Showing posts with label Literal Dan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Literal Dan. Show all posts

27 March 2013

Things that amuse me, Vol. 16

Here are a few of the things that have been amusing me recently:

1. It may cement my status as a Nerd* that it bothers me a little when I see an object called a "cube" (meant to turn a cubby into a drawer) that measures 10.5"x10.5"x11".

2. Funny pictures of things on the Internet.**

3. Great news on the "Evolution of a Plastic-Consuming-Organism" front... our cat seems to have really developed a taste for Legos.

4. It might take nine or so years as a parent to realize this, but children are secretly Very Small People, with wants, needs, flaws, and habits much like the rest of us. Also, they often get less small over time.



* Or is it just everything else about me that accomplished that already?

** This one's not so much "recently" as "continuously". Sure beats whatever I'm supposed to be doing at any given moment.

27 August 2010

Jesus was a carpenter, right?

Something about living out here all on our own, with all the breathing room we can stand and an entire second garage just for tools and such, my carpentry fever has flared up worse than ever. I'm slowly acquiring all the tools of a world-class woodworking shop.

My new motto, whenever my wife mentions wanting to buy something, is, "I could make one for you out of wood."

A chair? A table? A staircase? A dresser? A patio? An ottoman? A kitten? A stepstool? A pillow? Why not?

And yet, even I know my limits.

But perhaps it doesn't seem that way to other people, based on the following conversation about our upcoming kitchen remodel that I had recently with my friend Adam, who gave me the nickname LiteralDan years ago.

Adam: You're gonna buy cabinets?? You know they're crazy expensive, right?

Me: Yeah, I know...

Adam: You, of all people, I'd expect to make your own cabinets. You could totally do it, too.

Me: Well... I've been tempted, but it'd take me forever, to do it right. ...I wanna learn and practice in a lower-profile area.

Adam (uncharacteristically animated, earnest, and encouraging): C'mon, you could do it! You're just enough of a perfectionist that they'd be done right, even if they took a long time, and you'd have them forever. You could always point to them and say, "I made that."

Me (finally catching on): ... You're just trying to talk me into the disaster of making my own kitchen cabinets for your own entertainment, aren't you?

Adam (proudly): Yes, yes I am.

29 May 2009

Fun with typos: Hoes are people in your neighborhood

Since I know it's generally lacking, I thought I'd take an opportunity to provide you all with a little local color from out here in the northwest Chicagoland area.

Here's a recent article covering an exciting high-speed chase through a residential area:

Motorist charged with aggravated fleeing and eluding

My favorite snippet appears towards the end:


Two vehicles and two hoes were also damaged in the shooting, but nobody was injured.

I find this absolutely shocking. Not morally, because I'm a realist, but sympathetically. What, hoes don't count as people anymore?! They're just property to be damaged?*

That seems more than a bit cruel, regardless of whether you assume that in the reporter's judgmental haze, he or she is even correct about whether these people were, in fact, hoes.

I say we send an editor in for a followup. How much do you think a newspaper office carries in petty cash these days?



* I know one reporter who would definitely see it that way: Senior Washington Correspondent Pimpbot 5000.

04 May 2009

Made with 100% of your RDA of cotton fiber

After he relapsed into the unfortunate habit of chewing on his shirt while he was lying in bed one night, I asked my 5-year-old son D- when I noticed it the next morning why he had chosen to nearly disintegrate most of the front of his jammie shirt.

He responded that he was just so hungry he couldn't help himself, trying to guilt me for rebuffing his attempts to stall bedtime just a little longer the previous night by declaring he was suddenly starving.

I told him it was an interesting theory to say the least, seeing as he had barely touched his cornflakes at breakfast. Being the logical wunderkind he is, he reasoned that he was "so full from eating [his] shirt all night, [he] just [didn't] have any room left."

I hereby swear, on all that is good and holy, that both this kid and I will somehow manage to survive the next 15 years without killing each other. After that, it's up for grabs.

