Take a trip with me, dear reader, into the depths of shame. The shame belongs to Fairview Medical Center, a string of ignorant health workers and our medical system in general.
Our story begins with my friend Nancy, not her real name, a Phd candidate from a developing Asian country studying some pretty involved sciences in Minneapolis-St. Paul.
Nancy got hurt. As much as she loved being outdoors and playing sports, her back hurt real, real bad. So she went to Fairview for treatment, and after a horrendous surgical experience in the hospital, she can barely move. So she's quitting her Phd program and returning home, which is a loss to Minnesota's academic community and a loss to all those Minnesotans and Americans who would benefit from the highly specialized knowledge Nancy brings to her field.
But don't take my word for it. Here's my friend Nancy, in her own words to me via chat the other day:
Message 1:
I was pretty depressed and discussing it with you does help me. To be honest with you, although my physical is getting better, my mentally stage is getting no where. The first day, I couldn't stand >1 min. On the second day, all I could do was 2 mins, then yesterday, it was 3 mins, and today, well... we'll see after I see the specialist this afternoon. It was horribly painful. I scream so loud in the ER because both local anesthesia and the injected pain killer didn't work well (they rushed the procedure b4 the pain killer took effects due to the limited number of rooms and beds for the next patient).
Message 2:
i'm
miss home so... much
especially after that traumatic event in the ER
makes me hate U.S.'s health care systems
i was waiting for a bed to be available for 2-3 hours
n was rush to get out off the room almost right after they finished cutting me
Message 3:
Friday ER was worse than average hospitals in (my home country, which is a developing country)
Fairview
sick, coughing people were laying down on the floor
only one Triad nurse to screen everyone, even though I had a referal
after screening I was wheelchaired back to wait again. no foods, no drinks because I couldn't walk
Message 4:
i had to ask a guy who came w his sick wife to find water for me
i was almost fainted since my first meal was 9 am.
i was dropped in front of the Triad (screening nurse) by Boynton, the U of M's clinic before 3 pm
Message 5:
I was screened at almost 4 pm
despite the fact that there was only one patient before me
the nurse were busy entering those required information into the Epic, fancy electronic medical record system, which i think it is a huge waste of time.
she had to focus more on the system instead of caring for patients
Message 6:
there were 5 patients after me before screening
after screening there were 10-12 people in the waiting area. many came alone just like me
waiting to be treated w no medical attention at all
there is a sign that the priority is for severe patients. although, it makes sense. patients who are waiting wouldn't be able to get in unless they pass out
because there is noone to check on them while they are waiting for screening
n this hospital claimed they are ranking #1 in many areas because they care
i don't think so
anyway, after screening (waiting for about an hour), despite the referral sheets from the nurse from the clinic who brought me and filled out a form for me, i had to wait for almost 2 hours for the bed/room to be available
Message 7:
i thought most people were more like me who had to come because most specialty clinics only work 8am-5pm M-F
my physician was not familiar w my case which i heard from my specialist later that he did his best by consulting the on-call specialist n w the resource he had
yet i consulted three specialists later n found out it was not the best treatment i could have
i'm ok w it now n understand my treatment options, partly because i'm a health professional myself, yet i can't imagine how terrify it would be for those w/o medical background
waiting in a crowed space to medical attention w coughing people laying down the floor
i meant waiting in a crowed space w/o medical attention next to coughing people laying down the floor
technology is supposed to help people work faster, not distancing and distracting providers from patients who deserved medical attention
U.S. health care systems invest so much on electronic medical records, but is this making it worse!!!
i was asked the many same questions more than three times for each, even though they were on my referral sheets.
n i have been their patient for years, went to the same ER twice since 2010. imagine how long would it take for the new patient w/o a company
in short, i think #1 worst was the understaffing to screen n taking care of patients while waiting, especially when they already know that each patient has to wait for at least a few hours
a few hours seem to be short for most people, but it was like forever for sick people
#2 worst is investing on objects (i.e., technology), but lack of realizing patients as a human/client/customer
#3 worst, the doctor has a very little to spend on each patient.
there were lots of nurses on the station that day, chatting, laughing, yet i was left alone in the room waiting forever
i really thiink some of those laughters should be out in the waiting room or helping out the one Triad/screening nurse to take care or deal w that Epic system
i heard some other patients said they may switch the insurance or hospital. they could have save their patients/customers if they have just one staff outside in the screen/waiting area
this was the third time I went to Fairview ER and it is getting worse every time, especially with the waiting time and process
i'd not go to Fairview if I have other options
please feel free to let me know if u need more info. i look forward to reading your blog.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Obama is to the right of Bush? So says Dr. Jill Stein, Green Party candidate
I'm halfway interested in seeing this new suspiciously-timed "documentary" called "2016: Obama's America," but I'm bracing for a lot of propaganda. We all know conservatives have their share of gripes with the president over problems he inherited from his predecessor -- 'hey, why isn't the economy perfect already?' -- but some of the titles the president gets called have no basis in reality. Socialist? Communist? Anti-gun? C'mon people, at least keep your criticisms in the realm of sane.
A few months ago, I got to meet Green Party presidential candidate Dr. Jill Stein, who hit the president from the left. She called Obama to the right of Bush in some respects. If I remember her criticisms correctly, here's a couple.
Anti-war liberals will note that more U.S. soldiers have died in Afghanistan in the past couple years than in all of the nine years before them combined. Obama's troop surge is a necessary evil, say some. The hardcore anti-war folks call it misguided, and whichever way you slice it, Obama has sent more troops into Afghanistan than Bush did (I think). Hey, Google it.
Gun control is not one of Obama's key priorities, despite all the silly rhetoric that came from Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachmann prior to the Obama election. They said Obama would take your guns away, and gun fans began stocking up on bullets. He hasn't touched guns, even after the shooting of Congresswoman Gabrielle Gifford in Tucson, but that hasn't quelled fears within the NRA.
Here's another way Obama has stood to the right of Bush: deportations. Yes, Obama recently made nice with Latinos by offering a kind of temporary amnesty to young people who were brought to the U.S. illegally as children, through no fault of their own. But before that, Obama had deported more immigrants in four years than Bush did in eight. Don't take my word for it. Google that shit.
I think there are other examples out there. I'm not praising or criticizing the president for any of the above decisions, but I would emphasize to conservatives -- stop painting the guy as an ultra-lefty. With important exceptions such as healthcare, he's been pretty darn conservative on some key issues.
A few months ago, I got to meet Green Party presidential candidate Dr. Jill Stein, who hit the president from the left. She called Obama to the right of Bush in some respects. If I remember her criticisms correctly, here's a couple.
Anti-war liberals will note that more U.S. soldiers have died in Afghanistan in the past couple years than in all of the nine years before them combined. Obama's troop surge is a necessary evil, say some. The hardcore anti-war folks call it misguided, and whichever way you slice it, Obama has sent more troops into Afghanistan than Bush did (I think). Hey, Google it.
Gun control is not one of Obama's key priorities, despite all the silly rhetoric that came from Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachmann prior to the Obama election. They said Obama would take your guns away, and gun fans began stocking up on bullets. He hasn't touched guns, even after the shooting of Congresswoman Gabrielle Gifford in Tucson, but that hasn't quelled fears within the NRA.
Here's another way Obama has stood to the right of Bush: deportations. Yes, Obama recently made nice with Latinos by offering a kind of temporary amnesty to young people who were brought to the U.S. illegally as children, through no fault of their own. But before that, Obama had deported more immigrants in four years than Bush did in eight. Don't take my word for it. Google that shit.
I think there are other examples out there. I'm not praising or criticizing the president for any of the above decisions, but I would emphasize to conservatives -- stop painting the guy as an ultra-lefty. With important exceptions such as healthcare, he's been pretty darn conservative on some key issues.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
White guy sees too much black violence, black guy sees too much black violence, but....
Someone contacted me today to share an article he found in a New York publication about racial double standards ... According to the article, some (white?) politician in Baltimore pointed out the level of violence in black neighborhoods and got clobbered as a racist in the media, while a black politician in Philadelphia went into a church and asked his black peers to "stop the violence" and got nothing but positive press for essentially pointing out the same troubling trends.
Okay. Touche. Double standard. Agreed. I'm not familiar with either of these examples, but the article made a convincing point that white folks have a tough time pointing out concerns they have about problems in minority communities, while minority leaders get a high-five for holding prayer groups to "stop the violence."
But there's more to the story.
Yes, there is a disproportionate amount of violence in certain ethnic neighborhoods, including North Minneapolis, which is predominantly black, and that's a problem that needs to be addressed. At one point, North Minneapolis was host to something akin to a third of the homicides in the city, if I remember my stats right. A troubling trend, indeed, and not identifying that as a problem does no one any good.
There does need to be some leadership that says, "What's going on with young black men between the ages of 16 and 32 in urban areas, and how do we reach them?" I've spoken to state demographics folks about the numbers and the correlations are scary.
You can predict the percentage of young white males who will die this year in drunken driving accidents, hunting accidents or by suicide. You can predict the numbers of older black males who will fall victim this year to diabetes, or younger males who will die because of street violence. You can predict the number of Native Americans who will die of obesity-related diseases or alcohol-related conditions. I'm a realist. Rather than not see a correlation between a racial group and a life threatening problem, why not talk about it, fix it, and move on?
However, I think some of the defensiveness in communities of color comes from the fact that when a crowd of white kids gets into a fight, or there's a school shooting perpetrated by a white kid, or there's white collar crime, no one writes a story saying "white kid freaks out in school library" or "a white man named Bernie Madoff embezzled millions of dollars." Then, he's just a kid, or an embezzler, and his race is pretty much ignored. Only one group gets called out by race when there's wrongdoing. The media should be consistent, no?
The other problem is, to hear people talk, you'd think that if you set foot in an ethnic neighborhood you'd be shot and killed on the spot, and nothing could be further from the truth. There's a reason Bill Clinton bought an office space in Harlem. I know a married couple of attorneys -- blonde and blue-eyed, the both of them -- who bought a nice place in Harlem and are raising kids there. I've enjoyed a nice breakfast in a Harlem diner. Is there crime at night? You betcha. And by day, it's a pretty funky neighborhood and worth a visit.
