Migration to the other Club

"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."

Boys are especially guilty of this sort of thing. How can someone be thinking nothing? There must be -something- going on in their head. Are their eyes registering whatever is in front of them? Perhaps a "The couch is red in color" may be floating through their head. I always have some sort of idle thought process whirring and clicking away in my brain. Mundane things ("My sandwich sucks.") to heavy-duty items ("Where am I heading with my life?") skim through, all while I'm driving, having lunch, or staring at the ducks in the pond.

Thoughts are generally always there, providing a narrator to my everyday life, much like Fred Savage in the Wonder Years. What could cause this voice to go silent? The Fred Savage inside of me seems to have disappeared recently. Perhaps if I could figure out the difference between people with no Fred Savage and people with Fred Savage, I'd get an inkling of what might've precipitated this sudden change. I've switched sides. And I'm not all too happy about it. Perhaps its the ninetofive routine. Or the pressures of being a "grown-up". Have the worries and pressures become so great that a dearth of thought is a welcome relief? That would indicate that people reflect less and less as they get older, and become more and more shallow character-wise. People become all about the daily routine and cease to think about the meaning behind things. Maybe this is how adults are made. I used to look at my parents and wonder how they could've ever been kids at some point. They're content with watching tv after work and making sure we don't miss the bus to school. I wonder if they had visualized this future for themselves when they were 21. It makes me wonder where I'll end up.

Still in the Dark Ages

With all the technological advances today, I can't believe that the pad is still so backwards. True, we're no longer wear rags and belts, but upgrading to a cottony sticker that you paste on your panties is hardly an improvement. We can send a man to the moon, but nothing has been done about this affliction that half the population suffers from once a month. Both pads and tampons are still made of rayon, which is terrible as far as land pollution is concerned, and is also old-school when considering the new high-tech materials available today. If women ran the country, more research would be dedicated towards menstruation and its numerous side effects instead of towards penis erectile dysfunction, which only a small percentage of the male population suffers from. And, insurance companies would cover the Pill, not just Viagra.

Many women opt for the tampon, but, just as many women opt for the pad. Tampons run the risk of TSS (toxic shock syndrome), which can be fatal. Death being considered too high a price for convenience, many women stick with pads. Potential death, but comfort in dying, or living miserably with a mattress between your legs. Hardly an appealing choice.

I wonder if the pharmaceutical companies realize just how much money they would make if they came up with something better than the standard tampon/pad. After all, women are the ones who do all the shopping. And its a guaranteed permanent source of income. Having a comfortable discreet way of handling your period will never be just a passing fad.

The MUM museum has an interesting history of menstruation. Odd, funny, and well-researched, according to the New York Times. I personally found it a bit disorganized (they would really use a good webmaster), but I did find some interesting alternatives to pads and tampons. I personally will be sticking to the standard fare. Ventures in exotic menstrual "catchers" are not for me.

On a side note, one guess who "Pootie-Poot" is. He's Communist, and apparently has a very near and dear relationship with our very own darling President Bush.

Morell V, Primate genetics. Getting the poop on baboon DNA. Science, 1995. 267(5198): p. 615-6.

Apparently, what this woman did was go around collecting baboon poop. And wearing sunglasses. Baboons attack when you make eye contact with them, because its considered a sign of aggression. Its amazing that animals can conceptualize something as intangible as eye contact. They can tell the difference between looking over their heads to looking in their eyes. Squirrels are amazing like that. As long as you're not looking at them, they'll do their own thing right near you. But as soon as you glance at them.... even sideways through the corner of your eye, they know just like that (*snap*) and scamper off. Cute guys are like animals in that sense. As soon as you look at them, they know, and they catch you doing it too. So you have to look away really fast and pretend you weren't looking. But they know. And you know they're thinking "yeah baby, I'm hot stuff, that girl was checking me out."

Supermarket Style: Men vs. Women

[with my brother]
"Did you see that?"
"Oh my God, you noticed too? What was -wrong- with that baby?"
"No, I was talking about her boobs."

Joining the masses... for now.

I'm generally not a very big fan of quizzes. But, growing up on fairy tales and spending most of my teenage years reading trashy fantasy novels, I couldn't quite resist this one.

Which of the Disney Princesses are you?

Spider Sense

I watched Spiderman today. Although I'm normally a huge comic-movie fan (I loved XMen, even despite the fact that Anna Paquin was terribly cast as Rogue), Spiderman was too long in the romantic jibber jabber and too short in the psyche-behind-the-hero. He's reduced to a two-dimensional do-gooder who's also in love. Some of Mary Jane's love dialogue made me want to puke. And I couldn't help but giggle and snicker a bit at Peter Parker's own romantic soliloquy: "Looking into your eyes MJ, makes me feel strong, and weak all at once. It makes me feel excited." dear Lord, spare us. It's ironic, but movies, even with all the technology today, rarely do justice to comics and novels and other forms of the written word.

