I've been commissioned by one of the bakers at JavaCo to paint flowers on the walls of her chicken coop. It's a bigger ordeal than I had originally thought--it took me over six hours to finish one side. In addition to monetary payment, though, she gave me four zucchini, a mess of green beans, and invited me to raid her garden whenever I visited to paint. I had no knowledge of how to prepare zucchini, outside of my usual dip-it-in-honey-mustard-sauce-and-consume-raw routine, but one of the ladies at the pool was kind enough to offer a recipe basic enough to remember offhand and not require any ingredients that I wouldn't be able to use in anything else.
Today, also at said pool, I was talking to the kid who wears Forrest Gump-style braces on his legs. After showing me his "trick" (a tidal wave splash, then going underwater, holding his breath, and wiggling around), he announced, "I have a really, really, really big zucchini."
"That's cool. Did you grow it?"
"Yeah."
"Are you going to eat it?"
"No. It's too much for us to eat. We might give it away. Maybe to you." He laughed, then splashed, went underwater, held his breath, and wiggled around.
He was probably joking, but I couldn't help imagine what I would do with this bounty of zucchini that has been bestowed upon me, and why I was chosen to receive its glorious healthful plentitude. I pictured my refrigerator overflowing with vegetation as I'd attempt zucchini cakes, zucchini smoothies, chicken-fried zucchini, zucchini chips, zucchini-stuffed zucchini, zucchini dog food, zucchini vodka. I'd shake my fist at Providence with every well-intentioned gift while simultaneously offering a weary thanks, because at the moment I'm out of honey mustard sauce and I could really use a drink that began with Z.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Static From the Underground
I can't talk long. The spyware is listening in.
Oh Computer, how I've missed you. It's been seven cruel days since our parting, when you were poisoned with doggedly malevolent files and I thusly became hotly pursued by Smitfraud Corporation's relentless bots disguised as benign virus alerts.
What have I done around this godforsaken wasteland without you? I've read quite a bit. It's not the same--you have to use both hands to turn the pages, instead of scrolling down. I've been sleeping a great deal, recovering from two weeks of long hours and late nights. I've spent over $125 on alcohol since the beginning of June. I will never forgive my carelessness in neglecting to firewall you from the threat of invasion.
Someday we can be together again, like we used to. Remember? Those golden summer days, crimson twilights, and star-dotted midnights that we ignored while we sat inside together, giggling and sobbing as we instant messaged for hours. YouTube. TvLinks. Your glow brightened my eyes as I stroked your keys, and you sang softly to me through muted speakers.
Every day I am away from you, my weakness mounts with my frustration. And consequently, with my shame. I must confess it: I've been on other computers, my love. I know, I know, but it's excruciating without you and your sweet internet to cushion the hardships of everyday existence. Facebook beckons, what with its sensuous mini-feed and alluring new applications to investigate. With every transgression I grow guiltier; nightly I come home and find you crashed, watching as you struggle so valiantly against this plague inflicted upon you, the pop-ups covering your screen like a pox.
The spyware is all around me. I can't shake it. They say they're here to protect me, protect you, but I'm not buying it. Every five seconds there's a malaware alert, flashing false yellow propaganda. I've longed to return to you, dear Computer. I will count the minutes until you are cured of this affliction. Then, when it is safe to roam the untamed online wilderness once more, we will ride off into a sunset even more vibrant than our firewall, hand-in-mouse.
Oh Computer, how I've missed you. It's been seven cruel days since our parting, when you were poisoned with doggedly malevolent files and I thusly became hotly pursued by Smitfraud Corporation's relentless bots disguised as benign virus alerts.
What have I done around this godforsaken wasteland without you? I've read quite a bit. It's not the same--you have to use both hands to turn the pages, instead of scrolling down. I've been sleeping a great deal, recovering from two weeks of long hours and late nights. I've spent over $125 on alcohol since the beginning of June. I will never forgive my carelessness in neglecting to firewall you from the threat of invasion.
