9.30.2009
idiomatic dating.
there are idioms my roommate doesn't seem to understand. one is "for all intents and purposes."
she corrects me to "for all intensive purposes," which is something a lot of people say, i know - but i'm not making that mistake. i'm saying the right one.
my purposes are generally not that intensive.
they're normal, they're just often paired with intents.
another idiom she doesn't understand: "it's a date."
don't get me wrong, my roommate isn't stupid - far from it. she's overtly intelligent and it bugs me. she's also super talented and generally interesting. so don't get mah shit twisted.
there's a girl who tweets on the twitter, and we've engaged in some 140 character conversation with her, individually, and at one point, she and my roommate made plans to get together (i am not a part of this occurance, as i have an e-crush on said twitterererererr and want her to continue thinking i'm cool, which will be ruined once she sees me in a real life setting).
then this conversation happened:
roommate: "do you think $$$$ is a lesbian?"
me, awesome: "not that i'm aware of. that wouldn't be cool, i have an e-crush on her."
roommate: "yeah, she's a girl that pays attention to you - anyway, you sure you haven't gotten any kind of lesbian vibe from her?"
me, coolasfuck: "yeah, i'm pretty sure. i mean, maybe. but it doesn't seem like it. did she hit on you or something?"
rm: "no. but read this:"
last tweet: okay, it's a date!
rm: "am i going on a date with her now?"
me, slick: "no (holding back laughter)."
rm: "because that happens to me a lot, i think i'm hanging out with someone and then it turns out that it's a date and then i'm on a date with them and i didn't even know it."
me - just bein' me, and that's good enough: "it's just a phrase. people use it. i use it."
rm: "are you sure?"
me, runnin' a comb through my coal black hair: "yeah."
this happened again last night when some guy she knows from a previous job asked her to lunch today. they made plans, he ended with "it's a date!"
this is, apparently, presenting her with problems - she was already going on a psuedo date tonight, with the tall standup comedian who's friends with our downstairs neighbor, who invited her to come and see his standup at old chicago (jajajaja spanish laugh),* and she doesn't like to "double book."
(fyi, the lunch thing probably is an actual date)
i personally don't think it's a problem, considering she asked me to go with her to the old chicago, which would make that an awkward date as is - not to mention one is during the day, the other, at night.
"i still don't like to do that."
this would be a prime example of the ways i do not understand women. going on a lunch date, then a dinner date with two different people is morally gray. going on a date on monday with a guy, and on tuesday with the other guy, is all hunky dory.
also you have vaginas instead of penises and WTF
*a real exchange between me and my roommate:
"you want me to go on your date?"
"i figured you liked comedy shows."
"i like movies and dinner and dancing too - are you gonna start making me come on all your dates?"**
**OMG JUST KIDDING GUYS IN ED HARDY SHIRTS DONT TAKE GIRLS OUT FOR DINNER AND DANCING
she corrects me to "for all intensive purposes," which is something a lot of people say, i know - but i'm not making that mistake. i'm saying the right one.
my purposes are generally not that intensive.
they're normal, they're just often paired with intents.
another idiom she doesn't understand: "it's a date."
don't get me wrong, my roommate isn't stupid - far from it. she's overtly intelligent and it bugs me. she's also super talented and generally interesting. so don't get mah shit twisted.
there's a girl who tweets on the twitter, and we've engaged in some 140 character conversation with her, individually, and at one point, she and my roommate made plans to get together (i am not a part of this occurance, as i have an e-crush on said twitterererererr and want her to continue thinking i'm cool, which will be ruined once she sees me in a real life setting).
then this conversation happened:
roommate: "do you think $$$$ is a lesbian?"
me, awesome: "not that i'm aware of. that wouldn't be cool, i have an e-crush on her."
roommate: "yeah, she's a girl that pays attention to you - anyway, you sure you haven't gotten any kind of lesbian vibe from her?"
me, coolasfuck: "yeah, i'm pretty sure. i mean, maybe. but it doesn't seem like it. did she hit on you or something?"
rm: "no. but read this:"
last tweet: okay, it's a date!
rm: "am i going on a date with her now?"
me, slick: "no (holding back laughter)."
rm: "because that happens to me a lot, i think i'm hanging out with someone and then it turns out that it's a date and then i'm on a date with them and i didn't even know it."
me - just bein' me, and that's good enough: "it's just a phrase. people use it. i use it."
rm: "are you sure?"
me, runnin' a comb through my coal black hair: "yeah."
this happened again last night when some guy she knows from a previous job asked her to lunch today. they made plans, he ended with "it's a date!"
this is, apparently, presenting her with problems - she was already going on a psuedo date tonight, with the tall standup comedian who's friends with our downstairs neighbor, who invited her to come and see his standup at old chicago (jajajaja spanish laugh),* and she doesn't like to "double book."