North Minneapolis, which I mentioned earlier, has a nice little YMCA or YWCA (I can't remember which) where my girlfriend plays in a soccer league. Lake Street in Minneapolis, another ethnic neighborhood, has a fun destination called Midtown Global Market where plenty of upper middle class white folks go for brunch and jazz and chess. But to hear suburban folks talk, even some of my coworkers who live in St. Paul, their reaction is: "I have an appointment on Lake Street next week. Will I be safe? I've never been..."
Okay. Touche. Double standard. Agreed. I'm not familiar with either of these examples, but the article made a convincing point that white folks have a tough time pointing out concerns they have about problems in minority communities, while minority leaders get a high-five for holding prayer groups to "stop the violence."
But there's more to the story.
Yes, there is a disproportionate amount of violence in certain ethnic neighborhoods, including North Minneapolis, which is predominantly black, and that's a problem that needs to be addressed. At one point, North Minneapolis was host to something akin to a third of the homicides in the city, if I remember my stats right. A troubling trend, indeed, and not identifying that as a problem does no one any good.
There does need to be some leadership that says, "What's going on with young black men between the ages of 16 and 32 in urban areas, and how do we reach them?" I've spoken to state demographics folks about the numbers and the correlations are scary.
You can predict the percentage of young white males who will die this year in drunken driving accidents, hunting accidents or by suicide. You can predict the numbers of older black males who will fall victim this year to diabetes, or younger males who will die because of street violence. You can predict the number of Native Americans who will die of obesity-related diseases or alcohol-related conditions. I'm a realist. Rather than not see a correlation between a racial group and a life threatening problem, why not talk about it, fix it, and move on?
However, I think some of the defensiveness in communities of color comes from the fact that when a crowd of white kids gets into a fight, or there's a school shooting perpetrated by a white kid, or there's white collar crime, no one writes a story saying "white kid freaks out in school library" or "a white man named Bernie Madoff embezzled millions of dollars." Then, he's just a kid, or an embezzler, and his race is pretty much ignored. Only one group gets called out by race when there's wrongdoing. The media should be consistent, no?
The other problem is, to hear people talk, you'd think that if you set foot in an ethnic neighborhood you'd be shot and killed on the spot, and nothing could be further from the truth. There's a reason Bill Clinton bought an office space in Harlem. I know a married couple of attorneys -- blonde and blue-eyed, the both of them -- who bought a nice place in Harlem and are raising kids there. I've enjoyed a nice breakfast in a Harlem diner. Is there crime at night? You betcha. And by day, it's a pretty funky neighborhood and worth a visit.
North Minneapolis, which I mentioned earlier, has a nice little YMCA or YWCA (I can't remember which) where my girlfriend plays in a soccer league. Lake Street in Minneapolis, another ethnic neighborhood, has a fun destination called Midtown Global Market where plenty of upper middle class white folks go for brunch and jazz and chess. But to hear suburban folks talk, even some of my coworkers who live in St. Paul, their reaction is: "I have an appointment on Lake Street next week. Will I be safe? I've never been..."
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Pontypool -- Canadians revisit "The Crazies" a la Orson Welles
There's a whole genre of books and movies involving small town, everyday folks becoming infected with a disease that causes everyone but a handful of main characters to turn homicidal.
Often, these are zombie movies, but I think flicks such as 'The Crazies,' 'Tommyknockers' and 'Children of the Corn' also fit the bill. In the apocalypse, your worst enemy is the milkman... You've seen the drill: Farmer Bob's otherwise sweetnatured, grandmotherly wife decapitates him with hedge clippers, the good folks from American Gothic turn on each other and chase each other down the street with their pitchforks, the postman or Girl Scout cookie sales girl runs into the house to gnaw at your arm. Americana becomes an inverted caricature of itself. Creepy, no?
Well, about nine nights ago, seeking emotional refuge from a fight with my significant other, I lost myself in "Pontypool," an unusual Canadian film that found an interesting twist on the 'Homicide has gone viral' genre. The New York Times review is here. Almost all of the action aside from the opening scenes takes place inside of a small town's 3-man talk radio studio. You rarely see the infected townspeople.
Mostly, the radio station workers (a grizzled shock-jock style talk radio host, his exasperated female producer, and a young studio girl on the controls) just get reports from callers and their eye-in-the-sky news helicopter guy, who of course makes the mistake of landing the chopper at some point and hiding out in a silo. His panicky descriptions of the insanity he's witnessing are all phoned in.
There's a ton of death, but the audience sees only two fatalities throughout the entire flick. All the rest is called or radioed in and recounted, so you have to picture the killing for yourself.
Well, I liked this movie, but I could see how someone else would get bored stiff. Here's a spoiler: the way the infection gets transmitted... do you really want to keep reading? Are u sureeeee?? Well, ok then...is words. Certain words are infected, but the infection seems to bounce from word to word. So the same word isn't necessarily infected for everyone. At least, I think that's how it works.
Someone says 'everyone is being killed!' And suddenly they're repeating the word killed over and over until they're crazy, and then bloodthirsty. How the infection works and how it gets cured aren't really fully fleshed out, which left me unsatisified but resigned... the characters never fully comprehend what's going on, so why should the audience?
The New York Times review makes accurate note of the pretension here (We're telling you something deep about language and media and... aw, no we're not. Bring on the zombies!) and picks up on the whole Orson Welles, 'War of the Worlds' parallel.
Orson drove half of America nuts when he delivered War of the Worlds via radio half a century ago; people were so naive and fresh to media back then, they figured the alien invasion he was documenting must be true! Anyhow, I was mostly impressed that 'Pontypool' could keep me interested while telling rather than showing, and left my ears to translate pictures of this infected town to my head. It also helped me cool-down after my to-do with my girlfriend. I'd suggest it to fans of the 'small town turns crazy' genre, but not to everyone.
Your scary movie fan signing out!
Often, these are zombie movies, but I think flicks such as 'The Crazies,' 'Tommyknockers' and 'Children of the Corn' also fit the bill. In the apocalypse, your worst enemy is the milkman... You've seen the drill: Farmer Bob's otherwise sweetnatured, grandmotherly wife decapitates him with hedge clippers, the good folks from American Gothic turn on each other and chase each other down the street with their pitchforks, the postman or Girl Scout cookie sales girl runs into the house to gnaw at your arm. Americana becomes an inverted caricature of itself. Creepy, no?
Well, about nine nights ago, seeking emotional refuge from a fight with my significant other, I lost myself in "Pontypool," an unusual Canadian film that found an interesting twist on the 'Homicide has gone viral' genre. The New York Times review is here. Almost all of the action aside from the opening scenes takes place inside of a small town's 3-man talk radio studio. You rarely see the infected townspeople.
Mostly, the radio station workers (a grizzled shock-jock style talk radio host, his exasperated female producer, and a young studio girl on the controls) just get reports from callers and their eye-in-the-sky news helicopter guy, who of course makes the mistake of landing the chopper at some point and hiding out in a silo. His panicky descriptions of the insanity he's witnessing are all phoned in.
There's a ton of death, but the audience sees only two fatalities throughout the entire flick. All the rest is called or radioed in and recounted, so you have to picture the killing for yourself.
Well, I liked this movie, but I could see how someone else would get bored stiff. Here's a spoiler: the way the infection gets transmitted... do you really want to keep reading? Are u sureeeee?? Well, ok then...is words. Certain words are infected, but the infection seems to bounce from word to word. So the same word isn't necessarily infected for everyone. At least, I think that's how it works.
Someone says 'everyone is being killed!' And suddenly they're repeating the word killed over and over until they're crazy, and then bloodthirsty. How the infection works and how it gets cured aren't really fully fleshed out, which left me unsatisified but resigned... the characters never fully comprehend what's going on, so why should the audience?
The New York Times review makes accurate note of the pretension here (We're telling you something deep about language and media and... aw, no we're not. Bring on the zombies!) and picks up on the whole Orson Welles, 'War of the Worlds' parallel.
Orson drove half of America nuts when he delivered War of the Worlds via radio half a century ago; people were so naive and fresh to media back then, they figured the alien invasion he was documenting must be true! Anyhow, I was mostly impressed that 'Pontypool' could keep me interested while telling rather than showing, and left my ears to translate pictures of this infected town to my head. It also helped me cool-down after my to-do with my girlfriend. I'd suggest it to fans of the 'small town turns crazy' genre, but not to everyone.
Your scary movie fan signing out!
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Wall Street Journal reporter's mom loves the Olive Garden
This story is great ... an 85-year-old grandma has been "reviewing" restaurants for the Grand Forks Herald in North Dakota, including such gems as Applebees, Taco Bell and KFC. The other day, she wrote a glowing review of what she called the largest, most beautiful new restaurant in town: the Olive Garden.
It turns out Marilyn Hagerty had one bowl of pasta and a glass of water, declining the lemonade. Her review is like a play-by-play of her lunch outing.
It's also "gone viral," generating some 290,000 hits on the paper's website. (The next most well-read story on the site drew 5,000 or so hits.) Predictably, some blogs and haters are taking her to town for writing about the mundane eatery down the street in anything but their own snarky, condescending fashion.
Let the haters hate. I'm all for grandma, for lots of different reasons. It turns out she's the widow of the former newspaper editor, and the mother of a Wall Street Journal reporter. She didn't raise no slouch.
She's also been doing this for years -- critiquing local eateries that a frugal, 85-year-old woman might actually enjoy, as opposed to some bullshit haute cuisine that no one but a 1-percenter could actually afford during a recession. And when I say years, I mean she's been with the paper six decades, according to this AP piece, which is the most thorough and best-written of all the coverage I've seen of her Olive Garden expose online.
But there's another reason for me to love Grandma Hagerty. While young folks are flocking online, it's the 40-and-older crowd (if not the 70-and-older crowd) that is keeping print circulation afloat. And print subsidizes online coverage alot more than online subsidizes print, at least for now. (Old folks, to my knowledge, are the fastest growing section of the American population. Let's hope they all get newspaper subscriptions, fast, or print is a goner.)
In other words, her loyal following of frugal, octogenarian, Taco Bell-eating print readers provides the salary for the more skeptical, critical-thinking, self-fashioned "elite" reporters digging through public documents for their next big scoop.
You StateHouse reporters and public events bloggers think you're where the action is, but your front page or local section "expose" is just the accident these readers trip across on their way to her restaurant 'reviews.' (I put 'reviews' in quote marks because she admits that if she doesn't like a restaurant, she doesn't write anything. Good old grandma!)
