It never fails that anyone who posts a picture of him/her kissing his/her significant other on an online networking page is met with "oh my God, CUTE ;)" comments, even from people who are known to dislike one side of the menage. I just find them distasteful and refrain from encouraging that kind of behavior, even if I actively like whomever the friend in question happens to be dating/marrying. No one wants to see that. Granted, it's debatable whether my reason is that I want no one else to be happy; this is plausible. At any rate, it's a matter of principle.
...to say nothing of the contrivance required to overcome the technical difficulties associated with taking pictures of one's self while kissing.
Love,
The Colonel
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Variations in form, style.
A letter, addressed to me, from my nipples:
Gus,
From heretofore, please refrain from running in the rain without an undershirt. I know we're really just cosmetic entities, but nonetheless....
Yours,
Nipples
Gus,
From heretofore, please refrain from running in the rain without an undershirt. I know we're really just cosmetic entities, but nonetheless....
Yours,
Nipples
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Edification.
Sometime soon, I need to:
-Get my motorcycle license.
-Stop wearing skinny jeans.
-Develop my taste in jazz.
-Stop hunching my shoulders forward.
-Grow more chest hair.
-Actually understand the mechanism linking open market operations and interest rates.
-Do twenty pull-ups (hello perfect PFT).
-Stop wearing stripes.
-Get a tan that isn't only on my forearms.
-Start flossing more.
-Actually learn meter.
-Finish In Search of Lost Time (only five books to go).
-Get my hunting license.
-Get used to wearing hats, so I can hide my penis-head haircut next fall.
-Retire my black minstrel impression.
That's all I can think of. If you see any glaring deficiencies in character, be sure to let me know.
-Get my motorcycle license.
-Stop wearing skinny jeans.
-Develop my taste in jazz.
-Stop hunching my shoulders forward.
-Grow more chest hair.
-Actually understand the mechanism linking open market operations and interest rates.
-Do twenty pull-ups (hello perfect PFT).
-Stop wearing stripes.
-Get a tan that isn't only on my forearms.
-Start flossing more.
-Actually learn meter.
-Finish In Search of Lost Time (only five books to go).
-Get my hunting license.
-Get used to wearing hats, so I can hide my penis-head haircut next fall.
-Retire my black minstrel impression.
That's all I can think of. If you see any glaring deficiencies in character, be sure to let me know.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Oh, lordy lord, a confessional.
My moods oscillate between two extremes. The first is 'low and mean.' The second is 'deflated and overripe.' (Cheeriness is the extraneous interloper between the poles.)
I'm in the clutches of the second, and Chet Baker isn't helping.
I'm in the clutches of the second, and Chet Baker isn't helping.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Jump up from my starbed, make another day.
My cousin once complimented my brother for "not just throwing words down" on his blogspot. But that's what I'm doing right now, in direct controvertion (not a word, but it should be) to my previous post's argument against the minutia of the daily entry. But give the kids what they want, I say. Besides: Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am vast- I contain multitudes. (A good self-congratulatory panacea of a $2 quote, though previously a $100 quote, whose effect has been diluted by years of misuse and overuse by people who've seen Finding Forrester- the same people who might unapologetically drop a, "Those willing to give up liberty for security deserve neither." My response to these people is, with varying degrees of vinegar, unalterably, "Yes, I, too, went to high school, young man. I can even regurgitate more strangely salient nuggets of learning from high school: diffusion is mitosis over a semi-permeable membrane. The Civil War wasn't fought over slavery. The subjunctive mood is used in situations of imagination and potential. The Louisiana purchase cost $.03 an acre. 'PPF' stands for 'production possibilities frontier.'")
But now for my thoughts and updates.
Mini-OCS is over the course of Easter weekend this year. Real, live Sergeant Instructors will be flown from Quantico, VA to harangue/prepare Marine Officer candidates from the Berkeley, Santa Clara, and Sacramento OSO's two months before departure for the real thing. Taube said this is good, pointing out that Jesus arose from the dead on Sunday. I'm more wary. The bulk of the course will take place on Black Saturday. What are the metaphorical ramifications of that?
It's my birthday Wednesday.
My roommate is very tolerant, considering the amount of sweaty workout clothes that fester in here between laundry days.
I'm about to file my tax return and am debating what to treat myself to once it comes. (But this raises a question. The Internal Revenue Service is relatively convinced that my name is actually 'August William Slagk,' and I've never told them otherwise; in fact, I've even gone so far to ponder what kind of name 'Slagk' would be were it real. I've decided Slovak. Anyway, the North Valley Bank tellers didn't mind, but I wonder if the Berkeley ones will be a bit more hard nosed.) I'm thinking a pair of trousers and some loafers. Class the place up a bit.
I'm done.
But now for my thoughts and updates.
