Hey, at least it included chicken…

KFC’s jingle in the early 80’s (and perhaps since, I don’t know, I haven’t been paying attention) let everyone know just how they handled their namesake meals.

My family didn’t eat much fast food, which is definitely not a bad thing. Partially because I grew up in Tiny Town, but mostly because it’s much cheaper to make full meals at home.

The KFC was in a town about 10 minutes north of my parent’s place. We headed out and as the outgoing child that I was, I ordered for myself.

“What can we get for you.” “Chicken rice.” “What?” “Chicken rice.” “We don’t have that…” “What do you mean?” “We don’t have chicken rice.” “But the commercial… *sings* ‘We do chicken rice!'”

Turns out it’s right. They do chicken right. “We do chicken right!”

I don’t remember what I ended up having. Did not involve rice.

Thesaurus notes on Geek.

Straight from the Thesaurus.com entry for “geek”:

Notes: a geek is any smart person with an obsessive interest, a nerd is the same but also lacks social grace, and a dweeb is a mega-nerd.

Is that so. I was unaware that “mega-nerd” was a technical term.

In other news, turns out “dork” can mean “penis”. They didn’t manage to fit that one into geek. Pun… probably not intended.

Let blogs gone be blogs gone..?

And this is one blog that seems to have gone.

Life really provides more than enough bollocks to fill a million existences worth of blogs. I have endless text files with tiny phrases and short sentences referencing some random observation of serious events and some nutter thing that happened as I walked by. My email drafts folder ended up loaded with more confusion than my inbox ever did – it did make for excellent quick note taking in the time before iPhones and millions of synchronising note programs. It usually took having 8 text files open and unsaved and an overloaded draft folder for me to run through a stream of backdated posts filled with insight, wisdom and hilarity. Or bollocks. Or both.

My joining Twitter seems to have put a halt to it. The note with with the contents of whatever fleeting thought or observation that eventually moved here… Twitter has become the tangential stream of consciousness I describe it as, and what my blog once was.

I’ve given consideration to a resolution. I will not only tweet links to my blog posts. I will not blog posts consisting only of tweets. The only answer ends up involving some redundancy. Which, if I have any intention of blogging again, is unavoidable. So, this is therefore the plan.

Anyway, it’s probably much simpler than trying to keep the world under 140 characters.

Incidentally, you’d think Twitter would have taught the world to be more concise. Evidently not. People still don’t shut up.

Listerwurst?

In the loo this morning, I look in my little bag and I see on a bottle “URST”. The first thing that pops into my head is “liverwurst”. That in and of itself was random enough, but it still didn’t make sense. So I stop, clearly it’s not liverwurst, it’s mouthwash, but I completely blank on the name. I know the name and am attempting to remember it with “urst” on the end. Then I remember. It’s Listerine. The flavour is Fresh Burst. IT’S NOT LISTERWURST. NO ONE WOULD BUY THAT.

GOOD MORNING ITALY. IT’S GOING TO BE A HILARIOUS DAY!

Hurry, hurry, hurry up and wait.

I drove like the wind, flying off a high from a presentation I had just finished at work. My mum was a bit panicky (as per usual). I had been up the entire night before packing, had to be to work early for the presentation, give it, and then drive straight to the airport from there.

FNT to DTW. DTW to FCO. FCO to FLR. Flint, Detroit, Rome, Florence. My mum has a thing for flying out of Flint. I have no love for the puddle jumpers, but I do have to say, walking through 10 feet of airport to get from check-in to gate is definitely keen.

I left my snacks in the car. Of course mum would buy me snacks, but these snacks were slightly better for me than the type typically found in airports. Oh well.

Our first plane was delayed. Which, while useful to me getting there when I did, put my mum into more of a panic. Which is not so useful. This would, however, turn out to be the theme of the day.

I somehow snuck through having a huge carry-on while on a puddle-jumper. The overhead compartments were barely large enough to hold a typical purse, much less my camera bag and giant backpack. And, as anyone who has flown ever will have heard multiple times, if it doesn’t fit in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you, put it under the plane. I am not going to put my portable and camera under a plane. Lucky for me, the woman sitting behind me didn’t have anyone sitting next to her, so I was able to put the rest under my own seat.

