We return to the subject so dear to so many – word usage.
As exhibit No. 1 – and the only exhibit I’ve got for you today – I give you this:
“It allows us to aggregate when we strategize … to make it more conveyable … We would rather incent than direct.”
Yeah, you read that right. No, I have no idea what it means. Sadly, it was taken from real life. To quote Lewis Carroll, “Such is human perversity.” He should know.
So when we canvassed this issue before, I asked for submissions, for your suggestions of items to add to the list of ways we don’t want to use words and words we don’t want to use. You, my fair readers, stepped up to the challenge. Your submissions were inspired, your disdain of the bastardization of the language, admirable. I am proud to call you my readers.
Here, then, are your suggestions. Many will see and fear.
From Hank:
Workshop, as a verb. Remember the good old days when a workshop was a place where people built things, generally out of wood? Those days are gone, and crying won’t bring them back.
Task, as a verb. You know what? It’s not. I repeat, “task” IS NOT a verb. It’s a noun. You perform a task. So stop “tasking” people with shit and go do it yourself.
Incentivize. Enough already! Just knock it off! Have you no shame?
From Shelly and Steve:
Unpack, in the metaphorical sense. This is used by “tools,” in the butthead sense. For example, “Let’s unpack that statement.” Let’s not. The only thing anyone should be unpacking is luggage. If you haven’t just come back from vacation, then stop it. Stop it now.
At the end of the day: Yes this is a phrase and so is the next one, but that doesn’t make them any less odious. I’ll tell you exactly what I’ll do “at the end of the day.” “At the end of the day,” I’m going home so I don’t have to listen to you, jackass.
It is what it is: Oh really? Thanks. And just how much carbon dioxide did you spew into the air with that inanity? Can we cap and trade credits on the greenhouse gases coming from your mouth?
From Rachael:
Functionality. What?! I mean, really – what?!
From me:
Win-Win. Loser-loser.
Oh good readers, there are so many more. So, so many. I have neither the time nor the will to address this further. I will not admit defeat; I will continue the fight, but the jargon is closing in all around me. It’s getting dark … and hard to breathe …
I leave you with this parting thought:
Under way is 2 DAMN WORDS!
Stay tuned for an update on the Butt Game.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
We WILL Rock You, Whether You Like it or Not
So I bought myself a guitar. A brand new, blue guitar that cost me a penny on eBay (plus $33.14 in shipping). It arrived yesterday, and for my penny, I not only got my brand new blue guitar with all six strings, but I also got a cloth carrying case, six more strings (which came in handy later when I snapped one), a pitch pipe, a strap, and – are you ready for this? – a pick. I am soooo ready to rock.
Upon opening the package for “Mama’s Bitar,” my trusty sidekick immediately began demanding her own pink bitar, so we headed to Toys R Us, which actually had one, complete with rhinestones. However, as it cost more than my blue guitar, which did not come with rhinestones I might add, we (read: I) opted to buy a “lap harp,” which is a contraption not unlike a dulcimer, but played with a large pick, and significantly less sonorous. I told my sidekick it was a lap guitar, and I think she’s buying it.
I tuned the lap harp with my new pitch pipe, and it stayed tuned for all of 30 seconds. Then I tuned my guitar with my new pitch pipe, and it stayed tuned for about 30 seconds. I’m toying with the idea of re-tuning both instruments, but in the meantime, the sidekick and I have been engaged in the production of a cacophony capable of raising the dead. Wanna come over? I believe I have a harmonica somewhere you could play.
Upon opening the package for “Mama’s Bitar,” my trusty sidekick immediately began demanding her own pink bitar, so we headed to Toys R Us, which actually had one, complete with rhinestones. However, as it cost more than my blue guitar, which did not come with rhinestones I might add, we (read: I) opted to buy a “lap harp,” which is a contraption not unlike a dulcimer, but played with a large pick, and significantly less sonorous. I told my sidekick it was a lap guitar, and I think she’s buying it.
I tuned the lap harp with my new pitch pipe, and it stayed tuned for all of 30 seconds. Then I tuned my guitar with my new pitch pipe, and it stayed tuned for about 30 seconds. I’m toying with the idea of re-tuning both instruments, but in the meantime, the sidekick and I have been engaged in the production of a cacophony capable of raising the dead. Wanna come over? I believe I have a harmonica somewhere you could play.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Butt Like Me
Too much butt space is a breeding ground for personality cancer.
I know, I know, it’s a bold statement, but I stand by it, and I have the evidence to back it up.
While the study of the personality-butt relationship is still in its infancy, the general scientific consensus is that people with flat butts have serious personality flaws. The reason is simple: the butt is the repository of key personality traits necessary to function successfully in the world, and those with less storage space suffer. Of course, too much butt room can be detrimental, as we’ll discuss later.
Years of experience and observation have led me to the personality-butt conclusion. For example, I knew one young woman who looked like her legs went directly into her lower back and who was very rude to people not in her inner circle. Another such young woman was ditzy and had no work ethic. Coincidence? I think not.