17 April 2009

Orangutan Lohan flees to Indonesia

In the latest monkey/ape news, scientists just discovered a large, healthy population of orangutans in Indonesia, on the slope of a mountain where it's too unprofitable to try to extract the valuable timber. For now.

New orangutan population found in Indonesia

But what's most interesting to me is this bit:


The team also encountered an adult male, which angrily threw branches as they tried to take photos.

Apart from the fact that the author should have used "who" instead of "which", in my opinion, my second thought is that it's quite possible that this "unknown population" is actually some kind of rehab resort for celebrity orangutans.

The Lindsay Lohans and Britney Spearses of the lower-primate world retreat to this secret colony whenever their life of privilege and nigh-unlimited options gets to be too much for them.

Angry Orangutan flipping the birdsAnd how else should they deal with intruding photographers? Is an orangutan really any better than Sean Penn? I mean, in terms of this kind of thing, not emotional range or personal hygiene.

Maybe some of these specimens are better than any orangutan ever at throwing feces for distance or accuracy, or maybe they have the most impressive and sexually irresistible creepy face pouches.

Photo of orangutan courtesy of metro.co.ukI think the only course of action is clear, regardless of the relative fame or social status of this elite group of primates-- we must document every single second of their lives, no matter how mundane or disturbing, and no matter the effect on their sanity.

Now who's got a durable camera and a good, feces-resistant raincoat? I've got some quick cash to make!

12 April 2009

Mano a womano, eggo a eggo

I should have learned after all these years not to enter into any kind of atypical, nonathletic competition with my wife, but I think by this point it's clear that nature just won't allow me to pass up the chance.

Of course, among the most imposing barriers to my abstaining from such competitions is the fact that I often don't know I'm in one until it's over.

Take, for example, our evening of egg-dyeing yesterday. Possibly because she knows me too well, the moment my first egg touched the dye, my wife excused herself from the room with an egg she'd already dyed earlier.

After quite a few curious moments during which I had to explain to both the kids, repeatedly, why they could not drink the delicious-looking colored liquids from the whimsical bunny mugs (D- eventually retreated to just loudly announcing how thirsty he was every two minutes), and only after the kids had used up all 18 of the eggs, J- returned to check on my finished product, which had the surprise* message, "DADDY RULES!" written in wax across its face.

She offered some patronizing encouragement before dropping this bomb on me:
Everybody stick 'em up, and keep 'em up, so things don't have to get runnySure, you're probably thinking, his right hand is upside down, and he's somehow managing to harness magical egg powers to hold a beer stein with his wrist**, but you have to admit, this is pretty much like bringing a gun --and not a quaint foam scrapbooking one-- to a rock-paper-scissors match.

Here's the side-by-side comparison:

This race must be handicapped due to an unfair and possibly illegal advantage not unlike egg steroidsTell me which YOU think is better, keeping in mind that I, myself, am better, and that if you don't pick me, considering all the mitigating factors I've revealed above, I just may epically pout and stop posting my ridiculously overwrought anecdotes here forever.***

(A bonus mitigating factor: in case you've never tried, I assure you it is very difficult to write on an egg with a generic orange crayon not expressly made for that purpose.)

Lastly, please do note that one of the contenders is clearly labeled as the unquestioned master of all, humans and ovums.



* The surprise, of course, was not the message itself, but rather that it happened to appear on that particular egg.

** J- would no doubt whine that it's not her fault the Chinese Scrapbook Sweatshop managers found it irresistibly cheaper to sell twice as many left hands and feet in a package while cutting production of rights altogether.

*** And if all you ladies stab me in the back on this vote out of some kind of twisted "ho's before bro's"**** nonsense, I'll instead resort to posting only about sports and painful jock itch. Or better yet, everything you never wanted to know about me, me, me, like a bad first date, three times a week. You want that on your conscience? Or in your feed reader?

**** I feel honor-bound to point out, for those who were taken aback, that those apostrophes above were included to replace the many missing letters# in the words, not out of disgraceful confusion over possessives versus plurals. Who thinks of impossibly rigid grammatical rules when creating the music of the streets? Not enough people, I think.