Someday we can be together again, like we used to. Remember? Those golden summer days, crimson twilights, and star-dotted midnights that we ignored while we sat inside together, giggling and sobbing as we instant messaged for hours. YouTube. TvLinks. Your glow brightened my eyes as I stroked your keys, and you sang softly to me through muted speakers.
Every day I am away from you, my weakness mounts with my frustration. And consequently, with my shame. I must confess it: I've been on other computers, my love. I know, I know, but it's excruciating without you and your sweet internet to cushion the hardships of everyday existence. Facebook beckons, what with its sensuous mini-feed and alluring new applications to investigate. With every transgression I grow guiltier; nightly I come home and find you crashed, watching as you struggle so valiantly against this plague inflicted upon you, the pop-ups covering your screen like a pox.
The spyware is all around me. I can't shake it. They say they're here to protect me, protect you, but I'm not buying it. Every five seconds there's a malaware alert, flashing false yellow propaganda. I've longed to return to you, dear Computer. I will count the minutes until you are cured of this affliction. Then, when it is safe to roam the untamed online wilderness once more, we will ride off into a sunset even more vibrant than our firewall, hand-in-mouse.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
My Iron Lung
I wanted to go to a bar yesterday evening before the smoking ban went into effect in Kirksville and no one would be able to have a cigarette within ten feet of any public property. Unfortunately, I forgot what day it was and missed out.
Before the resolution passed, I got conned into being in a political ad for it when I actually was opposed to it. I smoke when I feel like it, which is very seldom, and one of the reasons I don't do it oftener is because it's hell on your health. I wasn't against banning cigarettes in public at all, but I thought the decision should be left up to the individual property owners, who pay the taxes on their buildings and businesses, not the whole of the town dictating to the few. If the owners cared about public health, then it'd be on their conscience whether or not to allow smoking in their building.
My boss knew I acted, so she asked if I wanted to be in a commercial. I said yes, and she told me that all I had to do was hand a cup of coffee to my co-worker, who was pretending to be a customer, while she read a five-second pitch from the script. The crew set up the lights and camera and she practiced reading. When I overheard her rehearse, "We became a smoke-free restaurant five years ago," I balked.
"Umm. I think I might have to decline being in this after all," I told her.
"You don't have to decline," she smiled most diplomatically, with a resolve that would have reinforced the Berlin Wall. I sighed, and when the cameras were rolling, handed the cup of coffee uncomfortably over and over and over the counter to Patrick, an equally unwilling participant, until the KTVO crew called one a winner.
I never saw it, but I'm sure it did wonders because the resolution passed. I figured I'd salvage my wounded activism by sticking it to the man anyway and putting the commercial on my acting résumé.
Before the resolution passed, I got conned into being in a political ad for it when I actually was opposed to it. I smoke when I feel like it, which is very seldom, and one of the reasons I don't do it oftener is because it's hell on your health. I wasn't against banning cigarettes in public at all, but I thought the decision should be left up to the individual property owners, who pay the taxes on their buildings and businesses, not the whole of the town dictating to the few. If the owners cared about public health, then it'd be on their conscience whether or not to allow smoking in their building.
My boss knew I acted, so she asked if I wanted to be in a commercial. I said yes, and she told me that all I had to do was hand a cup of coffee to my co-worker, who was pretending to be a customer, while she read a five-second pitch from the script. The crew set up the lights and camera and she practiced reading. When I overheard her rehearse, "We became a smoke-free restaurant five years ago," I balked.
"Umm. I think I might have to decline being in this after all," I told her.
"You don't have to decline," she smiled most diplomatically, with a resolve that would have reinforced the Berlin Wall. I sighed, and when the cameras were rolling, handed the cup of coffee uncomfortably over and over and over the counter to Patrick, an equally unwilling participant, until the KTVO crew called one a winner.
I never saw it, but I'm sure it did wonders because the resolution passed. I figured I'd salvage my wounded activism by sticking it to the man anyway and putting the commercial on my acting résumé.
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