On the other hand, as Hank, my crusading reporter friend in the eastlands, (whom you know as the founder of PlooPeRS) points out, Serena Williams must have an outstanding personality. The evidence bears this out – her success means she works hard, is determined and confident – all good traits, all butt-related.
Hank also pointed out that this theory has a serious weakness, and that is the disconnect between the “expanding American ass and the growing American jerkiness.”
However, one must recognize the limits of the personality-butt relationship. It doesn’t necessarily follow that the bigger the butt, the better the personality.
One can only have so much of the good butt traits, and if one’s butt gets too big, the extra space must be filled by something – and that usually turns out to be good butt traits that have mutated into something evil, or at the very least, obnoxious.
As an example, let’s take a person with the good butt trait of confidence. Say that person’s butt grows, creating extra room -- a vacuum, if you will. Because nature abhors a butt vacuum, arrogance can move in and take up the extra space. As a bad butt trait, it will attach itself to the confidence and start its slow takeover. This advances steadily, becoming the personality cancer that is killing Americans’ likability worldwide. (This, of course, is based on the assumption that such likability ever existed.)
See? As I have incontrovertibly proven, the butt is where it all begins, and therefore, as a loyal American who cares about how you are received by others and how well you fit into chairs, I’m issuing this warning to you all right now:
Protect your personality. Protect your butt!
The U.S. Centers for Disease Control will be launching an educational campaign soon, so you’ll be hearing more about the personality-butt relationship.
As I discussed my theory with Hank, we began to rename major literary works to include the word “Butt” in the titles. Here’s what we came up with. You should play along -- it’s fun!
From Hank:
Invisible Butt
Let Us Now Praise Famous Butts
Silent Butt
There Will Be Butt
Butt!
Unsafe at any Butt
Das Butt
All Quiet on the Western Butt
In Search of Lost Butt
The Old Man and the Butt
The Butts of Wrath
The Crying of Butt 49
Butt and Punishment
The Quiet Butt
One Hundred Butts of Solitude
A Butt in August
A Good Butt is Hard to Find
A Farewell to Butt
Remains of the Butt
A Room with a Butt
-- or –
A Butt with a View
Of Human Butt
A Tale of Two Butts
Butt Expectations
Their Eyes Were Watching Butt
Butts from the Underground
A Butt Without Qualities
From me:
Butt in the Time of Cholera
All the King’s Butts
Of Mice and Butts
The Good Butt
The Catcher in the Butt
One Butt in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
War and Butt
For Whom the Butt Tolls
Moby Butt
2001: A Butt Odyssey
The Art of Butt
A Butt Grows in Brooklyn
Remembrance of Butts Past
The Butt Musketeers
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Butt
Butt of Darkness
Inherit the Butt
Any suggestions? Send them in!
I know, I know, it’s a bold statement, but I stand by it, and I have the evidence to back it up.
While the study of the personality-butt relationship is still in its infancy, the general scientific consensus is that people with flat butts have serious personality flaws. The reason is simple: the butt is the repository of key personality traits necessary to function successfully in the world, and those with less storage space suffer. Of course, too much butt room can be detrimental, as we’ll discuss later.
Years of experience and observation have led me to the personality-butt conclusion. For example, I knew one young woman who looked like her legs went directly into her lower back and who was very rude to people not in her inner circle. Another such young woman was ditzy and had no work ethic. Coincidence? I think not.
On the other hand, as Hank, my crusading reporter friend in the eastlands, (whom you know as the founder of PlooPeRS) points out, Serena Williams must have an outstanding personality. The evidence bears this out – her success means she works hard, is determined and confident – all good traits, all butt-related.
Hank also pointed out that this theory has a serious weakness, and that is the disconnect between the “expanding American ass and the growing American jerkiness.”
However, one must recognize the limits of the personality-butt relationship. It doesn’t necessarily follow that the bigger the butt, the better the personality.
One can only have so much of the good butt traits, and if one’s butt gets too big, the extra space must be filled by something – and that usually turns out to be good butt traits that have mutated into something evil, or at the very least, obnoxious.
As an example, let’s take a person with the good butt trait of confidence. Say that person’s butt grows, creating extra room -- a vacuum, if you will. Because nature abhors a butt vacuum, arrogance can move in and take up the extra space. As a bad butt trait, it will attach itself to the confidence and start its slow takeover. This advances steadily, becoming the personality cancer that is killing Americans’ likability worldwide. (This, of course, is based on the assumption that such likability ever existed.)
See? As I have incontrovertibly proven, the butt is where it all begins, and therefore, as a loyal American who cares about how you are received by others and how well you fit into chairs, I’m issuing this warning to you all right now:
Protect your personality. Protect your butt!
The U.S. Centers for Disease Control will be launching an educational campaign soon, so you’ll be hearing more about the personality-butt relationship.
