Whoa! Today I snubbed errands, cleaning-the-house duties, and friends I'd planned to call. I forgot to eat. I ignored my cats. I spent my ENTIRE Saturday absorbed in one obsession-trance after another -- Web surfing, cool Mac software, music, my iPod Shuffle, and working out.
OK, that last one's a slight stretch, but it is involved, I promise.
It started with random Internet surfing while enjoying my morning coffee. Have you guys heard of StumbleUpon.com? It's a browser plug-in that helps you find sites you might like. Well, I'm here to tell you.....it works. Since installing it on my laptop a couple weeks ago, I've wasted countless hours of blue-couch time. I've played fun little Flash games, watched hilarious videos, gotten inspired by artists of many types, been entertained by weird-freaky-crazy ideas and products, cruised some awesome shopping sites, and ran across some of the best reference collections I've ever seen. Good God, there's not enough time in the universe to read it all! What am I going to do? How will I assimilate it all??
Anyway.....
This morning, StumbleUpon took me to a page describing Tangerine, a commercial Mac app that analyzes your iTunes library and assigns beats per minute (BPM) to each of your songs. This caught my attention. It helps my motivation in the gym to walk, cycle, and run in time to music. I'd found the free Podrunner mixes months ago -- which I love -- but I also kept trying to categorize my own songs by BPM. Trial and error was wearing on my patience. I figured there were probably software options to help, but I just never got around to looking for them.
Well, StumbleUpon dropped one of those options in my lap. I almost forked out the $25 immediately, but my inner cheapskate compelled me to search for a freeware equivalent. I found iTunes BPM Inspector and downloaded that puppy.
It's not automatic like Tangerine, but it is very easy. You open iTunes and start playing your songs. For each song, you tap your mouse in time to the music, with your cursor poised above BPM Inspector's little floating window. After 10 seconds or so, it recognizes the BPM, you click "set," and it assigns the song a BPM value within iTunes.
What joy!!
I now have a PERFECT iTunes playlist for my hip little Shuffle. I've listed the songs in order of BPM -- from about 98 to over 200. The slower songs I'll use for warmups and cool-downs, the mid-speed songs I'll use for treadmill walking and running, and the fast ones are for my alone-time with the spinning-class bikes.
The problem is that I'm only a fraction of the way through my iTunes library. But..... if I stay up all night.......
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Ten photographs
Not really in the mood to write this weekend, so I thought I'd play with the slideshow feature at photobucket.com. Here are some abstract shots I took at Freedom Weekend Aloft, held in May this year at Simpsonville's Heritage Park.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Just wondering
Yesterday I saw something abominable as I left the office after a busy workday. The automatic doors swung open, and it felt like I was walking into a stifling, steamy sauna. For a second, it was hard to breath. The air conditioning at my back was efficiently snuffed out, and, as I began walking toward my car, the sweltering Southern summer humidity clung to my skin almost wetly, sucking more energy from my body with every step I took. Mind you, this has not been an unusual feeling lately. All sorts of weather records have been broken this month -- we've had triple-digit temps like no one has seen in decades. Uggghh!
About 20 feet from my car, I innocently glanced to the left. You know, just your typical looking-around-as-you-stroll type of glance. I'd looked to the right mere seconds before, and survived the experience extraordinarily well. There was no way I could have been prepared for what I saw next.
Right there in our parking lot -- in front of God and everybody -- a man walked to his car, talking on his cell phone, wearing an argyle sweater over a long-sleeved dress shirt.
What in the expansive, blue heavens would possess someone to wear that in THIS heat?? Is his office located in a refrigerator? Does he have a personality disorder which compels him to wear only outfits found in the 1982 LL Bean fall/winter catalog? Does his always-cold, elderly mother dress him? Is he in a sexually explosive, masochistic relationship with someone named Mistress Olga, who gets off knowing that her partner sits in a human stew of a sweatball all day? Is he wearing saran wrap as underwear?
Sometimes you just have to wonder about a person's backstory.
About 20 feet from my car, I innocently glanced to the left. You know, just your typical looking-around-as-you-stroll type of glance. I'd looked to the right mere seconds before, and survived the experience extraordinarily well. There was no way I could have been prepared for what I saw next.