Newspapers, in the past 10 years, have adopted the mantra "local-local" to describe their eagerness to corner a market the New York Times and Wall Street Journal can't, which involves printing hyper-local news, like what's on the school lunch menu.
The problem is, it doesn't work. There's no room in the shrinking print edition of your daily newspaper to report on every old pothole, every new park bench and every change to the school lunch menu in your entire coverage area, and there's fewer bodies in the newsroom to pull that mundane crap together. It seems hardly worth the effort, especially if you're at a statewide paper known for its investigative work, like the Star Tribune, which does "local-local" worse than any paper I've ever seen.
But newspaper readers are typically older propertyowners with kids who want to know about things that will impact their property values, tie up traffic, inspire them to switch school districts or otherwise waste their tax dollars. So if a McDonalds is opening up down the street and traffic is going to be a bear, they want to know that. If that McDonalds is super sketchy and the kids behind the counter pick their nose and pocket your change, they want to know that, too.
Weekly newspapers tend to do this kind of coverage quite well. They're at the Planning Commission meetings and leafing through the business license requests and the zoning variances -- the kind of stuff the big boy newspapers often can't be bothered with.
How can print dailies compete with the weeklies without looking picayunne? They can contract community voices like Grandma Hagerty to do that kind of pothole coverage reporting for them -- "Mcdonalds has opened up downtown! What's the deal with all the broken parking meters? That new playground is perfect for my grandkids!" -- which would allow their core staff to focus on the bigger stories.
That's just my two cents.
It turns out Marilyn Hagerty had one bowl of pasta and a glass of water, declining the lemonade. Her review is like a play-by-play of her lunch outing.
It's also "gone viral," generating some 290,000 hits on the paper's website. (The next most well-read story on the site drew 5,000 or so hits.) Predictably, some blogs and haters are taking her to town for writing about the mundane eatery down the street in anything but their own snarky, condescending fashion.
Let the haters hate. I'm all for grandma, for lots of different reasons. It turns out she's the widow of the former newspaper editor, and the mother of a Wall Street Journal reporter. She didn't raise no slouch.
She's also been doing this for years -- critiquing local eateries that a frugal, 85-year-old woman might actually enjoy, as opposed to some bullshit haute cuisine that no one but a 1-percenter could actually afford during a recession. And when I say years, I mean she's been with the paper six decades, according to this AP piece, which is the most thorough and best-written of all the coverage I've seen of her Olive Garden expose online.
But there's another reason for me to love Grandma Hagerty. While young folks are flocking online, it's the 40-and-older crowd (if not the 70-and-older crowd) that is keeping print circulation afloat. And print subsidizes online coverage alot more than online subsidizes print, at least for now. (Old folks, to my knowledge, are the fastest growing section of the American population. Let's hope they all get newspaper subscriptions, fast, or print is a goner.)
In other words, her loyal following of frugal, octogenarian, Taco Bell-eating print readers provides the salary for the more skeptical, critical-thinking, self-fashioned "elite" reporters digging through public documents for their next big scoop.
You StateHouse reporters and public events bloggers think you're where the action is, but your front page or local section "expose" is just the accident these readers trip across on their way to her restaurant 'reviews.' (I put 'reviews' in quote marks because she admits that if she doesn't like a restaurant, she doesn't write anything. Good old grandma!)
Newspapers, in the past 10 years, have adopted the mantra "local-local" to describe their eagerness to corner a market the New York Times and Wall Street Journal can't, which involves printing hyper-local news, like what's on the school lunch menu.
The problem is, it doesn't work. There's no room in the shrinking print edition of your daily newspaper to report on every old pothole, every new park bench and every change to the school lunch menu in your entire coverage area, and there's fewer bodies in the newsroom to pull that mundane crap together. It seems hardly worth the effort, especially if you're at a statewide paper known for its investigative work, like the Star Tribune, which does "local-local" worse than any paper I've ever seen.
But newspaper readers are typically older propertyowners with kids who want to know about things that will impact their property values, tie up traffic, inspire them to switch school districts or otherwise waste their tax dollars. So if a McDonalds is opening up down the street and traffic is going to be a bear, they want to know that. If that McDonalds is super sketchy and the kids behind the counter pick their nose and pocket your change, they want to know that, too.
Weekly newspapers tend to do this kind of coverage quite well. They're at the Planning Commission meetings and leafing through the business license requests and the zoning variances -- the kind of stuff the big boy newspapers often can't be bothered with.
How can print dailies compete with the weeklies without looking picayunne? They can contract community voices like Grandma Hagerty to do that kind of pothole coverage reporting for them -- "Mcdonalds has opened up downtown! What's the deal with all the broken parking meters? That new playground is perfect for my grandkids!" -- which would allow their core staff to focus on the bigger stories.
That's just my two cents.
Monday, February 27, 2012
West Side Story and 'When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's going to know who's the one?'
I finally watched the video for the New Orleans duo the Knux ... "Bang! Bang!" ... which is a lot 'cleaner' than the version of the song I'm used to, but worth watching all the same, especially if you're a fan of West Side Story.
Here's the video.
I remember buying this album a couple of years ago and thinking "Bang, Bang!" the one song I was familiar with, was the only song I really enjoyed, but I have to give the album a better listen. This song, in my humble opinion, is spectacular, even though I can only make sense of every third sentence or so.
The gist of it, from what I can tell, is that this rock-rap duo are remembering their mispent youth, as every rapper from JayZ to Pit Bull to Fifty Cent tends to do, and kind of poking fun at all the tough-guy bullshit they had to put up with in the 'hood, and some of the shenanigans they dealt out themselves, like "jackin' them cars."
They go on to say they "flipped the script" on the gangster lifestyle and found a higher calling, despite their poverty:
"I don't wan' sound like a hypocrite, but momma raised me for greatness,
but we broke as fuck and hope is stuck and New Orleans defines the cage"
Here's another one of my favorite lines:
"Where they mommas at, where they mommas at? Nobody knows, nobody cares. To claim your hard, come go through the ward,come fuck with them,when nobody dares."
Given the subject matter, West Side Story was an inspired choice for the video, and the execution was spot on.
Here's the fully lyrics courtesy of Metro Lyrics, though I doubt whoever transcribed this understood each and every word verbatim:
When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one? No, nobody knows.When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one? No, nobody knows.
Takin' it back to 94, when niggas was dealin' the finest soul,
Crack the hit then fucked it up, and baby gangstas was full of they cluck.
Pluck the feathers up off the duck, you stuck like chuck if carried the banter
Pistol player knuckled up, then better to telling the children to scatter
Everyone knows don't fuck with them ho's drinking with keisha from out they yo
Full of that clearly pop a silly when niggas first heard the choppers city
And I was a dancin' b-boy who resorted to slinging them heat boys
And jackin' them cars, mackin' them broads, sadistic shit, then flipped the script.
I don't wan' sound like a hypocrite, but momma raised me for greatness,
but we broke as fuck and hope is stuck and New Orleans defines the cage hits
The animal house like getting out like takin' food from a animals mouth,roar roar like the dungeon dragon, takin' it back to the cannibals house
When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one? No, no nobody knows. When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one?
No, no nobody knows.
I'm from a place you couldn't imagine, beautiful women some Creole with ass
Them niggas are hazards, we bitchin' they crabbin', and changin lanes like benjamin massing
From 10 to 12 they thinkin' it's cool, something awful when they aint in the mood.
Don't get 'em bent, fuck that innocence, cause in a sense they film as you.
Where they mommas at, where they mommas at? Nobody knows, nobody cares. To claim your hard, come go through the ward,come fuck with them,when nobody dares
Your job, yes, ya ho-jocker, put that pop on you like Redenbacher
The things they say, the slang they use, catching kung fu while they bangin' the tools.
When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know the one? No, nobody knows.When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know the one? No, nobody knows.
Even when it's cold outside 'round here. It's a 100 degrees, I keep the heat around here.It's when you least expect it, people creep up from the rear,it's racking my brain cannot contain my fear.
'Cause even when it's cold outside 'round here. It's a 100 degrees, I keep the heat around here.It's when you least expect it, people creep up from the rear,it's racking my brain cannot contain my fear.
Copied from MetroLyrics.com
Here's the video.
I remember buying this album a couple of years ago and thinking "Bang, Bang!" the one song I was familiar with, was the only song I really enjoyed, but I have to give the album a better listen. This song, in my humble opinion, is spectacular, even though I can only make sense of every third sentence or so.
The gist of it, from what I can tell, is that this rock-rap duo are remembering their mispent youth, as every rapper from JayZ to Pit Bull to Fifty Cent tends to do, and kind of poking fun at all the tough-guy bullshit they had to put up with in the 'hood, and some of the shenanigans they dealt out themselves, like "jackin' them cars."
They go on to say they "flipped the script" on the gangster lifestyle and found a higher calling, despite their poverty:
"I don't wan' sound like a hypocrite, but momma raised me for greatness,
but we broke as fuck and hope is stuck and New Orleans defines the cage"
Here's another one of my favorite lines:
"Where they mommas at, where they mommas at? Nobody knows, nobody cares. To claim your hard, come go through the ward,come fuck with them,when nobody dares."
Given the subject matter, West Side Story was an inspired choice for the video, and the execution was spot on.
Here's the fully lyrics courtesy of Metro Lyrics, though I doubt whoever transcribed this understood each and every word verbatim:
When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one? No, nobody knows.When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one? No, nobody knows.
Takin' it back to 94, when niggas was dealin' the finest soul,
Crack the hit then fucked it up, and baby gangstas was full of they cluck.
Pluck the feathers up off the duck, you stuck like chuck if carried the banter
Pistol player knuckled up, then better to telling the children to scatter
Everyone knows don't fuck with them ho's drinking with keisha from out they yo
Full of that clearly pop a silly when niggas first heard the choppers city
And I was a dancin' b-boy who resorted to slinging them heat boys
And jackin' them cars, mackin' them broads, sadistic shit, then flipped the script.
I don't wan' sound like a hypocrite, but momma raised me for greatness,
but we broke as fuck and hope is stuck and New Orleans defines the cage hits
The animal house like getting out like takin' food from a animals mouth,roar roar like the dungeon dragon, takin' it back to the cannibals house
When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one? No, no nobody knows. When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know who's the one?