As I discussed my theory with Hank, we began to rename major literary works to include the word “Butt” in the titles. Here’s what we came up with. You should play along -- it’s fun!
From Hank:
Invisible Butt
Let Us Now Praise Famous Butts
Silent Butt
There Will Be Butt
Butt!
Unsafe at any Butt
Das Butt
All Quiet on the Western Butt
In Search of Lost Butt
The Old Man and the Butt
The Butts of Wrath
The Crying of Butt 49
Butt and Punishment
The Quiet Butt
One Hundred Butts of Solitude
A Butt in August
A Good Butt is Hard to Find
A Farewell to Butt
Remains of the Butt
A Room with a Butt
-- or –
A Butt with a View
Of Human Butt
A Tale of Two Butts
Butt Expectations
Their Eyes Were Watching Butt
Butts from the Underground
A Butt Without Qualities
From me:
Butt in the Time of Cholera
All the King’s Butts
Of Mice and Butts
The Good Butt
The Catcher in the Butt
One Butt in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
War and Butt
For Whom the Butt Tolls
Moby Butt
2001: A Butt Odyssey
The Art of Butt
A Butt Grows in Brooklyn
Remembrance of Butts Past
The Butt Musketeers
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Butt
Butt of Darkness
Inherit the Butt
Any suggestions? Send them in!
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Gourmet Quique
As those of you who have ever met me can attest, I like to eat. A lot.
That is, I like very much to eat, and I like to eat very much.
I like to eat different types of food and will give just about anything a try. I have knowingly eaten tongue (yum), pig's ear (yuck), snails and lung (in haggis). I have likely consumed an inordinate number of insects unwittingly and God only knows what parasites and bacteria, as well as quail sushi (very bad idea). I have also tried oysters, whose reputation as an aphrodisiac is inexplicable given their propensity to induce violent gagging. That's not hot.
Having established my culinary adventurousness, I have actually encountered a recipe I will not try. I will share it with you, my loyal readers.
This recipe was given by a friend we'll call Quique, a participant in my first Regular Poker Game, to be held biweekly, if biweekly means every two weeks.
Anyway, Quique's aunt taught him this recipe. I will describe it to you, approximating as closely as I can the way Quique shared it:
"First, you get macaroni, and you put it in a pot with some water, and you do all the magic stuff to get it all cooked. (That's boiling - Pancha.)
Then you get ketchup and put it on the macaroni and mix it up. It's really good."
No, no, I can't imagine that it is.
Quique was teased mercilessly for this, as is right and proper. I hope we didn't hurt his feelings as he's really, really nice. But he should definitely stay away from the kitchen.
In case you're wondering, I lost my money. Perhaps I should stay away from poker.
I am also hereby issuing an open invitation to all readers of this interactive blog to come on down and play in the next Regular Poker Game. Let me know if you're interested, and if you're lucky, maybe Quique will bring some Mac 'n' Ketchup.
P.
That is, I like very much to eat, and I like to eat very much.
I like to eat different types of food and will give just about anything a try. I have knowingly eaten tongue (yum), pig's ear (yuck), snails and lung (in haggis). I have likely consumed an inordinate number of insects unwittingly and God only knows what parasites and bacteria, as well as quail sushi (very bad idea). I have also tried oysters, whose reputation as an aphrodisiac is inexplicable given their propensity to induce violent gagging. That's not hot.
Having established my culinary adventurousness, I have actually encountered a recipe I will not try. I will share it with you, my loyal readers.
This recipe was given by a friend we'll call Quique, a participant in my first Regular Poker Game, to be held biweekly, if biweekly means every two weeks.
Anyway, Quique's aunt taught him this recipe. I will describe it to you, approximating as closely as I can the way Quique shared it:
"First, you get macaroni, and you put it in a pot with some water, and you do all the magic stuff to get it all cooked. (That's boiling - Pancha.)
Then you get ketchup and put it on the macaroni and mix it up. It's really good."
No, no, I can't imagine that it is.
Quique was teased mercilessly for this, as is right and proper. I hope we didn't hurt his feelings as he's really, really nice. But he should definitely stay away from the kitchen.
In case you're wondering, I lost my money. Perhaps I should stay away from poker.
I am also hereby issuing an open invitation to all readers of this interactive blog to come on down and play in the next Regular Poker Game. Let me know if you're interested, and if you're lucky, maybe Quique will bring some Mac 'n' Ketchup.
P.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Aries v. Astrologer
As my trusty sidekick was off making the world safe for democracy, and my valiant hound was off making my parents’ back yard safe from an impending squirrel invasion, I was off with a friend, “Paul” (his real name), getting accosted by a drunken astrologer in that venerable San Francisco institution, the Gold Dust Lounge.
Drunken Astrologer seemed to feel that his first duty to humanity was to keep the world safe from the peaceful enjoyment of an after-work beer. However, as neither “Paul” nor I had worked that day, and as we were both determined to enjoy a beer at any cost, Drunken Astrologer was only marginally successful.
