Archive for April, 2005

Another break from politics

22 April 2005

From Knife-Wielding Feminists:

Favorite food to crunch: Chips & salsa
Favorite comfort food: mole…. molemolemole
Food that makes the best noise: fresh garlic thrown into hot olive oil
Favorite picnic lunch: bruschetta, white wine, brownies
Favorite food scene in movie: The cereal/masturbation scene in Sugar
Favorite food lyrics: “One pair of candied lips and your bubblegum tongue”-John Mayer
Best food smell memory: frying funnel cakes at Knott’s Berry Farm
Favorite summer snack: bruschetta
Food that reminds me of the ocean: doritos
Favorite winter snack: potato soup
Most likely to eat for lunch: 6″ turkey on jalapeño-cheese at subway
Least likely to eat for lunch: steak, if only because of its prohibitive expense
Makes me gag: olives
Favorite wild foods: peppers. c’mon, they’re wild somewhere…
Favorite medicinal food: garlic
Foods that reflect my heritage: if you can steam it, it’s Irish.
Food most like me: garlic…known to many, appreciated by few, loved by a select group
Favorite raw food smell: cilantro


Benedictvm XVI: The FAQs

20 April 2005

1. Who is this Joseph Ratzinger, anyway?
A: The former dean of the College of Cardinals (since 2002), Chair of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (since 1981), Joseph Ratzinger was born in Bavaria in 1927. Joined the German Army during WWII, but deserted not long after. Ordained a priest in 1951. Created Cardinal in 1977; one of only three voting members of the College not appointed by JP II.

2. Wait, he was a Nazi?
A: Yes Virginia, there really are still Nazis in public office.

3. Isn’t it unfair to ascribe to someone the beliefs he held as a teenager?
A: Unless he has seen fit to disavow himself of such beliefs and make clear moves away from them, no.

4. But he deserted the German Army, risking death. Doesn’t that mean he wasn’t really a Nazi?
A: No; it means he’s both a Nazi and a coward.

5. Why the name Benedict?
A: There’s debate on this. Most likely, it seems he took the name of St. Benedict, who invented the monastery and promoted the monastic life, thus doing much to save the Catholic Church of the Middle Ages. In other words, “The Inquisition was swell, nein? Why did we ever get rid of it?”

6. Why do you care, you’re not Catholic?
A: True, but hundreds of millions of people are. And the Church will continue to have the blood of millions on her hands for disallowing condom use in AIDS-ravaged Africa.

7. Deaths at the hand of the Catholic Church?
A: Oh, come on; historically, it’s what the Church does best.

8. But Herr Kardinale says Catholicism is the only way to salvation and all other religions are deficient.
A: Ask him again 3 seconds after he dies; see if he changes his tune.

9. But you’re an Anglican; isn’t that just Catholic Lite?
A: In some ways. We don’t believe cannibalism is what Jesus told us to do at the Last Supper (Yes Virginia, to be Catholic, you have to believe you’re eating the actual flesh and blood of Christ. Not symbolically. Actually. Personally, I prefer my Savior sautéed in garlic, not served on toast). We feature HM The Queen as Supreme Governor. It’s rather nice knowing who your next Supreme Governor will be. When Lizzy II kicks the bucket, we get King Charles. After that, King William. It’s perfectly lovely. No freaky Nazis slipping into the line (our last Nazi was Edward VIII; fortunately he only lasted a few weeks).

10. You Anglicans are just there cause Henry VIII wanted a divorce.
A: Guilty as charged. In the 500 years since then, though, we’ve made a whole series of innovations: freedom of conscience, ordaining of women, ordaining of homos, blessing of homos, not burning homos at the stake, not worshipping Mary (yes that still freaks me out), using the real set of commandments (y’all Romans don’t have the graven image one, that’s why you think you can pray to Mary and not go to Hell). So yeah, we also have a checkered past. But we’re willing to be brought (kicking and screaming in some cases ::cough cough African Bishops cough cough::) into the twenty-first century. And if you’re a Buddhist, Methodist, Wiccan, more power to you. See if Der Rottweiler gives you the same privilege. God Save The Queen.