# Yes, I'm aware that this then means there should be an apostrophe before "ho's", but it just seemed a bit much. Much like this beast of a footnotes section.

08 April 2009

Corporate intelligence, Vol. 8

Once again, I'm here to demonstrate the importance of saying exactly what you mean, and nothing more. Just as I am the noble hero of literalism, picking apart your statements at will to reveal the messages you didn't know you were sending, there is a dark side to this power, and those who practice it do not show mercy even to fat, lazy, spoiled, Depressed nations.

My example this time comes from our hard-working United States Congress, doing its best as always to provide a steady, paternalistic hand guiding the feisty sled dogs of capitalism, while those dogs do their best to distract that hand with giant sacks of cash.

Paper industry starts using oil to get billions in alternative-fuel credits

Before you decide this sounds boring, let me sum it up for you, to innocently feed your disbelief and rage while you're trying to decide how you're going to make it through these next few years with both the shirt on your back and an absence of Chinese capitalist Communists laughing while they repossess Mt. Rushmore:

A few years ago, Congress passed a law meant to promote decreased use of fossil fuels. The language of this bill was so poorly chosen that at this most ideal of times, we all are now on the hook for many billions of dollars in unplanned-for expenses paying crafty companies to start mixing diesel fuel in with the renewable fuel they've traditionally created from their industrial waste.

So we have a single bright spot in a generally toxic industrial process, the usage of a waste product as fuel in place of more damaging alternatives, and these giant companies, hemorrhaging money for too long, snuff it out with a shower of diesel fuel injected into the process to qualify them as "mixing a taxable fuel with an alternative fuel."

The result for us, the taxpayers? International Paper, for example, will get "probably close to a billion a year of cash" from the IRS encouraging them to "keep mixing alternative fuels with the diesel fuel", and the manageable $61 million projected by Congress for extending this right-minded credit three months could instead "cost as much as $2 billion." The likely total payout to the top ten paper companies alone for this year is $8 billion.*


"The money to be gained from exploiting the tax credit so dwarfs the money to be made in making paper ... [that] the ultimate result of the credit will likely be to push paper prices down as mills churn at full capacity in order to grab as much money from the IRS as it can."

So at least you can get a few reams of paper way cheaper than before, for drafting all those letters to your Congresspeople. Just call me Mr. Sunshine-- I'll always find the bright side even if I have to make it myself! Maybe they can use all the extra paper to print up some more currency-- doesn't that always fix things whenever money is tight?

Remember this heartwarming story of poor word choice** as you hunker down with your industrious neighbors to help patch this sinking ship, making daily sacrifices just to get by, gladly exchanging a pay cut for a non-binding implied desire not to fire you in the immediate future.

At least SOMEONE'S making some money, right?*** That's gotta trickle down somehow... or do I need to go buy the latest edition of this classic 1983 economics textbook?



* $8 billion! Before all these corporate bailouts and emergency loans, that used to be an awful lot of money.

** I say "poor word choice" only assuming no Senators from paper-producing states were involved in writing this bill.

** For my readers abroad, rest assured that, as you can see, even the economic elite of America are determined to help dig a way out of the hole we've dug you all, by any means necessary.

04 March 2009

Corporate intelligence, Vol. 7

You know, a lot of ill-informed people claim that word choice doesn't really matter in most everyday areas of life, but I'm here to offer just one random example of an instance that proves these people to be morons.

Recently, I couldn't help but notice the friendly banner on my wife's new package of Aquaphor cream, offering what was surely intended to be an innocuous description of the product:

Aquaphor - One solution for your many skin care problemsWhat that little extra word ("your") did there was turn a sentiment of unity ("All of you people with your varying skin problems can use this one product to solve them!") into a back-handed, bitchy message worthy of a junior high cheerleading squad ("You are so lucky I'm here to help you! ...Because you are way more f***ed up than you ignorantly thought before picking up this package.").