No, no nobody knows.
I'm from a place you couldn't imagine, beautiful women some Creole with ass
Them niggas are hazards, we bitchin' they crabbin', and changin lanes like benjamin massing
From 10 to 12 they thinkin' it's cool, something awful when they aint in the mood.
Don't get 'em bent, fuck that innocence, cause in a sense they film as you.
Where they mommas at, where they mommas at? Nobody knows, nobody cares. To claim your hard, come go through the ward,come fuck with them,when nobody dares
Your job, yes, ya ho-jocker, put that pop on you like Redenbacher
The things they say, the slang they use, catching kung fu while they bangin' the tools.
When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know the one? No, nobody knows.When the gun goes bang bang bang, who's gonna know the one? No, nobody knows.
Even when it's cold outside 'round here. It's a 100 degrees, I keep the heat around here.It's when you least expect it, people creep up from the rear,it's racking my brain cannot contain my fear.
'Cause even when it's cold outside 'round here. It's a 100 degrees, I keep the heat around here.It's when you least expect it, people creep up from the rear,it's racking my brain cannot contain my fear.
Copied from MetroLyrics.com
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Actresses I could do without / Demi Moore's half-brother beats woman in head with telephone book
This just in from the U.K.'s Daily Mail: Demi Moore's half-brother is a Texas lunatic who once used a telephone book to beat his fiancee in the head for an hour.
Don't take my word for it. The story is here.
He's serving a 10 year jail sentence. Yikes.
The article says it's unclear how close he is to Demi Moore, even though they share the same father. It's not difficult to drop your seed left and right, so "half-brother" can mean anything ... a product of a one-night stand, for instance. But part of me isn't surprised that her blood relative is a yucky yuckster.
Demi Moore is toward the top of the list of celebrity females I could do without. You know you have your own list going -- people who are famous and celebrated for their beauty that just leave you cold. Like, "She's famous?? Why??"
She's all skeleton bones and angular jaw and her characters are always pissy and manly and conniving and bitchy. Demi Moore as G.I. Jane, a female Marine, tougher than the tough guys... Demi Moore as a corporate executive, tougher than the tough guys... That's not attractive to me, sorry.
My list would include Demi Moore, Kirsten Dunst, and Snoop Dogg. Snoop is not an actress but I dislike him so much I'm going to put him on my list anyway. The guy looks like something sleazy that just crawled out of jail. When people say, "Our young men have no rolemodels except the negative ones they find in rap music," I envision Snoop as the person they are talking about. And I kinda like rap (not all of it, but some of it.).
What actresses would be on your list of celebrity women who really shouldn't be celebrities? My girlfriend just said "Jennifer Aniston." I think Aniston is severely over-rated (sexiest woman alive? no way) but still kind of cute and well-meaning while being boring. She plays the same character over and over but so do most celebrities, so I forgive her. She is not on my list. I'm sure she's relieved.
Don't take my word for it. The story is here.
He's serving a 10 year jail sentence. Yikes.
The article says it's unclear how close he is to Demi Moore, even though they share the same father. It's not difficult to drop your seed left and right, so "half-brother" can mean anything ... a product of a one-night stand, for instance. But part of me isn't surprised that her blood relative is a yucky yuckster.
Demi Moore is toward the top of the list of celebrity females I could do without. You know you have your own list going -- people who are famous and celebrated for their beauty that just leave you cold. Like, "She's famous?? Why??"
She's all skeleton bones and angular jaw and her characters are always pissy and manly and conniving and bitchy. Demi Moore as G.I. Jane, a female Marine, tougher than the tough guys... Demi Moore as a corporate executive, tougher than the tough guys... That's not attractive to me, sorry.
My list would include Demi Moore, Kirsten Dunst, and Snoop Dogg. Snoop is not an actress but I dislike him so much I'm going to put him on my list anyway. The guy looks like something sleazy that just crawled out of jail. When people say, "Our young men have no rolemodels except the negative ones they find in rap music," I envision Snoop as the person they are talking about. And I kinda like rap (not all of it, but some of it.).
What actresses would be on your list of celebrity women who really shouldn't be celebrities? My girlfriend just said "Jennifer Aniston." I think Aniston is severely over-rated (sexiest woman alive? no way) but still kind of cute and well-meaning while being boring. She plays the same character over and over but so do most celebrities, so I forgive her. She is not on my list. I'm sure she's relieved.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
I should revive this thing
I should revive this blog, though it's been a good 10 months or so since I've updated it. I think I was always self-conscious that something I wrote here would be traced back to me, held against me, considering the work I do. Maybe that's over-rating my importaance in the world, but whatever. I've seen "objective" reporters and media types challenged for political stances attributed to them based on little things in their work or personal lives ... a bumper sticker left on an editor's desk becomes supposed proof in a rival community newspaper's column that the editor is a supporter of that candidate in a close election, etc. etc. People will use anything to get you off a certain beat or a certain avenue of investigation when they feel you're upsetting their apple cart and undermining their agenda.
It's late, I am watching a film before bed, but a few tidbits before I nod off. There was a column in Time Magazine about race and happiness... they've been polling people of different races for decades to see who is happiest. Whites are still happier than blacks, but the distance between the two has never been so small. Black women showed the greatest gains in happiness, I guess because of economic and social independence, no longer needing a man to move ahead in the world, something like that. White women showed the biggest drop, I do believe. I'm not surprised. They can be a pretty miserable, petty bunch, all those white female perfectionists out there hovering like helicopters over their children and bursting into tears if dinner isn't perfect. Control freak Type A = Type Bitch in my book. But I'm supposedly an asshole by some standards, so whatever.
Young black men stayed flat. The column said one in three young black men faced incarceration, or something like that, so no wonder happiness doesn't improve for said group. That's sad. Pathetic, too. But mostly sad.
Okay, I'm done criticizing white women and black men. Here's my other rant so I can offend everyone equally.
Ok, I was of the "support the troops -- bring 'em home!" camp for a long time. These wars haven't accomplished much and everyone knows, as soon as we exit IrAQ and Afghanistan, both countries are going to go five ways to hell in a damn handbasket. But lookee here... why would someone sign up for the military now, knowing full well based on media coverage that if you deploy today you're probably going to shoot up some jeep full of a family of civilians, women, kids, maybe infants, as it's desperately trying to pass your Humvee?
I keep reading the same story over and over. "We ordered the jeep to stop. They wouldn't stop. We fired a warning shot. They kept coming. We opened fire. The jeep flipped. When we went to investigate, we found a dead man and wife, their two dead kids, and a dead baby."
It's like clockwork. I've read the same account from so many different soldiers - the one that appeared today was in City Pages, some guy returning from war traumatized. His marriage fell apart, he flipped out at a convenience store, yadda yadda...
I'm sympathetic... to a point. But I'm growing less so. I mean, look here: Knowing that you will quite likely end up shooting innocent people, why would you still sign up for that job? It makes no sense. Absolutely no sense.
I know I haven't fought overseas (I'm too ADHD to go over there, even as a reporter, I fear). But I did lose a friend in Afghanistan. His take on the wars was: this sucks. And it does.
It's late, I am watching a film before bed, but a few tidbits before I nod off. There was a column in Time Magazine about race and happiness... they've been polling people of different races for decades to see who is happiest. Whites are still happier than blacks, but the distance between the two has never been so small. Black women showed the greatest gains in happiness, I guess because of economic and social independence, no longer needing a man to move ahead in the world, something like that. White women showed the biggest drop, I do believe. I'm not surprised. They can be a pretty miserable, petty bunch, all those white female perfectionists out there hovering like helicopters over their children and bursting into tears if dinner isn't perfect. Control freak Type A = Type Bitch in my book. But I'm supposedly an asshole by some standards, so whatever.
Young black men stayed flat. The column said one in three young black men faced incarceration, or something like that, so no wonder happiness doesn't improve for said group. That's sad. Pathetic, too. But mostly sad.
Okay, I'm done criticizing white women and black men. Here's my other rant so I can offend everyone equally.
Ok, I was of the "support the troops -- bring 'em home!" camp for a long time. These wars haven't accomplished much and everyone knows, as soon as we exit IrAQ and Afghanistan, both countries are going to go five ways to hell in a damn handbasket. But lookee here... why would someone sign up for the military now, knowing full well based on media coverage that if you deploy today you're probably going to shoot up some jeep full of a family of civilians, women, kids, maybe infants, as it's desperately trying to pass your Humvee?
I keep reading the same story over and over. "We ordered the jeep to stop. They wouldn't stop. We fired a warning shot. They kept coming. We opened fire. The jeep flipped. When we went to investigate, we found a dead man and wife, their two dead kids, and a dead baby."
It's like clockwork. I've read the same account from so many different soldiers - the one that appeared today was in City Pages, some guy returning from war traumatized. His marriage fell apart, he flipped out at a convenience store, yadda yadda...
I'm sympathetic... to a point. But I'm growing less so. I mean, look here: Knowing that you will quite likely end up shooting innocent people, why would you still sign up for that job? It makes no sense. Absolutely no sense.
I know I haven't fought overseas (I'm too ADHD to go over there, even as a reporter, I fear). But I did lose a friend in Afghanistan. His take on the wars was: this sucks. And it does.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Free write stuff on tiger woods and stuff. Yeah.
I've been dreaming of refining my opinion-style writing since college, an embarrassingly long time ago. But I suck at it. It's clunky and boring and doesn't say much. Sigh.
Anyhoo, you gotta ejaculate on paper and then refine, refine, refine. Here's my ejaculate, oh yeah:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
America, like Hollywood, needs a hero-athlete to answer its celebrity villains, and maybe vice versa. You got a Mike Tyson, a Carl Everett, a bad boy Denis Rodman? Then it's time for a well-scrubbed Tiger Woods, a shiny Oscar de la Hoya, a made-for-television Alex Rodriguez, a perservering Nancy Kerrigan. Say hello to the White Knights in the briar patch of anti-heroes. Group hug, everybody.
This is what the Buddhists call the auspicious and the inauspicious, the ying and the yang. Darth Vader without Luke? Unthinkable. Now it's time for the media to give Luke a flattering story to tell. Throw in a back-story of adversity and humility. Make 'em an underdog back in the day. That way they can be truly self-made, truly American. The underdog is, afterall, always right.