(fyi, the lunch thing probably is an actual date)
i personally don't think it's a problem, considering she asked me to go with her to the old chicago, which would make that an awkward date as is - not to mention one is during the day, the other, at night.
"i still don't like to do that."
this would be a prime example of the ways i do not understand women. going on a lunch date, then a dinner date with two different people is morally gray. going on a date on monday with a guy, and on tuesday with the other guy, is all hunky dory.
also you have vaginas instead of penises and WTF
*a real exchange between me and my roommate:
"you want me to go on your date?"
"i figured you liked comedy shows."
"i like movies and dinner and dancing too - are you gonna start making me come on all your dates?"**
**OMG JUST KIDDING GUYS IN ED HARDY SHIRTS DONT TAKE GIRLS OUT FOR DINNER AND DANCING
9.29.2009
advertising slogans.
tim davids:
he'll do anything for a cute girl.
bring you up to speed:
i wasn't the happiest guy when i was eighteen. i had just moved away from home - to boulder, a girl i was really into had just broken my teenage heart, and i was living in the dorms - specifically, in the rejects dorm where they threw everyone they couldn't fit anywhere else. i was with my best friend, but he was getting super into "the college experience," and spending a lot of time hanging out with his girlfriend's friends, and i was just lonely.
enter the adorable emo girl from across the hall, b (no not some blog thing where i'm trying for anonymity, i call her b). when i was 18 i had a giant crush on her, mostly based on the said adorableness mixed with the fact that, for whatever reason, she took it upon herself to be nice to me and knock on my door to hang out and stay up all night sitting in the hall talking to me about horror films and shit.
years pass, crushes fade, people get better hair and more self-confidence.
i really like hanging out with b to this day, which doesn't really happen all that often, but often enough. she's still adorable and funny and fun and we still get along, and it's really nice to have a regular friend who has no other real connection to the bullshit in your life. i can just hang out and perform and talk and there's no consequence in any of it.
end backstory.
you ever have a drunken idea that seems like just a fun idea but then you really, really follow through?
went to the fainting goat for lunch with b and ate a mediocre chicken sandwish that was made better by a lot of vodka-sodas. she had the blarney sliders, which i really want now. they're corned beef with horsey havarti cheese and scallions, served on warm soft pretzel buns.
i want it so much i memorized that, word for word, from the menu.
it's like how i know all the lyrics to ever song zooey deschanel has ever even thought about singing.
fat guys always have tangents where they describe food.
while we were having lunch a really sad looking guy came into the bar and sat down and ordered - what else? the fucking blarney sliders (fuck that chicken sandwich). he then went to the jukebox, put in fifteen bucks and stood there choosing the perfect pearl jam playlist. after he sat down, as each song came on, he'd have a very strong emotional reaction, including:
laughter. big smiles. a wistful expression. and my favorite - burying his face in his hands while sighing and breathing hard and rocking back and forth, hitting his handcoveredhead on the bar.
i have that reaction whenever someone plays lady gaga, maybe it's the same thing.
we started talking basketball (b and i, not pearl jam sobber and i), and how i play it, and i went into how fun it would be to do something with more people - not join a league or anything too hipstery - but to do a pickup kickball game.
b: "let's do it!"
me, wishing i was eating off her plate (literally - not sexual): "yeah, it'd be fun."
b: "no, i mean tonight. at nine. i'm texting."
me, drinking vodka: "who?"
b: "everyone i know."
problems that came up: where? (a park in littleton) lights? (lights'll get us arrested) how do we see? (make everything glow in the dark) who? (all our friends!) i only have like five friends (i have tons!) you think people will come for kickball? (if there's 90 cans of beer there!)
this is the story of how tim spent his afternoon buying a kickball and bases and painting them with a coat of white, then florescent green, then glow-in-the-dark paint.
tim davids:
he'll do anything for a cute girl.
