I don't have a coherent stream of consciousness right now, because I'm sweating. Actually sweating from the heat. Without heavy lifting, or running, or any physical exertion. I gotta say, that doesn't happen often, and I don't much care for it. But, while I'm not making any sense and while I'm waiting for the freezer to work its magic on that big glass of Kool-Aid I stuck in it, I figure I might as well blog. You know, instead of doing anything truly productive.
Before I forget, this nugget of bloggold is dedicated to the woman I talked to on the Staten Island Ferry today. She was very pleasant and came from a land I had never heard of called Jaw-Juh. Wait, what?
Ohhh. That makes waay more sense than what I was thinking.
Anyway, I was in the deliciously air-conditioned Staten Island Ferry Terminal when this old tourist lady approached me and asked about how long the ride was (heh) and getting off (heh) and after the ride was over, could she get right back on, or did she have to wait 10-15 minutes (and... heh)? Rejecting my initial answers to such questions, I answered them to the best of my ability. I ended up playing tour guide to her quartet of former southern belles, answering some questions, making up answers to others, and pretending not to hear their repeated comments about taking me home (though that intoxicating drawl did make that part a little difficult). They did mention that they were going to see Spring Awakening tomorrow. It was then my mind wandered.
Me: Oh, really? Hey, could you guys do me a favor and run something backstage for me? It's a gift for one of the actors.
Southern Woman: Why Sure, y'all. I'd love to!
Me: Great, here it is, thanks.
(hands her a jack o' lantern with a knife stuck in it)
SW: My, how nice! Who's it for?
Me: Oh, he'll know. He'll know.
I dedicate that scene to the anonymi out there. Love you guys! Though if they're reading this, that means they're repeat readers, so I probably shouldn't alienate them... Ah well, it's what I do.
Speaking of what I do, I had a job interview today!
Hooray, right? Totally. But as I was waking up completely early today and rushing out the door all fancified, I had a choice to make. Should I wear my trustworthy old black shoes, that are kind of busted and scuffy, but as comfortable as walking on a waterbed full of angels, or should I wear the shinier, duplicitous bastard shoes that come complete with invisible pain razors?
Oh Vanity, thy name is Rev. As I'm typing this I have four bandages on myself, and went through a large section of my profanity lexicon having applied Peroxide to the oozing wounds where I once had structures known as "parts of my feet."
Being quick of mind, once I arrived in Manhattan, I hobbled into a Duane Reade and purchased some bandages, and at the office where my interview was to take place I politely requested the men's room and performed emergency surgery. That slightly lessened the pain, plus it totally made me feel like Bruce Willis in the greatest action movie ever filmed.
Hans Gruber, you bastard.
Still hobbling slightly and bleeding through the band-aids even slightlier I went into the interview. As is my wont, I tried to work the charm. Though I must admit, it's tough to answer the question "what do you feel you're best at?" when your brain has split into Mr. Orange and Mr. White and is acting out the after-the-opening-credits scene from Reservoir Dogs.
This one (you can skip the first 35 seconds).
Speaking of things that are completely ripped off, you know how I told you not to read the book Eragon? Well, definitely don't read its sequel, Eldest.
The Empire Strikes... uh... DRAGON!
I can maybe forgive a sheltered, homeschooled teenager for buying into his weird parents' claims that "No, honey, no one's ever written this story before, and their version certainly didn't have lightsabers." But to write a sequel that's just as full of parallels and then having the BALLS to quote the work you're plagiarizing (Eldest, p. 665 paragraph 5)? Paolini, you cutesy, tongue-in-cheek, self-aware piece of garbage. I'll wait. I'm sure when the third book is published, and Eragon has to destroy a second Death Star, you're going to do a book signing tour, and I'll be there to... well... glare at you as you sign my copy. Glare REALLY hard, though.
All for now,
PS - Anyone want to help me move this weekend?
PPS - Seriously, the glaring will be intense.