Seriously, overhearing that just made my day.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Surrealism in Portland
You how every once in a while, you're blessed to overhear the most amazingly random conversations that make you feel happy having overheard it and happier yet that you're not that weird person talking? Well, yesterday I was blessed with such an opportunity. I was sitting in my gym lobby waiting for my workout partner to get out of the locker room. I had gotten out my phone and was browsing around on Facebook checking work emails, when I started eavesdropping on a guy (who looked like COmic Book Guy from the Simpsons, which will make the following story even more cringe-worthy) sitting near me talking on his phone. My ears perked up when he uttered the words "sexy mermaids", as I've always enjoyed the movie "The Little Mermaid" and assumed he was talking about that. Well, surprisingly, he wasn't talking about Ariel. I can only imagine that he was talking with his tattoo artist when he said this: "I need someone to draw me a picture of two sexy mermaids fighting underwater with a narwhal swimming by and one of the mermaids has broken off his horn and is stabbing the other mermaid with it and underneath, in Latin, write 'this pain shall benefit you'." And then to top it off, he followed up with, "the last time I tried to have someone draw that, they gave me SEA HAGS, and I don't want sea hags, I want SEXY MERMAIDS!" Don't we all.
Seriously, overhearing that just made my day.
Seriously, overhearing that just made my day.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Ummm, I have a question
I saw this on someone's blog and would like to cautiously raise my hand and timidly ask, fearful of the answer, how exactly do you play this video game.
Seriously? Any ideas? Anyone out there in the Internets world played this before? Did you feel guilty afterward or invigorated? Is it appropriate to bring "protection" to the arcade or is it made out of anti-bacterial plastic? I'm dying of curiosity here!
Update
Okay, a friend sent me this information about the game. Evidently it's a Japanese phenomenon called "Kancho" and here is a description of it from an American who teaches English in Japan:
Let me introduce you to a game Japanese kids like to play called "Kancho." It's not as much a 'game' as it is kids clasping their hands together, sticking out their first fingers, and shoving them up your butt. I'm really not joking.
Just about any kid can be a Kancho Assassin. Even the sweetest little girl is liable to jam her fingers up your ass the second you turn around. This happened to one of my friends, which just goes to show - don't trust anyone. I'd say the little girls are the most dangerous because they have natural ways of lowering your defenses.
During JET orientation they told me a lot of ultimately useless stuff: what kind of computer to bring, if my DVD's would work, clothing sizes, that kind of nonsense. Nowhere, and I mean nowhere, in the 3-4 months of training did anyone ever mention that at some point, a Japanese kid may try to stick his fingers up my butt. That's something I would have liked to know, personally.
I was pretty lucky. Before I left the US, I bought a really big, really baggy pair of pants. The kids try to Kancho... they just have no idea where my ass is. It's beautiful! One kid tried and his fingers hit nothing but jean fabric and air. Yes! I've also become pretty good at dodging it. Much like Spiderman I have developed a Kancho Sense that tells me where and when it's coming before it comes. I parry fingers like a pro. My record is still 100% Kancho Free. Ha! America 2, Japan 0.
So yes, there is something more dreaded than the Ninja or the Shogun... it's the Kancho Assassin!
Seriously? Any ideas? Anyone out there in the Internets world played this before? Did you feel guilty afterward or invigorated? Is it appropriate to bring "protection" to the arcade or is it made out of anti-bacterial plastic? I'm dying of curiosity here!
Update
Okay, a friend sent me this information about the game. Evidently it's a Japanese phenomenon called "Kancho" and here is a description of it from an American who teaches English in Japan:
Let me introduce you to a game Japanese kids like to play called "Kancho." It's not as much a 'game' as it is kids clasping their hands together, sticking out their first fingers, and shoving them up your butt. I'm really not joking.
Just about any kid can be a Kancho Assassin. Even the sweetest little girl is liable to jam her fingers up your ass the second you turn around. This happened to one of my friends, which just goes to show - don't trust anyone. I'd say the little girls are the most dangerous because they have natural ways of lowering your defenses.
