted out by security.

"Now that we know there is water there, we can start asking all sorts of other questions," said Richard G. Buurtschlung, former head of the Pluto Elimination Initiative: NASA Investigations Subcommittee (PEINIS). "Like, 'What should we do with all this water?', and 'Did this seriously just happen?'"

"Yes, um, there was water," said Sailor Moon, who spoke on condition of anonymity. "It was wet," she said.

She later added, "It was really wet."

Things That Confuse Me: Part I

1. People who look like they're having a pretty serious breakdown in public (e.g., crying violently in a restaurant or cafe) and then you look closer out of great concern and it turns out that's just their face, having a good time.

2. People who are very blond from behind, and then when they turn around, what?, they're Asian.

3. Muscle metabolism

4. PDA amongst persons aged 11 to 16. I have massive difficulty comprehending how certain individuals can, in such a self-flagellatingly miserable period of life, convince other sentient beings with full working vision to find them attractive enough for unmediated face-on-face contact.

Two such specimens are sitting across from me at Panera -- "going at it," if you will -- even as I write this. I don't know them, but I worry for them. Being unattractive when you're young is like doing the chicken pox: it might scar you, but it also might save your life. Do you even know what's going to happen to you in five years or so, little tweethearts? That's right, you're going to get life shingles. At that point, there will be nothing I can do to help you.

5. Oh, and now you're climbing onto his lap, jungle-gym style? I might throw up, although considering we are at Panera, this is not saying much. Really, come on, Jessica (you look like a Jessica to me), I know you know better than that. Your moves are an entire season out of whack.

And Ricky (you do not look like a Ricky to me, but I want to call you Ricky), your body language tells me you think this is your finest moment. Shame on you, although if you don't manage to get that high school diploma, you may not be far from the truth.

6. Also, I don't mind that you took the corner booth I wanted, but really, did you guys have to sit together on the same side of the booth? That's so Parisian of you. Because, you know, there's so much interesting pedestrian traffic on the other side of the booth. Also, I hear the view of the other side of the booth is breathtaking this time of day.

I thought I would be angry at you two for taking my booth, but instead I am just so happy that you're enjoying it to the full.

7. Actually, you know what, I'm going to be angry after all. What are you even doing with that booth? Nothing, except moving into adulthood faster than the speed of love. I would use it for something much more useful, like learning muscle metabolism. Screw both of you.

8. Why don't the volume controls on Apple's $80 headphones work with the iPhone 3G? Probably because I didn't pay enough for all the features to be functional, right? Yeah, that's going to be my working hypothesis.

9. Redacted because it initially confused me, but now I am no longer confused. What a successful day this has been!

10. This one's bothered me for a while. Do extinct things get a special section in heaven, because they're kind of deader than dead? Maybe something like a hotel ballroom, which, much like hotel ballrooms on earth, are never used for balls but instead just have a bunch of long meeting tables lined up in rows and covered with pink tablecloths? And everyone sits and faces in the same direction, toward the front of the room, and at the front of the room there is a giant chalkboard.

At the back of the room there is a refreshments stand with an unlimited supply of bottled water, bottled in a thick plastic that can't be crushed by even your strongest desires. And at each of the meeting tables there are ice-cold pitchers of Crystal Pepsi.

And everyone else in heaven wants to go inside this special room. But they can't, because there is a sign outside the door that says "Thing In Progress."

This is also going to be one of my working hypotheses, until further notice.

Things I Love #5: Letters

I'm back.

School started last week, so there's been a lot of "starting school" going on, and not a whole lot of blogging. I think a fun game would be to see whether being in school eventually "takes over my life", and if so, to guess when that's going to happen. Actually, that sounds like a terrible idea. But in any case, I'm back, at least for now.

One of the things we did in class yesterday was sit in silence for an hour and write letters to our future selves. I was initially confused, but after I realized what was going on, I immediately got excited. I thought to myself, holy crap, we're getting paid to do what?? Then I remembered I wasn't actually being paid. But it was okay, because they gave us free envelopes, and as much free paper as we wanted, and that was kind of like "compensation."

And the truth is that I would write letters any day, even without compensation. Letters are basically one of the best things that can happen to a person, right up there with accidental dates and no lines at Starbucks. They can be as powerful as a very powerful man's fist, or as sweet as any number of sugar-filled foods.

