One of the perils of growing up is that people start to talk to you like an adult. Normally, this would be a welcome gesture, I suppose, but with strangers I prefer the child-adult conversation dynamic. Anything else may lead to disaster.
So there I was, eating dinner in a large group, sitting across from a man and his wife I'd never met before (and next to my friends). It's impossible bordering on rude to sit across from someone and not make an effort at conversation, so we did. And we happened to be at Disneyland, so we had a fair amount of fodder.
He was probably in his early 50s, so eventually he started talking about the old days at Disneyland. Because I probably know more about The Walt Disney Company than any well-adjusted young adult should, I was able to keep up. He forgot the name of an attraction so, based on his description, I helped him fill in the blanks:
Me: "Oh, the Monsanto House of the Future?" Him, with a look of shock: "You remember that?" Me, realizing that he doesn't know my age and must now think I'm some sort of real life Benjamin Button: "Oh, no... I read about it?"
That's pretty much where the conversation ended. I didn't want to make him feel old by laughing in his face and saying, "Of course not. That attraction left Disneyland before my parents had even met." He knew it too.
So we were back to square one. Me, a kid. He, an adult.
 In my months (years?) of trying to figure out what I want to do with my life, most people tend to agree on a few principles to ensure future career contentment: - Figure out what you're good at
- Turn that skill into something you can make money doing
(For the purposes of this entry, let's assume that they're undecided on ending clauses with prepositions.)
Now I just need to find a job that pays me to pick the most expensive thing on a restaurant menu without seeing the prices.
Sometimes, in the gym, I like to watch The O'Reilly Factor. It gets me all fired up.
At the end of his show a few days ago, he said that the word of the day was "diabolical," and claimed that "you think you know what that means, but you don't. Look it up. And don't be diabolical."
So there I was, on the whatever machine, thinking, "hmm... I do think I know what diabolical means. Have I been wrong this whole time? Is Bill right about something? Is my English degree from a respectable university truly worthless?"
But then, after my workout, I went and looked it up. Sure enough, I did know the correct definition of diabolical and, though I can't say the word rolls off my tongue with any frequency, I've been using it correctly for years.
What this says about the intelligence of Bill's regular viewers, or Bill himself, I can't say. But at least I know I'm not a moron.
(The title of this blog post references one of my favorite childhood movies. That the Walt Disney Company decided to stop producing those edutainment films saddens me.)
My relationship with numbers has always been tumultuous at best. But boy oh boy, things are looking up for me.
I haven't written in this blog for awhile, but since my last entry, I turned 24. This is an important birthday for several reasons: namely, the number is divisible by 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, and 24, which is pretty impressive unto itself, but it's also my second (and very likely last) factorial birthday (the first was at 6 years old. The next, if I make it that long, will be at 120 years old).
Both reasonable consolation prizes for a guy who exited the prime of his life (23) for the next six years.
Then there's my phone number. A friend recently pointed out to me that it ends in the Fibonacci sequence-- 2, 3, 5, and 8.
Though I'm not terribly superstitious, some might argue (successfully) that I have a minor case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
The OCD in me has done the math, and things are certainly looking up.
So there I am, crossing the street at the intersection of Santa Monica Blvd. and Bundy Dr.
I know what you're thinking: why didn't you drive across the intersection like everyone else? I like to infuse a little Bay Area flavor into my LA trips. I walk (sometimes), talk about the cuisines of Alice Waters and Thomas Keller, and gripe about the heat. It's what I do.
Turns out I'm not the only one (who walks). Crossing the street, I come across this tasty (Mc)nugget:
I'm not quite sure what the intent here is: are they expecting that Olympic hopefuls will cross the street, see this ad, and give up steroids (or decline them in the first place)? Perhaps they should've placed these ads near The Home Depot (because, according to the old commercials, every Olympic athlete works there while training).
Are there not more pressing issues facing this country? Did they run out of slogans encouraging me to recycle my old newspapers or exercise? (Note: it's not an either/or. No ads say: "Please either recycle or exercise.")
I don't expect that you have the answers to this little conundrum. Only that, if you're an athlete, you take heed of this message.
 I love cookies.
It's entirely possible that, if you decided to offer me a cauliflower cookie (a cookie somehow incorporating that vile vegetable), I'd eat it.
Chocolate chip is number one, of course. And, okay, generally I like the dough even more.
Sometimes I get cookie dough ice cream and wait for it to melt so that I can fish out the doughy bits.
Sometimes I get so excited when I'm making cookie dough that I go ahead and combine all of the wet and dry ingredients as I go along, rather than at the end. It probably makes for an inferior cookie, but it also means I have fewer dishes to do later.
Nowadays, I like it when the cookie has a little sea salt sprinkled on top (thanks for the idea, NY Times).
Generally, though, I prefer to buy my cookies, rather than bake them myself. It prevents me from eating more than a couple, and I also avoid confronting how much butter one actually needs to produce a soft cookie.
I know I'm not alone, and I bet ABC News reporter Cokie Roberts' parents liked cookies enough to name their daughter after them.
I really, really love cookies.
Sometime, about 9 months ago, she said: "also, too" in the same sentence, as though the words complemented each other. As though they weren't redundant.
And I myself (see what I did there?) haven't been able to stop since. I say it in meetings. I say it at home. It's the preeminent buy-one-get-one-free deal of the English language. Also, too.
Undoubtedly, it's hampering my career development. My verbal tick of 2009, and one that requires constant assurances that, yes, I did graduate from a fairly reputable institution of higher learning and, yes, I studied English.
|
|
