Press your spaceface close to mine

Special at Whole Foods: Free Hypocrisy

Posted by Sunday on Jun 21, 2008 at 6:06 pm


SUNDAY searches for something on a shelf inside a WHOLE FOODS, but clearly cannot find it. A worker, EMO DUDE approaches.

ED: Can I help you find something?

ME: Yeah, I’m looking for emu oil.

ED: Oh… right, we don’t carry that. It’s an animal product.

ME: (points at shopping basket containing many items from meat department) I’ve got a whole basket full of animal products.

ED: Um.

ME: Seriously, I’ve got lamb, beef and chicken in my basket. If there had been emu meat, I would have some of that too.

ED: Right, but, we don’t sell any personal products that are animal derived.

ME: What about that honey-calendula moisturizer right there?

ED: (fatal systems error)

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Fresh Baby With a Twist

Posted by Sunday on Apr 2, 2008 at 1:04 pm

I’ve cited many reasons in the past for why I shouldn’t be allowed to be a parent (or watch after anyone else’s child), but the primary one is that I’d feed them nothing but lemons and pickles.

It looks like someone else has the same problem:

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For The Record, They Aren’t “Gym Shoes”

Posted by Sunday on Mar 24, 2008 at 9:07 pm

I live in a working-class black neighborhood that is bordered on one side by a affluent white neighborhood and on the other side by a very poor, very dangerous predominately black neighborhood (also, living here has gotten me out of the habit of saying African American, because the blacks look at you like you’re retarded when you say it).

The poor neighborhood has a gun violence problem. Right before we moved here a young anti-gun activist living about seven blocks over was shot and killed; on nice days, like today, when I am out walking I see at least one young black man in a wheelchair, and usually at least one limping one. Because I’m a dumb white lady it took me a while to realize they were shooting victims.

Today on my walk I passed three young men who had trouble walking, and when I passed one of them he said to me, “Lookit’ you, lady! Unh-huh!”

“Hi,” I said as I approached him. Men are very flirtatious around here. I often get a lascivious “Salam, sister.”

“Day-yum. In your nice comfortable gym shoes out walking left-right-left-right.”

“Uh?” I said.

“Don’t be angry at me, sistah.”

“I’m not? What?”

“You don’t gotta walk so fast, we ain’t gonna catchu.”

It is common for me to find myself in this communication purgatory. I assume he is just being cheeky, but a few blocks later I wonder if my fast walk has appeared to him as white fear or something (or would that be black fear?). BattleGate is almost certainly laughing at this right now, because I have a conspicuously rapid walking pace that she dubbed the “City Walk” – it’s an unconscious effort on my part. Later yet I wonder if it was some kind of good-natured ambulatory bitterness.

When I was in New Orleans eating a muffaletta sitting on a park bench away from the crowds, a large black man approached me and asked, “You be honest with me if I ask you somethin’?”


“You be honest?”

… “Yes?”

“You be honest if I can tell you exactly where you bought them shoes from?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

He stared at me. I stared back. I felt like I was in another country.

“You said you’d be honest.”

I figure he’s crazy and deploy a mild Look-At-The-Elephant*. “I’m gonna eat this sandwich now, before I have to get back to work. Take it easy.”

He walked away. Later in my hotel room as I was reading over a press packet for the city, I came across a safety pamphlet. Among other things, it advised that there was a scam locals ran where they’d tell you where you got your shoes from and then ask for money, and how you are to firmly repeat “NO THANK YOU” and not engage them in conversation. I flipped the paper over, expecting there to be something on the back side. What part was the scam? Could they hypnotize you? I was intrigued, but there was no further explanation. If Jonno or Richard are reading this, maybe you have some explanation for me: there’s no actual scam, right? They are just advising tourists (or press, in my case) to be frightened of beggars?

Anyway, I’ve only been frightened twice since living here: one was a wiry, enraged crazy woman who thought I’d laughed at her (I ran, ‘cuz bitch was gonna fuck me up) and the other was a huge truck full of football fans on the night of a big Bengals game, who pulled over to where I was walking our dog so a woman could open the door and call, “Come over here, baby!” in a weirdly friendly tone while I overheard someone else say in the cab “Just go over there, quick!” (again, running). The last one was by far the scariest, and nary a black dude in sight.

*My dad worked as a caretaker for developmentally disabled sex-offenders and told me that he’d defused several dangerous situations by actually pointing outside and going “What the-“. This was fondly referred to as Look-At-The-Elephant.

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Yes, Because THAT Is What Would Be Most Helpful

Posted by Sunday on Mar 15, 2008 at 4:16 pm

(HALCYON enters kitchen)

What’re you doing?  Oh, you look like you’re on some kind of tidying streak.  I’ll get out of your way.

(HALCYON quickly exits kitchen)

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Note To Self And Others:

Posted by Sunday on Mar 14, 2008 at 11:38 pm

If the fresh “Roasted Salsa” from The Fresh Market tastes strangely rich and meaty… it is because it contains beef stock, tallow, and chicken fat.

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Posted by Sunday on Mar 13, 2008 at 10:42 pm

I recently came across this, scribbled on a piece of paper in an apparent drunken scrawl.  It took me a while to remember that it was written soberly, but rapidly; I was trying to write down what Halcyon was saying, as he said it:

Have you seen a Sherman tank?  It looks like a loaf of bread with a pencil sticking out of it.