Right there in our parking lot -- in front of God and everybody -- a man walked to his car, talking on his cell phone, wearing an argyle sweater over a long-sleeved dress shirt.
What in the expansive, blue heavens would possess someone to wear that in THIS heat?? Is his office located in a refrigerator? Does he have a personality disorder which compels him to wear only outfits found in the 1982 LL Bean fall/winter catalog? Does his always-cold, elderly mother dress him? Is he in a sexually explosive, masochistic relationship with someone named Mistress Olga, who gets off knowing that her partner sits in a human stew of a sweatball all day? Is he wearing saran wrap as underwear?
Sometimes you just have to wonder about a person's backstory.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
A reunion, absent angst, and ADD
I thought I knew what to expect earlier this month when I attended my high school reunion.
It had been planned as a series of day-long events -- meet at the alumni house for a pre-lunch drop-in, swing over to our old fast-food hangout for lunch, piddle the afternoon in whatever pursuits your mood dictates, and then meet at a nice restaurant for dinner that evening. I was looking forward to catching up with old friends, sharing a few of my own what-are-you-up-to-now stories, and laughing nostalgically about the good ol' days. Maybe even squeeze in a bit of tender reminiscing.
Knowing my philosophical tendencies, I'd prepared myself for what I thought would be inevitable -- an involuntary brain-vacation in the midst of it all, a sort of pensive out-of-body experience in which I'd examine my past, my present, my future. I'd question the choices I've made....mull the big-picture life directions to which I'm now committed, like it or not....compare my moderately irregular life to that of my childhood friends....reassess the outcomes which my future seems to hold. Angst would surely be involved, but, I reasoned, perhaps I'd earn some sort of enlightened insight. Yay!
But it didn't happen. I even waited for weeks to finish this blog entry, on the chance I'd have some sort of delayed reaction. But still, nothing.
Was I expecting introspection because books and movies so often make reunions a catalyst for internal strife? Probably. But do books and movies make reunions a catalyst for internal strife because it so frequently happens in real life? Probably. So why not me?
Maybe I'm simply satisfied with my life. End of story. That'd be pretty freakin' awesome, wouldn't it? BUT what if I'm repressing my dissatisfaction so deeply that I can no longer find it? That'd be sad. But.....maybe not -- I mean, really, what would be the difference between deep, effective repression and having nothing to repress? Wouldn't the end result be the same? My brain is bouncing with the yin and yang of it.
Oh well. When my psyche needs some introspection, I'll trust the universe to whack me with a sign. You can't force that sort of thing.
You know what did happen, though? I had an attack of ADD in the middle of the evening's dinner. All of a sudden, I was done -- and I mean DONE -- with chitchat. I was drawn toward the intricacy of the restaurant's high ceilings....toward the pretty candle flames....toward the softly lit bue-and-yellow-balloons....toward the miscellaneous table decorations....anything and everything that was non-human. Geesh, why does that happen to me? Maybe I should go into training for social events like runners train for a marathon. I need to develop an ability to push through the edgy intolerance and continue to focus, to enjoy the fun around me.
Before that, though, I did have a GREAT time! We shared a ton of old memories and laughed a lot. I really enjoyed hearing how everyone's lives have turned out. And I was elated that there seemed to be so much joy and success among us all. There were a few people with whom I would've loved to talk more, but for some reason it seemed appropriate to keep the conversation light and superficial, and to spread my time equally among everyone. The last time we got together as a group, it was in 1988 during our 8th-year reunion. This time it was our 27th. I hope we do it more frequently from now on.
It had been planned as a series of day-long events -- meet at the alumni house for a pre-lunch drop-in, swing over to our old fast-food hangout for lunch, piddle the afternoon in whatever pursuits your mood dictates, and then meet at a nice restaurant for dinner that evening. I was looking forward to catching up with old friends, sharing a few of my own what-are-you-up-to-now stories, and laughing nostalgically about the good ol' days. Maybe even squeeze in a bit of tender reminiscing.