Also, you can read letters as many times as you like, whereas if you asked someone to tell you something over and over, they probably wouldn't do it. And the next time you tried to talk to them, they would probably pretend not to see or hear you.

Which is why it saddens me greatly that letters have gone out of style.

I'm not saying that email, and other technological replacements for letters, are bad. I happen to think they are perfectly complementary.

In the olden days, for example, I would send a letter and then sit around for days, or even weeks, waiting for a reply. Today I can write a letter, go the post office and mail it, then pull out my web-browsing phone in the post office and send my friend an email, tweet, or both to let them know that a letter is on its way.

Once I get home, I can send the friend a PDF of the letter, which I would have digitally scanned beforehand; it's only polite to give people a preview so they're prepared when it arrives. Then I can call them, my yet-unsuspecting and somehow plural friend, and tell them to check their email.

Finally, a few weeks later, I can meet up with them in person and, over lunch or coffee, casually work the letter into conversation. There are many ways to do this naturally. For example: "Interesting you should bring that up. As I mentioned on page four of my last letter, it's a complete toss-up between Helen Keller and the war on terror for biggest urban legend. And we just have to live with that."

As you can probably guess, the only thing more magical than writing letters is receiving them. So the next time you're bored in class, or bored on the job, try tracking down some free paper and writing to someone. The letter doesn't have to be to me; it could be to a friend, or a lover, or yourself. Just as long as it gets mailed to my address, I won't mind.

Things I Laugh At #4: Out-of-Placement

Well, it's basically a miracle that seeing two turkeys walking down a street somehow managed not to ruin my entire day.

If one of them had been a chicken or something I would have lost it though.

Right now here is my dilemma: there is really nothing to say about this situation. I can't even bring myself to attempt some sort of cute little comment about how it's not even Thanksgiving yet, which is what I imagine such a situation generally calls for, even though jokes about Thanksgiving are never funny. And that particular joke (the turkey joke) is so morbid that it not only makes me actively not laugh, it makes me enraged.

Or, "It enrages me," as a normal person would say.

Unfortunately, this does not end with turkeys. Day to day, one encounters plenty of other things that feel desperately out of place: trapezoid-reared moms shopping at Abercrombie and Fitch, honest Americans drinking beer at the White House, New York bus stop ads telling boys to eat broccoli and respect women (what?).

A while ago, I took a business trip to Arkansas with a German co-worker. We both arrived in suits -- mine mall-quality but presentable, his devastatingly European -- and discovered that everyone we were meeting with was in jeans. The head guy even wore a plaid shirt. If you think we thought they looked ridiculous, we didn't. We thought we looked ridiculous, because we did, and they knew we knew, too.

Luckily, I was too busy marveling at how out-of-place my German co-worker seemed -- before that trip, I don't think he even believed in "Arkansas" -- to worry about myself.

And I say this is lucky, because the only thing worse than seeing something out of place is realizing that you yourself is what's out of place. If you've ever had the misfortune of going to a Great Gatsby-themed party, you know what I'm talking about. Amidst all the fake pearls and suggestively shaped hats, you find yourself horribly indecisive about whether to laugh and laugh uncontrollably or just shoot yourself summarily between the eyes.

If anyone at the party has actually read Great Gatsby, chances are you are better off with the latter.

And what kills me (ha - but I should know better) is that these problems have such an easy fix. Books should stay in the library; beer should stay in Germany; Germans should stay out of Arkansas. Everyone should stay out of Abercrombie and Fitch.

Boys should respect women, obviously. And broccoli has nothing to do with it. Are you retarded?

Finally, turkeys should spend less time on the street, and more time in my freezer. This is as close to a Thanksgiving joke as I will allow myself to get. At least until Thanksgiving.

"Oho, something about cranberry sauce! Oho, it's can-shaped!" No, seriously. This is why I'm done.

Things I Love #4: Hybrids

Because I am disastrously poor, one of my new resolutions is to go to the supermarket with a completely open mind and simply buy whatever is on sale, then take it home and eat it.  This is the kind of thinking that resulted in a dinner tonight of banana-pepperoni-cream cheese sandwiches.