Anyway, upon learning I was both a mother and an Aries, Drunken Astrologer’s face fell.
“Oh,” he said, visibly disappointed, but struggling heroically to smile and be nice. “You’re not very nurturing.”
Oh yeah?! Nurture this, f---er!
Wait, that wasn’t a particularly motherly response, was it?
Hm. I may have to work on that. Also, I don’t believe that New Age-y types should drink – they get mean.
On another note, I have received some submissions from loyal readers (you know who you are) to enhance our list of jargon to avoid. I’m going to leave the submission window open a little longer so those of you who have not contributed (we all know who you are) can have the opportunity to be included – honored, really – on this, your favorite blog.
Later beautiful people.
P.
Drunken Astrologer seemed to feel that his first duty to humanity was to keep the world safe from the peaceful enjoyment of an after-work beer. However, as neither “Paul” nor I had worked that day, and as we were both determined to enjoy a beer at any cost, Drunken Astrologer was only marginally successful.
Anyway, upon learning I was both a mother and an Aries, Drunken Astrologer’s face fell.
“Oh,” he said, visibly disappointed, but struggling heroically to smile and be nice. “You’re not very nurturing.”
Oh yeah?! Nurture this, f---er!
Wait, that wasn’t a particularly motherly response, was it?
Hm. I may have to work on that. Also, I don’t believe that New Age-y types should drink – they get mean.
On another note, I have received some submissions from loyal readers (you know who you are) to enhance our list of jargon to avoid. I’m going to leave the submission window open a little longer so those of you who have not contributed (we all know who you are) can have the opportunity to be included – honored, really – on this, your favorite blog.
Later beautiful people.
P.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Synergy my ass!
This is a rant against jargon, a manifesto against the bureaucratese and in-speak that obscures, excludes and confuses, and in the end leaves readers scratching their heads, feeling stupid and throwing up their hands in defeat, all while not actually saying anything.
Down with jargon, I say! Down with the tyranny of sentences like this one:
"Rather, it is an attempt to provide the energy necessary to create the synergy that will create the ultimate solution."
I'm sure you're asking the same question I did -- "What the fuck?!"
Exactly.
And the sad thing is, that sentence, and all these examples, have been taken from real life. People actually talk and write this way. Why? Why? I can't understand them, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Well, I say no more! I'm taking a stand. Let me just tell you what I will not do.
I will not "leverage" anything. Why? Because "leverage" is a noun. A person, place or thing. You can have leverage, but you damn well can't turn it into a verb. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?
I will not "physically and programmatically co-locate" anything. I may put some things together, but there will be no "co-locating" on my watch, physical, programmatical or otherwise.
I will not employ "best practices" of any kind. You can't make me, so don't even try it.
I will not do anything "going forward." I may do things from now on. I may do things in the future. I may even do both. But I will not do them going forward.
And I most certainly will not be "proactive" about anything. Seriously, are you kidding me? For fuck's sake.
I know many of you out there in blogland feel my pain. (Just wait until I get started on cliches.) And so, I solicit your additions to this list. What won't you do? Let me know, and I'll post a follow-up, so we can commiserate.
Now, raise your hand if the word "Luddite" makes you think of someone with a giant ass.
Down with jargon, I say! Down with the tyranny of sentences like this one:
"Rather, it is an attempt to provide the energy necessary to create the synergy that will create the ultimate solution."
I'm sure you're asking the same question I did -- "What the fuck?!"
Exactly.
And the sad thing is, that sentence, and all these examples, have been taken from real life. People actually talk and write this way. Why? Why? I can't understand them, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Well, I say no more! I'm taking a stand. Let me just tell you what I will not do.
I will not "leverage" anything. Why? Because "leverage" is a noun. A person, place or thing. You can have leverage, but you damn well can't turn it into a verb. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?
I will not "physically and programmatically co-locate" anything. I may put some things together, but there will be no "co-locating" on my watch, physical, programmatical or otherwise.
I will not employ "best practices" of any kind. You can't make me, so don't even try it.
I will not do anything "going forward." I may do things from now on. I may do things in the future. I may even do both. But I will not do them going forward.
And I most certainly will not be "proactive" about anything. Seriously, are you kidding me? For fuck's sake.
I know many of you out there in blogland feel my pain. (Just wait until I get started on cliches.) And so, I solicit your additions to this list. What won't you do? Let me know, and I'll post a follow-up, so we can commiserate.
Now, raise your hand if the word "Luddite" makes you think of someone with a giant ass.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
PLooPeRS
Alright, I realize it's been a while since I posted last, and my 3-4 loyal fans are probably getting a little miffed at having to wait so long between insightful musings, but I have been hard at work relandscaping the American political, um, landscape. Mowing the American political lawn? Pruning the American political shrubbery? You get the idea.
I'm soooo busy at work that I was able to spend a good portion of my morning chatting over gmail with my crusading reporter friend in the eastlands. Said friend, whom we'll call Hank, was also soooo busy that he spent a good portion of his afternoon responding. ("Wait a minute," you say. "It was morning for you and afternoon for him? Wha-?" Ah, the miracles of the space-time continuum.)