Knowing my philosophical tendencies, I'd prepared myself for what I thought would be inevitable -- an involuntary brain-vacation in the midst of it all, a sort of pensive out-of-body experience in which I'd examine my past, my present, my future. I'd question the choices I've made....mull the big-picture life directions to which I'm now committed, like it or not....compare my moderately irregular life to that of my childhood friends....reassess the outcomes which my future seems to hold. Angst would surely be involved, but, I reasoned, perhaps I'd earn some sort of enlightened insight. Yay!
But it didn't happen. I even waited for weeks to finish this blog entry, on the chance I'd have some sort of delayed reaction. But still, nothing.
Was I expecting introspection because books and movies so often make reunions a catalyst for internal strife? Probably. But do books and movies make reunions a catalyst for internal strife because it so frequently happens in real life? Probably. So why not me?
Maybe I'm simply satisfied with my life. End of story. That'd be pretty freakin' awesome, wouldn't it? BUT what if I'm repressing my dissatisfaction so deeply that I can no longer find it? That'd be sad. But.....maybe not -- I mean, really, what would be the difference between deep, effective repression and having nothing to repress? Wouldn't the end result be the same? My brain is bouncing with the yin and yang of it.
Oh well. When my psyche needs some introspection, I'll trust the universe to whack me with a sign. You can't force that sort of thing.
You know what did happen, though? I had an attack of ADD in the middle of the evening's dinner. All of a sudden, I was done -- and I mean DONE -- with chitchat. I was drawn toward the intricacy of the restaurant's high ceilings....toward the pretty candle flames....toward the softly lit bue-and-yellow-balloons....toward the miscellaneous table decorations....anything and everything that was non-human. Geesh, why does that happen to me? Maybe I should go into training for social events like runners train for a marathon. I need to develop an ability to push through the edgy intolerance and continue to focus, to enjoy the fun around me.
Before that, though, I did have a GREAT time! We shared a ton of old memories and laughed a lot. I really enjoyed hearing how everyone's lives have turned out. And I was elated that there seemed to be so much joy and success among us all. There were a few people with whom I would've loved to talk more, but for some reason it seemed appropriate to keep the conversation light and superficial, and to spread my time equally among everyone. The last time we got together as a group, it was in 1988 during our 8th-year reunion. This time it was our 27th. I hope we do it more frequently from now on.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Profundity
Remember the bit "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey" during the good ol' days of Saturday Night Live? Well, I found an iGoogle module which feeds me one of these per day, and I've been saving the funnier ones.....
It's easy to sit and scoff at an old man's folly, but also, check out his Adam's apple.
I guess of all my uncles, I liked Uncle Caveman the best. We called him Uncle Caveman because he lived in a cave, and because sometimes he'd eat one of us. Later on, we found out he was a bear.
I think a good novel would be where a bunch of men on a ship are looking for a whale. They look and look, but you know what? They never find him. And you know why they never find him? It doesn't say. The book leaves it up to you, the reader, to decide. Then at the very end, there's a page you can lick, and it tastes like Kool-Aid.
In weightlifting, I don't think sudden, uncontrolled urination should automatically disqualify you.
When you go in for a job interview, I think a good thing to ask is if they ever press charges.
I think a good gift for the president would be a chocolate revolver, and since he's so busy, you'd probably have to run up real quick and hand it to him.
When I found the skull in the woods, the first thing I did was call the police, but then I got curious about it. I picked it up, and started wondering who this person was, and why he had deer horns.
You can't tell me that cowboys, when they're branding cattle, don't sort of "accidentally" brand each other every once in awhile. It's their way of letting off stress.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Barbie tortures revisited
By semi-popular demand, I am now addressing the....umm... Barbie confession. In case you didn't catch the 16th item in "Lisa 101," my very first blog entry ever, here it is again:
That item caught a friend's attention, who asked, "Was this your way to say that only a consenting adult would be allowed in such play?"
You know, I wasn't old enough to know what a consenting adult was, so....no, I don't think that was it at all. I stripped Skipper's clothes off too, but never tied her up or hid her in dark places. And the clothes thing wasn't sexual -- I just didn't like clothes or shoes, so I figured Skipper wouldn't, either.
(Freaky flashback sidebar: When I was about 6 or 7, playing in my backyard with only distant farm animals as witnesses, I stripped off all my clothes to see if my dog Bingo would look at me funny. He did.)
