CRACK MONGERS

The subject of today's blog is: CRACK.

Crack is the bane of our society. Those who distribute Crack do us all a disservice, for even if you don't do it, I'm sure someone you know does.

Over lunch today (I had the curried vegetable soup and about eight crackers...no pun intended), I saw a girl at the next table distributing Crack. What sort of person was this? Well, just what you'd expect: young, blasé, and hungry. She seemed to think nothing of it—the Crack was in full view. Several people walked by and stared, but she made no attempt to hide the Crack. One young man nearly walked into a pole because he was distracted by the Crack distribution.

I ask you: what was I to do? Berate her for distributing Crack in a University lunch room? Ask her to please put away her Crack? Throw crackers at her crack?

There was nothing I could do, but stare into that dark, secret evil and shake my head.

As a result, I have written to both our MLA and our MP requesting that low-rise jeans be banned. If you’d like to sign my petition to put an end to the promulgation of Crack, visit Mothers for a Crackless Society (M.A.C.S.)

Thiiiiis iiiiiis myyyy sooooong

I don't know how it happened.

When we first moved in, this was a quiet building--full of senior citizens, mormons, and us. But now it seems the seniors kicked the bucket, the mormons moved back to Utah, and we have been left to deal with their odd replacements.

The other day, L and I were walking down the east stairwell when we happened upon a curious woman on the landing. She was dressed in neon colored clothing and her long hair was badly permed. She looked like an extra from Wayne's World. She stood on the landing, holding the hallway door open and singing, "Thiiiiis iiiiiis myyyy sooooong....Thiiiiis iiiiiis myyyy sooooong...".

L was freaked out by the singing lady who stared at us and smiled, so he said, "Good Morning."

To which she replied, "Thiiiiis iiiiiis myyyy sooooong....Thiiiiis iiiiiis myyyy sooooong...".

I smiled awkwardly as I passed her and hurried down the last flight of stairs where L held the outside door open for me. As he held the door, he met the woman's eye--she continued watching, singing, and, surely, plotting our ghastly murder.

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here today to say farewell to our favorite blog: Cheverazo.

When she lived, she was a gregarious woman who spread joy as far and wide as her ample bosoms (though they were only the third biggest of the bunch) would allow. But, alas, not everyone who wanted to interact with her was able, as her jealous father, Mr. Friendster, only allowed registered members to comment or dance with her at balls.

Cheverazo, being a high spirited girl who would not submit to her father's demands... ahem… sought solace in the pointed edge of her mouse, and left us all to weep after her.

But we must consider that she has gone to a better place—a place where any and all her acquaintances may comment on her bright character without fear of Mr. Friendster's wrath.

Therefore, friends, let us bow our heads and pray that the almighty Blogspot accept her in her new incarnation as http://biasedandmyopic.blogspot.com/

Amen

Musings from My Walmart Safari

I went on safari today to the magical land of Walmart where I intended to buy shampoo and Halloween candy. I was strolling down the vitamin isle, mostly because it makes me feel bad about my health and feeling bad about my health is trendy. Anyway, there I was checking out a bottle of Omega-3 when an elderly man to my left Farted. He did not pass wind or gass...it was nothing so subtle. This man straight out farted. What could I do? My eyes widened and I held my breath as I tried to discreetly evacuate the contaminated isle.

So here is the question I have been pondering today: when does it become socially acceptable to Fart in public? When children do it we chuckle, when dogs do it we faint, when our friends do it we mock them for the rest of their lives. Do the elderly get a Free-Fart-Pass? Do they deserve it for having survived the Dirty Thirties? Is it that they cannot control it, or that they will not control it? And how should we respond: do we ignore it, which implies that we condone the behavior; do we exclaim in horror and/or surprise, which suggests that it is unacceptable; do we laugh, intimating that they, like children, just can't help it?

Low Battery, No Signal

I have had a cell phone since 1998. My first phone was a brick sized (and brick weight) Motorola analog phone. Then I progressed on to several different Nokia phones of different shapes, colors, and sizes. My favorite was the baby blue one…so cute. Anyhow, when I moved to Canada a year ago, L and I decided not to get cell phones because we thought it was too luxurious for two heavily indebted grad students. Did we miss having them? No, we did not. We did not miss always being a phone call away from anyone who wanted us, we did not miss maneuvering through traffic with one hand, or telling the entire grocery store about how drunk we were last night. For the first time in years, when I was out of my house…I was really out—unreachable, independent, an individual! Furthermore, we were freed from our long captivity under contracts and service agreements.

But yesterday, friends, I missed our cell phones. What could’ve happened to make me wish for that slavery to Mozart’s Waltz (according to Nokia, he only wrote one)? Well, I’ll tell you.

There we were at the mall—I had some business to do at La Senza, it was a simple matter of exchanging an item previously purchased. But L, like many men in his situation, was loathe to spending more than 7.35 seconds in that particular store, so he whispered something about going next door and skipped away. I, meanwhile, completed my transaction in that pink, frilly oblivion and sashayed next door to the Jean Outlet store. No L in sight. I walked out to the hallway again and scanned the stores in the vicinity: Naturalizer, some bikini store, the Children’s Place, American Eagle…no, I did not think he would go into any of these. I walked a bit hoping to catch a glimpse of his brown, leather jacket, but only found the Abandoned Husbands Office (the benches at the end of the hall).

I wandered up and down, and up and down, constantly looking over my shoulder, imagining that he would pass me and I would not see him. Then I decided to wait outside La Senza, rationalizing that eventually he would come looking for me. But this did not occur. The people riding the escalators stared at me. The sales people in stores observed me carefully—maybe they thought I was “casing the joint,” as they say. Then two security guards rushed past me. I thought maybe L had been kidnapped! Maybe he’d fallen and was unconscious somewhere! Maybe someone lured him into the back of a van, enticing him with sweet, sweet software!

“Get a hold of yourself!” thought I. How long had I been standing there? No idea, I had no watch. It might’ve been 30 mins or it might’ve been more than an hour. If L slipped in the bathroom his head might’ve cracked open…he could be bleeding out somewhere all alone! Calm…calm….breathe. He’s six feet tall, he’s O.K.

That’s right. He’s probably O.K. He’s probably in some store comparing prices on computer games. He probably ran into someone he knows and now they’re having coffee somewhere and he doesn’t even remember that he abandoned me and I don’t even have car keys! Bastard.

Wait, what if he went to the car for some reason…to put something in the trunk…and a surly thug whacked him over the head for our ’98, paint-peeling Plymouth Neon! Unlikely, why would the surly thug steal our car?

No. He’s probably….wait….brown, leather jacket….is that him coming out of American Eagle? No, couldn’t be, he hates that store. It is him! But he hates that store! Dear God, if there was ever a time to doubt the strength of L’s convictions (in store hatred) this was it, and I had failed. Curse my wretched faith in store hatred!

So, in summary, a cell phone would have helped me not to freak out in the middle of the mall. But, if I had a cell phone I would not have had this story to tell all of you. So the moral of the story is that technology makes our lives easier, but easier is boring(er).