I watched a behind-the-scenes making of Star Wars also. Almost all of it is done on a green screen. No sets. And Yoda is no longer a puppet, but all CGI-animation. I feel like the romance of movie-making has gone down the drain. All the technology can't replace the 3-dimensional pseudo-realism of a set. And the actors can't convey as good of an ambience when all they see is a blue or green screen. I never thought I'd be saying this at my age, but I miss the good old days.

There are some new-fangled technology things that should never happen. Like the new Scooby Doo movie.

The Constellations

The house is filthy. With all the rains on the east coast, our laundry room is flooded. There are about 10 subletters living in the house with me, and right now, we're all furious at the regular tenants. They left us a nice legacy of dirty shorts and dirty dishes. Perhaps we'll leave them our own dirty legacy in the fall when they move back in. But right now, I just want a vacuum cleaner. And some Ajax. They didn't leave any of -that-.

I didn't sleep that well last night. I never sleep well in new places. As I tossed and turned on my bed 5 feet in the air, I stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and tried not to look at the hole in the wall beside my head. I tried to imagine that I was looking at the night sky... a night sky with fluorescent green stars, and wondered whether the I should consider all this living-hand-to-mouth experience an adventure where I would grow, or whether I should consider it a lesson well taught (See, this is what you'll have for the rest of your life if you don't work hard).

$185 per month!

I moved into my lovenest today. In West Philadelphia. Yes, the place that Will Smith left. So far, with the exception of two rather rude guys, the people I'm living with in the house seem pretty cool. But everyone seems pretty cool at first. Just look at Real World. My loft bed is pretty large, if you ignore the fact that I can only sit up on it if I tilt my head slightly to the side. Being on the third floor near the ceiling means that I'm going to have a sizzlin' summer. Being the poor college grad that I am, I'll have to suck it up. But with 10 people in the house, drama is sure to ensue.

I did some last minute shopping before moving out. Here are some observations:
-good looking men are made about 400% more attractive (if that's possible) when they're carrying around a baby.
-women check each other out in the dressing room
-i can't believe i splurge 8 dollars on chapstick every few months.
-i own way too many jeans.

I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toys-r-us kid.

I watched the live press conference with Allen Iverson on Thursday night. I'm a die hard Sixers fan and watching them lose to the Celtics was painful, but my God, AI has GOT to grow up. Coach Brown wasn't kidding when he said that AI's was "a young kid reaching out for help" ( Sportsline ). "Young kid" being the operative word. All his assertions that making a fuss over practice is silly and that its the game that counts creates a weird hybrid statement of false and true. It makes me wonder whether Iverson's ever played sports in high school where missing practice meant you wouldn't get to play in the next three games. It makes me wonder whether his current habits are a side-effect of overinflated ego at being the star of the Sixers. If you look at his shooting percentage, he's not too hot of a player. His high per-game score is directly proportional to the number of shots he takes. Its a travesty to waste talent like that without trying to capitalize on it.

Why don't I just wear a paper bag over my head?

[at work]
"What's that on your chin?"
"......A ZIT."
"Oh, I thought it was a piece of food."

The Word of the Day: merkin (courtesy of W.)

"You're a nut! You're crazy in the coconut!" - the Avalanches

Crazy.... that' s a big word. Its used to describe anything weird and unbelievable. But how is craziness really defined? As deviation from the norm. But how is the norm defined? That's the million dollar question of the day. How does one know that someone is truly mad? And not that they themselves are mad. I live in fear of becoming like my mother when I get older. Can one really defy the nature of genetics? Is madness heritable? Is my mother mad? Or is she sane and am I the mad one? I believe in the logic and reasoning of my own views. I cannot deny the opposition that same right.

Is it inevitable that all mothers become hysterical and emotional and crazy? I shudder to think of the fate that awaits me and all other women in that case. Will I even realize it if I am mad? Which brings the inevitable question. Do psychos realize that they're psycho? Or does the realization of one's own psychoses mean that one is NOT psycho because you are rational enough to see it.

I talked to my aunt about my mother and my fears. She reassured me. And she gave me some of the simplest and wisest advice I've had in a while. Take from your mother all her best traits and make the rest of everything yourself. Everytime I begin to think that life might be easier without my mother, if I just moved away... to a different planet... or somewhere without a phone, I can't help but also think of everything she's done for me. I cannot discount that. Our family is made of the stuff of Shakespearean plays and Greek tragedies. Except we don't know the ending. We are but "poor players, that strut and fret our hour upon the stage, and is heard no more."

"It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury.
Signifying nothing." -Macbeth

::email nine::