During JET orientation they told me a lot of ultimately useless stuff: what kind of computer to bring, if my DVD's would work, clothing sizes, that kind of nonsense. Nowhere, and I mean nowhere, in the 3-4 months of training did anyone ever mention that at some point, a Japanese kid may try to stick his fingers up my butt. That's something I would have liked to know, personally.
I was pretty lucky. Before I left the US, I bought a really big, really baggy pair of pants. The kids try to Kancho... they just have no idea where my ass is. It's beautiful! One kid tried and his fingers hit nothing but jean fabric and air. Yes! I've also become pretty good at dodging it. Much like Spiderman I have developed a Kancho Sense that tells me where and when it's coming before it comes. I parry fingers like a pro. My record is still 100% Kancho Free. Ha! America 2, Japan 0.
So yes, there is something more dreaded than the Ninja or the Shogun... it's the Kancho Assassin!
Head injuries
This weekend, while chatting with my grandmother and aunt, we were discussing a recent spill that my grandmother took that had given her a concussion. (She's okay, by the way... and curiously the incident was a mixed bag in terms of effects. On the one hand, she has to read large-print books for a week to two, which unfortunately limits her to Reader's Digest condensed books or the Scriptures... eh, who am I kidding... it limits her to just Reader's Digest condensed books. But on the other hand, it cleared up something that had been bugging her for quite some time and that had forced her to drink tea to treat it. Maybe the spill was God's way of helping her obey the Word of Wisdom... you know, like STDs are God's way of helping people obey the Law of Chastity)
Anyway, while we were talking about concussions, my grandmother said that she saw sparkles (which is WAY more exciting than the boring stars that other people report seeing). I told her that I remember seeing sparkles, too, when I sustained the most horrific head injury of my life: The Hose Incident of 1988. I talked about this before, but in case you're a newcomer to this blog and haven't gone back and read every one of my posts to be regaled with it's greatness (and if you haven't, what's up with THAT?!), here is the story:
One day, I got stuck with the task of watering our lawn. I was moving the sprinkler from one location to another and was pulling the hose when it got caught up on something. Being the lazy teenager that I was, I decided to try to whip the hose off the hang-up rather than walking back and freeing it. Unfortunately I grabbed the hose not at the end but about 10 inches from the end. Suddenly, as I stood there whipping the hose up and down and back and forth--expending WAY more energy than if I were to simply walk back and free it-- something hit me so hard on the head that I couldn't hear out of my right ear, my vision went black for an instant (during which time I saw the sparkles against a dark backdrop and was inspired to visit Studio 54), and I could barely stand up straight. I was standing near the road in front of our house and thought that someone must have thrown a rock at me as they drove past! Senseless violence in rural Idaho even in those days! I stumbled back to the house, all the while telling myself my name, address, phone number, preferred brand of bacon bits, and the synopsis to last week's episode of Knight Rider to confirm that I didn't have amnesia. I'd seen enough movies and soap operas to know that even the slightest blow to the head is enough to make someone forget that he's a rich baron that drives racecars and is a double agent between the US and Canada. Unfortunately I could well remember that I wasn't wealthy royalty but a pimply teenager into computers and science--at least the injury could have made me think I was a British agent for a few minutes. When I went in the house and told my mom what had happened, she was (understandably) freaked out and rushed me to the clinic in town. As we were sitting in the examination room, I had some time to think about what had happened and my original thought that someone had thrown a rock at me just didn't seem to add up. One, none of my enemies or nemises had that good of aim, two, a rock thrown that distance would have left more than a series of threaded lines on my forehead, and three, I wasn't even facing the road. It was then that I realized that I had hit myself with the wicked strike of a whipped garden hose. I sheepishly told my mom what I had just realized and she said that we'd stick to the thrown rock story when we told the doctor what had happened. And that's exactly what we did. Now the internets know why I have a slight bump on my forehead, why I'm into whips and chains, and why, for a short time, I was completely obedient to the Third Commandment.