Benedictvs XVI, Pontifex Maximvs

19 April 2005

Habemvs Papam. Et Fascistvm Est

While watching Desperate Housewives

10 April 2005

Does anyone else find the california cheese commercial featuring the bulls sexually harassing the cows just a little offensive?

How awesome is Extreme Makeover: Home Edition? Yes, it’s free publicity for all involved, but hell, at least it benefits a worthwhile family.

I would’ve shoved that pen right up Carlos Solís’ nose and then beat it with a meat tenderizer. Fucker.

Thoughts on the Royal Wedding

9 April 2005

Well, they’ve finally gone and done it. HRH The Prince of Wales has taken Camilla Parker-Bowles, now HRH The Princess of Wales (and that’s what I’ll call her until she becomes Queen Consort because that’s what she is. Regardless of how I or anyone else may feel about it, you can’t stop a title from devolving from a husband to a wife in the British consitution. The royal family tried when Edward VIII abdicated and became the Duke of Windsor. Oh, how they insisted that Wallis Simpson was not, could not be the Duchess of Windsor. But she was. And though she may want to be called Duchess of Cornwall and then Princess Consort, Camilla became Her Royal Highness The Princess of Wales and Countess of Chester, Duchess of Cornwall, Duchess of Rothesay, Countess of Carrick, Baroness of Renfrew, Lady of the Isles, and Princess of Scotland the microsecond she said ‘I do.’ And the microsecond the Imperial State Crown hits Charles’ head, she shall become Her Majesty The Queen. There is no constitutional provision denying the wife of a King Regnant the title and dignity of Queen Consort nor for creating a Princess Consort. One would take an Act of Parliament and the other would take a whole flurry of Letters Patent after said Act of Parliament. Both Albert (Queen Victoria’s husband) and Philip (Lizzy II’s husband) had to be specially created Prince Consort because no other dignity devolved to either of them when their wives were crowned Queens Regnant. It’s sexist, and it probably should be changed, but it’s the way it is. Long live Queen Camilla. Wow that was a long parenthesis.)

And after reviewing the press coverage and accounts of the proceedings and the resplendent photo galleries, I think this is going to be a turning point for the Royal Family. In the pictures following the church blessing, you can see the Queen, Prince Philip, The Princess Royal, The Duke of York, The Earl & Countess of Wessex, Princes William and Harry, Zara & Peter Phillips, and the Parker Bowles children simply milling about. There was no strict protocol enforced, there was no stiff formality evident in the celebratory mood. And for once, possibly the first time, the Royal Family is shown as a real family. Imperfect, with its black sheep, but a family nonetheless. And for all the PR efforts they’ve made over the years, this loosely controlled event was the most compelling to me. Without really trying, they became real to me, and probably, to much of the British public. Even the royal family isn’t perfect….full of adulturers, commoners, a crazy old aunt or two, and the like. And they acknowledge it within themselves and to the public. But nevertheless they managed to be happy. Just like a real family. Somehow existing and finding joy in life even though the veil and mystery of the monarchy has been pierced and their god-like status forgotten. And that’ll do more for their standing in the UK than publicity and charity and OBE events ever will, I think.

Even the normally anti-monarchy Guardian feels the tide of change. (And I say anti-monarchy only in the most general, subversive of senses. In the UK, advocating the abolition of the monarchy is still legally treason and grounds for having a whole host of unpleasant things done to you, the least of which is life imprisonment.) So, good luck to the Waleses. May you be judged in the future by what you do now, not by your asinine bumbles of the past.

Of disgustink bodily funktions

7 April 2005

A teaser trailer before we get to the main blog:

My toilet appears to be taking a break from working. A couple of hours ago I went into the bathroom to pee and noticed that the turdfest I left there earlier was still there. Hmm, that’s odd, I thought. I must’ve forgotten to flush. So I did my thing and flushed. As I got up just now and decided I wasn’t going to be able to go to sleep until I blogged, I revisited the bathroom before setting to labor. Imagine my surprise when I turned on the light and there laid the turd from this afternoon. Still reveling in its porcelain digs. This time it was more shocking, what with the deja vu to earlier. It’s like my can is remaking Groundhog Day, with my turds playing Bill Murray’s role. I just flushed and ran out. Pray for me that it won’t still be there in the morning, horribly swollen and mocking my attempts to banish it, eventually growing legs and hopping out of the toilet like some horrible science experiment gone completely bad.