As a child, I hated -- I mean HATED with a pure, clean, blue-hot heat -- being told what to do. And it seemed like anyone bigger or older than me considered it an inalienable right to boss me around. They were able to do this to their black, unbelievably self-centered hearts' content without fear of punishment or retribution of any kind. I seethed. Well, I'm exaggerating a teeny bit -- I actually led a somewhat idyllic life back then, compared to some -- but at times I did become brooding and rebellious. When I fought authority, authority always won. Dammit.
Perhaps my passive-aggressive way to get back at them was to take my adult Barbies and make them as vulnerable as I felt, disabling their ability to move, speak, see....
I dunno. That's my best guess.
That explanation doesn't involve sex, though, so it is no fun at all. This is much better:
In a previous life I was a beautiful impoverished maiden who was forced into the sex trade by a dastardly, depraved sovereign. I had to perform well in order to ensure that my little sister, Skipperophelia, would be allowed to live comfortably as a lady-in-waiting to the king's second wife. I performed so well that I became the most renowned dominatrix in the land.....and, of course, I learned to love my work. I loved it so much that it made a permanant imprint upon my soul which MUST be manifested somehow within each of my lives.
My Barbies lived through precarious times. I used to strip off all their clothes, tie their hands and feet, and then stash them somewhere dark and scary, often leaving them there for months. I never did that with Skipper, though. Only the grown-up Barbies.
That item caught a friend's attention, who asked, "Was this your way to say that only a consenting adult would be allowed in such play?"
You know, I wasn't old enough to know what a consenting adult was, so....no, I don't think that was it at all. I stripped Skipper's clothes off too, but never tied her up or hid her in dark places. And the clothes thing wasn't sexual -- I just didn't like clothes or shoes, so I figured Skipper wouldn't, either.
(Freaky flashback sidebar: When I was about 6 or 7, playing in my backyard with only distant farm animals as witnesses, I stripped off all my clothes to see if my dog Bingo would look at me funny. He did.)
As a child, I hated -- I mean HATED with a pure, clean, blue-hot heat -- being told what to do. And it seemed like anyone bigger or older than me considered it an inalienable right to boss me around. They were able to do this to their black, unbelievably self-centered hearts' content without fear of punishment or retribution of any kind. I seethed. Well, I'm exaggerating a teeny bit -- I actually led a somewhat idyllic life back then, compared to some -- but at times I did become brooding and rebellious. When I fought authority, authority always won. Dammit.
Perhaps my passive-aggressive way to get back at them was to take my adult Barbies and make them as vulnerable as I felt, disabling their ability to move, speak, see....
I dunno. That's my best guess.
That explanation doesn't involve sex, though, so it is no fun at all. This is much better:
In a previous life I was a beautiful impoverished maiden who was forced into the sex trade by a dastardly, depraved sovereign. I had to perform well in order to ensure that my little sister, Skipperophelia, would be allowed to live comfortably as a lady-in-waiting to the king's second wife. I performed so well that I became the most renowned dominatrix in the land.....and, of course, I learned to love my work. I loved it so much that it made a permanant imprint upon my soul which MUST be manifested somehow within each of my lives.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
How hard are your (private) edges?
You had to know this was coming. I mean, with all the talk in the previous post about ENTIRE body shaving.....geesh, you just HAD to know I'd take it a step further.
Before I head in the obvious direction, I'd like to take a little side trip -- ass hair. Personally, I don't remember that phrase ever entering my consciousness, but a friend touched on the subject recently.
"You know," he said, "there's a theory that all body hair radiates from the ass." Apparently, on many men it's at its wild & wooly thickest there at the supposed origin. "God, you wonder in the locker room if some guys are trying to hide small mammals back there."
I had no idea what to say to that, so the conversation pretty much ended there -- well, after the uproarious laughter subsided. I was curious to see if this was a topic that others thought about, so -- you guessed it -- this morning I googled "ass hair."
OMG.....this led to so many fits of uncontrolled laughter that my cats are now staring at me with a mingling of concern, curiosity, and borderline fear.
