Cajun Style

19:22

Live tweeting seems to be the new hotness. Live blogging, once so cutting-edge, is now the exclusive domain of journalists and other strange people who somehow got allowed into E3.

Well, speaking as someone who's currently wearing a Justin Timberlake Sexyback 'Club Tour' (unsure what this means) track jacket, I, friends, am bringin' live blogging back.

Pop quiz: this is mostly:

A. An attempt to keep my hands busy with a keyboard instead of grabbing inappropriate butts;

B. A way of drunk-texting the ENTIRE INTERNET instead of just select exes, booty calls, and former managers;

C. Increasingly masturbatory, as I find myself more amusing with every passing beer;

D. All of the above, of course, freaking DUH, it's this one. Pick this one.

19:31

By the way, STATUS UPDATE: I'm on the bus to Nerdy's house right now. Once I'm there, I'm going to ingest several of the beers I'm currently carrying and play "Watermelon Cat" with my godson, who is a cat.

Watermelon Cat is a game where I pick my godson (the cat) up and flip him over and nibble his belly (much like a hairy, reluctantly participatory wedge of delicious watermelon).

19:52

Aaahahahaha... Haha... Hahahaaa... Yep.

20:56

"You guys never saw that Justice League version of the Golden Girls? That's a classic."

Nerdy's made Russian tea cookies, but we're undecided whether we're going to bake them or just eat all the dough because we're adults now goddamn it.

21:41

Not sure how much Chinese food I just ate, but if my body can't handle it, then my body isn't up to the task of being my body.

We're gonna watch Guardians of the Galaxy again pretty soon. I could probably watch that movie until I die. At least until I slip into a coma. Maybe even while I'm in the coma. I'll bet I'd watch it in the coma. Hell yeah.

Crow the Cat is the only cat I've ever met who not only permits belly rubs, she demands them, and delights in their reception.

21:55

Gettin cozy up in here.

23:12

"Let us put MORE of this liquid into our bodies!"

Draxx knows how I plan to spend 2015. And following years, really, until further notice.

Nerdy and I have decided to dress as Bruce Banner and Tony Stark for Halloween this year, in case anyone was wondering. Prepare your trousers well in advance.

The second or third time I saw this movie (Guardians of the Galaxy, which is, BTW, a multi-million-dollar film about the power of friendship) I was in a, how you say, fragile emotional state, and I cried throughout Rocket Raccoon's entire scene at the bar on the planet that's a head. At the time, I think I empathized with Rocket, but since realizing that I'm not, in fact, genetically-modified wildlife, I've realized I actually identify a lot more with Draxx the Destroyer and his near-lethal drunk dial.

00:06

SRS tho, let's all agree that the saddest part of this movie is the part where they break through the blockade, because that's the part where Peter Serafinowicz dies, and fuck THAT.

also, happy 2015 y'all.

Electuaries and definition, yeah I'm fucked up now

Today I created a Gruntfile all on my lonesome for the first time - it was peachy. Grunt rocks my socks super extra hard and makes building and deploying and all that crap feel like second nature; and when a complete mess of a human being like myself makes a declarative statement like that, bitch better recognize.

Also, I discovered Autocomplete Rap:

And that's realer than Real-Deal Holyfield And now you cakewalk and windows 8 know how I feel
— Autocomplete Rap (@autocompleterap) December 30, 2014

I'd consider it a crowning glory of my achievements in the field of computational linguistics if I were ever able to generate a Twitter feed of this magnitude.

Striking It Rich

Amidst my piles of Christmas swag this year was a pair of earrings made out of fountain pen nibs, a gift from my mother delivered with an exhortation to "keep writing." I may be odd-looking, prone to fits of verbal violence, and generally not a likable person, but I do not disappoint my mama. So here we are, back to writing.

It was a relaxed and relaxing holiday, all things considered. I can't say I'm ready for it to end, since its ending entails me returning to a city that currently excels at making me feel lonesome and tragic - but things, especially holidays, do end, and that's exactly the sort of attitude I'm going to need to adopt if I'm going to make it through next year halfway intact. (and yes, by "intact," I do mean "unneutered." Holla.)

Last night, I played this game: Bohnanza. "Bohn" is German for "bean," and this game is, in fact, a game wherein one strikes it rich by harvesting beans. Doesn't that sound fun? Of course it doesn't, which is exactly why you're going to feel like a damn fool when you play a round of this game and realize you're fully prepared to play this game continuously more or less until you die. Turns out, planting rows of card-beans and conning your friends and family into trading you the beans you need for far less than their worth, thereby securing your brutal, merciless triumph-by-bean-gold? Fucking magical. That's what that is. These are magic beans, Jack.