Anyway, the chat turned to politics, as it is Ash Wednesday, the day after Super Fat Tuesday, and, well, long story short, there's a new political party in town. It's called PLooPeRS, and it's coming to a ballot box near you.
That's right, the Progressive Libertarian with a Personal Responsibility Streak (the "oo" and "e" are just for fun) was formed this very morning in a bicoastal effort to waste a little time. Our credo is best summed up by Hank, the Founding PLooPeRS Father and Head PLooPeRS Philosopher, who wrote:
"The borders should be relatively open, everyone should have healthcare, and gay people should get to do it and get married, but people who smoke cigarettes shouldn't get to sue when they get cancer."
We're taking back the White House in 2012, and if you're at all politically savvy or concerned about the upkeep of the American political garden, then you'll stand with us. Hank has dibs on president; I've secured the speechwriter job, and my valiant hound is the mascot, the Personal Responsibility Lab. She wears a cape. Also, Hank has appointed Bruce Springsteen the Secretary of Awesome.
So, really, you can't not join us. There's a dog in a cape, a Secretary of Awesome, and a haiku:
Responsible and
Libertarian am I
and Progressive too
What more could you ask for in a political party?
Judging from what's out there already, not much.
I'll be awaiting your contributions.
I'm soooo busy at work that I was able to spend a good portion of my morning chatting over gmail with my crusading reporter friend in the eastlands. Said friend, whom we'll call Hank, was also soooo busy that he spent a good portion of his afternoon responding. ("Wait a minute," you say. "It was morning for you and afternoon for him? Wha-?" Ah, the miracles of the space-time continuum.)
Anyway, the chat turned to politics, as it is Ash Wednesday, the day after Super Fat Tuesday, and, well, long story short, there's a new political party in town. It's called PLooPeRS, and it's coming to a ballot box near you.
That's right, the Progressive Libertarian with a Personal Responsibility Streak (the "oo" and "e" are just for fun) was formed this very morning in a bicoastal effort to waste a little time. Our credo is best summed up by Hank, the Founding PLooPeRS Father and Head PLooPeRS Philosopher, who wrote:
"The borders should be relatively open, everyone should have healthcare, and gay people should get to do it and get married, but people who smoke cigarettes shouldn't get to sue when they get cancer."
We're taking back the White House in 2012, and if you're at all politically savvy or concerned about the upkeep of the American political garden, then you'll stand with us. Hank has dibs on president; I've secured the speechwriter job, and my valiant hound is the mascot, the Personal Responsibility Lab. She wears a cape. Also, Hank has appointed Bruce Springsteen the Secretary of Awesome.
So, really, you can't not join us. There's a dog in a cape, a Secretary of Awesome, and a haiku:
Responsible and
Libertarian am I
and Progressive too
What more could you ask for in a political party?
Judging from what's out there already, not much.
I'll be awaiting your contributions.
Monday, August 27, 2007
I'm baaaaaaack!
So, it's been almost a year since I've posted.
What's happened since then? Hm ... I got a job, finally. One in which I work regular hours, get paid a living wage and have fairly OK health insurance. It's also interesting, and I actually look forward to going to work. Top that, if you can.
No, I didn't think you could.
Do I miss being a reporter? Let's see ... do I miss crappy pay, long hours and getting yelled at every day? Not so much. I get yelled at by constituents in this job, but not every day -- quite an improvement.
Also since last we spoke, I, my trusty sidekick and our valiant hound have moved out of my parents' house and into our own cave-like apartment. There's so little light and so little air, and the temperature is so constant that I'm considering renting out space for wine storage. Ou est le vin? Dans la cave de Panchita. That's right, la cave de Panchita.
So, I'm sorry you've all had to wait out my blogging, but honestly, I forgot I owned a blog. I'll try not to do that anymore.
Anyway, that's it for now because I have to go do more important things, like sleep. I'll try not to let so much time pass between blogs, for the three of you who may read this.
Ciao bambini.
P.
What's happened since then? Hm ... I got a job, finally. One in which I work regular hours, get paid a living wage and have fairly OK health insurance. It's also interesting, and I actually look forward to going to work. Top that, if you can.
No, I didn't think you could.
Do I miss being a reporter? Let's see ... do I miss crappy pay, long hours and getting yelled at every day? Not so much. I get yelled at by constituents in this job, but not every day -- quite an improvement.
Also since last we spoke, I, my trusty sidekick and our valiant hound have moved out of my parents' house and into our own cave-like apartment. There's so little light and so little air, and the temperature is so constant that I'm considering renting out space for wine storage. Ou est le vin? Dans la cave de Panchita. That's right, la cave de Panchita.
So, I'm sorry you've all had to wait out my blogging, but honestly, I forgot I owned a blog. I'll try not to do that anymore.
