MyaRulz’s blog

I find that when it has been a while since I have posted on my blog, my only ideas are weather-related. Its like I have to make small talk with it for a while to break the ice before we can have a serious discussion. Although, I do have a small obsession with the weather/forecast. I check it 4-5 times a day. I know, it doesn't usually change...but it could, potentially, be spring any minute, right? We're so close! And I hate winter with every cell that my bones are comprised of. It makes me feel smaller, and I'm small enough, goddammit. The whole sky presses down, literally dripping cold weight onto the head.  In the winter I always feel as though I'm shrinking. No wonder there is so little plant life. The falling gravity literally drives it underground. In the winter the city seems to close in on itself, and the hard surfaces of cement and steel try to be as hard and as cold as possible. At least in the summer bits of life sprout from the cracks in older materials that don't find it as necessary to maintain their stern composure. I think they realize later on in their lives that oppressing the general populace doesn't need to be a full time job. 

I was reminded today, as I am most days, about something I hate. Hey, I'm actually trying to work on not being so hateful (I REALLY hate cynics :), but this stuck out. I was on the bus, coming home from work, and I realized that I am quite incensed by people that give their bearded friends/random bearded men the oh-so-clever nickname "Jesus." I hate the little smirk they get on their face when they refer to that ONE friend, "You, know, Jesus," like molten originality is erupting from their mouths. You know you've known someone who just has to refer to every bearded dude they see as "Jesus" or "jesus-like." It is not even remotely clever or witty or original! Please just stop! Since when did Jesus get the rights to the beard? The beard is its own entity, and I suggest we treat it as such. 

Fuck Comcast and their tiered internet. Defend net neutrality! This doesn't directly affect me, but I'm glad I use Qwest nonetheless.

http://www.projectcensored.org/censored_2007/index.htm
http://fedora-tutorials.com/comcast-is-starting-the-tiered-internet-whether-we-like-it-or-not.html
http://torrentfreak.com/comcast-throttles-bittorrent-traffic-seeding-impossible/

So I have just discovered a new personal hero.  His name is Bobby Leach, and he had the most heroic death I've ever heard of. First, let me give you some background about his life. Most notably, he was the first person to survive a trip over Niagra Falls in barrel, which he accomplished in 1911. Now, I've always had somewhat of a soft spot in my heart for people who try to go over waterfalls in various contraptions, much like they must have a soft spot or two in their heads. Old Mr. Leach was a crazy codger, and rumors say he was a circus stunt man. The irony about his life and death is this: when crazy old Bobby Leach was about 67, he was vacationing in New Zealand. He was taking a stroll down the street when he happened upon an innocent looking orange peel. He promptly slipped on it, injuring his leg. Vague sources say that he then developed complications related to "the slip" and had to have his leg amputated, developed gangrene and died. Oh, the irony. To have survived a trip over Niagra Falls in this, a very comfortable looking steel pod,

yet slipping on an orange peel and ending his own life. This almost makes me believe that God exists, and has a wickedly hilarious sense of humor. Unfortunately, there aren't any more details to be found on the incident of the orange peel and what exactly the "complications" were. Its all very mysterious, and it leads me to believe that the Russian Mob probably placed that strategic orange peel in NZ, in order for their own stuntmen to earn some notoriety.

I was very, very, horribly wrong about being safe from hipsters in my new neighborhood. Let me pose an anecdote. I was driving along this morning, whistling merrily, about to secure my new apartment from any would-be apartment stealing hipsters.  I parked in front of the leasing office, about to fork over 200 bones, when something stopped me dead in my tracks.  Was it a cute little family of city possums? No. Was it a picaresque scene of a biker actually obeying traffic laws? Absolutely not. Was it none other than a terrifying piece of vandalism sprayed without remorse on a warehousey building a couple blocks away from my soon-to-be living quarters? Hell, yes. Its message instilled both a cold sense of horror and warm tendrils of humor into my heart.

"Too many hipsters, not enough crime."

To some, this might be a heartwarming message, a testament to the obscure city bubble that is Portland. As I burst into a spasm of mirth, a tear escaped my eye. Whether from lost dreams or hilarity, I will never know. I suppose this will comfort my parents.

I am incredibly excited to attend the Oregon Country Fair this weekend. I have been working 4 ten hour days in a row, so I could get Friday off. My good friend has offered to let me work in his family's food booth, so I am able to get a free pass, and to camp inside the fair. This is going to seriously ROCK. The funny thing is, they only have youth passes, so I actually have to have him make me a fake high school ID that says I'm 17. The more I've been thinking about this and how hilarious it is to get a fake ID that says I'm 4 years younger than I actually am, the more I've been realizing how great it is going to be.  No more will I have to pay outrageous admission for museums! No more will I look "creepy" when I'm hanging out in the high school courtyard picking up guys! No more will I be thrown into a fit of cursing when I'm buying a bus pass and the adult one is twice as much as the youth one! No more will I be excluded from my favorite underage dance club, The Zone!