we roll out at nine, and low and behold - like twenty people show up. i get up, i kick - boom, double. next kicker - i make it to third. b is up next. bring me home, baby, bring me home.
i lead off. the pitcher doesn't know what that means and probably doesn't remember i'm on her team, so i take a big lead.
the pitch. b kicks the ball directly at me. the third baseman grabs it. i'm out.
getting stuck on third and not being able to score is horrible. i have kickblueballs (GROAN i wrote this whole thing to use that joke i'll be here all week).
kickblueballs. take that the two actual standup comedians i am somewhat acquainted with.
he'll do anything for a cute girl.
bring you up to speed:
i wasn't the happiest guy when i was eighteen. i had just moved away from home - to boulder, a girl i was really into had just broken my teenage heart, and i was living in the dorms - specifically, in the rejects dorm where they threw everyone they couldn't fit anywhere else. i was with my best friend, but he was getting super into "the college experience," and spending a lot of time hanging out with his girlfriend's friends, and i was just lonely.
enter the adorable emo girl from across the hall, b (no not some blog thing where i'm trying for anonymity, i call her b). when i was 18 i had a giant crush on her, mostly based on the said adorableness mixed with the fact that, for whatever reason, she took it upon herself to be nice to me and knock on my door to hang out and stay up all night sitting in the hall talking to me about horror films and shit.
years pass, crushes fade, people get better hair and more self-confidence.
i really like hanging out with b to this day, which doesn't really happen all that often, but often enough. she's still adorable and funny and fun and we still get along, and it's really nice to have a regular friend who has no other real connection to the bullshit in your life. i can just hang out and perform and talk and there's no consequence in any of it.
end backstory.
you ever have a drunken idea that seems like just a fun idea but then you really, really follow through?
went to the fainting goat for lunch with b and ate a mediocre chicken sandwish that was made better by a lot of vodka-sodas. she had the blarney sliders, which i really want now. they're corned beef with horsey havarti cheese and scallions, served on warm soft pretzel buns.
i want it so much i memorized that, word for word, from the menu.
it's like how i know all the lyrics to ever song zooey deschanel has ever even thought about singing.
fat guys always have tangents where they describe food.
while we were having lunch a really sad looking guy came into the bar and sat down and ordered - what else? the fucking blarney sliders (fuck that chicken sandwich). he then went to the jukebox, put in fifteen bucks and stood there choosing the perfect pearl jam playlist. after he sat down, as each song came on, he'd have a very strong emotional reaction, including:
laughter. big smiles. a wistful expression. and my favorite - burying his face in his hands while sighing and breathing hard and rocking back and forth, hitting his handcoveredhead on the bar.
i have that reaction whenever someone plays lady gaga, maybe it's the same thing.
we started talking basketball (b and i, not pearl jam sobber and i), and how i play it, and i went into how fun it would be to do something with more people - not join a league or anything too hipstery - but to do a pickup kickball game.
b: "let's do it!"
me, wishing i was eating off her plate (literally - not sexual): "yeah, it'd be fun."
b: "no, i mean tonight. at nine. i'm texting."
me, drinking vodka: "who?"
b: "everyone i know."
problems that came up: where? (a park in littleton) lights? (lights'll get us arrested) how do we see? (make everything glow in the dark) who? (all our friends!) i only have like five friends (i have tons!) you think people will come for kickball? (if there's 90 cans of beer there!)
this is the story of how tim spent his afternoon buying a kickball and bases and painting them with a coat of white, then florescent green, then glow-in-the-dark paint.
tim davids:
he'll do anything for a cute girl.
we roll out at nine, and low and behold - like twenty people show up. i get up, i kick - boom, double. next kicker - i make it to third. b is up next. bring me home, baby, bring me home.
i lead off. the pitcher doesn't know what that means and probably doesn't remember i'm on her team, so i take a big lead.
the pitch. b kicks the ball directly at me. the third baseman grabs it. i'm out.
getting stuck on third and not being able to score is horrible. i have kickblueballs (GROAN i wrote this whole thing to use that joke i'll be here all week).
kickblueballs. take that the two actual standup comedians i am somewhat acquainted with.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dyatlov_pass_accident
my song of the moment:
something no one tells you about moving in with your female best friend: even if the two of you have absolutely no sexual or romantic inclinations toward one another, you will, periodically, act exactly as though you are married.
