otoh

[smirk]

Another repost. Just for fun and because I haven’t finished any of the drafts I have bouncing around….

Wow.
WOW!
(indistinct mumbling)
Stunning!
Wha-huh? Right. Stunning. Do I look stunned?
I feel a tingling sensation….
Shut up! How do I look?
Your mouth is closed, you’re not drooling. We’re cool!
Is it hot in here?
Yeah, she’s really hot!
I feel like an idiot. Do I look like an idiot? Please, god, don’t let me look like an idiot.
Look at those –
Eyes! Maintain eye contact.
But get a load of her –
Eyes! Wait, am I staring now? I should look away. She’s going to think I’m some kind of stalker.
Yeah, I’d like to stock her. Heh heh heh.
Shut up! I don’t even know what that means, but you make it sound dirty.
Heh heh heh.
Cut that out!
She’s leaning over. Look down her blouse.
No! She’ll think I’m a creep.
She expects you to look. If you don’t look, she’ll think you’re gay.
Maybe I can catch a glimpse without her noticing…
So you’re gonna look and she’ll still think you’re gay because she doesn’t know you looked.
Well, no one can blame me if my eyes just kind of wander down…
Woo-hoo! Hooters! I wonder what color her –
Eyes! Look at her eyes!
Lace. I definitely saw some lace.
Yeah, it’s amazing how you can see the lace and still be imagining her naked.
Yeah, naked. Heh heh heh.
Shut up. I can’t hear what she’s saying. Smile. Nod. Pretend you’ve been paying attention.
I’m standing at attention. Does that count?
(Grinning stupidly.) Wait, what is she looking at. Do I have something in my teeth?
Teeth… zipper… my turn! Heh heh heh.
Oh my god. Did she ask a question? Is she waiting for me to say something?
Let ME do the talking.
That’s definitely not going to happen.
I know how to drive home a point.
You are so disgusting. You’re gonna get me slapped–
Me next, me next!
–or worse get me arrested–
Might be worth it.
–and thrown in jail–
Might be worth it.
–in a cell full of men–
Might be a good idea if you take over again….

Let’s start today [and every day!] with a joke:

Mickey Mouse filed for divorce from Minnie. The judge peered down from the bench and said, “You can’t divorce her just because you think she’s crazy.”

Mickey stood and said [and when you tell this joke, you have to use your best high-pitched super rat impression voice...], “I didn’t say she was crazy, Your Honor. I said she’s fuckin’ Goofy!”

I often feel goofy — not because I’m getting action from a cartoon… or from vermin… or, well, never mind that now — because I am awkward.

[Awkward is an awkward word, isn't it? That double-u-kay-double-u is like a visual speed bump every time I see it....]

I wonder sometimes if awkward is the direction my life travels. Some move forward. Some move backward. I move awkward. It’s sort of like one step up and two steps back [cue the Bruce Springsteen tune] but with a half-step to the side and a partial twist. [Cha cha cha.] No wonder I keep falling down.

I am physically awkward. I am socially awkward. I am goofy [not Goofy]. I’ve never been completely comfortable in my own skin. I think we all have days, especially as we get older, when we look in the mirror and wonder, “What the hell?” [Or "Who the hell?"....]

But I’ve had a long time to learn how to hide my awkwardnesses, my goofinesses, and come to terms with it. And I’m getting better. More balanced.

I know that most people that meet me would not call me goofy [or Goofy] — unless, of course, I’m being silly on purpose. [All part of my boyish charm, don't you know.] This is my perception of myself. And for someone like me, shy and private, it means that I’m succeeding in keeping the real me hidden.

No one else calls me goofy, but I have been compared to Pluto — the planet, not the cartoon… small, cold, hard, distant — but that’s another post.

Strawberries are in season (and on sale).

And so is Cool Whip.

Oh, I should get some chocolate too.

I love health food.

Last Friday night our chorus department gave a Bach to Pop concert — first half music by J.S. Bach (accompanied by the Orlando String Quartet which was pretty cool), second half contemporary pop music. During part of the introduction a student said something like [and I'm paraphrasing what I think I remember hearing because, sadly, I don't have a recording of this nor did I have my trusty Palm with me to jot it down at the time]:

…given Bach’s activities as teacher, musician, composer, and church music director it is surprising that he had time to father 20 children….

So, of course, I immediately thought, “Being a father (to even one child) is a full-time job. Fathering 20 children takes… maybe a total of 30 minutes. Right?”

Interesting that mothering and fathering have such different connotations….

I wasn’t sure I would post any more 3-SPs, but I had this one all done and saved as a draft and was reminded recently of how much I’ve always loved Dusty Springfield’s voice — maybe the best voice in pop music. Really powerful blue-eyed soul. Sadly, we lost her in 1999 just 10 days before her induction into the U.S. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

• You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me
• Son of a Preacher Man
• I Just Don’t Know What to do with Myself

The song titles link to YouTube videos.

This really could have happened:

Teacher A: I wrote a referral on Johnny for taking a ___ out of the classroom.

Teacher B: So you got him for stealing and carrying a weapon?

Teacher C: Oh, please. A sharp pencil is a much more lethal weapon.

Teacher B: Yeah, but Johnny will never carry a pencil around school.