Anyway, while we were talking about concussions, my grandmother said that she saw sparkles (which is WAY more exciting than the boring stars that other people report seeing). I told her that I remember seeing sparkles, too, when I sustained the most horrific head injury of my life: The Hose Incident of 1988. I talked about this before, but in case you're a newcomer to this blog and haven't gone back and read every one of my posts to be regaled with it's greatness (and if you haven't, what's up with THAT?!), here is the story:
One day, I got stuck with the task of watering our lawn. I was moving the sprinkler from one location to another and was pulling the hose when it got caught up on something. Being the lazy teenager that I was, I decided to try to whip the hose off the hang-up rather than walking back and freeing it. Unfortunately I grabbed the hose not at the end but about 10 inches from the end. Suddenly, as I stood there whipping the hose up and down and back and forth--expending WAY more energy than if I were to simply walk back and free it-- something hit me so hard on the head that I couldn't hear out of my right ear, my vision went black for an instant (during which time I saw the sparkles against a dark backdrop and was inspired to visit Studio 54), and I could barely stand up straight. I was standing near the road in front of our house and thought that someone must have thrown a rock at me as they drove past! Senseless violence in rural Idaho even in those days! I stumbled back to the house, all the while telling myself my name, address, phone number, preferred brand of bacon bits, and the synopsis to last week's episode of Knight Rider to confirm that I didn't have amnesia. I'd seen enough movies and soap operas to know that even the slightest blow to the head is enough to make someone forget that he's a rich baron that drives racecars and is a double agent between the US and Canada. Unfortunately I could well remember that I wasn't wealthy royalty but a pimply teenager into computers and science--at least the injury could have made me think I was a British agent for a few minutes. When I went in the house and told my mom what had happened, she was (understandably) freaked out and rushed me to the clinic in town. As we were sitting in the examination room, I had some time to think about what had happened and my original thought that someone had thrown a rock at me just didn't seem to add up. One, none of my enemies or nemises had that good of aim, two, a rock thrown that distance would have left more than a series of threaded lines on my forehead, and three, I wasn't even facing the road. It was then that I realized that I had hit myself with the wicked strike of a whipped garden hose. I sheepishly told my mom what I had just realized and she said that we'd stick to the thrown rock story when we told the doctor what had happened. And that's exactly what we did. Now the internets know why I have a slight bump on my forehead, why I'm into whips and chains, and why, for a short time, I was completely obedient to the Third Commandment.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Slacker
Holy crap! Why didn't anyone tell me that I haven't written on this thing for more than a month! And so much has happened. So much that it's all just a blur and I can't differentiate anything out of that blurry view, so you'll just have to imagine how wild and crazy and amazing and tragic and transcendental the past 6 weeks have been and we'll move on. Go ahead and imagine... I'll wait... Are you doing it? Ooo, don't forget to imagine the part where Obama calls and asks me for advice on something. Oh, and don't forget to picture me negotiating a peace treaty between two warring nations... yeah, that was good. Man, it's too bad it's all such a blur, because you would have LOVED reading about it, but let's just move on.
Today I had to do something I dread: cancel a subscription to a service. I hate it because they always pull out the "why are you leaving us" or "let us offer you a special deal" or "we've got these pictures of you that you really wouldn't like to get out, would you?" I hate that. Anyway, I've found a fool-proof method of stopping them in their hard-sell tracks: tell them you're moving, but not just any simple move will do. They're trained to respond, "Oh, we can just transfer your service to your new address. Where are you moving to?" Here's where the part that throws them comes in. I respond, "Norway." Both times I've tried this, they meekly say, "Oh, we don't offer service there. I'll process your cancellation." Works. Like. A. Charm!
Now if only that trick would work on our home teachers!
Today I had to do something I dread: cancel a subscription to a service. I hate it because they always pull out the "why are you leaving us" or "let us offer you a special deal" or "we've got these pictures of you that you really wouldn't like to get out, would you?" I hate that. Anyway, I've found a fool-proof method of stopping them in their hard-sell tracks: tell them you're moving, but not just any simple move will do. They're trained to respond, "Oh, we can just transfer your service to your new address. Where are you moving to?" Here's where the part that throws them comes in. I respond, "Norway." Both times I've tried this, they meekly say, "Oh, we don't offer service there. I'll process your cancellation." Works. Like. A. Charm!
Now if only that trick would work on our home teachers!
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