Tomorrow I'm going to the snow. When I tell people I'm going to the snow they say, What are you going to do there? Are you going to ski? No. Skis scare me. Snowboards even more so. Looks like a double-leg mangling waiting to happen. I'm not going to do anything. I'm just going to the snow.
Those who grow up around snow don't have a strong concept of snow tourism. I grew up where it was a hundred-and-ten degrees in the summer and seventy in the winter and my concept of snow tourism is sterling. For Inland Empire dwellers, going to the snow is a standard outing like going to the beach. Drive an hour, get someplace nicer. Just instead of fleeing for the more glamorous part of Southern California on the coast, it's fleeing for the more glamorous part in the mountains. (And if you don't find Arrowhead glamorous, you are not from Riverside County.)
The romance of snow will never be marred for me by the mundanities of shoveling, or long, icy melts, or yellowing by dogs. (Nor enhanced by the providential magic of a Snow Day, but still.) I find it so exciting to step on snow and handle snow and--thrill of thrills--be snowed upon. I get a kick out of just being very cold and needing cocoa. Zooming across great mountains of the stuff is probably better suited to people who readily accept water in its solid state.
Showing posts with label Love It or Not. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love It or Not. Show all posts
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, September 1, 2008
Best Month Ever
August 2008. What I would have said if I'd been here:
Resigned to network TV--no longer Think I Can Dance--but Josh wins!--next up: Olympic fever--okay, China, you can join the superpower club, just stop it; 2008 drummers scaring me--damn your handsome ass, Kobe! how does he look good in that sailor-silly outfit?--Morgan Freeman Visa ads make me cry--
finished dead last...but finished--why do I feel sorry for Michael Phelps? 10,000 calories a day has to be fun, right?--Sports: I don't get it--Alicia Sacramone is pretty!--(Is Nastia a bitch? You can tell me, Alicia.)--we all saw Mary Lou Retton cheering for chipper chipmunk Shawn--just sayin--do I hear crowing?
--I got soul, but I'm not a soldier--who will take gold in the Creepy Overbearing Olympic Dad event? Butch May or Valeri Liukin?--told you John Edwards is a weasel; it had to happen: Law of Couples says the guy can never look better--official: I hate James Joyce--two-peach-a-day habit
--if "American Boy" and "Calabria" take turns on the radio forever, fine with me--Wuh-wuh wuya rackamaron cuh-nuh-yuh-titon cutiton-yeah (like learning Hebrew songs, memorize sounds and understand nothing)--fever breaks: once Usain bolts, 
what else can there be?--fuck, I raised a rooster --"Winona" out-->two new chickies: welcome Betsy, bonjour Marianne!--first night in the coop, so you know it's Bay Area soul lullabyes; what scared pullet wouldn't be soothed by Keisha Cole and Goapele as performed by Cleb?--I used to think that I wasn't fine enough/And I used to think that I wasn't cheep-cheep wild enough cheeeep!--
Ximena, don't peck! shhh But I won't waste my time tryina figure out/Why you're playin games what's this all about cheep-cheep-cheep (this disgusts Crim)--hey, wouldn't it be cute to death if they had literal pussycats (kittens!) all in a chorus line singing When I grow up/I want to be famous--the convention is coming! cable is coming! unshackle me, Comcast!--it's Biden?! it's Biden!! 
more on this soon--well whaddya know, cable news still blows--you bloviate, I watch--no longer fine with me if "American Boy" and "Calabria" take turns on the radio--how much adulatory compensation for the presidency do the Clintons need?--welcome back, Barack--just a break, like I promised, not a breakup--overheard: I'm not gonna say WTF anymore. I'm just gonna say "Sarah Palin"--hurricane+convention=abominable PR-->God hates Republicans--THE END
Resigned to network TV--no longer Think I Can Dance--but Josh wins!--next up: Olympic fever--okay, China, you can join the superpower club, just stop it; 2008 drummers scaring me--damn your handsome ass, Kobe! how does he look good in that sailor-silly outfit?--Morgan Freeman Visa ads make me cry--
finished dead last...but finished--why do I feel sorry for Michael Phelps? 10,000 calories a day has to be fun, right?--Sports: I don't get it--Alicia Sacramone is pretty!--(Is Nastia a bitch? You can tell me, Alicia.)--we all saw Mary Lou Retton cheering for chipper chipmunk Shawn--just sayin--do I hear crowing?