Thank you. And now for the Feature Presentation.

I hate hiccuping. Yes, I know everyone hates hiccuping, but I hate hiccupping to an exquisite, practiced degree. As the late Pontiff hated communism, I hate hiccups.

God knows this.

Sadly, He has taken this as license to endow me with a hiccup capacity usually reserved for people drunk on cheap whiskey. I’ve had the hiccups for 17 hours straight before. I’ve gone to bed with the hiccups and woken up with a start the next morning as my diaphragm decided to twitch like a tweaker short on xanax. Most people do a little ::hurk:: with their hiccups. A mere annoyance. Me, I frighten children with the noises I make. I interrupt lecturing professors with a sudden sharp intake of breath and resultant collapse of the throat, resulting in a sound like an angry, dying accordion.

In the middle of one of my marathon hiccuping sessions, Jen noted that a parish priest back in New York had died of the hiccups. Thanks love, that’s precisely the love and support I need as I try to think about anything other than putting a dagger in my sternum to STOP THE AGONY.

As you’ve probably guessed, hiccups aren’t my thing. They usually piss me off so badly that I resort to thwacking myself on the chest rather hard after each hiccup. ::hic:: ::thwack::. So not only do I have the worst hiccups in the world, I also look like I’ve forgotten my lithium. I suppose it’s my rational mind’s attempt to shock the diaphragm muscle back into a regular rhythm combined with my irrational mind’s desire to drag the diaphragm out, call it racial epithets, gang-rape it in a dark alley, and leave it for dead.

Oddly, I don’t get the hiccups from drinking. You’d think my Irish blood would emerge and I’d start singing songs about murdering Englishmen while hiccuping whenever ethanol and I are in the same ZIP code. But the only consistent trigger to my hiccups is certain very spicy chile peppers. The kind that are found in good salsa.

So late in senior year, Irma’s mom came to visit her and she brought with her The Best Burritos in the World. They’re from a little hole in the wall up in the Bay Area, and they’re to die for. Unfortunately, since they contain a trigger pepper, for me they’re also to die of. It’s a fine line.

So the girls and I get hammered one eve, and we decide that The Best Burritos in the World would make an excellent midnight snack. So we heat ’em up. And go to town. And I immediately start hiccuping. Thus endeth any part I may have had in the conversation:

Irma: God I love White Russians. Kahlúa rocks my world.

Chris: ::hic:: ::thwack::

Jen: I think I’m going to start my period soon. Watch out.

Chris: ::hic:: ::thwack::

Irma: Foucault’s model of the panopticon really applies to the oppression of women in today’s America, don’t you think? [this may be embellished a bit…my memory’s a bit fuzzy]

Chris: ::hic:: ::thwack::

And because I’m drunk, I hit harder than usual and feel less pain than usual. I eventually tire of this and go home and go to bed. The next morning we all go to the gym. I change and roll over to Jen’s room looking forlorn and confused.

Jen: what?

Chris: I don’t remember a whole lot about last night. Do you know why I have a massive purple bruise on my chest?

I am God’s personal hacky-sack.

Misheard Lyrics of my Life

6 April 2005

Joan Baez: “The ants are my friends, they’re blowing in the wind….”

Eiffel 65: “I’m blue, I’m in need of a guy, I’m on speed, I’m a guy, I’m in need of a guy…”

Simon & Garfunkel: “In restless dreams I wore cologne….narrow streets of cobblestone…”

Macy Gray: “When I try to hide it, it’s clear: I work at Coco’s when you are not near.”

KC & The Sunshine Band: “Freeze the Boat….don’t go….I’m begging you to stay…”

Elton John: “Somewhere that road fucks up ahead to ignorance and innocence.”

Elton John: “They said you were a treadmill, and they made you change your name…”

Elton John: “Don’t let your son go down on me….”

