I'm Leavin'... On a Jetplane... Don't Know if This'll Be Intersting...
Actually I'm not. I'm staying right here. I was trying to think of something clever as a title and all I came up with was "Drinking Water Will Kill You," and "I'm Ready For Insertion," neither of which conveys my true feelings. So instead, I'll do what I always do in such circumstances - channel John Denver. I find that his mellow yet refined yet alluring voice often calms the storm that is the hurricane that is my thoughts. Or it aggravates them. I'm not too sure right now, seeing as I've got no time for decisions. I do, however, have time for a blog post!
I attended an EMS game two weekends ago. I was given a ticket by some good friends and while I waited for them to meet me at the front gate, a woman started talking to me. She seemed very pleasant, hadn't been to an EMS game before, and was taken with the actual stadium itself. "Do ya know when this was built?," she pondered, gazing at the support beams. I said, "I think in the 30s or 40s at least. It's pretty old for a stadium like this." She gave a "hmm" face and said, "Well, it's just too bad. I heard they're moving the team next year, did you know that?" I replied yes and before I could ask a time-killing question about the weather or her place of residency, she said flatly, "I just hope it has bathrooms." She continued to look around and my eyes went immediately to the line of Honey Buckets a few yards away from us. Instead of point them out, or say that the hint of sour air wafting through wasn't from the food, I thought a nice joke would be appropriate. "Actually," I replied, "There are chamberpots under your seat. We just use those." She regarded me with absolute disgust. I thought the smile on my face would surely tell her I was kidding, but she moved away and started walking down the stairs without a word. Eh, whatever. I suppose I should have told her the bit about slaughtering your own pig if you want a hot dog (a firm and deep slice does the piggy in nice!), but she'll find that out for herself.
I have begun work at the main branch of our library processing borrowing requests from patrons. Our library system essentially runs on no money whatsoever, so when positions are vacated (even vital ones), they are not immediately refilled. The main library is desperate for people to help with this position, as borrowing requests obviously need to be processed. Depending on the patron (faculty, staff, student, community member, etc.), the level of service our library provides is actually astounding given our resources. We're part of such an enormous network of academic libraries, that should Professor Smith want pages 2-16 of the ABC Journal, Volume 1 published in 1922, s/he will get it photocopied, PDF'd and emailed to them. This, of course, is for our faculty to whom we provide the highest level of service including, but not limited to, fulfilling certain "other" requests. Interpret as you will. Unfortunately, the same level of attention cannot realistically be paid to every patron, but that doesn't stop them from acting like the center of the universe. I have been emailing one of our community patrons back and forth who doesn't understand why we cannot obtain a very old, very obscure volume written in the late 1600s. The only library that owns it is in England and like every other rare book in the world, they do not lend it to other institutions. Simple enough. Once I got that through his head, he said it was OK to get a copy of only the chapters he needed. Well, that's going to cost you. This isn't some journal that's easily obtained through any university. It's so rare that the lending institution has to use archival processes to get it photocopied, for the price of $150 (believe me, that's actually quite reasonable given this guy's request). Of course the patron came unglued. His emails went from slightly rude to blatantly offensive, the last being simply: "FUCK YOU AND YOUR CRAPPY LIBRARY." His request was deleted.
Our Lost viewing crew began to do dinner once a week. Thanks to Erin who thought it pathetic that the only time we saw each other was during the Lost season, we've been gathering for about two weeks now. After dinner on the first night, Bryan suggested that we play Telephone Pictionary. Sit in a circle. You have small individual pieces of paper equal to the number of people playing. On the top piece of paper, you write a phrase. Each person then passes their entire pile of paper to the person on their right, who reads the phrase and on the following piece of paper, tries to draw it. Then, moving the phrase to the back of the pile, they pass their pile, drawing on top, to the person on their right. Now, based on the drawing, the next person interprets and writes a phrase they think the picture is describing. The game continues until you receive your pile back. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard for so long from playing a game. The best part is that there are no winners or losers. The point of the game is in its absurdity and receiving something back so far from what you originally wrote down. Case in point: five of us were at the cabin this weekend. I was two people down from Robin, whose phrase was "it puts the lotion on its skin." He handed his stack to Shannon, who drew what we eventually saw looked like a robot with some hair and a dark blotch on a human arm. She would later explain that the squareness of the jaw was supposed to be Hannibal Lecter. Well, Eric was next to receive the stack and based on Shannon's drawing, Eric wrote "heroin robot needs heroin." He was wiping tears from his face when he passed the stack to me, and it took me a good three minutes to get it together after reading it. Heroin robot needs heroin? WTF?!?! My stomach was aching from laughing so hard but I couldn't stop. I could barely draw and as I did, I kept breaking into hysterical fits. When I finally got the drawing done, I handed it to Chandra. My drawing consisted of a stick-figure robot with outstretched clamp hands and next to it, a spoon with something cooking in it and a syringe. Heroin robot needs heroin. Chandra did an excellent interpretation saying something like "heroin addicted robot." Robin received his stack from Chandra and a long bout of side-splitting laughter ensued. From "it puts the lotion on its skin" to "heroin addicted robot." I give you Telephone Pictionary.
