I say neigh

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I’m ambivalent when it comes to horses.

There’s always that girl or two in grade school that think that horses are the tits. I don’t know if Lisa Frank is still rocking it with school supplies – probably not – but the Horse Girls were always into that and the occasional dolphin scene.

Riding horses isn’t a talent that comes naturally. There seems to be a rhythm that you can’t immediately sync up with, like hearing some new form of music. And the downfall (hell, punishment) to not being able to catch on and move simultaneously with the manuring beast is getting racked in the crotch repetitively until you either get it or give up. It’s trial by crotch is what it is.

People think horses to be noble creatures. And I guess they are. But I have a hard time trusting an animal that you’re supposed to feel with your palm straight to ensure it doesn’t confuse your finger with a carrot.

I say neigh.

Knowledge is power

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I feel like maybe I’ve already used that title. But maybe it’s just because I say that a lot. Or at least I think it a lot.

You know when you get a new car (or whatever else you find this example pertains to) and from that moment on, you start seeing “your” car everywhere? Everyone has it, everyone’s driving it. And you’re wondering if they’re copying you or you’re copying them.

Not much has probably changed. Those folks likely already had that car. You’re just seeing it now because it’s an item that’s familiar to you.

Take that to the next step to one of my all-time favorite topics: coincidence. This isn’t necessarily about coincidence actually, but taking notice. (I don’t know what it’s going to focus around, but coincidence deserves a post of its own because it’s fucking magical.)

So, taking notice. When you come into knowledge about something, you start seeing it reflect itself in details all around you. Something you might not have noticed last week now holds meaning because of an article you read or a documentary you watched. The world seems to be stimulating/interesting/fantastical.

Life can be as rich and intertwined or as dull and disjointed as you want it to be. Just like a job or school or anything, you get out of it what you put into it.

Feed Me

My e-neighbor

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There’s a woman out there with an email address almost identical to mine. The only difference is that she spells it Sarah, and I spell it Sara. So occasionally we’ll forward emails back and forth to each other saying, “I think this is for you?” It’s like the electronic equivalent of dropping a piece of misdelivered mail off with your next door neighbor. It’s weird. I can tell that we’ve both decided that the other one isn’t a creep and we’d gladly water each other’s cyber-plants if one of us went on vacation.

Monopoly Menagerie

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Headlines show that Hasbro has announced that the iron Monopoly game piece will be retired. What?

This is terrible news!

So in the version we had growing up, purchased in the 80s, we had the iron, top hat, race car, dog, dude on a horse, wheelbarrow, thimble and boot. I typically wanted to be the dog, but that was the most frustrating piece to be, along with the wheelbarrow, because it always fell over when the dice rolled. So, it was just added anxiety for me that my poor little dog was dead. I switched sometimes to the boot because it was pretty awesome and rarely fell over.

But let’s talk about the iron. No, it’s not popular. In fact, it might be the only item on the Monopoly board that I actually find repugnant. It represents a dreaded chore, not to mention, in the imagination of a child, it’s hot to the touch. I would probably prefer the thimble over the iron. But on the plus side, it’s sturdy. Try to knock that bastard over, I dare you.

There’s a sense of history when you play Monopoly. Really? I can purchase property with $60? This must be the past! And what do you have in the past? Top hats, boots and irons!

So how did Hasbro decide to ax the iron? They let the general public run a popularity contest on the tokens. I just don’t think that the general public is mature enough to exercise a democracy on board game tokens. That’s right, I said it. Clearly poor judgment was shown when the little dog was voted the favorite. Who were they letting vote, 8 year old girls? I mean come on. This is nothing to be taken lightly and clearly those who voted didn’t recognize all of the determining factors that go into a successful game token.

I know what some of you must be thinking. “Did you vote?” No. I didn’t. So I shouldn’t really have a voice in this whole debacle, should I?

It gets worse though.

Do you know what they’re replacing the iron with? This was also put to a vote, a popularity contest.

A fucking cat.

(image courtesy of Hasbro)

(image courtesy of Hasbro)

If you own a cat, are you really playing Monopoly?

Okay. That was harsh. Cat owners are people too. Probably. On a case by case basis.

So there are four problems I see with the cat:

1) It’s a cat.

2) It’s unstable. Same problem as with the dog. A roll of the dice and Fluffy’s going down.

3) The game of Monopoly already had its token animal, so to speak. What are we going to do next? Consider people who like fish or birds and take the thimble out of commission? Monopoly isn’t the place for a ridiculous menagerie.

4) It’s a cat.

In short, Hasbro should have learned the valuable lesson here to not give the people what they want, but to protect the legacy that is Monopoly. But you know what? I don’t think they see it that way, not at all.

What a shame.

I don’t have to if I don’t want to

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I had a teacher in high school that transformed my life. It wasn’t an overarching life lesson or advice I wasn’t mature enough to realize on my own. Instead, he simply told me that if I found myself reading a book that I lost interest in, that was okay; stop reading. That’s given me the freedom to put books down nearly without guilt. I still have some guilt over books like One Few Over the Cuckoo’s Nest because there are books that I feel like you are judged for not finding interesting or not appreciating or, blah, blah, blah. So I still have some of that.

But books are no different than food or clothing or music in that everyone has their own taste. I’ll pick almost anything up, but that also means that I reserve the right to put it down whenever I decided I don’t care about it. It’s not a lack of respect for the author and it’s not a lack of intelligence or ability to understand. No, it’s typically that I just don’t care and would rather be doing something else.

So, thank you, Mr. Name-I-Don’t-Remember. You have truly given me the gift of time.

Keep your pants on, sports fans… or don’t

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The Super Bowl is an interesting time in this country. I feel that no matter which city you find yourself in, most everyone is following the same behavior: dirty food, good friends and beer. Amen.

Each year we spend the Super Bowl with our fattest friend. He’s not actually fat, but the way he can scarf down a pound of bacon would make you wonder why the hell not.  So, I took the dog outside for a walk a few minutes before going over to Fatty’s house. On the street were fellow dog walkers, cabs, pizza delivery cars and young men bundled up with a six-pack in tow. That was true from our door to Fatty’s door. Pizza, cabs, six-packs.

Blah, blah, blah. The Super Bowl happened. Athletes excelled, Beyonce shook it, power outage, triumphant victory/dismal loss. I don’t really care about the sport part. It’s not that I can’t follow it, I just don’t care. Even if either team had been from my city, it wouldn’t matter.

The game ended and we hopped back in the car. Let me pause for a moment to let you know that it snowed most of the day in Chicago yesterday. And the temp maxed out at 15 degrees Fahrenheit, give or take.

So, we’re driving home and pull up to a four-way-stop. In the middle of the intersection was a pair of jeans, complete with black leather belt. These pants had been freshly deposited in the intersection given the lack of snow atop them. So that means that in the recent past, something happened to the owner of said pants, causing them to be lost, in below-freezing weather, with the belt.

I can’t even imagine what must have happened.

But since it was the Super Bowl, I chalk it up to a good old American time.

Gross.