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Saturday, November 27, 2004
The 8W PerspectiveBy all accounts, when I was young, I was a star athlete. My soccer coaches knew this. They would put me on the bench, away from the action, to keep me fresh for when it really mattered. Which was always, it seems, the last five minutes into the game. I like to think that I was the cavalry; the last ditch hope; the closing speech to make certain our opponent's doom. My sister thought it was because I sucked. But we all know that she's a jealous and very bitter woman. You see, it's all about perspective. My sister's approach to sports is a peculiar one. Once, my parents took me to my sister's game and I was like, "Where's Melodie?" My dad, who had gotten there before us, answered with quiet pride, "Your sister is sitting on the field picking at little blades of grass and blowing them off her hand." So we all know where my sister's assessment that I sucked came from. Pure, ascertained jealousy. My approach to soccer, on the other hand, was to kick randomly at the air whenever the ball came into sight. This was great for cardiovascular exercise and I would end up kicking more shins than the ball. I think that's why my coach always placed me as a defenseman. Sometimes, the other kids would see me coming at them, leave the ball, and run towards the sidelines. This came in handy, because, last I checked, that's not how you score a goal. My job then, as my coach instructed me, was to either pass it to someone on my team, or kick the ball as far away as possible. I was to make sure the ball was not in my possession for longer than a second. I was also good at Tee-Ball, though I'll admit it wasn't for the batting, as I would strike out with surprising consistency. For those of you who don't know what Tee-Ball is, it's baseball but with no pitcher. The ball just sits on this giant tee, and you hit it. So, you ask, with the ball sitting on a tee, how did I manage to miss it throughout the duration of the entire game? When met with a question so tenacious, sometimes one can only answer with another question: It's hard, okay? My sister didn't think so. In the car, my sister laughed, "How do you miss something that doesn't even move? It's just, like, there." My loving mother came to my defense, "Melodie, don't make fun of your brother. It's not as easy as it looks. So many things go into hitting a ball correctly. First of all, you have to.. wind back.. and.. swing with.. lots of force.." This made me feel a lot better, as the idea that I was winding back to swing with lots of force excused me from ever needing to hit anything. But, still, I maintain that I was good at Tee-Ball. For one thing, I was a great fielder of the ball. I was so good that my coach, who had spoken with my soccer coach, would put me in deep outfield. An outfield so deep that I often found myself fishing by creeks surrounded by sylvan splendour. This is because I'm amazing at catching things. I was an asset to the team. For instance, if a ball happened to get that far away from the diamond, they needed someone to bring it back. That somebody was me (after I was done kicking it around). I guess that's my perspective: If all evidence points to the fact that I suck, it must mean that, somehow, I'm great. If you ask me, it's a good way to go through life. Sunday, November 21, 2004
Quick Thought Of The Day That's Too Big For The News Of The Day: (QTOTDTTBFTNOTD)I don't know what it is, man. I just shaved this morning and I come home, and I'm starting to get a shadow. Getting a shadow is cool if it takes up more than 0.002% of your face. You know if you're playing basketball and you suck? It's okay if you go play in a business suit and you suck, because obviously you're good at something else. Like tying your tie. But if you get on the court wearing a Lakers jersey, shimmer shorts, and Iversons, and you SUCK, you are an idiot. You know what I mean? You might as well just not try if you suck that much. That's the way my moustache should be. It should just not try. A for effort; D for dumb. Anyway, I've read a recent bio of mine that held a grave error: I have a Licentiate in Music, which is a performance diploma; I'm in no way Licentious in Music, which means something quite different, seeing that it would have to somehow incorporate the idea that I'm "lacking in moral discipline especially in sexual conduct". How this could translate over to my cello playing is anyone's guess; maybe my intonation is deviously wayward and outrageously perverted. And that dirty Paco stache doesn't help matters. Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Email of the Week:Adrian, I was over at your Media site and listening to your Freestyle Sundays (they rock). I was wondering, do you think fast or do you just talk fast? I guess talking so fast that no one hears anything you say is about the same as giving the illusion that you're actually saying something. I guess it comes in handy. Talking fast, I mean. Anyway, just dropping your a line. I'm from Nashville. Christopher, Tennesee (I think that's where Nashville is.) Christopher, thanks for dropping my A line, but I'm done with the skirts, so you can keep it. Anyway, hold that thought. Adobo called me the other day and left a message. In it, he complained that he doesn't understand why he has to listen to two messages, one from me, and the other from an automated lady, both of whom are telling him to leave a message after the tone. (Incidentally, an automated lady sounds like an ideal girlfriend. If your girlfriend was automated, you could just push buttons and she'd be like, "Would you like to talk about 1) cars, 2) rap, or 3) how great you are?") Anyway, I've noticed that voicemail messages are annoying, but I didn't know my own voicemail does it. The automated message goes something like, "At the tone, please record your message; when you are finished, you may hang up or press zero for more options. If you would like to leave a text message, press five. To review the fax number of the recipient, press seven. If your message is urgent, press four. If you are on fire, press eight. If it is less urgent than that, press three. If you think 'troubadour' is a word with Indo-European roots, press six. If you yourself are from Indo-European roots, press nine. If.." You know, something like that. First of all, I think by now people know that after the tone, they're supposed to leave a message, and that they can just hang up when they're done. I've dealt with answering machines since I was seven; I think after sixteen years, I'm getting the hang of it. I don't remember freaking out the first I encountered an answering machine, either. "Oh my gosh. I just heard a tone. What happened? I'm so confused. Someone tell me everything's going to be okay." Anyway, for someone who only has 400 daytime minutes a month, these automated messages are really annoying. I've decided it's a conspiracy schemed up by all the New York cellular phone services who gouge us everytime we go over our pre-paid minutes. To combat this, my messages generally last two seconds and consist of something that sounds almost like my name. So, in conclusion, Christopher, I agree: I guess it does come in handy. Talking fast, I mean. Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The Mailbag, ThreeSubject: None You better be joking that German is ugly. I can't believe your stupity and ignorence. I'm part German is why your lucky I odnt hunt you down. you suck and so do your pra. Name Withheld, Nowhere Wait. Subject: None "You better be joking that [the] German [language] is ugly. I can't believe your stupi[di]ty and Name Withheld, Nowhere Okay, that's better. I guess this means you won't be buying my CD? I looked PRA up. If by PRA you mean to insult my Plasma Renin Activity, I have to admit it's a good approach. I don't think anyone has ever dissed that part of me before. Subject: Hello!! Hahah I wonder what you're like in real life. What's it like to be your friend? Are you funny all the time? Let's be friends! haha "C'mon." Get it? MaYbe I'll get your roommate to say it Christina, Los Angeles What's it like to be my friend? You'd feel inferior, actually. Especially when I flex. Subject: Deep Are The Happy If you see the snowflakes off the hills You will see me soaring as falcon Whose claws dig deep in piranha ponds Great to know things go well for musicians That you do what you love And have fun The moment The magic What beauty and revelation await lovers of music No Name, Nowhere Anonymity and poetry: nothing is creepier. Dear No Name, Nowhere: I appreciate how you have no inhibitions and no barrier But after your email, snowflakes have never been scarier I don't know why you'd mention a falcon and a piranha But I'm more disconcerted by the lack of periods and commas In short, please don't write me emails with abstract poetry Because you're freaking me out, I'm serious, like, totally Hm. Maybe I should send this to Poetry.com. Subject: In Defense Dear 8W, In the one about buying pants, you said, "The clerk asked "Are you okay?" the same way one might when convinced of the irony in asking a homicidal sociopath whether or not he'd like a different style pocket." What's that supposed to mean?? Are you saying those that are struggling with deep psychological issues don't have a right to appropriate service? Carolyn, Chicago Are you looking out for someone? Or are you the But really, I have no qualms about selling new pants to someone who might kill me. I think it's just the irony of saying, "Why, yes, 'stress-free' means they are, uh, impervious to bloodstain" with little idea whose stress I'm referring to. Tuesday, November 02, 2004