Before you tell me we're not friends anymore: 1) the cream cheese was the fancy whipped kind, with chives, and 2) if I had put a piece of candy on top, I would have covered the entire food pyramid in one meal.  Efficiency is another new resolution of mine.

And it was actually quite alright, so, you know, put that in your pipe, as they say.

While eating my hybrid marvel, I got to thinking about all the other forms of hybrids that I love in life.  I love driving hybrid cars, as long as they are SUVs.  I love having Parallels on my Mac and knowing that I will never use it.  I love looking at the hybrid couples who pass me on the street, and if they have been hugging each other very tight, I love looking at their beautiful hybrid offspring, too.

It's tempting to think that maybe hybrid things are just better than individual things.  For example, goldendoodles.  Golden retrievers are kind of dumb, and poodles are just out-of-this-world unacceptable.  But somehow when you mash the two together, the result is adorable.  And I never use that word, but seriously, when you see one of these creatures, you just want to squeeze it so tight that it goes flat.  And then buy some 3-D glasses and look at it so hard that it becomes 3-D again.

But maybe society, myself included, has become too dependent on hybrids.  When did it stop being okay to eat plain vanilla ice cream, or to have only one academic degree?  What was so bad about gas-only cars?  I'm joking, people.  All you Green-Teamers need to reach back and remove the plastic bottle, because you are taking yourselves way too seriously.

I have always thought that one should be able to go up to the counter at Dunkin Donuts and ask for a doughnut -- to literally just look the person in the eye and say, "I'd like a doughnut."  But you can't do that.  The doughnut person would probably strike you.  Instead you have to say, "I want that doughnut over there, the one glazed with milk of magnesia -- no, not the one with the bruise-colored sprinkles, the one with the boullion cube in the center."

I was actually thinking about opening a one-doughnut doughnut shop.  The shop would sell only one flavor, which would be called "plain flavor."  And maybe if it was a hit, I could stop being poor, and maybe even consider a hybrid degree, not to mention a nicer meal.

But until then, my third new resolution will be to start simplifying wherever I can.  Which I guess means either bananas or straight pepperoni for dinner tomorrow.  Or straight whipped cream cheese, though really, if it came to that, even I probably wouldn't stand for being my friend.

Things I Laugh At #3: Reborn Agains

Let me start this by saying that I am a giant fan of "people", and also of "friendship."  But just as there comes a time in every civilization when it is no longer safe to leave your front door unlocked, so too does every social networking site reach a point where it is no longer safe to accept every online friendship that comes your way, especially those offered by people you don't know in the dimension of Real Life.

Until recently, the creepiest friend request I'd come across was from a man who was apparently trying to befriend every female on Facebook who shared my first name.  Flattering, perhaps, in the creepy way that people asking to keep your hair clippings after you get a haircut is flattering (don't ask).

But then, last week, I came across something potentially even creepier: a friend request from a girl I don't know, who has a perfectly lovely face, a perfectly non-sociopathic profile, and a Religious Views section that reads: Born Again :)

That emoticon is not mine, obviously.  (The colon before is mine)

Why a Religious Views section even exists on Facebook is itself an issue, which one of these days I will take up with Mark Zuckerberg, who has always been most tolerant of my unsolicited advice on how his site should function (viz., "Hey, Mark, maybe you could fix something so that I can see everyone's profile." "Haha, yeah." "Yeah?" "Haha, yeah, no. What's wrong with you?")

But setting that aside for now, I mostly have to wonder: is it possible to refer to oneself as a Born Again anything and keep a straight face?  Call me childish, but whenever I hear the words, the first thing I imagine is a businessman in a nice suit and tie grabbing a poor, unsuspecting female stranger on the street, somehow crouching and diving really quick-like into her uterus, and then -- still in the middle of the sidewalk -- squeezing out of her poor, unsuspecting birth canal with all the difficulty of the last squeeze on an empty tube of toothpaste.

And the woman is all, WTF?  And the man's suit when he comes out is covered in Spaghetti-Os, like Lois in the indie short Steel Vaginas.

I also have to laugh at people who are "born again" because, how far are they going to take this?  Do their ages also reset, so that at 34 they're actually turning two, and they can tell all the people who go to their birthday parties, "I'm teething and it's such a bore, so don't mind me if I cry a little in my cake"?  This is obviously not a real question, because no one would actually do this.  But my point is: they would do it if they took rebirth as seriously as they claim to.  Neither Jesus nor his other-colored counterparts are interested in halfway faith, especially from those who effed up enough the first time around to need the second chance.