case in point, i periodically get text messages that feel rather domestic - "on your way back from the office can you pick up milk and paper towels and i need cigarettes."
what this really means, considering my schedule is later than most normal people's, is that i am now going to end up in a walmart in the middle of the night (we're poor as shit, i ain't got no principles - i need me some cheap ass paper towels and as long as they're cheap enough i hope they never let you fuckers unionize).
walmart in the middle of the night is a desperate, desolate place. it's like the concrete version of the abstract idea of isolation and punishment.
seen on a t-shirt at walmart in the middle of the night: "music is the art of thinking . . . with sounds."
it's the ellipses that make that work.
you think, "what? music isn't the art of thinking! i think all the time, that shit ain't music. right now i'm thinking that popcorn is sometimes overrated and sometimes underrated but never appreciated the correct amount. and that ain't music."
but then it hits you after the delay, it comes at you from the side like the attacking velociraptor - thinking with sounds.
and you go, "ohhhhhh."
there's an interesting hooker/angel complex going on at walmart recently. walking by the "young miss" section on my ware to the kitchen supplies (we needed a cutting board. i don't understand why, i just cut things. i told my roommate i could get a piece of scrap wood and thus save a few precious dollars, and she countered with "then the avocados will have splinters in them." there's no joke after that, i just like the phrase), i noticed that the two choices of styles offered to young women at the walmart are fake prep school uniforms, including blazers with fake prep school logos on them, and tiny ripped up union jack tanktops with tiny plaid skirts and pre-worn (p)leather jackets.
i didn't think you'd believe me, so i whipped out that modern marvel artifact of the future - the picture phone.
there's no picture.
imagine this scenario:
your best friend is pregnant, but single. dad's outta the picture. you're an intelligent, single girl, and you've known this girl your whole life, so you think, 'hey, i can move in and give her a hand around the house until the fetus drops out of her.' because you're an intelligent, single, nice girl. it's late in the pregnancy, and the weird cravings hit. your best friend just NEEDS chocolate syrup and hominy - but there's none left in the house. you throw on your pajama pants and victoria secret pink line hoodie and shuffle out, half-asleep, and drive your saturn to the local mom-and-pop grocery store. but it's late, and they're closed.
you have to brave the walmart.
you walk in, realizing that an old woman greeting you is way creepier at 1 in the morning, and face the pungent mcdonalds fry air, the harsh green florescence, the lacquered white tile.
the deli meats next to you seem like they're rotting. you make for the canned goods.
as you turn the corner, you walk into the "young miss" section.
there stands a fat, unshaven hipster in a shirt and tie. he is taking pictures of the young miss clothing with his cell phone and licking his lips lavaciously.
he turns and looks you deep in the eyes.
he can see your soul.
something else about walmart - the displays at the registers while you're waiting in line are really effective.
you actually start to think to yourself "do i own an uno deck? i could probably use one. it would go well with this discount chocolate bar and the economy pack of disposible lighters.
one day we could be sitting around, completely bored, and i'd be like the savior of the night with my surprise uno deck."
something no one tells you about moving in with your female best friend: even if the two of you have absolutely no sexual or romantic inclinations toward one another, you will, periodically, act exactly as though you are married.
case in point, i periodically get text messages that feel rather domestic - "on your way back from the office can you pick up milk and paper towels and i need cigarettes."
what this really means, considering my schedule is later than most normal people's, is that i am now going to end up in a walmart in the middle of the night (we're poor as shit, i ain't got no principles - i need me some cheap ass paper towels and as long as they're cheap enough i hope they never let you fuckers unionize).
walmart in the middle of the night is a desperate, desolate place. it's like the concrete version of the abstract idea of isolation and punishment.seen on a t-shirt at walmart in the middle of the night: "music is the art of thinking . . . with sounds."
it's the ellipses that make that work.
you think, "what? music isn't the art of thinking! i think all the time, that shit ain't music. right now i'm thinking that popcorn is sometimes overrated and sometimes underrated but never appreciated the correct amount. and that ain't music."
but then it hits you after the delay, it comes at you from the side like the attacking velociraptor - thinking with sounds.
and you go, "ohhhhhh."