But here's the rub, and no, it ain't pretty. Captain America was, even in the comic books, the manufactured byproduct of a "super soldier" serum -- a steroidal freak. Superman had daddy issues. You think he's up all night fighting volcanoes the world over for his health? C'mon, Clark was desperate for acceptance.
The Buddhists will tell you the auspicious and the inauspicious aren't so separate. There's a big black chunk of ying in the yang, of yang in the ying. Sure, I'm surprised by Wood's infidelity. But that not surprised.
Look, I won't waste my breath defending a guy who has the gall to cheat on his wife while she's home nursing their 10-month-old (son?). Woods doesn't look so well-flossed anymore. But who are we to have dared to dream that the hero of the golf course was a moral power off the links?
Few of our other heroes have lived up to the hype. Rodriguez didn't just abuse steroids; he guzzled them, all while earning hundreds of millions of dollars that left his teammates cold. Kerrigan? An Olympic ingrate who couldn't stop complaining while headlining a parade at Disneyland. De La Hoya? #$$%%^.
Here's an equation for you. Crime is just a motive that's met an opportunity, expressed like this: Crime = (motive) + (opportunity). What's infidelity but a crime of the heart, a moral mistep against your family? And what law of the universe prevents a celebrity from acting on his or her carnal desires and need for public acceptance?
In other words: Celebrity infidelity = (sex / acceptance) + (infinite opportunity, with untold beautiful women, at any time of day, anywhere in the world).
(And so on...)
Anyhoo, you gotta ejaculate on paper and then refine, refine, refine. Here's my ejaculate, oh yeah:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
America, like Hollywood, needs a hero-athlete to answer its celebrity villains, and maybe vice versa. You got a Mike Tyson, a Carl Everett, a bad boy Denis Rodman? Then it's time for a well-scrubbed Tiger Woods, a shiny Oscar de la Hoya, a made-for-television Alex Rodriguez, a perservering Nancy Kerrigan. Say hello to the White Knights in the briar patch of anti-heroes. Group hug, everybody.
This is what the Buddhists call the auspicious and the inauspicious, the ying and the yang. Darth Vader without Luke? Unthinkable. Now it's time for the media to give Luke a flattering story to tell. Throw in a back-story of adversity and humility. Make 'em an underdog back in the day. That way they can be truly self-made, truly American. The underdog is, afterall, always right.
But here's the rub, and no, it ain't pretty. Captain America was, even in the comic books, the manufactured byproduct of a "super soldier" serum -- a steroidal freak. Superman had daddy issues. You think he's up all night fighting volcanoes the world over for his health? C'mon, Clark was desperate for acceptance.
The Buddhists will tell you the auspicious and the inauspicious aren't so separate. There's a big black chunk of ying in the yang, of yang in the ying. Sure, I'm surprised by Wood's infidelity. But that not surprised.
Look, I won't waste my breath defending a guy who has the gall to cheat on his wife while she's home nursing their 10-month-old (son?). Woods doesn't look so well-flossed anymore. But who are we to have dared to dream that the hero of the golf course was a moral power off the links?
Few of our other heroes have lived up to the hype. Rodriguez didn't just abuse steroids; he guzzled them, all while earning hundreds of millions of dollars that left his teammates cold. Kerrigan? An Olympic ingrate who couldn't stop complaining while headlining a parade at Disneyland. De La Hoya? #$$%%^.
Here's an equation for you. Crime is just a motive that's met an opportunity, expressed like this: Crime = (motive) + (opportunity). What's infidelity but a crime of the heart, a moral mistep against your family? And what law of the universe prevents a celebrity from acting on his or her carnal desires and need for public acceptance?
In other words: Celebrity infidelity = (sex / acceptance) + (infinite opportunity, with untold beautiful women, at any time of day, anywhere in the world).
(And so on...)
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Next evolution of porn?
Been thinking about writing this piece for a long while now... but I don't really have the inside view. Nor do I tune into mainstream porn. hmmm...
PIECE:
Sa Phoen is pushing herself to get back into animation. Mitss Varl gets migraines. XXX suffers from depression. XXX once miscarried a child. And XXX could really, really use an orgasm, a backrub and a chocolate milk.
TRANSITION HERE...
These are tough times for the porn industry, what with so much being given away on the Internet for free. But the women of the sex industry haven't buckled; they've evolved, marketing themselves through their own interactive Web sites, selling their own short sex clips, and broadcasting their every waking thought into the sometimes hazardous world of the social Web.
Despite anything ever imagined by Woody Allen or Russ Meyer or (robot love author), the next evolution for adult film actresses isn't mechanized or holographic or 3-D or laid out in the bizarre contours of virtual reality. In the information age, it's utterly fitting that women who love and have been consumed by sex and exhibitionism marry their neurosis to technology, self-promotion and over-sharing. Whatever the future of the porn industry, the future for porn stars looks a lot like Twitter.
TO BE CONTINUED...
PIECE:
Sa Phoen is pushing herself to get back into animation. Mitss Varl gets migraines. XXX suffers from depression. XXX once miscarried a child. And XXX could really, really use an orgasm, a backrub and a chocolate milk.
TRANSITION HERE...
These are tough times for the porn industry, what with so much being given away on the Internet for free. But the women of the sex industry haven't buckled; they've evolved, marketing themselves through their own interactive Web sites, selling their own short sex clips, and broadcasting their every waking thought into the sometimes hazardous world of the social Web.
Despite anything ever imagined by Woody Allen or Russ Meyer or (robot love author), the next evolution for adult film actresses isn't mechanized or holographic or 3-D or laid out in the bizarre contours of virtual reality. In the information age, it's utterly fitting that women who love and have been consumed by sex and exhibitionism marry their neurosis to technology, self-promotion and over-sharing. Whatever the future of the porn industry, the future for porn stars looks a lot like Twitter.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Weight loss = weight loss
Wow, I'm down to 165 lbs on two different scales, two days in a row, at different times of day. My October entry a month ago had me at 172 lbs.
That's a seven lb. difference. I'll take it!
That's a seven lb. difference. I'll take it!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Personal goals: Running 5 miles at an 8:30-pace
Well, I think I have a new running goal. I completed the Medtronic 10-mile in early October running a 9:32 pace (i.e. 9:32-minutes per mile). I hadn't slept much nor eaten breakfast nor eaten much at all the entire day before, and I ran 6 miles the night before the race just to make sure I was up to it, so I basically was as far off my peak performance as you can get, haha.
That said, assuming that a 9:30 is a "comfortable" pace for me, I think my new goal should be running 5 miles at 8:30.
That would be a wonderful birthday present to myself in January, though achieving that pace by January might be a little ambitious.
Here's where I'm at: I hit the treadmill for about 45 - 50 painful minutes tonight (5+ miles) averaging a 9:05 pace, with mucho variation between 10 minute miles and 8 minute miles. Those 8-minute miles are killer. I had to take a minute break from the treadmill twice and I almost threw up once, I guess from swallowing my own spit and counting down the minutes outloud to encourage myself. I was dry heaving and running for the bathroom, where I coughed up some saliva while making puke noises. Haha.
I think my next workout will be a fartlek, doing 30 minutes in 90-second intervals of 11, 9:00 and 7:00 pace. If I do 7 rounds of those, I'd be averaging 9-minute miles for 30 minutes. (i.e. running 3 1/3 miles).
For the workout after that, I'd like to run 5 miles without stopping at a pace of 8:57 - 9:10. That'd be a 45-minute workout, even. Not sure if my lungs are up to yet. The backs of my legs (hamstrings?) are tight tonight but otherwise I'm fine after my workout. It's the lungs that always fail me. The cramping feeling in the abs and the muscle aches in my back or neck -- neither of which hit me tonight -- go away, but the lungs always do me in; sometimes even for hours after a run I feel tightness in my chest.
Speaking of pain, I put my training with the personal trainer on hold. I kinda wish I'd never signed up for it. It's $300 I can't afford and the workouts are too intense. I don't want to be a muscle man or a top athlete; I just want to be faster and drop 16 lbs. Sigh. I was like hyperventilating at the end of my first workout, but I went back for another. Silly me.
Well, I stopped going entirely after about four or five workouts because I've been working late but mostly because I've been getting these terrible headaches. They tend to start when I'm doing anything more strenuous than running, especially when I'm changing levels as in a sit-up or push-up. One lasted more than 12 hours and woke me up at night from the pain, so I stayed home from work because I hadn't slept at all. I called my doctor and got referred to a nurse who told me to take more Ibuprofen. Sheesh, thanks. Jerk-ette.
It might have to do with my outdated glasses prescription. I'm wearing an old pair because my existing ones broke months ago, and even those were ready to be replaced.
It could also be my couch-sleeping. I don't sleep on my bed because I prefer the openess of my livingroom and the easy access to my computer, the television and the kitchen. As a result, I've worn down my couch and the cushions don't really give me head and back support. I suspect that my torso weighs more than my legs so I'm basically at an angle when I sleep, with the tips of my toes a centimeter higher than my head. That's not good for blood circulation, I betcha!
Or, I could just have a popped blood vessel in my head. Or all three. Dunno.
Anyway, I resume with the personal trainer on Nov. 30, the Monday after Thanksgiving.
The good news is I'm 168 lbs. tonight, down from 172 whenever my last entry was. But I never trust one weighing, as your weight changes day to day and moment to moment. I ate very lightly today, just a yogurt and granola bar for breakfast and a grilled chicken salad from Wendy's with a cup of coffee for dinner, though I drank a rum drink at SAUCE and later drank some O.J. just before weighing myself. It probably cancels out.
My goal continues to be 153 lbs., but I think focusing on speed and frequency of workouts, rather than weight, is smarter, healthier and more sustainable in the long-term.
Okay, this must be the most boring blog post ever. I sure hope no one is reading this!
That said, assuming that a 9:30 is a "comfortable" pace for me, I think my new goal should be running 5 miles at 8:30.
That would be a wonderful birthday present to myself in January, though achieving that pace by January might be a little ambitious.
Here's where I'm at: I hit the treadmill for about 45 - 50 painful minutes tonight (5+ miles) averaging a 9:05 pace, with mucho variation between 10 minute miles and 8 minute miles. Those 8-minute miles are killer. I had to take a minute break from the treadmill twice and I almost threw up once, I guess from swallowing my own spit and counting down the minutes outloud to encourage myself. I was dry heaving and running for the bathroom, where I coughed up some saliva while making puke noises. Haha.