One college student, facing a personal hygiene problem which never, ever, EVER occurred to me, has issues which repel, horrify, and amuse all at once. A wannabe male stripper asks his female roommate to assist with his problem ("when Joseph disrobed, it appeared as if a small dog had curled up on his buttocks to take a nap") the night before an audition. On YouTube, three friends argue while playing cards, and come to a profound conclusion that "your ass hair doesn't have any friends." A reporter for an internet site attempts to conduct a serious, informative play-by-play while having his ass waxed by an apparently sadistic female who continually yanks "roadkill" off his nether regions and shows it to the camera.
I learned that ass hair seems to be a concern for most men, whether for hygiene, logistic, or vanity reasons. I also learned that ass hair doesn't really enter the radar of most women....in my search this morning, their comments are almost nonexistent on the topic, unless they are referencing a male friend or significant other. My guess is that women are not that concerned with men's back-door area since it really doesn't serve a purpose for us.
OK. Now that my abs have rested a bit from the belly-laugh workout and my cats have found sweet little slumber spots on my couch, we can turn to the final topic -- or at least *my* final topic -- relating to body hair.
The Brazilian wax.
I'm not sure why, but in the last 6-8 months this has come up in casual conversation with a lot of my women friends. One person heard that one of her colleagues undergoes this procedure regularly. "Oh my God," she said, "can you imagine how much it would ITCH when it started to grow back?"
Another woman I know endured the procedure herself. "It was very weird getting it done," she said. I mean, you're spread out in all your glory in front of a stranger. "It really helped that she [the waxer] was very professional."
Yet another friend has a friend who tried it for the first time many months ago. The two of them had gotten into a fairly detailed conversation. "I really wondered," my friend shared, "if men's obsession with the Brazilian had a connection to pre-pubescent girls." Frankly, I'd wondered the same thing, so I leaned forward to hear this other woman's take on it. "But my friend's husband said no, absolutely not. There's nothing little-girlish about a woman's body, even with the pubic hair gone." The waxing was so "very well received" by the husband that my friend's friend has kept it up. Ummmm......quite literally. ;-)
As I thought about it more, I wondered if men learned to like the Brazilian because, in all likelihood, their favorite porn stars do it. I'm more comfortable believing that than the thing about little girls. That just creeps me out.
I found an informative article on a college newspaper site. Going completely hairless is a growing trend, and not just among women. A few excerpts:
I found a blog entry in which a woman describes her first Brazilian. She decided to have it done because she was going on a lengthy, scantily-clad trip in which she didn't want to be bothered with shaving. Waxing would last 3-6 weeks. Most disconcerting were these comments:
Yikes!! But there were some interestingly encouraging observations:
Well now, that is *hands-down* the best reason I've come across. Enduring pain for pleasure is totally understandable. Am I right? I mean, that's not just me, right? You feel that way, too, I'm sure.... right?
You agree, don't you?
Hello?
Before I head in the obvious direction, I'd like to take a little side trip -- ass hair. Personally, I don't remember that phrase ever entering my consciousness, but a friend touched on the subject recently.
"You know," he said, "there's a theory that all body hair radiates from the ass." Apparently, on many men it's at its wild & wooly thickest there at the supposed origin. "God, you wonder in the locker room if some guys are trying to hide small mammals back there."
I had no idea what to say to that, so the conversation pretty much ended there -- well, after the uproarious laughter subsided. I was curious to see if this was a topic that others thought about, so -- you guessed it -- this morning I googled "ass hair."
OMG.....this led to so many fits of uncontrolled laughter that my cats are now staring at me with a mingling of concern, curiosity, and borderline fear.
One college student, facing a personal hygiene problem which never, ever, EVER occurred to me, has issues which repel, horrify, and amuse all at once. A wannabe male stripper asks his female roommate to assist with his problem ("when Joseph disrobed, it appeared as if a small dog had curled up on his buttocks to take a nap") the night before an audition. On YouTube, three friends argue while playing cards, and come to a profound conclusion that "your ass hair doesn't have any friends." A reporter for an internet site attempts to conduct a serious, informative play-by-play while having his ass waxed by an apparently sadistic female who continually yanks "roadkill" off his nether regions and shows it to the camera.