Anyway, that's it for now because I have to go do more important things, like sleep. I'll try not to let so much time pass between blogs, for the three of you who may read this.
Ciao bambini.
P.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Bet you thought I had given up, eh?
Sorry, no such luck for you.
I really should be revamping my résumé for the third or fourth time (maybe the fifth), but if there's one thing I try to avoid, it's working on my résumé. That and writing cover letters. Of course, none of this bodes well for the job search, which has yet to bear fruit. I'm having flashbacks to high school when I looked high and low for a job, and no one would hire me. I believe it's a conspiracy.
There, now that I've addressed the job issue, let's move on. It's almost Halloween, my favorite holiday. While I, Pancha, will not be dressing up, my trusty sidekick will be. She'll be going as a girl reporter, and if our hound dog is up for it, she'll be going as the valiant steed. Girl reporters have valiant steeds, right? It helps them get around easier. I'm certainly looking forward to trick-or-treating with my sidekick, as I haven't been out in years. (I mean I haven't been out trick-or-treating in years. I've been out. I do leave my house, you know.) I hope you all have a lovely All Hallows Eve.
I must admit, I'm a little disappointed in you, my loyal readers. I've received no ideas from anyone, despite my plaintive plea a couple weeks ago. While it's only natural that I would be all out of ideas, I find it difficult to believe that you all are as well. Am I going to have to resort to making stuff up for my Spanish journal? Isn't it bad enough that I make things up for this blog?
Well, that's enough for now. I need to take it slow in my return to blogging after such a hiatus. Plus I'm falling asleep at my computer, and it's only 2:30 p.m.
Ciao.
P.
I really should be revamping my résumé for the third or fourth time (maybe the fifth), but if there's one thing I try to avoid, it's working on my résumé. That and writing cover letters. Of course, none of this bodes well for the job search, which has yet to bear fruit. I'm having flashbacks to high school when I looked high and low for a job, and no one would hire me. I believe it's a conspiracy.
There, now that I've addressed the job issue, let's move on. It's almost Halloween, my favorite holiday. While I, Pancha, will not be dressing up, my trusty sidekick will be. She'll be going as a girl reporter, and if our hound dog is up for it, she'll be going as the valiant steed. Girl reporters have valiant steeds, right? It helps them get around easier. I'm certainly looking forward to trick-or-treating with my sidekick, as I haven't been out in years. (I mean I haven't been out trick-or-treating in years. I've been out. I do leave my house, you know.) I hope you all have a lovely All Hallows Eve.
I must admit, I'm a little disappointed in you, my loyal readers. I've received no ideas from anyone, despite my plaintive plea a couple weeks ago. While it's only natural that I would be all out of ideas, I find it difficult to believe that you all are as well. Am I going to have to resort to making stuff up for my Spanish journal? Isn't it bad enough that I make things up for this blog?
Well, that's enough for now. I need to take it slow in my return to blogging after such a hiatus. Plus I'm falling asleep at my computer, and it's only 2:30 p.m.
Ciao.
P.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Pancha Prevails
OK, I've let you wonder long enough. Through valiant and cunning fighting, Pancha prevails in the attack by the pack of wily, yet confused, ninjas.
The ninjas slink away as silently as they came, although they were a little less deadly, and Pancha goes back to her regularly scheduled programming, which is to say, not doing much. Now what happens to Princess Nobuko is another matter, and one that we won't go into here.
Y'all may be aware that I am taking a Spanish class in my final push to become fluent once and for all. It will happen, too, dammit. Well, as part of my homework, I've got to keep a journal in Spanish. Considering that my life isn't all that exciting -- notice only three postings since I started this blog, and one of them was totally made up (I'll let you figure out which one) -- I am now accepting suggestions for things to write about. And they need to be a little more believeable than me getting attacked by mistaken ninjas (ninjas equivocados in Spanish).
So send in your ideas. The winner(s) get a mention on this here widely read and much-praised blog. Blog credits, if you will. What more could you ask for?
Oh! I'll do shout outs. There's only one tonight.
This one goes out to my homie Shelly, who will soon be visiting and celebrating her birthday, not in that order. What up, yo?
That's it.
Maybe we'll talk about Halloween next. It's my favorite holiday, you know. Aside from that one that starts in December and ends in March. Mmmm ... green beans and tiny buffalo cookies. Can't beat 'em.
p.
The ninjas slink away as silently as they came, although they were a little less deadly, and Pancha goes back to her regularly scheduled programming, which is to say, not doing much. Now what happens to Princess Nobuko is another matter, and one that we won't go into here.
Y'all may be aware that I am taking a Spanish class in my final push to become fluent once and for all. It will happen, too, dammit. Well, as part of my homework, I've got to keep a journal in Spanish. Considering that my life isn't all that exciting -- notice only three postings since I started this blog, and one of them was totally made up (I'll let you figure out which one) -- I am now accepting suggestions for things to write about. And they need to be a little more believeable than me getting attacked by mistaken ninjas (ninjas equivocados in Spanish).