Torpedoing the self-esteem of one's customer base is not generally thought to be a good business decision.*

There is a potential upside for the manufacturers, though, if this tack opens up potential new sales across the Eucerin family of products through the well-established phenomenon of victims latching on to their abusers against their better judgment or interests. Just look at how well this has worked for our** lovable scamps down at AIG!

In fact, scratch this whole post, and give me 2,000 shares of whatever disgustingly enormous mega-conglomerate bottles this goo!

Here's to you and your horrible excuse for human skin!



* Unless of course you're in women's fashion.

** I say "our" because we, the American people, now own them almost in their entirety, at least until just
before the stock sale by the U.S. government might bring in enough profit to cover the entire stimulus package.

23 February 2009

Your post title is on its way!

Upon reading the slip of paper (I can't even bear to call it "a fortune") hidden inside one of our fortune cookies recently, I knew I had to ridicule it in print, in the probably vain hope that whoever wrote it might know how much shame they have brought upon themselves and their already-pretty-pathetic profession.

As lame as the so-called fortunes usually are, given that they are often either blind guesses at facts about your present or past, or generic bits of reassuring advice, this one takes the stale cookie.

After barely rescuing this paper from the furious snatches of my starving litter of rabid fox kits, I had to allow my eyes a second chance to focus on the words before reading them again in disbelief. I was insulted with the following message, which isn't even worth adding "...in bed" to (as discussed in this past post):

Your fortune is on its way!

What is this, some kind of sick karmic IOU? Call me a self-absorbed, overreacting prick, but I declare this to be absolutely Unacceptable as a fortune. I reject it and demand a replacement, or at least immediate delivery of the actual fortune promised by this one.

Also, I demand a bag of free cookies to dull my rage, but not the awful ones-- the good ones that people are always expecting when they bite into a fortune cookie, assuming anyone still makes those.

I suppose I should be grateful they used the correct its... Otherwise police all along the multi-state cookie supply chain might be desperately chasing the aptly named Stale Cookie Impaler.

09 February 2009

Or before G-H, as in "neighbor" and "weigh"

Now is the time on the blog at which I stop to mock someone desperately in need of mocking.

Some have expressed reservations about commenting here for fear of being viciously derided over spelling or grammatical errors, but I cannot stress enough how little you have to worry about that.

Unless you were to commit your errors in the course of making some cutting, accurate remarks taking me down a few pegs, then, yes, I might have to lash out in the easiest way possible.

Other than that, I will love you even if you write like whoever wrote up the error page for the Restricted Trailer site of the upcoming movie I Love You, Man.

It requires you to enter "your" name, age, location, and birth date before allowing you access, and it's apparently either broken or somehow smart enough to realize that Fyuck Eweman is not my real name.


We're sorry, we were unable to verify your information at this time.

Please check the information you submitted and try again.

If you are receieving this page after re-submitting your information - we are unable to provide you with access to this section of the site and we apologize for the inconvenience.


"Let's see... oh, man, I wish I hadn't slept through all of junior high...* I before E, E before I... why not both! It's genius! Now, I can finally get back to copy-editing Associated Press stories."



* Or attended an American school after 1970.

26 January 2009

A conversation with M-: The wipe that shakes the barley

This is the epitome of a conversation I have with M- at least once every day, proving she's definitely my kid:

Me: Hey, are you stinky?

M- (shiftily): No.

Me: I beg to differ. (as supportively as I can muster) Okay, we have to change your diaper now. (while beginning to change her) You have to tell somebody when you have to go to the bathroom, rememb...

M- (eagerly, in a Notifying Tone): I have to go to the bathroom!

Me: Yes, I know you did, that's why I'm here changing you-- you have to tell somebody BEFORE you go in your pants, so we can help you get to the toilet. And if you go in your pants by accident, you need to tell somebody that, too, so we can help get you cleaned up, right?

M- (same tone as above): I made poop in my diaper!

Me (with one final wipe): Yes. Just like that. Thanks.



You may also enjoy the other (4 YO son) D- conversations, (2YO daughter) M- conversations, and (wife) J- conversations.

29 December 2008

A heart-rending ending?