I learned that ass hair seems to be a concern for most men, whether for hygiene, logistic, or vanity reasons. I also learned that ass hair doesn't really enter the radar of most women....in my search this morning, their comments are almost nonexistent on the topic, unless they are referencing a male friend or significant other. My guess is that women are not that concerned with men's back-door area since it really doesn't serve a purpose for us.
OK. Now that my abs have rested a bit from the belly-laugh workout and my cats have found sweet little slumber spots on my couch, we can turn to the final topic -- or at least *my* final topic -- relating to body hair.
The Brazilian wax.
I'm not sure why, but in the last 6-8 months this has come up in casual conversation with a lot of my women friends. One person heard that one of her colleagues undergoes this procedure regularly. "Oh my God," she said, "can you imagine how much it would ITCH when it started to grow back?"
Another woman I know endured the procedure herself. "It was very weird getting it done," she said. I mean, you're spread out in all your glory in front of a stranger. "It really helped that she [the waxer] was very professional."
Yet another friend has a friend who tried it for the first time many months ago. The two of them had gotten into a fairly detailed conversation. "I really wondered," my friend shared, "if men's obsession with the Brazilian had a connection to pre-pubescent girls." Frankly, I'd wondered the same thing, so I leaned forward to hear this other woman's take on it. "But my friend's husband said no, absolutely not. There's nothing little-girlish about a woman's body, even with the pubic hair gone." The waxing was so "very well received" by the husband that my friend's friend has kept it up. Ummmm......quite literally. ;-)
As I thought about it more, I wondered if men learned to like the Brazilian because, in all likelihood, their favorite porn stars do it. I'm more comfortable believing that than the thing about little girls. That just creeps me out.
I found an informative article on a college newspaper site. Going completely hairless is a growing trend, and not just among women. A few excerpts:
Danielle Nobbs goes to Studio 505 to get her bikini wax.....[she] explains that this is all worth it because she likes how a Brazilian wax looks and feels. "It's not only about how it looks," she said. "It's about bringing my sexuality out in the open. Women are brought up that sex and their private parts are bad or dirty. This kind of gets things out in the open. My private parts are not hidden anymore, and I shouldn't be ashamed," she said.
This trend occurs more often among women, but according to USA Today, increasing numbers of men are removing their pubic hair also. "I shave completely down there," said senior Chris Baldwin. "I prefer women who shave, so I figure they would prefer it if I shaved also. It's a trend that's common and acceptable among college males and females. Shaving seems cleaner and more maintained."
Brandon Ratcliff, a SCSU student, agrees. "I don't shave but I trim," he said. "I like to clean it up and make it look presentable for the opposite sex. I prefer women who don't shave completely down there but leave a landing strip. Completely bald makes me feel like a pedophile. Also oral sex is much better with someone who shaves."
Not everyone who shaves their pubic hair has a boyfriend or a sexual partner. "I don't have sex but I still shave," said Lesley Christianson, a junior at SCSU. "I like how it feels, and besides I look at it this way: it's like having a summer home and mowing the lawn every once in a while in case you have visitors."
I found a blog entry in which a woman describes her first Brazilian. She decided to have it done because she was going on a lengthy, scantily-clad trip in which she didn't want to be bothered with shaving. Waxing would last 3-6 weeks. Most disconcerting were these comments:
It hurt like a mother fucker. I let out a pretty hefty yelp at least twice. And yes the waxer had my legs open, fidgeted with my labia, ripped my pubic hair from the corners of every available space on my "privates” and even asked me to sit up doggie style, while she made sure all the surface area was completely "handled" correctly. My skin was swollen, red, and burning directly after the waxing. I was instructed to take ibuprofen and put arnica gel or cortaid on my suddenly prickly-pubic- chicken skin to reduce the initial swelling.
Yikes!! But there were some interestingly encouraging observations:
It felt totally great after about 24 hours! The smoothness of my own skin "down there" was titillating to say the least. I couldn't believe that it could be so soft. And yes, I found out a few days later that it increased sensitivity in all the right places at all the right times, which made up for any pain or discomfort that I experienced.
Well now, that is *hands-down* the best reason I've come across. Enduring pain for pleasure is totally understandable. Am I right? I mean, that's not just me, right? You feel that way, too, I'm sure.... right?
You agree, don't you?
Hello?
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