Our second plane wasn’t leaving for quite a bit anyway and we decided to get lunch in a cafe not far from the gate. It turns out a friend from work was flying out of the same terminal a couple of hours before us, and was still waiting when we were eating. She came over to see us while we ate. The food was good, not great. Certainly too expensive, but as is everything in airports. They have you trapped, they can charge whatever they want, really.

It was also an internet cafe, aptly named as such, and the charges showed up on my dad’s credit card as Online Cafe. He says to my mum, “How did you spend 40$ at an internet cafe?!” She had to explain it was dinner, not surfing.

We made our way to the gate in what would have been plenty of time to board. Boarding time passed. Departure time passed. I made friends with the couple sitting across from us, Jennifer and Christopher. She’s a flight attendant and he’s a captain. They were waiting to fly standby to Rome for vacation. Turns out there was an “emergency” in Boston with our original plane. They brought in an entirely different plane which was 50 seats smaller than the first. They spent four hours finding 50 people willing to change flights. Requirement was no checked luggage. Luggage is one of the fundamental failures of air travel to begin with, much less rerouting. The airline provided the passenger with a 700$ voucher for a future flight and routed them through Amsterdam to Rome on a later flight. Not a bad deal, really. Obviously we had checked luggage. Ergo not an option.

Second plane is now quite late.

We finally boarded. The plane was brand new, which was keen. Screens in the back of every seat. The displays were connected to remotes in the arms of the seats. The setup was similar to a basic media center of sorts. Categories for music, info, movies etc. One of the more “entertaining” and mind-numbing bits is a live flight tracker. On a nine inch LCD screen, it doesn’t move very quickly. My mum and I ended up in the two middle seats of a row of four. I gauged it and chose my seat. I ended up sitting next to Jane, a rather older woman on her first international trip ever. She was with a group that would be departing out of Rome on a cruise ship. They will be traveling around the Mediterranean with something like 20 stops. She ended up being quite hilarious.

“I bet you didn’t plan on having to deal with teaching some old lady how to use this thing,” Jane said. I pointed out that she was actually quite delightful and that I didn’t mind. Really she was. She’s one of those spunky types who can laugh at herself.

I woke up after a few hours of not-entirely-restful sleep. There had, finally, been a significant change in our location on the live flight-tracker.

We were informed that we were heading into final descent. Jane looked at me and said, “Well doesn’t that figure. I just get this thing figured out and the flight is over. Can’t we just circle around a few times?”

No. But, well played.

Beautiful.

I couldn’t not share this.

Girl, You’re So Groovy
Monday, September 7 2009 – 12:39 PM
by: Tycho

I.

She had trawled iTunes for the worst sort of music possible to accompany the process, music in quotation marks, “Meditation Trax” where the waveforms of synthetic pan flutes and the built-in Casio drums compete with one another to abrade the tissue of the brain. She would never choose this kind of music under any other circumstances. She is buying it because she has to. This music is appropriate. Even she resents it.

She is in the car now, holding the seatbelt away from her belly, aware of the extent to which there is no overlap between the sets “car designers” and “pregnant women.” I’m pushing the speed limit, one, sometimes two miles per hour, and it makes me feel like the tattooed despot of some post-apocalyptic road gang.

Between contractions she has managed to fish out the yoga bullshit from her bag, looks at it, decides against it. She reaches up to the visor, where the disc holder is strapped, and produces Doolittle. It is in immediately, and Debaser scours away the surreal fog which has thus far clung to the proceedings. “Fuck yoga,” she says, when her body allows her to speak. She looks out the window, shaking her head. “Goddamned yoga.”

I accelerate to thirty-five miles per hour.

II.

I have always felt that I was too conservative in naming your brother, in naming him comfortably, in giving him a name without sufficient destiny. I determined that this would not be your fate, Ronia. You also have a Q, in Quinn, so that when you are forced to append some meaningless form or other with your middle initial, you will deposit a Q thereupon – unleashing it, very nearly unsheathing it, young lady, to dazzle thine enemies.

I need you to be thus armed because I fear your mother and I have played a trick on you; we have brought you to a place where hidden weaponry is sometimes necessary. In our defense, and I recognize that it may be insufficient, this was the only world available to us.

III.

You are alive; you are alive. May I be worthy of you.

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