I think my next workout will be a fartlek, doing 30 minutes in 90-second intervals of 11, 9:00 and 7:00 pace. If I do 7 rounds of those, I'd be averaging 9-minute miles for 30 minutes. (i.e. running 3 1/3 miles).
For the workout after that, I'd like to run 5 miles without stopping at a pace of 8:57 - 9:10. That'd be a 45-minute workout, even. Not sure if my lungs are up to yet. The backs of my legs (hamstrings?) are tight tonight but otherwise I'm fine after my workout. It's the lungs that always fail me. The cramping feeling in the abs and the muscle aches in my back or neck -- neither of which hit me tonight -- go away, but the lungs always do me in; sometimes even for hours after a run I feel tightness in my chest.
Speaking of pain, I put my training with the personal trainer on hold. I kinda wish I'd never signed up for it. It's $300 I can't afford and the workouts are too intense. I don't want to be a muscle man or a top athlete; I just want to be faster and drop 16 lbs. Sigh. I was like hyperventilating at the end of my first workout, but I went back for another. Silly me.
Well, I stopped going entirely after about four or five workouts because I've been working late but mostly because I've been getting these terrible headaches. They tend to start when I'm doing anything more strenuous than running, especially when I'm changing levels as in a sit-up or push-up. One lasted more than 12 hours and woke me up at night from the pain, so I stayed home from work because I hadn't slept at all. I called my doctor and got referred to a nurse who told me to take more Ibuprofen. Sheesh, thanks. Jerk-ette.
It might have to do with my outdated glasses prescription. I'm wearing an old pair because my existing ones broke months ago, and even those were ready to be replaced.
It could also be my couch-sleeping. I don't sleep on my bed because I prefer the openess of my livingroom and the easy access to my computer, the television and the kitchen. As a result, I've worn down my couch and the cushions don't really give me head and back support. I suspect that my torso weighs more than my legs so I'm basically at an angle when I sleep, with the tips of my toes a centimeter higher than my head. That's not good for blood circulation, I betcha!
Or, I could just have a popped blood vessel in my head. Or all three. Dunno.
Anyway, I resume with the personal trainer on Nov. 30, the Monday after Thanksgiving.
The good news is I'm 168 lbs. tonight, down from 172 whenever my last entry was. But I never trust one weighing, as your weight changes day to day and moment to moment. I ate very lightly today, just a yogurt and granola bar for breakfast and a grilled chicken salad from Wendy's with a cup of coffee for dinner, though I drank a rum drink at SAUCE and later drank some O.J. just before weighing myself. It probably cancels out.
My goal continues to be 153 lbs., but I think focusing on speed and frequency of workouts, rather than weight, is smarter, healthier and more sustainable in the long-term.
Okay, this must be the most boring blog post ever. I sure hope no one is reading this!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Weight loss = weight gain
Listening to "Modest Mouse" and their album "Good News for People Who Like Bad News"... they rock. I heart music.
So, two different scales tell me I'm at 172 lbs. I guess I've actually gained weight over the summer. Oh, man, that was the opposite of what I've intended. I'm kind of amazed. I was sure I was below 167. I don't feel 172.
I do feel a little more solid than I have been before, even though I haven't been doing virtually any upper body work. I kind of think this 172 lbs. suits me in this cold, hearty Minnesotan environment. That said, what I see when I look in the mirror is so different from what I see when I look at myself in pictures. I'm sometimes pretty round-faced in pics, which I dislike.
Plus, people tease me about my weight (including my recent ex-girlfriend, who really pissed me off bringing it up a lot one weekend in particular) and that's just annoying.
I've tried to eat healthier lunches but night time is tough. I catch up on missing calories, and when I'm having a late-night beer, I automatically reach for pizza or quesadillas, and a fair amount of them.
Sigh. I know the answer: run 5 miles every other day. Nobody who runs 5 miles every other day is overweight, I don't think.
I'm just disappointed because I've been running a bit, though to be fair, not much more than once a week. I guess no one loses weight working out once a week. I did a 10-mile road race and a little hiking this summer, and I think my lower body looks more muscular as a result, but my tummy is sizable when I slouch or touch my toes. Sigh.
So, two different scales tell me I'm at 172 lbs. I guess I've actually gained weight over the summer. Oh, man, that was the opposite of what I've intended. I'm kind of amazed. I was sure I was below 167. I don't feel 172.
I do feel a little more solid than I have been before, even though I haven't been doing virtually any upper body work. I kind of think this 172 lbs. suits me in this cold, hearty Minnesotan environment. That said, what I see when I look in the mirror is so different from what I see when I look at myself in pictures. I'm sometimes pretty round-faced in pics, which I dislike.
Plus, people tease me about my weight (including my recent ex-girlfriend, who really pissed me off bringing it up a lot one weekend in particular) and that's just annoying.
I've tried to eat healthier lunches but night time is tough. I catch up on missing calories, and when I'm having a late-night beer, I automatically reach for pizza or quesadillas, and a fair amount of them.
Sigh. I know the answer: run 5 miles every other day. Nobody who runs 5 miles every other day is overweight, I don't think.
I'm just disappointed because I've been running a bit, though to be fair, not much more than once a week. I guess no one loses weight working out once a week. I did a 10-mile road race and a little hiking this summer, and I think my lower body looks more muscular as a result, but my tummy is sizable when I slouch or touch my toes. Sigh.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Things that shouldn't be done but are done
Everyone is entitled to at least one strange fetish but it has to be consensual, folks! And when it goes so far as to involve children and poop, makes me wanna call the cops!
I just got back from climbing in the White Mountains, so I'm especially sensitive to this little bit of fecal tom-foolery. Sigh.
From the Associated Press:
Man admits crawling into outhouse pit _ again
(AP) – 23 minutes ago
PORTLAND, Maine — A Maine man caught peering up at a girl from below an outhouse toilet seat four years ago stands accused of crawling into another pit toilet on White Mountain National Forest property in New Hampshire. A federal affidavit indicates a 49-year-old man confessed to repeating his previous act on Memorial Day.
Federal agents sought the man out after a 9-year-old boy saw him climbing out of a toilet at the Hastings Campground. Two witnesses saw him walk away from the outhouse.
Forest Service special agent William Fors wrote that the man initially said he climbed into the waste-filled pit to retrieve a T-shirt. Four years ago, he said he was retrieving his wedding ring.
Fors wrote the man eventually confessed climbing into outhouse pits on more than two occasions.
I just got back from climbing in the White Mountains, so I'm especially sensitive to this little bit of fecal tom-foolery. Sigh.
From the Associated Press:
Man admits crawling into outhouse pit _ again
(AP) – 23 minutes ago
PORTLAND, Maine — A Maine man caught peering up at a girl from below an outhouse toilet seat four years ago stands accused of crawling into another pit toilet on White Mountain National Forest property in New Hampshire. A federal affidavit indicates a 49-year-old man confessed to repeating his previous act on Memorial Day.
Federal agents sought the man out after a 9-year-old boy saw him climbing out of a toilet at the Hastings Campground. Two witnesses saw him walk away from the outhouse.
Forest Service special agent William Fors wrote that the man initially said he climbed into the waste-filled pit to retrieve a T-shirt. Four years ago, he said he was retrieving his wedding ring.
Fors wrote the man eventually confessed climbing into outhouse pits on more than two occasions.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
MGMT, "KIDS"
Damn, this video is so wrong to this poor little baby! And I think that's his mother in the video. But the song plays on 89.3 FM, and it's a great song!
For some reason, I can't copy and paste the code (only half of it pastes), so here's the link. The band is called Management and the song is called "KIDS":
Video of MGMT with "KIDS"
If you can make any sense of the lyrics, you're a better man (or woman) than me...
Lyrics courtesy of MetroLyrics.com
You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice was too loud.
We like to watch you laughing.
You pick the insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
For some reason, I can't copy and paste the code (only half of it pastes), so here's the link. The band is called Management and the song is called "KIDS":
Video of MGMT with "KIDS"
If you can make any sense of the lyrics, you're a better man (or woman) than me...
Lyrics courtesy of MetroLyrics.com
You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice was too loud.
We like to watch you laughing.
You pick the insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Boy did I get round!
Well, I've officially tipped the scale at 170 lbs... that's what not running and not exercising will do to you!
My new goal is to drop 15 lbs. in 15 weeks ... and get to 155 lbs. by the end of November. Hmmmm....
My new goal is to drop 15 lbs. in 15 weeks ... and get to 155 lbs. by the end of November. Hmmmm....
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Matt and Kim
I love the group Matt and Kim. They're real-life sweethearts, met in art school, and live in Brooklyn, which adds to their other-worldly appeal. Kim's face when she drums is like this other-worldly ecstasy. I wish I had a hobby that drove me to such orgasmic heights. They look like they really enjoy performing .... oh, and they take their shirts off in every video I've seen!
MATT AND KIM - YEA YEAH
MATT AND KIM - YEA YEAH
Monday, June 15, 2009
POEM ABOUT GOD AND DROWNING
POEM ABOUT ALL OF HUMANITY AND EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE, ALL AT ONCE
It's said that God provides
but then how do you explain
drowning
I hear the battle hymn of the Christian faithful
in the moments before the explosion
of that doomed flight over New York
the one where the body parts of Latin travelers
landed in the back yards of their loved ones
or the harbor
Maybe you can draw some parallel to Job
but Job woke from his nightmare, tested
and I know some never rise
They land in Chernobyl, Auschwitz, ovens
The Hebrews debate the old word, Timshel
Thou shalt triumph over sin (predestination; some of us are effed)
Do thou triumph over sin (obedience; go flog yourself)
Though mayest triumph (hope)
I believe in God, I'll stick with hope
knowing, as I do, that sometimes
it just don't float.
-- END --
It's said that God provides
but then how do you explain
drowning
I hear the battle hymn of the Christian faithful
in the moments before the explosion
of that doomed flight over New York
the one where the body parts of Latin travelers
landed in the back yards of their loved ones
or the harbor
Maybe you can draw some parallel to Job
but Job woke from his nightmare, tested
and I know some never rise
They land in Chernobyl, Auschwitz, ovens
The Hebrews debate the old word, Timshel
Thou shalt triumph over sin (predestination; some of us are effed)
Do thou triumph over sin (obedience; go flog yourself)
Though mayest triumph (hope)
I believe in God, I'll stick with hope
knowing, as I do, that sometimes
it just don't float.