So send in your ideas. The winner(s) get a mention on this here widely read and much-praised blog. Blog credits, if you will. What more could you ask for?
Oh! I'll do shout outs. There's only one tonight.
This one goes out to my homie Shelly, who will soon be visiting and celebrating her birthday, not in that order. What up, yo?
That's it.
Maybe we'll talk about Halloween next. It's my favorite holiday, you know. Aside from that one that starts in December and ends in March. Mmmm ... green beans and tiny buffalo cookies. Can't beat 'em.
p.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Mistaken Identity
When we last left our heroine, she was fighting a pack of wily ninjas on an assassination mission. You'll recall that they attacked her in a case of really mistaken identity, believing her to be the Princess Nobuko, who had fled home to escape a loveless arranged marriage to a man twice her age and to find out the truth about her mother's mysterious disappearance, and had taken the Emperor's wife's (her stepmother's) prized jade necklace.
The necklace, if you remember, was a gift from the Emperor to Empress Mizuki, who had coerced it out of him through a combination of feminine wiles and mickeys slipped into his before-bed glasses of warm milk, which, as you know, was how she got him to marry her in the first place.
Of course, you remember that the necklace really belonged to Princess Nobuko's mom, Empress Saika, who had mysteriously disappeared a mere three months before the Emperor and Empress Mizuki's nuptials.
If you kept reading, you would have learned that Princess Nobuko chased a lead on her mother's whereabouts to a Northern California metropolis, having learned from the man who sold fruit from a cart at the gates to the Emperor's city that the word on the street was that an unknown man of high rank and nobility (who, as you know, was acting on behalf of Empress Mizuki) paid the pirates of the Good Ship Gyoza a handsome sum to ferry away across the Pacific a woman bound up in burlap and screaming like the dickens. Though no one was sure who she was exactly, they could tell she was educated, and from the clothes that hung below the burlap sack, that she was a fine lady indeed. No one thought to help her, though, as you'll recall, because who in their right mind would mess with the Gyoza boys? No one, that's who.
If you probe your memory, you know that the fruit vendor told Princess Nobuko that he wasn't sure where exactly the ship would dock, but that there was tell of a man in a Northern California metropolis who would take the fine lady off the Gyoza boys' hands for a nominal fee, and put her to work in one of his sweatshops.
If you read further, you would recall that Princess Nobuko then hopped the next ferry to the Northern California metropolis, and when Empress Mizuki got word of what she saw as Princess Nobuko's treachery -- which threatened her own treachery -- she sent the pack of wily ninjas after her.
Of course, the ninjas, although silent and deadly, were fantastically confused. They had never seen Princess Nobuko -- she was unmarried and a princess, after all -- and so had no idea what she looked like. They got what would have been a passable description from Empress Mizuki, but her Elmer-Fuddian speech impediment made their grasp of that description tenuous at best.
It didn't help that the Emperor's description varied greatly from Empress Mizuki's, largely due to his heavy medication at Empress Mizuki's hands, nor had anyone a recent picture of Princess Nobuko, again because she was an unmarried princess.
You'll remember that the ninjas argued, silently, deadly, the whole boat ride over about whether she was short or tall, fair or brown, coarse or fine, coming to no conclusion other than they all seemed to agree that the Empress' court's intel put her at a certain address in the Northern California metropolis.
Which was how our heroine came to be fending off an attack by a pack of confused ninjas.
Needless to say, the Empress' court's intel was waaaaaay off. But the ninjas, having committed to an attack, ignored the fact that Pancha didn't really look like any of the descriptions of the princess that they had received and didn't even speak their language.
Still, our heroine had no choice but to fight back, and even though she had no beef with the ninjas, she was picking them off one by one with her mad judo skillz.
So that's where we left off, and really, nothing has changed. Check back later to see how Panchita fares against the wily ninjas.
Then again, you may never know.
The necklace, if you remember, was a gift from the Emperor to Empress Mizuki, who had coerced it out of him through a combination of feminine wiles and mickeys slipped into his before-bed glasses of warm milk, which, as you know, was how she got him to marry her in the first place.
Of course, you remember that the necklace really belonged to Princess Nobuko's mom, Empress Saika, who had mysteriously disappeared a mere three months before the Emperor and Empress Mizuki's nuptials.
If you kept reading, you would have learned that Princess Nobuko chased a lead on her mother's whereabouts to a Northern California metropolis, having learned from the man who sold fruit from a cart at the gates to the Emperor's city that the word on the street was that an unknown man of high rank and nobility (who, as you know, was acting on behalf of Empress Mizuki) paid the pirates of the Good Ship Gyoza a handsome sum to ferry away across the Pacific a woman bound up in burlap and screaming like the dickens. Though no one was sure who she was exactly, they could tell she was educated, and from the clothes that hung below the burlap sack, that she was a fine lady indeed. No one thought to help her, though, as you'll recall, because who in their right mind would mess with the Gyoza boys? No one, that's who.
