Job Hell
Here's a snapshot of my desk. ![][1] [1]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m...
High Five
High five? I can't. I'm sorry, but there is no more five left in my hand. My hand is bruised and mangled from high fiving everyone in Lawrence last night after the KU basketball team became the champions of the universe. It will probably be weeks before I am able to conduct any sort of appropriate, celebratory sports greetings that involve my right hand. You may be wondering why I failed to affectively use my left hand as an alternate. Well, it should be plain to see that I can't use my left hand for high fiving because my left hand is my beer hand. Don't be ridiculous. I am so proud of my fellow Jayhawks, both players and fans alike; however, if you wish to greet me in the spirit of sportsman-like camaraderie, please restrict yourself to a mild pat on the shoulder, a thumbs up, a nod and a wink, or maybe even one of those pointy pistol-finger maneuvers with the accompanying clicking sound at the corner of the mouth. That would be fine, just please avoid anything involving my right hand. And, no, you may not engage my left hand. I told you already, that is my beer hand. Please pay attention. Even if Mario Chalmers, demigod of basketball, himself wanted to high five me, I don't think I could manage it. I might try, but I am fairly certain he would then recoil at the sight of the withered husk of an appendage that is now my right hand. Seriously, it has taken me 3 hours to type this message, as I have been reduced to pecking at the keys with a pencil in my teeth. Type with the other hand, you say? Do we really need to go over that again? Naturally, I am apprehensive about the upcoming series between the Royals and the evil bastard Yankees. If my boys in blue can pull that off, I don't know what I'll do. Perhaps I can fashion a sort of surrogate right hand on a stick to use whilst I wait for my own wee mitt to mend itself; my personal "designated hitter" if you will. While I'm at it, I may as well make another left hand on a stick so I can hold two beers. Congratulations, Jayhawks. The ghost of my right hand whispers high fives in the wind to Jayhawks everywhere. Kansas dominates! No chest bumping, please. The [corna][1] is always acceptable though. [1]: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corna
ART!
![][1] Attention all Mag Hags, Magsketeers, and Corn on the Macabrettes: There will be a reception this [Sunday at the Bourgeois Pig][2] for the opening of a show with some crappy art I made. The good news is, my brother's art will be shown too, so there will actually be something nice to look at. Moreover, I will be there, in person, if you'd like to have a cocktail with me and discuss art, writing, basketball or my overuse of the word "retarded" in blogs. My brother will be there too, but he won't want to discuss anything. And as anyone in the art community can tell you, the Bourgeois Pig has a fine selection of coffees, teas, and boozes. However, these are not free. There will be free hors d'Åuvres, but the hors d'Åuvres are cursed. Look at that poster I made! Furthermore, read [this article by Gavon Laessig][3]. There's a podcast too! The podcast is also cursed. ![][4] Finally, here is a sample of some ART! [1]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m... [2]: http://www.lawrence.com/events/2008/a... [3]: http://www.lawrence.com/news/2008/mar... [4]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m...
Happy Valentines Day!
I made a cartoon today on my lunch break. ![][1] [1]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m...
Sunday Diary
My dear friend Sarah has mentioned on more than one occasion that my tastes and demeanor are that of an old British woman combined with that of a 15-year-old boy. She may have a point, but I, for one, am not entirely convinced. In an attempt to test my good friend's claim, I have chronicled my day's events one Sunday so that you, gentle reader, might decide for yourself. These are the events as they actually happened: 1. Had a nice lie-in until 7:30 a.m. 2. Enjoyed a lovely breakfast of kippers, porridge, and tea. Shared kippers with cat (unintentionally). Was desirous of toast, but marmalade supply was depleted. 3. Spent the rest of the morning partially paying attention to Upstairs Downstairs on the telly whilst reading the London Review of Books with cat in lap, having another cup of tea (me, not the damned cat). 4. Went down the shops. Purchased tea, marmalade, and yarn. Browsed for house slippers. 5. Returned home. Put kettle on. Tea followed. 6. Read correspondence from a friend in London. 7. Reviewed itinerary for sea-side holiday in Brighton. 8. Sick of tea. Grabbed bottle of Mt. Dew from fridge and set about practicing the drum line to "If You Want Blood, You've Got It." As you can see, this is a perfectly ordinary day for a 30-something American female. Once again, Sarah has proven herself to be a total spaz. Cheerio, bitches.