Now a Tiger, if you see a Tiger tank coming you shit yourself.  It looks like a shark, you shit yourself and you cannot help it, it looks like a shark made out of metal.  On land.  With a big gun.

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Observations of the Broadcast Kind

Posted by Sunday on Mar 1, 2008 at 4:21 pm

I am aware that I put off a worldly, hyper-futuristic and educated vibe, but when you put me in front of a television I am nothing better than a gasping, pea-brained catfish.  Here are some of the few thoughts that made it through.

  • When did the Scifi Channel become the Stargate Channel?
  • There was an ad for a diet pill that proclaimed to “do more than just shrink your belly” and then proceeded to show a woman who caressed her hips, thighs and butt. My question is: is there a diet pill that just shrinks your belly? And this is some kind of big problem for the diet pill industry?
  • I gag when people pronounce “buttah” and think they’re being quirky.
  • I am a prudish old woman, which is why when the girl in The Princess Diaries gets made over to look “pretty” I think she looks like a hooker.
  • The world “protocepting” and “prognosticators” used within 60 seconds on one program about food.
  • One out of every ten commercials on the Food Network is for severe digestive problems.
  • Sword swallowing is offensive.
  • There are Cadillac commercials where a woman is talking about things (things that turn her on, things that women like in a car) but the audio in intentionally jacked – it’s slightly out of sync, oversaturated, weirdly enunciated – basically it enrages me.
  • There are some real fucking assholes on the Food Network.
  • Why did True Hollywood Story start calling itself THS? It is upsetting for me since my highschool was called THS and I keep thinking that the True Hollywood Story is about my highschool.
  • Have you ever watched Samantha Brown: Passport to Europe? Don’t.
  • Seriously, how many episodes of Stargate get made in a week? 14? 30?
  • In the year since I’ve seen cable television they’ve invented psychic cars.
  • I laugh every goddamn time I see that damn Neanderthal movie trailer.
  • I’m not sure how sick it is that I love class action suit commercials, and I don’t care.
4 Posted in Captain's Log

Technology – Now With Less Reliability!

Posted by Sunday on Mar 1, 2008 at 12:14 pm

Oof! Sorry for the delay, dear readers, but it turns out that the contemporary fanciness of a hotel does not translate to wireless internet capability. I had to explain to a deskgirl that computers could even be hooked up to a cable in order to get the internet – take heart dear Weena, our society will be less confusing for you over time!

I’ve now moved to a second hotel (not because of the dismal wifi situation, I’m not that obnoxious), this one of a spectacularly musty and floral clutter.  With working wifi.  Things are rarely what they seem.

I’m off to eat something fried or seafoody or both – a more in-depth state-of-the-nation will be arriving toot sweet.

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Actual Conversation Not Taken Out of Context

Posted by Sunday on Feb 26, 2008 at 10:44 pm

Halcyon:   Does this finger make me look fat?

Subspace:    I think I ate a bug.

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I Am the Only Williams Alive

Posted by Sunday on Feb 19, 2008 at 2:01 pm

Lately I’ve had a rash of of people calling ____ Williams. Carol. Walter. Nancy. None of these, incidentally, are my first name, my middle name, nor the names of anyone in my direct family. Today a woman called for Barbara, and I said my usual: “There is no one here by that name.”

You see, I think these people are guessing at the first name — it’s crazy, I know, but also it isn’t. While Williams is a common last name, it’s not the most common, leading me to believe that the abundance of folks lookin’ for a Williams is in fact clandestine. If someone had called asking for “Amy Smith” I would have told them they had the wrong phone number, as indeed they had. However, when I get a call for “Barbara Williams” my pissy-hackles go up (which are from, coincidentally, the Williams side of the family) and I say slowly, “There is no one here by that name.” What I really want to be saying is, “I’m onto you. You’ve guessed poorly. You get two more guesses.” Because those next two guesses are never going to be right. And I will laugh and laugh and laugh and then hang up on them.

So again, today, I tell the woman on the phone that there is no Barbara at this number. “Ooooooh -kay,” she says in what I can only describe as a ‘cunty’ tone. “What about Kevin, is there a Kevin available?”

“No, there isn’t,” I say. I pulled out ‘frosty’ for my tone adjective.

“Uh-huh,” she says, “Well, that’s weird, I guess they gave me the wrong number.”

She’s right, that is weird, especially curious considering that she seems to be sort of casting about for likely-sounding names. What I don’t understand is how a last name might end up on some calling list, but a first name doesn’t – shouldn’t they be asking for me by my whole name? Or is this some kind of law they are trying to circumvent where they cannot solicit you directly but they can goad you into saying, “This is the Williams household, but…”

“They sure did,” I tell her, and I hang up.

For the last year I’ve lived in an apartment where the postal carrier can’t understand that there used to be a tenant here with the same last name but the first name of Michelle, and that I don’t actually want Michelle’s mail. I understand that it might be hard to comprehend that more than one person in the world – let alone the same apartment complex – has the surname Williams, but indeed there is. I wrote a little note and pasted in inside my post box that says the only two names we can accept mail for, names that are our own. Nevertheless, Michelle’s mail continues to arrive on a weekly basis (the mail has all been the junk variety, but I like to pretend I have principles).

At the end of the day, I wonder if perhaps I shouldn’t just take over for the other Williamses out there. I should answer “Yes, this is s/he,” and then see what business we Williamses are up to. I suppose I owe it to us.

(for unknown reasons I have poured my drink on myself twice while writing this post)

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