As for me, unless I get born again soon as an all-trusting, all-loving soul from the middle of a cornfield, I'm keeping my front door locked and my friends limited to those I know I can believe in.

Things I Love #3: Treasure

One of the benefits of living in a modestly sized apartment is that when it comes time to bid that apartment goodbye, you have the comfort of knowing that no matter how unpleasant it may be to pack, there can only be a finite number of things that need packing.  Or this is what I tell myself every morning to convince myself that it will be safe to get out of bed.

But as it turns out, even the smallest of apartments is large enough to hold a bounty of hidden treasures, which I discovered today during an ambitious attempt to advance my packing of trivialities from 35% to 95% completion.  (I hit 80% and quit to eat some frozen cereal and write this blog post.)

It all started when I found $1.32 in change and some receipts from Disney World at the bottom of a handbag that I had forgotten I owned.  You're probably about to say, that's not a lot of money. Well, did I mention most of it was in quarters?  Yeah, now you're not about to say anything, right?  Also, I destroyed the Disney receipts, but they reminded me of what it was like to go to Disney World as an adult, and how magically depressing the whole experience was, and how I should never try it again.  And learning that lesson was very valuable and 'treasure-like' as well.

I then proceeded to find:

Dress shoes from seventh grade -- the massive block-like heels on the shoes probably helped to stabilize me as I traveled through puberty; I can't think of any other justification for their being there, much less my owning the shoes

A See's Mint Krispy from Christmas -- still krispy, although obviously that's not how you spell crispy (you spell it like that)

Toiletries from the W hotel -- always torn about this one, because on the one hand, Bliss products are fairly legitimate, but on the other hand, I get angry thinking about the W hotel and how smug it is -- "Whatever, Whenever", "Fall in Wuv", the works -- and on both hands, Bliss lemon lotion smells like freshly killed ants, because crushed ants smell like lemon.

Previously unread issues of The New Yorker, dating as far back as last November -- did you know that the televangelist guy everyone liked ended up getting elected?  Lollers!@!  But seriously: sometimes living in a world devoid of money and politics is the best treasure one can give to one's sanity.

Issues of Vanity Fair that I had previously read and forgotten I wanted to read again -- like the issue with Tina Fey, of which I own two copies.  Obviously I have read both.  But I still wish that the digital scanner I love at work could scan and email Maureen Dowd's words straight into my brain, so that I could have them there anytime I want to think about Tina Fey and what it must be like for her to be her.

Previously and currently unread issues of Elle Magazine -- What's going on here?  I don't even subscribe to Elle Magazine, and its presence in my apartment is throwing me off balance even more than my seventh grade shoes, which, yes, I tried on again, just to make sure they were as horrible as they looked.

Some rocks from Paris -- Setting aside for a minute how great the rocks in Paris are, which most people don't realize because they're too busy looking for things that don't last as long as rocks, I have to say, rocks present a considerable packing challenge.  Because like most treasures of rare value, they defy categorization with the very fact of being in a category of their own.  Furthermore, the fact that they are rare suggests a quantity insufficient to justify a box dedicated solely to rocks, let alone rocks from Paris.  And so one is forced to decide what makes less nonsense: including them in a box with office supplies that are all half-used, or a box with make-up supplies that have never been used because one never quite learned how to use them.

But as I think back over all that I've uncovered today, I would say I actually feel quite good, and I might even go so far as to say that I am excited about the rest of my packing, if only to see what else I might find.  A metaphor for life, perhaps?  No, not really.  Don't even try to pull off that kind of child-like optimism, because before you know it, you'll be spending senior year spring break hanging out with Goofy and Donald Duck, and take it from me, no amount of receipt-shredding years later will be able to change that fact.

Things I Laugh At #2: The Opposite of Eating Meat

Last night some friends from Milan cooked a fantastic Italian dinner, complete with rooftop aperitifs and platters of cold cuts and blocks of fine cheese and a homemade pasta sauce that took nearly two hours to prepare.  I don't know how many liters of libations or pounds of comestibles we made it through; all I know is by the time I left at the end of the evening, I was on the verge of breaking out into a severe meat sweat, the likes of which I hadn't seen since All You Can Eat Wings Night at Hooters was a socially acceptable challenge to undertake.