ABBA-ABBA-cadabra
While having cocktails one recent evening with Bjrn Ulvaeus and Steve Miller, they asked me if they might have the honor naming my next podcast. Not bad, fellas. Not bad. Join me and my toady, Gavon Laessig ([Puditocracy][1]) as we clear up some nasty business with the Brits, confront poorly made puppets head-on, and engage in a heated debate concerning the multi-faceted allure of Ms. Pac-Man. Come, [let me turn your ears into my cornholes][2]. Yeah, yeah. Right, right. Tremendous. Music provided by Filthy Pedro, a partial Welshman with a dirty mind and mad kazoo skills. Filthy P, I love your musical guts! Examine the product of Filthy Pedro's toil at [filthypedro.com][3] and [myspace.com/thefilthypedro][4]. I command it! [1]: http://www.lawrence.com/blogs/punditocracy/ [2]: http://www.lawrence.com/podcasts/corn... [3]: http://filthypedro.com [4]: http://myspace.com/thefilthypedro
Feckin’ Sarpents!
I wanted to share with you the traditional Celtic stained glass window I have designed to celebrate this holy day that is upon us. Happy St. Paddy's day! ![][1] [1]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m...
Meh
I promised the cat that I would let her name [my inaugural podcast][1]. Not bad for a first attempt at podcast naming. Mind you, she didn't give me much to choose from. All she came up with was, Meh, Meh-eh, and Yeehhh-ah. The choice was obvious; the others were just too complicated. Stupid cat. If you'd been hoping that I would take 3 dudes and put them in a closet with me and a microphone then your prayers have been answered. Matt Armstrong ([Hate the Player][2]), Gavon Laessig ([Punditocracy][3]), and Patrick Giroux ([Deadwood Edition][4] wrangler and [general artistic genius][5]) join me, your fairy podmother, to help tackle such compelling issues as, Helen Mirren's underwear, Transformers, competitive facial hair, and what we believe may be the introduction of puppeteering to audio podcasting. Together, we're like the lawrence.com All-stars: if the rest of the team were on the disabled list. So come along and stick some corn in your ear! Music provided by Filthy Pedro (a Welshman with a Spanish name and poor hygiene). Cheers, mate! Examine the product of Filthy Pedro's toil at [filthypedro.com][6] and [myspace.com/thefilthypedro][7]. Word. [1]: http://www.lawrence.com/podcasts/corn... [2]: http://www.lawrence.com/blogs/hate_the_player/ [3]: http://www.lawrence.com/podcasts/pund... [4]: /deadwood/ [5]: http://www.gigposters.com/designer/51765_Patrick_Giroux.html [6]: http://filthypedro.com [7]: http://www.myspace.com/thefilthypedro
Oscar Preview Podcast: with Maggie!