there's an interesting hooker/angel complex going on at walmart recently. walking by the "young miss" section on my ware to the kitchen supplies (we needed a cutting board. i don't understand why, i just cut things. i told my roommate i could get a piece of scrap wood and thus save a few precious dollars, and she countered with "then the avocados will have splinters in them." there's no joke after that, i just like the phrase), i noticed that the two choices of styles offered to young women at the walmart are fake prep school uniforms, including blazers with fake prep school logos on them, and tiny ripped up union jack tanktops with tiny plaid skirts and pre-worn (p)leather jackets.
i didn't think you'd believe me, so i whipped out that modern marvel artifact of the future - the picture phone.
there's no picture.
imagine this scenario:
your best friend is pregnant, but single. dad's outta the picture. you're an intelligent, single girl, and you've known this girl your whole life, so you think, 'hey, i can move in and give her a hand around the house until the fetus drops out of her.' because you're an intelligent, single, nice girl. it's late in the pregnancy, and the weird cravings hit. your best friend just NEEDS chocolate syrup and hominy - but there's none left in the house. you throw on your pajama pants and victoria secret pink line hoodie and shuffle out, half-asleep, and drive your saturn to the local mom-and-pop grocery store. but it's late, and they're closed.
you have to brave the walmart.
you walk in, realizing that an old woman greeting you is way creepier at 1 in the morning, and face the pungent mcdonalds fry air, the harsh green florescence, the lacquered white tile.
the deli meats next to you seem like they're rotting. you make for the canned goods.
as you turn the corner, you walk into the "young miss" section.
there stands a fat, unshaven hipster in a shirt and tie. he is taking pictures of the young miss clothing with his cell phone and licking his lips lavaciously.
he turns and looks you deep in the eyes.
he can see your soul.
something else about walmart - the displays at the registers while you're waiting in line are really effective.
you actually start to think to yourself "do i own an uno deck? i could probably use one. it would go well with this discount chocolate bar and the economy pack of disposible lighters.
one day we could be sitting around, completely bored, and i'd be like the savior of the night with my surprise uno deck."
9.28.2009
cute but selfish and narcissistic to the point of near delusion
i woke up pretty late today and my roommate woke up right after me and she was sleeping damn hard 'cause she had sheet wrinkle lines pressed into like every part of her skin that i could see, like she was wearing old people makeup from a community theater.
a real exchange my roommate and i had last night:
"what's your least favorite fish?"
"halibut."
"mine is corn."
"corn isn't a fish."
"exactly."
today i ran out of the office real fast to grab food but then i came right back, the idea being that i could sit at my desk and eat tacos while simultaneously continuing to prepare files for archiving (this means i am unstapling pages of papers).
this meant that it took me a half an hour to eat my fish tacos with pineapple pico de gallo (authentic!), which is longer than usual. because i did it while working, that means i made six dollars while eating a lunch that cost me eleven.
when i pulled out of the parking lot of the restaurant, i let two women with a stroller walk across the street while i waited awkwardly behind the crosswalk. one waved a thank you at me. moments passed and the other waved as well. i got two thank you waves for the price of one. i think this adds karmic points that i don't deserve, and if i don't balance the equation before the universe notices, it will overreact and kick me harder than i need to be kicked.
i slammed my hand in the car door and then i sneered at a baby. i feel like everything's gonna be okay.
also my first thought when the second one waved was "all right, threesome chances going up EXPONENTIALLY."
two things i said last night that i thought were hilarious and wanted to add to my "standup act," but in retrospect weren't the funniest things in the world:
"i'll bet that if there's a hooker out there that works for cookies, instead of money, she's a very fat hooker."
which of course brings to mind the idea of a never-ending cycle - a woman works for cookies, she eats the cookies, she gets fat, men stop paying her for sex (no fatties), she starves, she slims down, men notice her, it all starts again.
or a philosophical paradox
(no offense to fat hookers i'm sure you make plenty of money).
"i hate when people don't respect the code of joke telling. when you allow me to tell you a joke, you're entering into a social contract to respect the structure. i say 'knock knock,' you say 'who's there', and so on. i ask a seemingly strange or obvious question, you say 'i don't know.' i hate when people try to answer.
'hey, bill, wanna hear a joke?'
'sure, tim.'
'what did the caterpillar say to the ant?'
'let's get fuzzy?'
FUCK YOU BILL YOU IMPOTENT SWINE"
whenever i make an impotence joke i will use the name bill.
guess why, dude.
this week's girls i would like to marry:
HOLY SHIT:
and the ever present maria bamford, who talked to me once:
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