You may be able to infer from my tone above that I won at Bohnanza quite handily, if with little honor. That's how homie do, though; and if there are two people who are used to watching me debase myself at the slightest whiff of victory, it's my father and brother, who were my opponents. I therefore regret nothing.

We also got down with some Big Boggle, which was a fiasco and a half, as my brother proceeded to pound myself and our father into quivering jelly with his legendary fists of lexical fury. As a linguist, playing word games that utilize timers is a struggle on a deeply personal level. If you do anything other than win by a landslide, everyone observing and participating will be all, "Whaaaaat? How can you looooose? I thought you were a liiiiiiinguist!!?1!!"

This is a logical fallacy, but an understandable one. The trouble, you see, lies in the timing. Language is to me less of a forte and more of a fetish, something of which I am such a huge fan, something which obsesses me on such a base level, that I often have difficulty coming at it objectively. I want to stare at the words, gently caress them, try them out in my mouth in various combinations, take them home and cuddle them and study them lovingly beneath a microscope... I am their bitch. They are most assuredly not mine. Timed word games, therefore, are a trial*, as I feel panicked and rushed, forced to cast about wildly for language out of context, prevented by the traitorous little plastic hourglass - always, that devilish little plastic hourglass - from giving any of the precious words the love and attention they deserve. Take away that hourglass, and I can often excel - I recently won at Scrabble, you see, and have been feeling flush ever since - but introduce time pressure into the mix, and I'm down for the count. It feels cheap; I just met these words, and already I'm assessing them on point value? What kind of language skank am I?

No, no, I'm sorry, that ain't me. Take your dirty Big Boggle victory, brother. I'll be in the corner, whispering sweet nothings to my declension tables, loving language on my own time.



* Note that Bananagrams is an exception to this rule, because seriously, who the hell does not love them some Bananagrams. Seriously.

third.

On the third day of Christmas, no one gave me anything, because it was just a Wednesday like any other, but it's also Piroshki Day, so that, at least, was worth getting out of bed for.

I've moved to the International District, Seattle's answer to Chinatown, its PC-er name reflecting its surprisingly low population of residents of actual Chinese descent. English isn't really the minority language here, of course, but it sometimes feels like it is, especially when I'm shopping in Uwajimaya, my friendly neighborhood supermarket. For every snappy young hipster couple debating the merits of different ramen brands, there's a ninety-year-old Japanese lady buying thirty tins of green tea, a Filipino family whose kids are playing tag around the durien display, a gaggle of Korean high schoolers shrieking over a particularly amusing candy... and me, skulking around the canned tomatoes and feeling elongated and uncultured.

In fact, though, being Caucasian doesn't stand out here. I mean, there aren't a ton of Caucasians, but the nice thing about the ID is, nothing stands out here. I've never gotten less attention in any neighborhood, Seattle or otherwise, than I do here. The Witness Protection Plan should send all its... protectees?... to the ID. No one would ever find them, care to find them, or care about them at all.

Having just come off a breakup, I'm deeply a fan of not being noticed. I'm also a fan of the library being a few blocks from my apartment, of the random waterfall that takes up a city block down the street, and of my hardwood floors, though I admit, with embarrassment, that I'm perfectly shitty at taking care of them. I LIKE TO WEAR SHOES INSIDE. SO SUE ME.

Other than hardwood floor concerns, the dry, lizardlike skin I sport whenever the temperature drops below 40F, and occasional insomnia, everything is going fine. As I mentioned above, it's Piroshki Day at Piroshki on 3rd, so I expect a pleasant carb coma later this afternoon, which is always an enjoyable state for me. Those of you with access to calendars may also note the day's close proximity to Christmas, which is both pleasing (cookies!) and stressful (the horrifying, near-paralyzing burden of having to attain thoughtful gifts for a disappointing number of friends and family members!). I'm happy to report, though, that I just found out there's a Christmas ballad called "The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot," which is about a kid who is probably an orphan and got nothing for Christmas, and that's the entire song. It's good to know at least SOMEONE is penning tunes about the harsh realities of the Christmas season - namely, that Santa is very old, and his memory is going, and you're probably next on the list of people whose lists he's gonna lose.