Mini-OCS is over the course of Easter weekend this year. Real, live Sergeant Instructors will be flown from Quantico, VA to harangue/prepare Marine Officer candidates from the Berkeley, Santa Clara, and Sacramento OSO's two months before departure for the real thing. Taube said this is good, pointing out that Jesus arose from the dead on Sunday. I'm more wary. The bulk of the course will take place on Black Saturday. What are the metaphorical ramifications of that?
It's my birthday Wednesday.
My roommate is very tolerant, considering the amount of sweaty workout clothes that fester in here between laundry days.
I'm about to file my tax return and am debating what to treat myself to once it comes. (But this raises a question. The Internal Revenue Service is relatively convinced that my name is actually 'August William Slagk,' and I've never told them otherwise; in fact, I've even gone so far to ponder what kind of name 'Slagk' would be were it real. I've decided Slovak. Anyway, the North Valley Bank tellers didn't mind, but I wonder if the Berkeley ones will be a bit more hard nosed.) I'm thinking a pair of trousers and some loafers. Class the place up a bit.
I'm done.
Friday, February 6, 2009
I saw the news today, oh boy.
The height of arrogance is the daily blog. This is mostly the mental mechanism I adhere to to rationalize my infrequent entries, make no mistake. But I do have an inchoate, feeble-voiced, yet genuine desire to minimize "today I got the best latte at my favorite little coffee shop and read Kerouac there lol" journalistic behavior. So let me treat you to the kind of dredge you'd be stuck at the bottom with if I didn't treat my writing as a great big rant orifice:
February 6, 2009
05:40 I end February 5, 2009 under the assumption of a non-binding commitment to work out with Lt. Chin et al at 09:00. I won't be binded, I tell myself- it's only a couple of hours away. Tomorrow, today I sleep in.
07:50 Eyes open. I'm tired, I tell myself. Let me sleep in.
08:00 I text Lt. Chin. I'll make it in, I say. He says, bring swim trunks and towel.
08:12 It hits me, albeit belatedly, that this kind of language is less cryptic than my not-as-yet completely functional faculties originally construe. Actually, it pretty openly implies...swimming. Shit.
08:20 I need to get moving to make it to the OSO. I decide against wearing my new running shorts with their nifty built in, ahem, 'compression brief' and opt for my too-loose boardshorts. (Take note of this, dear reader, and its effect on underwear related choices.)
So let's take a step back. Checklists are good, and a good checklist would have featured these key pieces of preparation:
1. Backpack.
2. Socks.
3. Undershirt.
4. Underwear.
5. Ability to swim underwater.
6. PT gear that isn't for swimming.
7. Phone.
8. Keys.
9. Wallet.
10. Ipod.
And had I used the checklist test, I'd have scored a pretty respectable 5/10. But note that the ones I missed (2-6) are more consequential than we give them credit for.
08:50-12:00 (compressed) I walk to the USMC OSO, utilizing my new umbrella. I reflect on the threat a dad of one of my high school friends wielded at his son: if you use an umbrella, I'm going to make you wear a dress. I reflect that said father probably never ruined a $130 Microeconomics book by walking around in the rain (but I'm the wiser for it, eh?). I get to the OSO. Captain Wheatcroft remains the most affable man in existence. Lt. Chin says something mean to me. A new aspirant looks at me and gives me bad vibes- I didn't call him about running together as promised because I don't run in the mornings anymore. He's upset? C'est la vie. Life is pain, young man. Get up and get on with is; nothing a good spit can't cure! We get into Lt. Montes' car and take off for the Coast Guard installation in Oakland. Lt. Chin calls me a fag. I deflect his fiery darts with consummate fluency and alternately open and latent wit. He pretends not to notice. We start the swimming workout, and it's pretty obvious I'm a poor swimmer. I pretend not to notice. We finish and change. Lt. Chin notes that I've gone commando, as I dawn my only layers: jeans and a sweater. I contemplate a gimme gay joke. Opt against it. I regret this. We drive back to Berkeley, city of light and learning. I lend Lt. Chin $6 to pick up his uniforms from dry cleaning. I contemplate a gimme joke about the Semitic background of UC Berkeley's only other two PLC Combined candidates...I can't decide whether to go with, "Too bad Rosenfield's not here, huh?" or, "Yeah, out of the PLC candidates, I probably have the best rate." I opt against both. I'm known for my tact, I remember. We get back to the OSO. I chew the fat. I go to Asian Ghetto and pick up some Mongolian beef, eventually placing it next to my Econ 100B study materials.
12:30 I eat my Chinese food and listen to "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry," almost pining for an unremembered (and manifestly unlived) downhome past.
13:00-16:00 I study for Tuesday's exam in 100B and rue the fact that I got the professor I did. Originally I thought he was pleasantly crass. Now I know he's just an asshole. An ineffectual asshole. And he has a belly that's so decadent, it could only be of Third World extraction where it might redeem its offensiveness by performing as an obtrusive indicator of material well-being. Kyle and I ponder whether his metal water bottle is really full of chocolate milk. Cesar studies with me and Kyle. Rosenfield says something mean to me on Facebook. I pretend not to notice.