But as I walked the walk home, clutching my stomach in a world of delicious, I-regret-this-but-not-really pain, I had a truly painful thought.  What about the many people in the world who did not eat meat?  They would never even get to experience the experience that I was experiencing at that very moment.  Because from where else could they possibly derive that sense of unbridled pleasure, followed by that unique thrill of playful remorse?  Carbohydrates?  Other people?  Vegetables?

Highly unlikely, if you ask me.  I'd like to meet the man, woman, or loaf of bread that can elicit something even close to the intensity of anticipation that you get when the idea of "bacon" suddenly comes to mind.  You know what I'm talking about: you're walking down the street, it's 8:30 in the morning, there's not a whole lot of traffic for some reason, and suddenly you remember that bacon exists, and you start running and running, and people near you think you're just running because you're afraid you might miss the walk signal, but then even after you've crossed the street you keep running, and then they realize, oh, it's bacon time.  No one would ever think to themselves: oh, it must be a really fresh salad.

Have you ever heard of a person wearing a shirt with a picture of another person on it?  Rhetorical question, because that would be retarded.  And have you ever seen someone wearing a shirt with a giant baguette printed on it?  If you did I hope you ran the other way, because that person was unquestionably a sociopath.  (Banana nut bread might be cool, though I can't really visualize it.)  But meats on shirts is nothing if not the new black.  I personally own Prosciutto and am hoping to procure a Soppressata in the near future.  These make great relaxing-around-the-house shirts, great eating-lunch shirts, great going-out-at-night shirts under other shirts, and are also like very soft towels when you want to wipe your face.  I should point out I have no affiliation with meat-shirt manufacturers anywhere; I say these things simply from the vantage point of a grateful consumer.

In the spirit of half-hearted diplomacy, I should also acknowledge that of the many people who refrain from meating, I know that most have "legitimate" reasons, which I will not try to explain, because I don't exactly understand them.  But to the ones who simply choose not to eat it because they "would rather not" or because they "just don't want to", I have to say, the sound of my tears is even louder than the sound of the rain outside my window right now, because there is no way you fully understand what you're missing, because if you did, you would stop missing it and start eating something that used to have a personality.

Oh and obviously these are mostly tears of laughter, mixed in with just a few normal-type tears.  But all of them -- regardless of where they came from -- are going to just keep flowing, and mixing disgustingly with my salty beads of meat sweat, until more of you man up and learn to let beautiful dead food love you the way it wants to.  Or at least until I find my Prosciutto T-shirt so I can properly wipe my face.

Things I Love #2: Street Talk

One of the things I love most about New York is its streets.  The fat ones, the skinny ones, the crooked ones, and the dead-enders: they have been the light of my New York life.  As many of you know, I often pass entire days just walking up and down the crazy rues of the city, looking at whatever I happen to find, tripping but never falling, and going nowhere in particular but at least getting there relatively fast.

Another thing I love about New York is its people.  The fat ones, the skinny ones, the crooked ones, and the dead-enders: in spite of the summer heat, which makes it somewhat difficult to look fondly upon teeming masses of warm, exposed flesh clogging sidewalk circulation, I have to say that for the most part, what I feel for the people I encounter in New York is love.

But when you put New York people and New York streets together, part of what you get is street fixtures: those insuppressible sit-on-the-corner types who sit on the corner and periodically holler unsolicited commentary at you, or at your fellow passersby, or in the case of the skinny-jeans guy who stands angrily on Lexington just across from Grand Central, straight up at the unfiltered sky.

And this can at turns be humorous, encouraging, frightening, or simply insulting.  And I'm not talking about the ones who limit themselves to mute vanilla check-you-outs, or the ones who offer a laryngitic "Hey, Pretty" almost as an afterthought as you pass, or the ones with a working thesaurus who can call out "Hi there, Beautiful."  I'm talking about the ones who slap full-bodied opinions across your path and startle you out of your internal back-and-forth about whether to get two slices of pizza at the pizza shop on 33rd or just one slice so that you can buy cake later too.  I'm talking about the ones who project their voices almost violently, as if to make you appreciate that if they weren't so busy occupying their spot on the street corner right then, they would use more than words to stop you and show you what's what.