I was lucky enough to be invited by Gavon Laessig to be a guest pundit on Punditocracy's [Oscar preview podcast][1]. It was a blast! So, although I don't have much to for y'all to read at the moment, there's lots to listen to. Hear Gavon and I make ill-informed, possibly offensive, and slightly drunken Oscar predictions. It's for sure a podcast that strives to be both informative as well as entertaining but, in the end, promises neither. And if that's not enticing enough for you, apparently, for those who don't already know, when I speak, I sound like a Canadian with lisp! What fun!! So, give it a listen and bear witness to what is clearly the birth of a promising broadcasting career for yours truly. It's your Lawrence.com-plete guide to the 79th annual Academy Awards! AND be sure to check out Gavon's dangerously clever [Oscars drinking game on the Punditocracy blog][2]. But, please be careful. Thanks again to Gavon! And thanks to all of you for your support of the ustoppable genius that is the Lawrence.com machine. [1]: http://www.lawrence.com/podcasts/pund... [2]: http://www.lawrence.com/blogs/punditocracy/2007/feb/22/oscars_game/
First Step: Admitting You Have a Problem
The signs were all around me. Of course, I didn't see any of these signs until I was staring up at them, sprawled out and hung over, on the floor of rock-bottom. But, before you begin to think we are about to indulge in some Motley Crue-esque tale of drugs, debauchery, and death, I feel it is only fair to point out that we each have our own level of rock-bottom. Compared to Nikki Sixx, mine is pretty milquetoast, so don't get too worked up. ![][1] Me![][2] Not meYou see, my dark and shameful moment does not involve a car crash, an overdose, a dead prostitute, jail time, or even a fist fight. No, the loss of my last shred of dignity was heralded by a silently creeping, then suddenly stark realization that I was, more than likely, blacklisted from Pizza Shuttle. I say "more than likely" because my "blacklist" status was never actually confirmed. I just sort of assumed this was the case, and for good reason. Being too terrified to investigate, I have labored under this assumption, Pizza Shuttleless, for over a year. But, whether or not my banishment was an actuality, is beside the point. It had the same affect on me either way. I had plummeted to a depth of pathos that would not allow me to order from Pizza Shuttle. I was ashamed to order goddamn PIZZA SHUTTLE: Pizza "We only make money because we are willing to deliver food at ungodly hours to drunk people" Shuttle. This was, indisputably, the lowest point in my life. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to the beginning well, back to where I enter the story as a semi-cognizant being: I awoke one autumn morning in 2005, to find myself fully clothed, and came to understand that I had "slept" on my couch that night in an upright yet hunched position, not dissimilar to that of the Elephant Man. This was startling enough; however, what was to come next was utterly disturbing. As I gradually gained consciousness, I found that I had a small, rectangular piece of paper clutched firmly between my thumb and forefinger. Upon closer inspection, I recognized this piece of paper to be a check. My check. From my checkbook. I held the check in front of my face and willed my vision to return to me. It was no use. Everything was a blur: but wait, no. No, it was not a blur. Although my eyes were two angry balls of lava, each with their own individual hangovers, my vision was relatively unhindered. The problem was that the writing on the check was absolutely indecipherable. I blinked hard. I rubbed my eyes. I laid the check out on the table. I sat in front of it with my elbows on the table and steadied my head in my hands. Examining this mysterious artifact from the night before, I pondered the question: who the fuck would scribble all over my check?! Oh. That's right. There was only one person that could have scribbled all over my check. It was me. Which left me to ponder next the question: why the fuck did I scribble all over my check? The check was covered in:in: I don't know what. Nothing, really. There are a few vague symbols, the number ten, I think. Bits of it sort of looked like words:sort of. The best I can figure, I made the thing out for the amount of "ten buckaroo funny". Apparently I thought the date was the "100th of Papathy". I think I was in a good mood when I filled it out, as I was sure to include a couple of hearts and possibly some flowers, and then signed it all from Zaphod-Beeblebrox-er-something. As for the rest of it, well, giving myself the benefit of the doubt, it would appear that I was attempting to write in Cyrillic using a broken quill clasped between my teeth. If so, I need more practice. The most distressing part of it all was that number ten. That was the only part of the whole check that was unquestionable. I was definitely