I attended an EMS game two weekends ago. I was given a ticket by some good friends and while I waited for them to meet me at the front gate, a woman started talking to me. She seemed very pleasant, hadn't been to an EMS game before, and was taken with the actual stadium itself. "Do ya know when this was built?," she pondered, gazing at the support beams. I said, "I think in the 30s or 40s at least. It's pretty old for a stadium like this." She gave a "hmm" face and said, "Well, it's just too bad. I heard they're moving the team next year, did you know that?" I replied yes and before I could ask a time-killing question about the weather or her place of residency, she said flatly, "I just hope it has bathrooms." She continued to look around and my eyes went immediately to the line of Honey Buckets a few yards away from us. Instead of point them out, or say that the hint of sour air wafting through wasn't from the food, I thought a nice joke would be appropriate. "Actually," I replied, "There are chamberpots under your seat. We just use those." She regarded me with absolute disgust. I thought the smile on my face would surely tell her I was kidding, but she moved away and started walking down the stairs without a word. Eh, whatever. I suppose I should have told her the bit about slaughtering your own pig if you want a hot dog (a firm and deep slice does the piggy in nice!), but she'll find that out for herself.
I have begun work at the main branch of our library processing borrowing requests from patrons. Our library system essentially runs on no money whatsoever, so when positions are vacated (even vital ones), they are not immediately refilled. The main library is desperate for people to help with this position, as borrowing requests obviously need to be processed. Depending on the patron (faculty, staff, student, community member, etc.), the level of service our library provides is actually astounding given our resources. We're part of such an enormous network of academic libraries, that should Professor Smith want pages 2-16 of the ABC Journal, Volume 1 published in 1922, s/he will get it photocopied, PDF'd and emailed to them. This, of course, is for our faculty to whom we provide the highest level of service including, but not limited to, fulfilling certain "other" requests. Interpret as you will. Unfortunately, the same level of attention cannot realistically be paid to every patron, but that doesn't stop them from acting like the center of the universe. I have been emailing one of our community patrons back and forth who doesn't understand why we cannot obtain a very old, very obscure volume written in the late 1600s. The only library that owns it is in England and like every other rare book in the world, they do not lend it to other institutions. Simple enough. Once I got that through his head, he said it was OK to get a copy of only the chapters he needed. Well, that's going to cost you. This isn't some journal that's easily obtained through any university. It's so rare that the lending institution has to use archival processes to get it photocopied, for the price of $150 (believe me, that's actually quite reasonable given this guy's request). Of course the patron came unglued. His emails went from slightly rude to blatantly offensive, the last being simply: "FUCK YOU AND YOUR CRAPPY LIBRARY." His request was deleted.
Our Lost viewing crew began to do dinner once a week. Thanks to Erin who thought it pathetic that the only time we saw each other was during the Lost season, we've been gathering for about two weeks now. After dinner on the first night, Bryan suggested that we play Telephone Pictionary. Sit in a circle. You have small individual pieces of paper equal to the number of people playing. On the top piece of paper, you write a phrase. Each person then passes their entire pile of paper to the person on their right, who reads the phrase and on the following piece of paper, tries to draw it. Then, moving the phrase to the back of the pile, they pass their pile, drawing on top, to the person on their right. Now, based on the drawing, the next person interprets and writes a phrase they think the picture is describing. The game continues until you receive your pile back. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard for so long from playing a game. The best part is that there are no winners or losers. The point of the game is in its absurdity and receiving something back so far from what you originally wrote down. Case in point: five of us were at the cabin this weekend. I was two people down from Robin, whose phrase was "it puts the lotion on its skin." He handed his stack to Shannon, who drew what we eventually saw looked like a robot with some hair and a dark blotch on a human arm. She would later explain that the squareness of the jaw was supposed to be Hannibal Lecter. Well, Eric was next to receive the stack and based on Shannon's drawing, Eric wrote "heroin robot needs heroin." He was wiping tears from his face when he passed the stack to me, and it took me a good three minutes to get it together after reading it. Heroin robot needs heroin? WTF?!?! My stomach was aching from laughing so hard but I couldn't stop. I could barely draw and as I did, I kept breaking into hysterical fits. When I finally got the drawing done, I handed it to Chandra. My drawing consisted of a stick-figure robot with outstretched clamp hands and next to it, a spoon with something cooking in it and a syringe. Heroin robot needs heroin. Chandra did an excellent interpretation saying something like "heroin addicted robot." Robin received his stack from Chandra and a long bout of side-splitting laughter ensued. From "it puts the lotion on its skin" to "heroin addicted robot." I give you Telephone Pictionary.
posted by Infused Confusion at
9:47 AM
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