I'll be back after the weekend with more news about how my underage experience went.

Hello world, I'm back. Back as one of the millions of people of legal drinking age, I must say that I now know the mundane existence that is life through an alcoholic haze. I think the absence of posts on this blog is paralleled by my gradual descent into being a square. By that I mean I'm entirely and utterly boring. How does one judge one's one level of interestingness, you may ask. Here is what I came up with:
    1. Even ducks won't talk to me anymore
    2. I find that I seem to not have a soul
    3. Babies do NOT make me smile
    4. BookTV is my favorite channel
    5. I have an odd affinity for wicker
    6. I refuse to listen to anything but Kenny G
    7. I find Metamucil smoothies oddly delicious
    8. Crocheting doilies is my main pastime

Oh yeah, it is that bad. So, if you are reading this blog you might as well discontinue your subscription. Its DEFINITELY going to start to get worse. Soon I'll be posting my best recipe for spam meatloaf and dialoguing my most recent trip to the grocery store.  This is a downward spiral that is best associated with the descent of Chuck Norris's career.  There won't even be any roundhouse kicks to pregnant women's faces to amuse you.

I'll start off by peering only slightly into the abyss. I'm moving AGAIN, this time to the glorious sprawling land of hipster that is Southeast Portland. There's a rumor of a heroin addict living next door, so I feel safe from the hipsters. Because we all know that while hipsters like to PRETEND they're from the street, yo, they are all very upper-middle class. They just can't handle stuff like the words "blood for dope" scrawled bravely across a lower piece of siding, actually in blood. Luckily, I'm made of tougher stuff. Besides, what better way to become a more interesting person (and therefore attracting more friends) than living next door to a dope fiend? Who wouldn't want to live next door to someone that is SO selfless that they give their very life's essence in payment for narcotics? I feel as though it will be an invaluable experience.

I despise the way our society treats aging: like it is a plague that must be avoided at all costs.  I believe the aged should be celebrated, and not by getting a lousy fucking discount at Denny's or a better parking spot.  I hold the old in the highest esteem, and I think they should be recognized for getting through their lives with a wealth of experience and stories.  And, wrinkles are beautiful.  Why is there so much pressure to be young? Young people are reckless and headstrong, and mostly only think of themselves. 

Often I wish I was old, mostly so I could yell at youngsters and tell dirty jokes.  I am also most occupied with the pursuit of knowledge and I wish that I had a lifetime of knowledge to draw upon. 

I'm sorry, athiest self.  I went to church today.  Although, if I may speak a word in my own defense.  I actually went because supposedly a world-class pianist was performing.  Apparently, the lure of music is just too great for even me to resist going into the deplorable house of religion. I was actually glad I went, though.  The music was beautiful and the pianist was from Bolivia and told a wonderful little story in Spanish, which of course I didn't understand, but was then promptly translated.  The myth that piano players have long, slender graceful fingers is just that.  Because this guy had the littlest sausage fingers I have ever seen.  But the way his hands fell like waves on the keys was mesmerizing. I LOVE piano music! It is my downfall, I'm afraid.  Damn, I'm glad that my arch-nemesis doesn't read this blog.  Oh wait, he does.  FUCK.

I thought that it might be pertinent to point out that I am currently writing this from the stagnant land of hippy: Eugene.  I've been in this tepid place for the past three weekends, and surprisingly enough, I've enjoyed each visit most immensely.  This time, I'm afraid, isn't filled with raucous parties and 8 foot tall bonfires though.  Instead I have my great tome of a medical physiology book for my companion, and a limited amount of brain space to stuff trivia into.  In all of my long years on this earth, I have never read a drier text.  Don't get me wrong, physiology is fascinating.  But when you break it down to the barest technical details and don't even give any gory clinical examples, what's left? GODDAMMIT! I want to read about genital tumors and horrific blood diseases. 

Uh-oh. Cat fight. Gotta go.

Grapefruits are very high-maintenance, and have no remorse.  They demand that you wade through layer after layer of sour inedible-ness to get to the sweet succulent fruit inside.  I think that this is because they are pink.  Everything that is pink is high-maintenance.  Even looking at the color pink is high-maintenance.  It screams "Love me!" "I want to be noticed," and "Take me out to the club and buy me expensive drinks!" You cannot be passive with pink.  It is like that younger sibling, always tugging at your sleeve and demanding your time. 

Well, grapefruit, you had better count your lucky stars that I love you enough that I put up with your audacity to be pink.  I would enjoy you so much more if you married the tangerine cutie and had a child.  You could even call it something cute like Graperini, although that sounds like a fruity magician. Maybe you can think of something better.  Tang-fruit? Hahaha.

I just discovered the greatest channel ever: CSPAN2 - BookTV.  There are no filibusters...but it is still great.  So I heard a poet read this poem and I had to share it because I think it is excellent.

Robert Pinsky Samurai Song

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.