--I got soul, but I'm not a soldier--who will take gold in the Creepy Overbearing Olympic Dad event? Butch May or Valeri Liukin?--told you John Edwards is a weasel; it had to happen: Law of Couples says the guy can never look better--official: I hate James Joyce--two-peach-a-day habit
--if "American Boy" and "Calabria" take turns on the radio forever, fine with me--Wuh-wuh wuya rackamaron cuh-nuh-yuh-titon cutiton-yeah (like learning Hebrew songs, memorize sounds and understand nothing)--fever breaks: once Usain bolts, what else can there be?--fuck, I raised a rooster --"Winona" out-->two new chickies: welcome Betsy, bonjour Marianne!--first night in the coop, so you know it's Bay Area soul lullabyes; what scared pullet wouldn't be soothed by Keisha Cole and Goapele as performed by Cleb?--I used to think that I wasn't fine enough/And I used to think that I wasn't cheep-cheep wild enough cheeeep!--
Ximena, don't peck! shhh But I won't waste my time tryina figure out/Why you're playin games what's this all about cheep-cheep-cheep (this disgusts Crim)--hey, wouldn't it be cute to death if they had literal pussycats (kittens!) all in a chorus line singing When I grow up/I want to be famous--the convention is coming! cable is coming! unshackle me, Comcast!--it's Biden?! it's Biden!! more on this soon--well whaddya know, cable news still blows--you bloviate, I watch--no longer fine with me if "American Boy" and "Calabria" take turns on the radio--how much adulatory compensation for the presidency do the Clintons need?--welcome back, Barack--just a break, like I promised, not a breakup--overheard: I'm not gonna say WTF anymore. I'm just gonna say "Sarah Palin"--hurricane+convention=abominable PR-->God hates Republicans--THE ENDFriday, July 18, 2008
Five Things That Are So Wrong, But I Like Them
5. Coffee
No redeeming value. It can't be good for health; in fact, it totally seems like the next commonplace habit that we just aren't yet aware is a death sentence. It doesn't, objectively, taste good. (Its tasting good to us surely stems from positive addict associations.) And what a damn waste of money, all those Peet's lattes. For shame, brokeass Clebbie. But, oh, how I love to carry them and coddle them and nurse them through the day as they get old and cold and I never mind.
4. Thinking Hot Girls Are Cool People
See Kardashian, Kim. I make this mistake every time.
3. Automated Exercise
While the virtuous sport, jog, bike and hike to their way to heaven, I tread toward eternal damnation. How invigorating and pure to enjoy the out of doors while exercising! But in practice the only way I get a decent workout is by plugging my body into enough mechanisms that the workout feels to be happening to me.
2. Driving
Wicked indeed!
1. Countdowny Lists
Why must all things be in a countdowny list format? Why so culturally obsessed with ranking and measuring? Can't two news stories be equally important, (Keith Olbermann)? Can't two celebrities be equally hot in divergent ways? Don't some white people like some things with different degrees of intensity than other white people like those same things? (Dogged refusal to link to that last.) I thought I hated countdowny lists. Having made one myself, apparently I don't.
No redeeming value. It can't be good for health; in fact, it totally seems like the next commonplace habit that we just aren't yet aware is a death sentence. It doesn't, objectively, taste good. (Its tasting good to us surely stems from positive addict associations.) And what a damn waste of money, all those Peet's lattes. For shame, brokeass Clebbie. But, oh, how I love to carry them and coddle them and nurse them through the day as they get old and cold and I never mind.
4. Thinking Hot Girls Are Cool People
See Kardashian, Kim. I make this mistake every time.
3. Automated Exercise
While the virtuous sport, jog, bike and hike to their way to heaven, I tread toward eternal damnation. How invigorating and pure to enjoy the out of doors while exercising! But in practice the only way I get a decent workout is by plugging my body into enough mechanisms that the workout feels to be happening to me.
2. Driving
Wicked indeed!
1. Countdowny Lists
Why must all things be in a countdowny list format? Why so culturally obsessed with ranking and measuring? Can't two news stories be equally important, (Keith Olbermann)? Can't two celebrities be equally hot in divergent ways? Don't some white people like some things with different degrees of intensity than other white people like those same things? (Dogged refusal to link to that last.) I thought I hated countdowny lists. Having made one myself, apparently I don't.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Love It
I consulted the spirit of Hennessy before posting this, because I thought maybe the plog should sit shiva a few more days. But she insisted that the show go on. She wouldn't have it any other way.
Barack Obama wore the most adorably dorky outfit when he hooped it up with the UNC college team Tuesday. Shirt tucked into tapery jogging pants. He's supposedly played lots of pickup ball on the South Side, so one has to surmise he can dress cooler. But it's a brilliant move. Now that he is hovering precipitously near the Too Black side of the race-o-meter, the worst thing he could have done was don a big white tee, shiny basketball shorts and some cool kicks.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I Like This
MANY SENSIBLE people would be pleased to move into a new home with a finished yard: crew-cut lawn, tidy perennials, perhaps a sturdy herb garden, all pre-drip irrigated.