Maybe I'm exaggerating a little, because I've never been personally subjected to anything truly hostile.  But the other day, for instance.  I was walking down Third Ave, just running errands and minding my own business, when I noticed that the Duane Reade I was passing had a new sign up.  It still said Duane Reade, but in a more modern, 'hip' font, if you will.  I remember thinking to myself: "Well, nice font, but your store is still terrible."  And while thinking this, I suddenly recalled that I actually did have to go to a drug store.  So I rounded the corner to walk the five or so blocks to CVS, and as I rounded the corner, I heard a voice shout out in undisputed scorn, "Oho, well look, world, we have ourselves a little reader!"

A little reader: that's me.  I realized I was holding a book in my hand because it didn't fit in my handbag.  I had brought it out with me that morning because I had expected to be waiting around at various points of the day with nothing to do, and also because the book is intended to be portable -- look at the cover.  But there was no way to explain this to the man outside Duane Reade, so I said, "Come along, Henry," and walked away.

A few days later, I was passing the same spot and what I'm pretty sure was the same guy.  There were a number of other people crowded on the street, many of them women, and he shouted triumphantly in our general direction, "I would never marry a woman who was willing to have me!"  With you there, buddy.

And then finally, yesterday, as I sped my way down the same street to a commitment for which I was very late, I heard the man muse loudly and philosophically from his post -- and I will assume it was to no one in particular, because he had his face angled toward a telephone booth -- "The best way for a woman to hide a big butt is to walk fast."

So I've decided to stop walking down Third Avenue.  But really, if you think about it, even in spite of the street talk, it's kind of impossible not to love this city.  Because when strangers offering unwanted advice is your biggest problem, and walking fast is considered a positive solution, you know you have it pretty good.

Things I Laugh At #1: Pun-tards

What the -- ohh, oh I get it.  I get it.  Good thing they had that extra bit about the Stimulus Package, otherwise I might not have gotten there.

Question.  What giant douche first decided that it would be okay to name a store after a pun?  I understand that puns happen; I am prepared to allow for that.  But a store name does not just "happen."  I have always assumed that the moment you decide to open a store, the first thing you think about is what a good name would be.  (Then again, I grew up shopping at a Dick's Sporting Goods and a Festival Foods).  And I would even go so far as to say that if you cannot think of a good name for a store, chances are you probably should not be opening a store in the first place.

Puns are, to put it simply, just awful.  They are like little children with cancer.  They fill you with sadness, and you never quite know what to do or say in response.  If you've ever had the misfortune of traveling via Penn Station, you may recall passing en route to the Amtrak gates a little store called Tiecoon, which looks like it has never seen the light of day, because it hasn't.  I know every time I see it, life suddenly feels so much heavier, and I am suddenly so much more aware of the damp human smell all around me, and the fact that pedestrian traffic in Penn Station is like rat traffic in a cramped sewer, and the fact that if there is a fire we are all so, so screwed.

Moreover, why?  Why did you have to go and name your store Tiecoon?  Were you afraid that people wouldn't know what you sell?  I highly doubt that, because your window displays are full of garish ties that no one in their right mind would want to buy, and the rest of your store is jam-packed with the absence of anything other than ties.  Is it a lack of creativity that's the problem?  Because you can pay people for that.  I will offer suggestions even free of charge.   How about Tie World?  It's no Dick's Sporting Goods, I'll admit, but it sure as hell beats Tiecoon.  Even Tie Land would be better.  Actually, wait, that doesn't work so well.  Nevermind.

My point is: I think it's mostly just laziness that leads people to pun.  And the best examples of this are, of course, tea puns.  Tea puns are the worst of the worst.  And what's more, they are everywhere.  The aforementioned giant douche was probably also a giant tea lover, who encouraged his friends to open stores with ridiculous names like Teavana and Tealuxe.  What are you people doing?  First of all, just drink coffee.  And second of all, what?  Are you kidding me?

If you're still not convinced, I suggest you head down to the southwest corner of Washington Square Park.  You'll see a little cafe called Tea Spot.  It's a great place to grab a quick drink before heading uptown to Shoegasm and a life of not being able to live with yourself.