trying to write a check for $10.00. But why? Why in the name of all that is holy would I possibly write a check for ten bucks in the middle of the night? Whom would I give a check to at that hour for the amount of ten dollars: oh, shit. It was at this point that I recalled that $10.00 is the amount I have paid out many a time in the middle of the night. For $10.00 is how much I pay for a Pizza Shuttle 10" mushroom and bacon pizza, with tip. But, I couldn't possibly. There's no way. No way could I have been coherent enough to dial the phone, when I could only, barely, manage to make a legible mark on a check. It is not possible. Oh no, it's possible. I grabbed my cell phone, pulled up the dialed calls menu, and, sure enough, there it was: 842-1212. At 12:59am I talked to Pizza Shuttle for 56 seconds. My next thought is: there is no way a person can order a pizza in 56 seconds. Oh, but no, there is a way. I timed myself going through the order. I timed myself speaking slowly, as though intoxicated. I timed myself speaking slowly and with a 15 second pause as though I'd been put on hold. I placed the order, gave my name, my address, my phone number, all of it. I timed it again and again and every time it was at or under 56 seconds. Oh, god, what have I done: In an instant, the blood rushed to my head. I went hysterically deaf as my ears filled with heat and fear. My skin crawled and muscles writhed as every organ, vessel and cell in my body tried to simultaneously disconnect from my poisonous brain. I wanted to puke, but couldn't. My digestive system had gone on strike. I sat on the floor of my bathroom next to my toilet (just in case), and stared blankly as all of the possible scenarios of what took place that night flooded into my brain and any remaining sense of dignity drained out. Those scenarios are as follows: Scenario #1: What I hope happened I phone. They (Pizza Shuttle) answer. I drunkenly attempt to order a pizza. They recognize immediately from my slur that I am a soused idiot and say, "yeah, uh-huh, okay, drunk girl. You want a pizza. Okay. Uh-huh. We'll be right over. You betcha." Click - dial tone. I pass out. Scenario #2: Not too bad I phone. They answer. I somehow manage to convince them that I am a reasonable person with adequate funds and would like a pizza at 1:00 in the morning. They bring me a pizza, knock on my door; but I don't hear them because I am unconscious on my couch, all tuckered out after scribbling the fuck all over a check. The driver gives up and walks away annoyed with a mushroom and bacon pizza. I could live with this. I would still feel bad about it, but I could forgive myself that. Scenario #3: Humiliation I convince Pizza Shuttle to bring me pizza. They show up. I answer the door and try to pay their driver with my pretend check. He laughs at me, or worse, gets ticked, walks away. And now there is some fella in Lawrence who might see me in a bar or something and recognize me as the drunk bitch who wasted his time by trying to pay for pizza with a check that she scribbled all over. Scenario #4: The Nightmare As soon as the nightmare scenario came to me, I frantically tore through my house looking for a pizza box and/or a used condom. If I paid for pizza, I had to have paid with something, and it certainly wasn't that check. I found nothing. And so, I am forced to wonder, did I... Order a pizza; try to pay with a pretend check; when the check is refused, pay the driver with unsafe sex; eat an entire pizza; destroy all evidence; get dressed; pick up check; pass out on couch. This is now my greatest fear. I have discussed this situation with some former Shuttle employees and they have assured me that it is not at all likely that I would be barred from ordering Pizza Shuttle; that they have encountered situations far worse than me and my mad check. But that doesn't really make me feel better about myself. No, no, reform is definitely in order. I must say, over the past year, my behavior has become marginally better. Furthermore, two weeks ago, I ventured to order my usual from Pizza Shuttle and it was delivered to me promptly and courteously as though nothing had ever happened. So, either those former employees were right or the staff of Pizza Shuttle are a noble and forgiving lot... or their turnover rate is such that there is no one left who remembers the incident. Nonetheless, I have learned my lesson. As a reminder, I keep the check mounted on my fridge; so, if I should get peckish some drunken, lonely night, I will remember not to order a pizza... unless I have cash... or condoms. Oh, Shuttle, it's good to have you back. I did miss you. And now, the moment you've been waiting for, the infamous check: ![][3] [1]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m... [2]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m... [3]: http://media.lawrence.com/img/blogs/m...
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