I caught my roommate shaking his milk before pouring it on his cereal the other day. I heard of people shaking their orange juice, but their milk? Do people actually do that? He said, "Uh, yea. Why not?" Like he didn't see anything wrong with it. Well, I don't know how well "Why not?" works as a justification. It hardly makes an air-tight case for shaking your milk. For instance, I could howl like a monkey while doing the Running Man in the shower before shampooing my hair every night. And my guess is people would be asking me "Why?" before they're asking me "Why not?" So, the real question is "Why?" And since my roommate had a really, really strong argument, I'm assuming that he did not do it on purpose. The carton of milk looks deceptively alike with the Tropicana ones; I'm saying he just messed up and tried to shrug it off. Mess something like that up and I'll totally see you, man. If you live with me, you have to bring your A-game when you handle your milk. Sometimes you find yourself in a ridiculous situation and you decide to just wing it. Linda's done that before. One time, two years ago, we were sitting in the McGill Music Faculty cafeteria and I was eating a carrot. I said, "Isn't it weird? I heard some people get addicted to carrots. They eat so much of it their skin turns orange." And she was like, "Ew, gross." Linda was doing her theory assignment at the time, so I kept eating my carrot. Then, without looking up, she said, "Makes sense, though." There was a pause on my part. "What makes sense?" "You know. Eating carrots. Turning orange." "What? Why?? Because they're orange? Wait, I'm not saying it's not true, I'm saying that it doesn't make sense! It's weird! Would I turn green because I ate a truckload of peas?" She spluttered, "Well maybe!" I don't know. Sometimes, Linda says something and I don't know whether she's joking or if she's just fitting random words into sentence form. Maybe she was paying attention to what I was saying before, but caught in the grip of reason, she decided to just wing it. However, medically speaking, turning orange from too much beta carotene is documented, whereas the argument that we will naturally become whatever colour our food is strikes me as a difficult position to defend. Especially when you're Linda, and you have a special knack for driving completely realistic points in debate, consisting mainly of, "Well, have YOU eaten ONLY peas for.. FIFTY MILLION YEARS STRAIGHT?" Anyway, I think the only thing that makes me different is that I rarely leave room in my social gaffes for things like covering up. Like, I can't just say, "Why not?" A recent conservation with a reader who added me to MSN Messenger asked, "You seem like such a talker. I'm sure you get out of any problems without much difficulty." Being web savvy, I typed a very sarcastic 'lol' and told her of another conversation I had earlier with a friend of mine online. First of all, my friend is a girl, which means two things: She wants to remain nameless, and she is, ultimately, not fat. As guys, we already know that in conversation with a girl we are to avoid, at all costs, any talk about her weight. However, though it's taboo, girls are almost always the ones that bring it up. And this friend said something like, "Man, I cannot eat as much this winter. It took forever to work off the pounds by the time summer rolled around." I don't know whether I was doing something else or if I'm just the stupidest guy yet to be killed by swarms of angry (and, for the record, skinny) women, but I said, as I had seen her in the summer, "You weren't THAT fat." This should signify immediate doom to you. First of all, when it comes to girls, the word "fat" should never be preceded by "that". Telling a girl who lives on the same continent that she's not "that fat" is akin to being in a cage with hungry lions while wearing a sweater made entirely of steak. "That fat", afterall, means we are comparing her to something that is fatter. It complies with whatever image we have in our minds at the time. Now, to the girl, it doesn't matter that when you said 'You're not that fat', you had in mind something like checking your email. When girls hear 'that fat', they assume you're thinking of someone whose knees have disappeared from thigh bulge and needs to be forklifted from room to room. Capitalize "THAT", and the girl thinks you're picturing the time you saw a beached whale on the Discovery Channel and all these eskimos were cutting into its belly to get whale blubber -- described by one eskimo to have the consistency of 'really resilient mayonnaise'. (In digressing, I think the Discovery Channel exists so we can 'discover' that nothing they air goes nicely with anything we happen to be eating.) Anyway, what the girl is getting from you is the rough assessment that she is not as fat as a beached whale. And, though this is a perfectly valid and a true statement, girls, for some reason, want you to compare them to things smaller than, say, Macy's. So, the girl says, "DID YOU JUST SAY I'M FAT?!" As I said, my mistakes rarely afford me justification or routes of escape. I was thinking of blaming it on a Caps Lock malfunction, but it seemed like she was suffering one of her own. I suppose the good thing about MSN is that you can always sign off and the other will assume you got knocked off. But I decided to be honourable and say something honest; to admit my fault and apologize for it; abating her wrath through no sly means, but through persuasive integrity. 8W: I'm so sorry. You're not fat, but I accidentally just said you are. [Girl]: so if you accidentally said i'm fat, subconsciously, you think i'm fat! Not only did integrity go unnoticed, she was now pulling Freud on me. 8W: Okay. Fine. [Girl]: OKAY FINE?! 8W: I mean. I'm saying you're right: My subconscious is a big, fat jerk. [Girl]: YOU"RE THE BIG FAT JERK. I'm going to start shaking my milk so I get better at this. 
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