Things I Love #1: Wolves on T-Shirts

Wolf T-shirts may seem like a fairly obvious place to start a list of things that I love.  And this is fine, because just as dogs can be traced back to wolves, so too can my love of wolf T-shirts be traced back to the movie Contact, which is either Number 2 or Number 3 on the list of best movies made in the last two decades.  And Contact has as its central character the universe, which is where all things originate, and so it seems appropriate that this list should in turn originate from the movie Contact.

I should probably note that wolf T-shirts may or may not actually appear in the movie; each time I watch it I am too distracted by the shrill noise the aliens make with their prime numbers to notice what the astrophysics people are wearing.  But this is immaterial.  Because the characters portrayed in Contact -- the blind guy who listens to stars; the frigid woman who also listens to stars; the fat guy with the ponytail who carves a pumpkin in the lab; the skinny guy with puppy eyes like large pools in his face -- they are the kinds of people who are capable of inspiring average mankind, who help the rest of us glimpse what we could be if we tried.  They are the kinds of people who do not need Bergdorf Goodman or Louis Vuitton or society or soap to give them beauty.  They wear their jeans tapered.  They wear their hair unwashed.  They eat pizza for water.  They are the ultimate cool.

And so I don't need to see wolf T-shirts on their persons on-screen to know that they in fact own them, and love them, and spill on them on a regular basis.  And when I wear my own wolf T-shirt, I feel like I too might be cool enough to converse purely in the language of numbers and to disregard personal hygiene.  Sometimes one has to make oneself look really hideous in order to feel truly beautiful.  This is how igneous rocks get by.

Anyways, I lived many years of my life happily unquestioning this world view.  But then, recently, a friend attempted to show me a link to a product page on Amazon where apparently "thousands" of people have been posting comments about a wolf T-shirt; it's the canonical wolf T-shirt depicting three wolves howling at a moon.  I have not been able to bring myself to look at the site firsthand -- this purported friend read aloud enough inane excerpts for me to conclude that I should never look at it (and he did not stop reading there; hence the purported) -- but its very existence pains me.  Wolves are dignified creatures, not something to be made light of alongside Tuscan Whole Milk.  Even worse are the people who now think they love wolf T-shirts because this fad suggested to them that wolf T-shirts are ironically cool.  That doesn't even make sense.  That would be like lactose intolerants all of a sudden downing Half & Half because the Internet told them dairy was ironically cool.  And don't even get me started on people who think they can pull off "recreationally nerdy" -- those people need to stop, right now, because being recreationally nerdy is basically asking for a punch in the face by a pasty physicist, followed by a smack upside the head by the Louis Vuitton handbag of someone who at least has the decency to acknowledge his or her desire for social currency.

But I can't end on an angry note in a post about Things I Love -- that's saved for posts about Things I Laugh At -- so let me think of something pleasant to say.  Well, I like milk, for one.  I also like Amazon, for buying books.  And I like books.  I am also selling my vintage bookshelf, for anyone who is interested.  Vintage means it's from my childhood.

But basically I've never talked so much about wolves in my life, and now I'm exhausted.  So that's all for now. 

This is happening

No one ever thought this day would come, but sometime around eleven o'clock last night, as the wireless connection in my apartment tried to play hard to get (do not try to play this game with me) and the dust bunnies in my room tried to get all up in my business (do not try this either), I realized what was missing from my life: a healthy dose of take-it-to-the-next-level in my relationship with technology. And by technology I of course mean the Internet, but "taking it to the next level" with the Internet sounds all wrong and sad and age 14 to 16.

Part of this endeavor is going to be this blog, which I am hoping will act as a sort of virtual pet/friend, a stand-in for the dog I do not yet own as well as the older brother I never had, who was therefore never there to beat up the lame boys in my life who also never existed. Obviously this is just an experiment, and although this is my first post I already know that it (this project) is either going to get dropped like a prom-night dumpster baby or drastically over-loved like, well, all things in life that are lucky enough to receive over-loving. There will not be an in-between. That's how these things go (or so I am told).

Anyone out there unfortunate enough to read this -- thanks for not sending hate mail / scorn mail until I hit at least double digits in my number of posts.

The future already feels awesomer,
xrayunicorn