16:00-18:00 Facebook. A long shower. I appreciate an unhurried toilette in the middle of the day, as it puts things in perspective. Some people posit that metaphysics is so well-developed in the West because we were the first to reach the level of wealth accumulation affording the devotion of time to philosophical pursuits. I don't deny this, but I think a long portion of the day devoted to self-grooming, even shoddy self-grooming, is the apparatus through which the framework actually functions. It's a reflective and calming experience.
18:00-20:00 I try to do the reading for my non-100B classes, but only get half of my target amount done. The lack of sleep is catching up, and my nose literally hits my reader several times.
21:00 I come home, Facebook, and write a blog instead of trying to read.
FINIS
February 6, 2009
05:40 I end February 5, 2009 under the assumption of a non-binding commitment to work out with Lt. Chin et al at 09:00. I won't be binded, I tell myself- it's only a couple of hours away. Tomorrow, today I sleep in.
07:50 Eyes open. I'm tired, I tell myself. Let me sleep in.
08:00 I text Lt. Chin. I'll make it in, I say. He says, bring swim trunks and towel.
08:12 It hits me, albeit belatedly, that this kind of language is less cryptic than my not-as-yet completely functional faculties originally construe. Actually, it pretty openly implies...swimming. Shit.
08:20 I need to get moving to make it to the OSO. I decide against wearing my new running shorts with their nifty built in, ahem, 'compression brief' and opt for my too-loose boardshorts. (Take note of this, dear reader, and its effect on underwear related choices.)
So let's take a step back. Checklists are good, and a good checklist would have featured these key pieces of preparation:
1. Backpack.
2. Socks.
3. Undershirt.
4. Underwear.
5. Ability to swim underwater.
6. PT gear that isn't for swimming.
7. Phone.
8. Keys.
9. Wallet.
10. Ipod.
And had I used the checklist test, I'd have scored a pretty respectable 5/10. But note that the ones I missed (2-6) are more consequential than we give them credit for.
08:50-12:00 (compressed) I walk to the USMC OSO, utilizing my new umbrella. I reflect on the threat a dad of one of my high school friends wielded at his son: if you use an umbrella, I'm going to make you wear a dress. I reflect that said father probably never ruined a $130 Microeconomics book by walking around in the rain (but I'm the wiser for it, eh?). I get to the OSO. Captain Wheatcroft remains the most affable man in existence. Lt. Chin says something mean to me. A new aspirant looks at me and gives me bad vibes- I didn't call him about running together as promised because I don't run in the mornings anymore. He's upset? C'est la vie. Life is pain, young man. Get up and get on with is; nothing a good spit can't cure! We get into Lt. Montes' car and take off for the Coast Guard installation in Oakland. Lt. Chin calls me a fag. I deflect his fiery darts with consummate fluency and alternately open and latent wit. He pretends not to notice. We start the swimming workout, and it's pretty obvious I'm a poor swimmer. I pretend not to notice. We finish and change. Lt. Chin notes that I've gone commando, as I dawn my only layers: jeans and a sweater. I contemplate a gimme gay joke. Opt against it. I regret this. We drive back to Berkeley, city of light and learning. I lend Lt. Chin $6 to pick up his uniforms from dry cleaning. I contemplate a gimme joke about the Semitic background of UC Berkeley's only other two PLC Combined candidates...I can't decide whether to go with, "Too bad Rosenfield's not here, huh?" or, "Yeah, out of the PLC candidates, I probably have the best rate." I opt against both. I'm known for my tact, I remember. We get back to the OSO. I chew the fat. I go to Asian Ghetto and pick up some Mongolian beef, eventually placing it next to my Econ 100B study materials.
12:30 I eat my Chinese food and listen to "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry," almost pining for an unremembered (and manifestly unlived) downhome past.
13:00-16:00 I study for Tuesday's exam in 100B and rue the fact that I got the professor I did. Originally I thought he was pleasantly crass. Now I know he's just an asshole. An ineffectual asshole. And he has a belly that's so decadent, it could only be of Third World extraction where it might redeem its offensiveness by performing as an obtrusive indicator of material well-being. Kyle and I ponder whether his metal water bottle is really full of chocolate milk. Cesar studies with me and Kyle. Rosenfield says something mean to me on Facebook. I pretend not to notice.
16:00-18:00 Facebook. A long shower. I appreciate an unhurried toilette in the middle of the day, as it puts things in perspective. Some people posit that metaphysics is so well-developed in the West because we were the first to reach the level of wealth accumulation affording the devotion of time to philosophical pursuits. I don't deny this, but I think a long portion of the day devoted to self-grooming, even shoddy self-grooming, is the apparatus through which the framework actually functions. It's a reflective and calming experience.
18:00-20:00 I try to do the reading for my non-100B classes, but only get half of my target amount done. The lack of sleep is catching up, and my nose literally hits my reader several times.
21:00 I come home, Facebook, and write a blog instead of trying to read.
FINIS
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