I suppose so because that seems to be the way yards are prepped for the real estate market. But that sounds so paint-by-numbers. My fantasy yard is more like a barren plains: flat, empty, hideous, awaiting my hand.
A blog is a nice barren plains. You scatter seeds however. It's a blank canvas, amenable to whims.
So, I like it.
THERE IS one problem, however. "Blog" is an ugly word. It does not make me feel cute inside. I wish this innernet-based repository of serial commentary could be called something else.
You know how "carefully researched weblogs" are called "crogs"? I need something like that.
"Plog," for example. Now there's a sweet little word. "Brog" is cute, too. I don't know what I would retroactively declare that either stands for. Petty weblog? Pathetic little weblog? Badly researched weblog? Maybe something with a little less built-in self-loathing.
Ideas?
Note to readers: This marks my 100th post. (Hence the existential talk.) Happy Centpostial!
I suppose so because that seems to be the way yards are prepped for the real estate market. But that sounds so paint-by-numbers. My fantasy yard is more like a barren plains: flat, empty, hideous, awaiting my hand.
A blog is a nice barren plains. You scatter seeds however. It's a blank canvas, amenable to whims.
So, I like it.
THERE IS one problem, however. "Blog" is an ugly word. It does not make me feel cute inside. I wish this innernet-based repository of serial commentary could be called something else.
You know how "carefully researched weblogs" are called "crogs"? I need something like that.
"Plog," for example. Now there's a sweet little word. "Brog" is cute, too. I don't know what I would retroactively declare that either stands for. Petty weblog? Pathetic little weblog? Badly researched weblog? Maybe something with a little less built-in self-loathing.
Ideas?
Note to readers: This marks my 100th post. (Hence the existential talk.) Happy Centpostial!
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Lululemon Bag, Don't Preach
When a lululemon athletica opened on College Avenue, I judiciously planned to avoid it. Because, frankly, I don't approve. Three-packs of wifebeaters from SuperLongs make fine workout wear. But before long, I caved. Snuck in and bought the $80 Boogie Pant.
It turned out to be a sound investment. When my pain is bad, demand rises for pants that won't pinch but won't make me hate myself either. (That would be in contrast with jeans on the first hand and sweats on the second.) The so-called Boogie Pant is cute, too: superb butt containment.
The problem is the bag. The store supplies, with purchase, a real bag--something you can bring to the gym to match your new clothes and give them free advertising. I couldn't chuck such a sensible bag.
Which means I must encounter this bag daily--and face a barrage of unsolicited lululemon advice. Do one thing a day that scares you, the bag challenges when I wake up in a grim mood. Stress is related to 99% of all illness, the bag chides when my back is fucked the fuck up, causing my stress level to skyrocket. Friends are more important than money, the bag thoughtfully reminds me, and I suddenly feel lacking in both.
Who authorized this dispensation of life lessons from an athletic wear bag? One that was thrust upon me, that I didn't even have the free will to choose to acquire? And who is writing these gems? Do they employ a wisdom board, full of gurus and health experts? Or is it just some schmuck in corporate who thinks I should visualize my "eventual demise" and not trust that a pension will carry me through old age?
It turned out to be a sound investment. When my pain is bad, demand rises for pants that won't pinch but won't make me hate myself either. (That would be in contrast with jeans on the first hand and sweats on the second.) The so-called Boogie Pant is cute, too: superb butt containment.
The problem is the bag. The store supplies, with purchase, a real bag--something you can bring to the gym to match your new clothes and give them free advertising. I couldn't chuck such a sensible bag.
Which means I must encounter this bag daily--and face a barrage of unsolicited lululemon advice. Do one thing a day that scares you, the bag challenges when I wake up in a grim mood. Stress is related to 99% of all illness, the bag chides when my back is fucked the fuck up, causing my stress level to skyrocket. Friends are more important than money, the bag thoughtfully reminds me, and I suddenly feel lacking in both.
Who authorized this dispensation of life lessons from an athletic wear bag? One that was thrust upon me, that I didn't even have the free will to choose to acquire? And who is writing these gems? Do they employ a wisdom board, full of gurus and health experts? Or is it just some schmuck in corporate who thinks I should visualize my "eventual demise" and not trust that a pension will carry me through old age?
lululemon: The world is changing at such a rapid rate that waiting to implement changes will leave you two steps behind. DO IT NOW, DO IT NOW, DO IT NOW!
Cleb: AAAaaaaahhhh!!!
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