-- END --
Monday, June 1, 2009
So I was in the bathroom today at work, feeling groggy... when I was overcome by a story, sumpthin' fierce, I tell ya. It's pretty brutal, but it doesn't start out that way. I've been reading McSweeny's fantastical stories or something of the like, and this one jumped out at me...
Considering how awful my niece has behaved recently, I think the motivation here is clear: kids can act like animals! Here goes:
A little girl is sitting in her third grade classroom, and she sees a guy dressed in a monkey suit poking his head in the door. No one else sees him at first. The monkey suit is obviously a suit, brownish, but the eyes and hands are freaky. They don't look suit-like. They look real.
He keeps popping his head in, catching her attention, disappearing. She sits near the back of the close, sideways, so she has a good view of him. But other kids start noticing too.
The story switches to little vignettes -- her uncle once wore a monkey mask like this, to scare her at the zoo; her father told her a monkey had once bit him, and he'd been sick for days, nearly died; there is a bratty girl in her class who has big bags under her eyes but who is popular just by being so aggressive and mean in her personality, that girl has a little tag-along follower, and the bratty girl implies to the other girls she may have been molested, though she does so as a boast, like "I've kissed boys twice my age!" (she's nine); the protagonist of the story doesn't get along with the bratty girl, though the protagonist is also quietly popular with two other girls always competing to sit next to her on the school bus. She's just as happy to sit alone, though, and stare out the window, plotting what she's going to draw next. she's an artist. Also, in first grade, the teacher loved her so much, she brought her an apple (she read it in a book), and on the last day the teacher hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. You're wonderful, she thought to herself, or something like that. But she had the same teacher for second and third grade, and this one doesn't seem to care much for her, and has her sit at the back of the class.
The mean girl with the bags under her eyes eventually sees the monkey (by this time, a little nervous ripple is going through the class; only the teacher is busy preparing her lesson at the chalk board while the girls work in teams on projects). She and her tag-along friend look scared. The monkey motions to her, and the girl walks to the back of the room, near the exit, turns to the class, curtsies sadly, head bowed, eyes downcast, and walks out in the direction of the monkey.
Insert a vignette here.
Now, back to the classroom. The monkey, who has stooped, monkey like movements, is suddenly back in the doorway, howling. Even the teacher turns around. THe girl recognizes him. Of course! So familiar, he is! He raises himself up to his full height. Then he swivels so his upper body is out of eyesight. He's reaching for something .... it's the bratty girl's body! She's all broken up and stuff, with her head facing the wrong way, looking lifelessly at the classroom (I forgot to mention it's an all-girls academy). The monkey tosses the body into the classroom, where it knocks the teacher's desk. Everyone screams and goes running, most kids jumping out the window. One girl lands and her ankle goes pop. Another girl helps her.
Hey, I did say it's a brutal story, and I've been reading fantasy / horror type stories!
The monkey jumps into the classroom and rips up the teacher, gnashing at her eyes and throat with his hands (he's wearing a monkey mask, so no mouth).
The fat girl in the classroom is frozen. The protagonist is frozen. The tag-along to the bratty girl is hiding in the corner.
The monkey looks at the fat girl, who pees herself. He bows and motions for her to leave. She can't. He does a mighty kick, like a spinning drop kick and slaps her in the ass with his monkey foot. She goes half-running, half-hurtling for the door, safe and unharmed. SHe escapes. he turns to the tag-along in the corner, grabs her, and breaks her neck. Then he turns to the protagonist, who has done nothing all this time but stare.
He kinda takes a seat on the floor next to her, so he's looking up at her. After a long moment, she says, "You've really made a mess here." The monkey looks sad, downcast, stares at the floor. "Please try to be neater next time, okay?" The monkey looks up, and she kinda strokes his head and scratches him under the chin. His eyes are fascinated and familiar. They begin to giggle together. The end.
Wow. I dunno if I could ever write this one, and if I had the talent to do it justice, who would publish it!
The intro quote, beneath the title, would say: "Little girls and ferocious men in monkey suits are not always so distinct."
Man, I think I could be a horror writer, if only I'd practice the craft. My mind works in such a way that I can see odd moments, some beautiful, some awful, some just bizarre. I just need a little stimulus and it comes -- scenes, vignettes. I combine something I heard, with something I've read, with something I've experienced, and poof! The scene is in my head. But I never write it down in time. And by the time I do, it's crap. Maybe it was always crap.
I really want to slow down the moment of recognition so that when she sees the monkey and recognizes who it is in the doorway, she thinks to herself:
The monkey!
Stella gasped in recognition as the monkey raised himself to his full height, suddenly occupying every inch of the doorway, arms outstretched and anger bellowing. For the first time, he was making noise, and it was a terrible noise. His howls sounded like monkeys screaming before some tribal animal war; but not just one monkey, so many of them, a dozen at least, all of them furious and committed to clawing and biting whatever enemy, real or perceived, had the misfortune of standing before them.
The monkey! The monkey! The monkey!
Every girl saw and heard the monkey now. How could they not? Even Mrs. Rosen saw and heard. There was so much screaming. Fat Lucy was crying and so was tag-along Susie. So were the others. The monkey suddenly swiveled his upper body down to the side, his legs planted in the doorway but his torso obscured. He was reaching for something out of eyesight.
And then it was in his arms, offered to the classroom like a gift. It was bitchy bratty Cassie, or what was left of her. Her head hung crazily, facing the girls with wide, lifeless eyes, a red ribbon of blood threading her nose to her chin. Her body faced the wrong direction, a broken doll. He'd snapped her neck.
The girls were all screaming, all crying, even Mrs. Rosen was crying. The monkey was in the room now, lifting bitchy bratty Cassie above his head. And then he threw her.
She cut through the air like a flopping sack, legs and arms a jumble, and hit the hard front of Mrs. Rosen's table with a ka-thump. A second whump as she bounced to the floor. Chest to the ground, Cassie's doll head stared up toward the desks to the right of Mrs. Rosen, her eyes still open. Tag-along Susie met her lifeless gaze and instantly became silent. She could no longer scream or cry. They stared at each other, the living girl and the dead.
The monkey was upon everyone now, chasing the wannabe-twins and the tall girl and the shortest of the short. Girls were pushing open the window, crawling over the sill. It was a half-story drop. They dropped. Stella saw dark-haired Annie land awkwardly, her left foot splayed on its side. She moaned. Jenny Liu was helping her up, pulling her to her feet. They were running off now, Annie limping. They would be safe.
The monkey pressed his face close to one of the new girls and growled, his monkey paws in the air; an awful noise. She screamed, then ran around him to the window, another found the door. He chased after another, then another. But they all made it away. Well, almost all.
The monkey locked stares with Mrs. Rosen.
"Please," she whispered, clutching at her own face.
But it was too late. The monkey was sailing through the air, ripping at her eyes and at her throat. Stella hadn't noticed anything like claws on the monkey before, but they must have been there now. It was short work; a disaster. The monkey was relentless.
Mrs. Rosen's ruined body sank in shreds to the floor, a scrap of her falling from the monkey's paws a moment later, a bloodied afterthought. Only three girls remained. The monkey turned for a moment to tag-along Susie, who still had not made a new sound. He turned to Fat Lucy. She was crying quietly, her chin bubbling, standing in the middle of the room. The monkey looked Lucy up and down, up and down, then dropped to his haunches. A large wet stain formed across her pants.
He raised himself up a bit. And then the monkey bowed.
With a little flourish of his bloodied monkey paw, he motioned from his bow toward the door. Fat Lucy stood still as the earth itself, a lake of tears slipping off her face. The monkey righted himself and bowed again. Again, with the flourish of his hand. She was free to go.
Fat Lucy did not move. The monkey raised himself, reared back, rocked, and Lucy's chubby face became amazingly taut. This would be the end for her.
The monkey moved to the left quickly, then back to the right, snapping his legs around him in one 360-degree rotation. A roundhouse kick. His monkey paw hit Fat Lucy square in the seat of her pants; her body, lifted, swam toward the exit a centimeter ahead of her feet. She was out the classroom exit and tumbling down the hallway. She caught her balance by the landing. She was down the steps and off through the schoolhouse doors. She was almost home.
Other than the impression of his monkey toes in her ass, she was safe.
Then the monkey turned toward Tag-along Susie, who had finally taken refuge in the corner. She was curled in a ball, arms clasped around her head, still in silence. The monkey stepped forward. Grabbed her up in his arms. Stella couldn't see what was happening, with the monkey's brown body blocking her view. She heard a snap. Susie fell to the ground. Her eyes caught Stella straight-on from the corner, her body was crumpled toward the wall.
Susie was dead.
The monkey wasn't finished.
He turned toward Stella. He looked down at her from his full height. Stella looked up from her chair. She hadn't moved, screamed or cried. She had just watched.
He took one step, then another. He was right there before her now.
He dropped slowly to the ground, beside and beneath her. She stared into his wild, human eyes.
They remained there for a long moment, an eternity. The room was no longer a room but a ruins of desks and chairs, three bodies, broken glass, papers and books, pens and pencils, art projects that would never be finished. It was a disaster.
"Oh monkey," Stella said finally, "you've really made a mess here."
The monkey dropped his gaze toward the floor, and a sag went into his shoulders.
Stella shook her head.
"It's okay," she said, taking his cheek in one hand and lifting his face, scratching the top of his fuzzy head with the other. "Just try to be neater next time, you promise?"
The monkey looked at her, his joyful, familiar eyes fascinated and shining. He snorted. Stella giggled. They would be good together, this team, she seemed to be saying. And they both laughed until they fell down dizzy, happy to be so alive.
THE END
Considering how awful my niece has behaved recently, I think the motivation here is clear: kids can act like animals! Here goes:
A little girl is sitting in her third grade classroom, and she sees a guy dressed in a monkey suit poking his head in the door. No one else sees him at first. The monkey suit is obviously a suit, brownish, but the eyes and hands are freaky. They don't look suit-like. They look real.
He keeps popping his head in, catching her attention, disappearing. She sits near the back of the close, sideways, so she has a good view of him. But other kids start noticing too.