Elton John: “I’m a rocket man….Burning down the streets on everyone…”

[I think Sir Elton’s accent might be a bit of a problem]

Queen: “Ich will nacht [I want night]….we will not let you go”

[My childhood music experience was very confusing, as you can see]

And because I found it on the Internet and it made me laugh till I peed, I bring you, the Australian National Anthem:

Australians all own ostriches
Four minus one is three
We’ve olden royals, we’re fair and loyal
Our home is dirt by sea
I learned to bounce when nature stripped
In booties stitched with care
In mystery’s haze, let’s harvest maize
And plant azaleas there
Enjoy full trains and let us in
And dance! Australia, yeah!

Correct lyrics:

Australians all let us rejoice
For we are young and free
We’ve golden soil and wealth for toil
Our home is girt by sea
Our land abounds in nature’s gifts
Of beauty, rich and rare
In history’s page, let every stage
Advance Australia Fair!
In joyful strains then let us sing,
Advance Australia Fair!

Go ahead, listen to these songs. Tell me I’m wrong.

In Which the Week Hunted, Stalked, and Eventually Ate Me

5 April 2005

Exciting news: another generation has been added to the family. My cousin had her baby on Thursday, and we all breath a sigh of relief that all is as it should be. I can’t wait to go see her this weekend!

That, unfortunately, is about the only thing I have to look forward to this week. I had a presentation today (it went alarmingly well), I have to collect data for an hour tomorrrow, do a take-home midterm between Thursday and Tuesday, do a language and gender project over the weekend, come up with a topic for a bilingualism term paper, flesh out what I’m doing for a final project in language and gender, find relevant sources for said project, act as a subject for a phonology project for an hour on Monday, AND keep up my workout schedule of an hour a day, four days a week. Is that the world’s smallest violin I hear playing a dirge for me? Yay!

But the thing I’m least looking forward to is rewriting an essay for a class. Now, this essay was due a month ago. I wrote my little heart out for it. Granted, it was during midterms week, so I only wrote my heart out for two days, but still, I was happy at my creatively arranged verbal diarrhea. Basically I tested a concept for organizing language against real data. Now, we had spent an entire lecture on this concept, and the professor mentioned that the manuscript that it was based on had not yet been published, but that she knew the author and was familiar enough with it to lecture on it. So I wrote my essay using the terminology and conceptual organization she had laid out. But today I got my essay back and halfway down the second page, she wrote “I’m stopping here. You need to have read the article because you’re misusing technical terms….” Shit.

So I go up to her after class and ask when she would like to see me, and we made a date. She went on to ask if I understood the problem, which I said I sort of did. She said that I had to read the original article. I said I can’t read it cause it’s not published. She said, well, you still need to read it. I replied, “I CAN’T READ SOMETHING THAT ISN’T IN PRINT; MY MIDDLE NAME IS NOT GOD.” Or words to that effect. She says “well, I have the manuscript.” Well, that’s good to know. It would have been even better to know a month ago when I was writing the essay, or perhaps a month and a half ago when she lectured on the topic. Or maybe even in the intervening month that she’s had my essay and knew I would have to rework it. Brilliant. I love public universitites. And this is after my presentation went so smashingly well in the same class. When something like that happens you really have to sit back and think. What went wrong here? Probably I should have asked her for more info if I was to be writing a paper. I’ll agree to split the difference of blame. I should have asked; she shouldn’t have witheld vital info. But one incident in which I won’t split the blame is high school calculus. I came dangerously close to failing calculus in high school. For no good reason. I tutored half the class, but somehow the tests made me fall on my face. I asked for help, didn’t get any. Begged for help, didn’t get any. Had to explain to Georgetown why I did so bad in calculus and why they shouldn’t de-admit me (I politely told them to fuck off). When I aced calc I, calc II and multivariable calculus AT GEORGETOWN, I wanted to run back to my high school and wave my report card in his and the entire department’s face. That and leave a steaming pile of shit on his desk. Let this be a lesson to you laddies. Never give an Irishman a reason to hold a grudge.