If you probe your memory, you know that the fruit vendor told Princess Nobuko that he wasn't sure where exactly the ship would dock, but that there was tell of a man in a Northern California metropolis who would take the fine lady off the Gyoza boys' hands for a nominal fee, and put her to work in one of his sweatshops.
If you read further, you would recall that Princess Nobuko then hopped the next ferry to the Northern California metropolis, and when Empress Mizuki got word of what she saw as Princess Nobuko's treachery -- which threatened her own treachery -- she sent the pack of wily ninjas after her.
Of course, the ninjas, although silent and deadly, were fantastically confused. They had never seen Princess Nobuko -- she was unmarried and a princess, after all -- and so had no idea what she looked like. They got what would have been a passable description from Empress Mizuki, but her Elmer-Fuddian speech impediment made their grasp of that description tenuous at best.
It didn't help that the Emperor's description varied greatly from Empress Mizuki's, largely due to his heavy medication at Empress Mizuki's hands, nor had anyone a recent picture of Princess Nobuko, again because she was an unmarried princess.
You'll remember that the ninjas argued, silently, deadly, the whole boat ride over about whether she was short or tall, fair or brown, coarse or fine, coming to no conclusion other than they all seemed to agree that the Empress' court's intel put her at a certain address in the Northern California metropolis.
Which was how our heroine came to be fending off an attack by a pack of confused ninjas.
Needless to say, the Empress' court's intel was waaaaaay off. But the ninjas, having committed to an attack, ignored the fact that Pancha didn't really look like any of the descriptions of the princess that they had received and didn't even speak their language.
Still, our heroine had no choice but to fight back, and even though she had no beef with the ninjas, she was picking them off one by one with her mad judo skillz.
So that's where we left off, and really, nothing has changed. Check back later to see how Panchita fares against the wily ninjas.
Then again, you may never know.
Monday, September 18, 2006
First blog
Our story begins in a bright yet claustrophobic office known as "The Studio."
There, our heroine, Pancha, (that is to say, me) sits at her keyboard occupying her time watching her black Labrador retriever roll around on the grass in the back yard (ahhh ... to be a dog), exchanging polite, but increasingly strained, e-mails with the printer company in an effort to figure out why her printer all of a sudden stopped working (it's a conspiracy), and hoping fervently for meaningful employment (or any kind of employment, really).
No, it's not as exciting as it might sound. That's why I, Pancha, the heroine of my own story, have started this blog. Because if this is what I've got to do on a Monday ... well then, I'll be damned if you're not going to suffer right along with me.
Forgive me. That was a little harsh. My intent is not to make you, my loyal and enthusiastic reader, suffer. I actually have quite a bit to do, and it might be quite interesting if I actually did it, but I have been actively engaged in procrastination for the better part of three hours, and honestly, I don't foresee that changing any time soon.
As I absolutely must get out of the house before going mad, I am going to wrap up with a few words about what you can expect on these cyberpages:
Not much.
I think that sums it up quite nicely. To expand:
I will not post regularly, but instead when time permits and the mood strikes.
I will not make it a point to entertain you, because that is simply setting me up for failure, and I've had quite enough of that recently, thank you very much.
I will not be worldly or topical in my entries -- this is not the place to come if you're looking for insightful commentary on the state of American politics.
I hope I have lowered your expectations significantly. Please check back for more postings whenever you feel like it. Maybe it'll be your lucky day.
hasta luego,
pancha.
There, our heroine, Pancha, (that is to say, me) sits at her keyboard occupying her time watching her black Labrador retriever roll around on the grass in the back yard (ahhh ... to be a dog), exchanging polite, but increasingly strained, e-mails with the printer company in an effort to figure out why her printer all of a sudden stopped working (it's a conspiracy), and hoping fervently for meaningful employment (or any kind of employment, really).
No, it's not as exciting as it might sound. That's why I, Pancha, the heroine of my own story, have started this blog. Because if this is what I've got to do on a Monday ... well then, I'll be damned if you're not going to suffer right along with me.
Forgive me. That was a little harsh. My intent is not to make you, my loyal and enthusiastic reader, suffer. I actually have quite a bit to do, and it might be quite interesting if I actually did it, but I have been actively engaged in procrastination for the better part of three hours, and honestly, I don't foresee that changing any time soon.
As I absolutely must get out of the house before going mad, I am going to wrap up with a few words about what you can expect on these cyberpages:
Not much.
I think that sums it up quite nicely. To expand:
I will not post regularly, but instead when time permits and the mood strikes.
I will not make it a point to entertain you, because that is simply setting me up for failure, and I've had quite enough of that recently, thank you very much.
I will not be worldly or topical in my entries -- this is not the place to come if you're looking for insightful commentary on the state of American politics.
I hope I have lowered your expectations significantly. Please check back for more postings whenever you feel like it. Maybe it'll be your lucky day.
hasta luego,
pancha.
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