The story switches to little vignettes -- her uncle once wore a monkey mask like this, to scare her at the zoo; her father told her a monkey had once bit him, and he'd been sick for days, nearly died; there is a bratty girl in her class who has big bags under her eyes but who is popular just by being so aggressive and mean in her personality, that girl has a little tag-along follower, and the bratty girl implies to the other girls she may have been molested, though she does so as a boast, like "I've kissed boys twice my age!" (she's nine); the protagonist of the story doesn't get along with the bratty girl, though the protagonist is also quietly popular with two other girls always competing to sit next to her on the school bus. She's just as happy to sit alone, though, and stare out the window, plotting what she's going to draw next. she's an artist. Also, in first grade, the teacher loved her so much, she brought her an apple (she read it in a book), and on the last day the teacher hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. You're wonderful, she thought to herself, or something like that. But she had the same teacher for second and third grade, and this one doesn't seem to care much for her, and has her sit at the back of the class.
The mean girl with the bags under her eyes eventually sees the monkey (by this time, a little nervous ripple is going through the class; only the teacher is busy preparing her lesson at the chalk board while the girls work in teams on projects). She and her tag-along friend look scared. The monkey motions to her, and the girl walks to the back of the room, near the exit, turns to the class, curtsies sadly, head bowed, eyes downcast, and walks out in the direction of the monkey.
Insert a vignette here.
Now, back to the classroom. The monkey, who has stooped, monkey like movements, is suddenly back in the doorway, howling. Even the teacher turns around. THe girl recognizes him. Of course! So familiar, he is! He raises himself up to his full height. Then he swivels so his upper body is out of eyesight. He's reaching for something .... it's the bratty girl's body! She's all broken up and stuff, with her head facing the wrong way, looking lifelessly at the classroom (I forgot to mention it's an all-girls academy). The monkey tosses the body into the classroom, where it knocks the teacher's desk. Everyone screams and goes running, most kids jumping out the window. One girl lands and her ankle goes pop. Another girl helps her.
Hey, I did say it's a brutal story, and I've been reading fantasy / horror type stories!
The monkey jumps into the classroom and rips up the teacher, gnashing at her eyes and throat with his hands (he's wearing a monkey mask, so no mouth).
The fat girl in the classroom is frozen. The protagonist is frozen. The tag-along to the bratty girl is hiding in the corner.
The monkey looks at the fat girl, who pees herself. He bows and motions for her to leave. She can't. He does a mighty kick, like a spinning drop kick and slaps her in the ass with his monkey foot. She goes half-running, half-hurtling for the door, safe and unharmed. SHe escapes. he turns to the tag-along in the corner, grabs her, and breaks her neck. Then he turns to the protagonist, who has done nothing all this time but stare.
He kinda takes a seat on the floor next to her, so he's looking up at her. After a long moment, she says, "You've really made a mess here." The monkey looks sad, downcast, stares at the floor. "Please try to be neater next time, okay?" The monkey looks up, and she kinda strokes his head and scratches him under the chin. His eyes are fascinated and familiar. They begin to giggle together. The end.
Wow. I dunno if I could ever write this one, and if I had the talent to do it justice, who would publish it!
The intro quote, beneath the title, would say: "Little girls and ferocious men in monkey suits are not always so distinct."
Man, I think I could be a horror writer, if only I'd practice the craft. My mind works in such a way that I can see odd moments, some beautiful, some awful, some just bizarre. I just need a little stimulus and it comes -- scenes, vignettes. I combine something I heard, with something I've read, with something I've experienced, and poof! The scene is in my head. But I never write it down in time. And by the time I do, it's crap. Maybe it was always crap.
I really want to slow down the moment of recognition so that when she sees the monkey and recognizes who it is in the doorway, she thinks to herself:
The monkey!
Stella gasped in recognition as the monkey raised himself to his full height, suddenly occupying every inch of the doorway, arms outstretched and anger bellowing. For the first time, he was making noise, and it was a terrible noise. His howls sounded like monkeys screaming before some tribal animal war; but not just one monkey, so many of them, a dozen at least, all of them furious and committed to clawing and biting whatever enemy, real or perceived, had the misfortune of standing before them.
The monkey! The monkey! The monkey!
Every girl saw and heard the monkey now. How could they not? Even Mrs. Rosen saw and heard. There was so much screaming. Fat Lucy was crying and so was tag-along Susie. So were the others. The monkey suddenly swiveled his upper body down to the side, his legs planted in the doorway but his torso obscured. He was reaching for something out of eyesight.
And then it was in his arms, offered to the classroom like a gift. It was bitchy bratty Cassie, or what was left of her. Her head hung crazily, facing the girls with wide, lifeless eyes, a red ribbon of blood threading her nose to her chin. Her body faced the wrong direction, a broken doll. He'd snapped her neck.
The girls were all screaming, all crying, even Mrs. Rosen was crying. The monkey was in the room now, lifting bitchy bratty Cassie above his head. And then he threw her.
She cut through the air like a flopping sack, legs and arms a jumble, and hit the hard front of Mrs. Rosen's table with a ka-thump. A second whump as she bounced to the floor. Chest to the ground, Cassie's doll head stared up toward the desks to the right of Mrs. Rosen, her eyes still open. Tag-along Susie met her lifeless gaze and instantly became silent. She could no longer scream or cry. They stared at each other, the living girl and the dead.
The monkey was upon everyone now, chasing the wannabe-twins and the tall girl and the shortest of the short. Girls were pushing open the window, crawling over the sill. It was a half-story drop. They dropped. Stella saw dark-haired Annie land awkwardly, her left foot splayed on its side. She moaned. Jenny Liu was helping her up, pulling her to her feet. They were running off now, Annie limping. They would be safe.
The monkey pressed his face close to one of the new girls and growled, his monkey paws in the air; an awful noise. She screamed, then ran around him to the window, another found the door. He chased after another, then another. But they all made it away. Well, almost all.
The monkey locked stares with Mrs. Rosen.
"Please," she whispered, clutching at her own face.
But it was too late. The monkey was sailing through the air, ripping at her eyes and at her throat. Stella hadn't noticed anything like claws on the monkey before, but they must have been there now. It was short work; a disaster. The monkey was relentless.
Mrs. Rosen's ruined body sank in shreds to the floor, a scrap of her falling from the monkey's paws a moment later, a bloodied afterthought. Only three girls remained. The monkey turned for a moment to tag-along Susie, who still had not made a new sound. He turned to Fat Lucy. She was crying quietly, her chin bubbling, standing in the middle of the room. The monkey looked Lucy up and down, up and down, then dropped to his haunches. A large wet stain formed across her pants.
He raised himself up a bit. And then the monkey bowed.
With a little flourish of his bloodied monkey paw, he motioned from his bow toward the door. Fat Lucy stood still as the earth itself, a lake of tears slipping off her face. The monkey righted himself and bowed again. Again, with the flourish of his hand. She was free to go.
Fat Lucy did not move. The monkey raised himself, reared back, rocked, and Lucy's chubby face became amazingly taut. This would be the end for her.
The monkey moved to the left quickly, then back to the right, snapping his legs around him in one 360-degree rotation. A roundhouse kick. His monkey paw hit Fat Lucy square in the seat of her pants; her body, lifted, swam toward the exit a centimeter ahead of her feet. She was out the classroom exit and tumbling down the hallway. She caught her balance by the landing. She was down the steps and off through the schoolhouse doors. She was almost home.
Other than the impression of his monkey toes in her ass, she was safe.
Then the monkey turned toward Tag-along Susie, who had finally taken refuge in the corner. She was curled in a ball, arms clasped around her head, still in silence. The monkey stepped forward. Grabbed her up in his arms. Stella couldn't see what was happening, with the monkey's brown body blocking her view. She heard a snap. Susie fell to the ground. Her eyes caught Stella straight-on from the corner, her body was crumpled toward the wall.
Susie was dead.
The monkey wasn't finished.
He turned toward Stella. He looked down at her from his full height. Stella looked up from her chair. She hadn't moved, screamed or cried. She had just watched.
He took one step, then another. He was right there before her now.
He dropped slowly to the ground, beside and beneath her. She stared into his wild, human eyes.
They remained there for a long moment, an eternity. The room was no longer a room but a ruins of desks and chairs, three bodies, broken glass, papers and books, pens and pencils, art projects that would never be finished. It was a disaster.
"Oh monkey," Stella said finally, "you've really made a mess here."
The monkey dropped his gaze toward the floor, and a sag went into his shoulders.
Stella shook her head.
"It's okay," she said, taking his cheek in one hand and lifting his face, scratching the top of his fuzzy head with the other. "Just try to be neater next time, you promise?"
The monkey looked at her, his joyful, familiar eyes fascinated and shining. He snorted. Stella giggled. They would be good together, this team, she seemed to be saying. And they both laughed until they fell down dizzy, happy to be so alive.
THE END
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Pioneer Press, STRIB in snip snip mode
The Pioneer Press and the Star Tribune are both dumping water out of the canoe like nobody's business.
It appears the PiPress needs to cut $2 - $3 million out of the company budget this year, and most of it from the already stark-thin newsroom. What gives?
The Star Tribune may be a bigger ship, but it has been losing so much money, it's arguably in worse shape. (That paper declared bankruptcy not long ago).
Here's more:
http://www.minnpost.com/braublog/2009/05/20/8978/pioneer_press_newsroom_slammed_with_24_million_cut_demand
My two cents is this: You may think newspapers are irrelevant, but so much of what you read on the 'net from the AP, or see blogged about, or hear on television or on the radio, began with the paper. Mass media "retweets" what the newspapers go out and collect, see? It has to start somewhere....
It appears the PiPress needs to cut $2 - $3 million out of the company budget this year, and most of it from the already stark-thin newsroom. What gives?
The Star Tribune may be a bigger ship, but it has been losing so much money, it's arguably in worse shape. (That paper declared bankruptcy not long ago).
Here's more:
http://www.minnpost.com/braublog/2009/05/20/8978/pioneer_press_newsroom_slammed_with_24_million_cut_demand
My two cents is this: You may think newspapers are irrelevant, but so much of what you read on the 'net from the AP, or see blogged about, or hear on television or on the radio, began with the paper. Mass media "retweets" what the newspapers go out and collect, see? It has to start somewhere....
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