All laugh.

Teacher B just slays me. Really….

Originally posted in January 2005:

Not really, of course, but this old quip of mine came to mind for two reasons: I find that some of the blogs I run across are very revealing (sometimes WAY too much information) and I realize that I don’t write the same way here as I do in a journal that I think no one will read. I know that this blog is not read by many people (well, not yet, but after I get really famous….), but knowing that someone could read it inhibits me a little.

Tim is not really short [and no Tiny Tim jokes, you know who you are]. Besides, Tim and date haven’t been that close together for a long time. TIM is really an acronym for Typically Insensitive Male. But it’s not like I’m posting a personal ad here. I’m just shaking out the random thoughts so they’ll stop rattling around in my head for a few minutes.

Addendum May 2008:

I’ve kept this blog going a little over three and a half years so far. In that time I’ve started and deleted at least three others [I wasn't really keeping count.] I went through recently and closed comments on all the old posts to cut down on spam [don't know why I never bothered to do that as I went along, but it makes a BIG difference] and I find that this is still true — because this one has my real name attached to it I tend to be more cautious [with a couple notable exceptions] with what I post.

Wanna know a secret? I recently started a blog under a pseudonym that I will never link to from here [or vice versa] just to see if my writing is very different when I am that other person. How many of you have multiple personalities blogs?

There is an old joke that goes back at least to the cold war. The setting is always some exotic world capitol.

On the busy city street an American tourist stops a man carrying two suitcases and asks for the correct time. The other man sets the cases on the ground, looks at the dial of the instrument on his wrist and says with a heavy Russian accent, “It is 8:39 Greenwich Mean Time, 12:39 in Moscow, the temperature is 19 degrees Celsius — 67 degrees Fahrenheit — with 47% humidity, and the barometric pressure is rising.”

“That’s fantastic!” exclaims the first man, “You can tell all that from that little watch?”

“Da. Latest Russian technology.” [In the telling, this man usually sounds a lot like Henry Kissinger, but I'm not sure that's relevant.... ~Tim]

“Wow. You could make a fortune with that in the States.”

“Not until we get rid of these,” said the Russian picking up the two large cases.

“Why? What’s in there?”

“The batteries.”

I never imagined myself being nostalgic for the cold war, but in some ways I am. The dangers of nuclear annihilation were all too real, but the memory of school children learning to duck and cover under their desks in the event of an attack makes it all seem quaintly benign. In retrospect it seems almost as if we spent years trying to scare communists while they tried to scare us. Any war is bad, but I’m pretty sure that no one on either side was scared to death….

Anyway, I recently read A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, a very entertaining account of his attempt to hike the Appalachian Trail. I don’t think I’ll ever be (or ever was, for that matter) in good enough physical condition to hike the whole thing. Only a small percentage of those who attempt it complete the trek. I’m not sure I would try even if I were in better shape. But I definitely want to see parts of it. I was reminded of the joke above when I read this exchange:

Eight or nine other people were scattered around the summit, including one youngish, rather pudgy man on his own in a very new and expensive-looking windcheater. He had some kind of handheld electronic device with which he was taking mysterious readings of the sky or landscape.

He noticed me watching and said, in a tone that suggested he was hoping someone would take an interest, “It’s an Enviro Monitor.”

“Oh yes?” I responded politely.

“Measures eighty values — temperature, UV index, dew point, you name it.” He tilted the screen so I could see it. “That’s heat stress.” It was some meaningless number that ended in two decimal places. “It does solar radiation,” he went on, “barometric pressure, wind chill, rainfall, humidity — ambient and active — even estimated burn time adjusted for skin type.”

“Does it bake cookies?” I asked.

He didn’t like this. “There are times when it could save your life, believe me,” he said, a little stoutly. I tried to imagine a situation in which I might find myself dangerously imperiled by a rising dew point and could not. But I didn’t want to upset the man, so I sad: “What’s that?” and pointed at a blinking figure in the upper lefthand corner of the screen.

“Ah, I’m not sure what that is. But this –” he stabbed the console of buttons– “this is solar radiation.” It was another meaningless figure, to three decimal places. “It’s very low today,” he said, and angled the machine to take another reading. “Yeah, very low today.” Somehow I knew this already. In fact, although I couldn’t attest any of it to three decimal places, I had a pretty good notion of the weather conditions generally, on account of I was out in them. The interesting thing about the man was that he had no pack, and so no waterproofs, and was wearing shorts and sneakers. If the weather did swiftly deteriorate, and in New England it most assuredly can, he would probably die, but at least he had a machine that would tell him when and let him know his final dew point.

Kneel down with your head between your knees and cover the back of your neck with your hands [and kiss your ass good-bye...].

Two true stories.

I have a button that says,

Due to intense mind fog all thoughts have been grounded.

This is why I wore it today (not that I necessarily need a reason):

Early morning. The sun not yet up. Dark. There are a couple brush fires in the area — it is that time of year. Dense fog advisories for low-lying areas too. All the power is out at one major intersection — no street lights or trafic lights. The radio personalities warn us of the danger.

Visibility is zero in some areas. Or even less than zero… if that’s possible.

So apparently the conditions are so bad that drivers cannot be introspective….