Tag Archives: bad ideas

Shut your suck hole

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I officially gots nothing. Mr. H said “well, don’t post until you have something.” But that defeats the entire purpose of the internet! My language and smartsing skills have painfully deteriorated. Know what’s in my head? A pastiche of OMG OMG, look at that dog, somebody feed me. Do I feel like a fraud when anyone thinks I do a good job at anything? Yes. Is it good to allow that out on a page unchecked? Hell, hell no. I once knew how to punctuate and write without run-on sentences. I still do, honestly, but the problem is that I’m lazy as crap. And the internet allows me to splatter unedited offal every which-a-way. I don’t even fucking spellcheck. This is bad, bad, bad. But then again, reading anything well-written on the internet annoys the crap out of me too, like the writer in question is just showing off. If I want sensitive and thoughtful, I’ll go get a damn Jonathan Lethem book and eat a damn scone at the bookstore while I am doing that.

I have this sense of impending doom like you wouldn’t believe. If the situation allowed, I would stay under the duvet all day and all night, only emerging for pasta and more of that $8 wine I like so much. Everything is post post post post everything else. McSweeney’s and the internet, I hate you so much. I hate you, cheeky advertising copy. Driving in the car is so bad. Going to the store is so bad. Requiring chemicals to think normal things are actually OK: so bad. I go back and forth on that one. Rationally, I know existentialism is sneaking back up on me because I cut the amount of happy chemicals in my body. And blah blah, a diabetic isn’t a bad person because he has to take insulin. A diabetic is a bad person because he cheats on his girlfriend! Or because he never finishes anything he starts and then complains about it. Shit, I am that diabetic. One day I will write a book called Lackluster Plans Started in Fits of Enthusiasm. OR NOT. Why’d Mom have to eat all that lead paint while gestating?

Internet refrigerator

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My, my. This week is just flying by. My lawyer is out at a seminar all this week and can’t handly my lawyerly needs, so I’ve been calling other lawyers he is lawyer friends with. They are equally lawyer nice, so I settled on the one with the best name. Then after my scalp massage and disco yoga class, I had to practice my Chinese. I did this very, very loudly so as to bother my upstairs neighbor. This is payback for hearing one of his students mangling “The Yellow Rose of Texas” earlier. Wednesdays are apparently adult ed days.

It’s hard to tell good ideas from bad ideas, isn’t it. Should I be learning Cantonese instead? Should I have made that spreadsheet of all the food items in the house? Is a $28 haircut ever going to be as good as an $85 haircut? Why does anyone care about finding the largest prime number*? All of this confusion is why I like to look to the Lord. But the nosy church billboard down the street says “We love Him because He loved us first.” This is probably the most co-dependent sentiment ever expressed. Lots of awful people have liked me in the past, and I believe I’ve done the right thing in sending them packing. Now, I’m not calling the Lord awful, per se, but what has he done for me lately? You have to work for this, people. You wanna a piece of me, you hafta make it worth-a my while. Press the button, get a piece of cheese. So when the Lord weighs in to tell me if I should get a stackable washer/dryer or a side by side unit, I’ll love him. Or not, because he may not agree with me, and then I’ll have to ignore him.

*225964951-1, so far

On bad ideas

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A few years ago, Mr. H and I worked on an account for a client called eYak!. The interCapping alone should allow you to pinpoint the chronology firmly in the Mesozoic era, or 1999-2000. They had a snappy slogan, something like “Powering the Power of the Wicked Powerful Internet.” This was later changed to “The Soft Side of Voice.” Not making that up. The flagship product was some VoIP* kludge for sharing presentations, called, I dunno, eConnect4Connections or something. OK, eSee Conferencing. They had another product tailored to the consumer market.

It was called the Bud-eYak.

I just checked the ol’ site out with the Wayback Machine, but sadly they do not preserve the excessive DHTML or the three minute Flash intro.

Sometimes I hear it in my dreams.

“Hiiii, Bob, I see the numbers on my screen now!”

“Looks like a GRRREAT quarter for you, Peter!”

We had to do it in French and Spanish as well.

Now a better idea: Tonight is Pizza Night! No yakking at all.

-xxoo

*which they relentlessly pronounced “VOYP”

i-ve been thinking mary—-dammit baltimore- you must always have the last word–

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Try keeping some emergency bad ideas in your desk.

I am at a loss on several counts.

My sister and I are considering writing a book. I wonder if we should make an outline, or just attack with finger paints? I may start by making an actual visual map of everything I remember about early childhood. There’s the trailer, the addition to the trailer, the garage with the stash of St. Pauli girl bottles, the goat shed, the pile of red dirt I was not allowed to play in, the place where the cat got shot, the yellow jacket nest in the potato patch, my Sycamore tree. The yellow toyota with the Netherlands sticker, the old black truck with the running boards, the well, the Lady Slipper patch, the treehouse that was only 3 feet off the ground, the black tulips, the random sink sitting in the back yard, the root cellar. We had a dog briefly, named Barky or Bitey or something like that. He looked a bit like a beagle.

And there is more. Carpet in the trailer kitchen (ha!), lots of nudity, swimming, being allowed sips of beer, being hit with a shoe, books about proper British children, awful, awful food that once was part of the garden. Cherry trees, thick with worm nests. Drowning Japanese beetles from the grape vines in a bucket of water.

The Westvaco logging forest across the property line was filled with bulldozer piles. Sometimes you could find shards of china, with patterns. Exotic because we did not have decorative things. The ruts from the logging trucks filled with water and made bright red mud. We rolled in it and were hosed down before we could come inside.

The nearest town eight miles away. The shoe factory, the prison, the A&P, the library where I was forced to alphabetize at a young age. The nursing home, the railroad tracks, a snack bar in the gas station where I ate hamburgers with mayonnaise and once got food poisoning.

Hmm.