In case you're all wondering where Santa has gone now that Christmas has passed, I have some sad news to bring you:

Ho ho ho! Kids share economy woes with Santa*


"You see things behind the beard that nobody else will ever see or hear. I've had children just literally tear my heart out."

So therein lies the end of a long, productive career spreading joy throughout the world... painful death at the hands of some psychotic, bloodthirsty children who've apparently spent too many hours playing Mortal Kombat.

Then again, the tone of this statement suggests an acceptance that only experience can bring. So perhaps this is an annual tradition, like a simple shedding of the skin. Maybe the Easter Bunny drops those eggs in our baskets on his way to deliver the Kiss of Life to kindly old St. Nick each year.

It seems that matchup between Jesus and Santa might be more even than we thought.


* I don't suggest you actually read this article unless you want to feel quite depressed.

Editor's Note: If you enjoyed this forest-missing nitpickery, you might want to peruse Literally, A Web Log.

17 December 2008

I would be embarrassed to host a yard sale

I recognize that for all my yammering away this past year, you all still don't know me as well as you should. So please allow me to continue chipping away at that barrier.

Have I ever shown you my widespread, impromptu collections of ancient, now-illegible receipts for transactions under $3? How about my utility bills from college? My many broken pieces of childhood toys? Never seen my "perfectly good" clothes that in my darkest moments I secretly acknowledge I'll never even want to wear again?

Perhaps that was a little extreme.

In all fairness to my compulsions, what if someday soon, I get: 1) called up to participate in a 4th-grade non-competitive soccer or basketball league; 2) re-hired as a store inventory auditor or movie theater supervisor; or 3) transported back to the early '90s on some kind of compelling mission that requires me to blend in with other toolbags?

I don't want to look like an incompetent moron that day, scrambling to dig through the musty back room of the thrift store where a full half of my clothes rightly belong. Paying for something I already owned at some point in my life? I refuse!

The Boy Scout motto is Be Prepared, after all, and I can assure you that I am prepared not only to suit up for a return to domination of smaller children on the soccer field, but also to be buried under a mountain of useless shit.

The only question is, which mountain will be the one that gets me?

16 December 2008

A conversation with D-: You are an idiot

The other day, while my 4-year-old son D- was showing off his typing skills to my mom, the following absolutely 100% true conversation took most of the suspense out of the question Will he turn out just like me?:

D- (pointing to "PQ" on the screen): See here? I typed "Pa".

My Mom: Oh, you mean like Pa in the Laura books? Actually, that's P-A. You wrote P-Q, but that's pretty close-- good job!

D-: ...Umm, actually, it's spelled like that.

My Mom: "Pa" like Laura's Pa is spelled P-A. Maybe we could go get one of the books and you could see, to help you remember.

D-: I think we should get the book, so we can look at it, and you can say, (adopting appropriate voice), "Oh, I was wrong!"

My Mom (deftly masking her disbelief, she grabbed The Long Winter): Here you go, see there? It's spelled P-A. But that's okay...

D-: I'm never going to read those books again.

15 December 2008

Another way to offend your wife

Publish a post on your blog describing a tongue-in-cheek statement she wasn't all that happy to hear in the first place, regardless of your helpful illumination of the shades of nuance or explanation of the disparity between your implication and her inference.

An important point to note for you all is that since we're talking about a post-Apocalyptic world, "rare delicacies" include not only rationed foodstuffs but also many simple conveniences and various other consumer goods.

So, I guess what I'm trying to mask in a blur of haughty multisyllabic words and my trademark Byzantine syntax is that rather than merely overstimulate some kind of compulsive eating disorder she certainly doesn't have, in this situation, the point to consider is that my wife would quickly become drunk with power in controlling a world-shaping secret, as much as from deciding who lives comfortably and who rots in the mildewous cavern of her disfavor. Also, I am a dick.

21 November 2008

Who hsa time too prufread?

Let me start by saying you can't imagine how difficult it was to type out that title, and how painful it is for me to let it sit there as it is.

Now that I have your sympathies, I'll continue.

When I mentioned J-'s seemingly disastrous t-shirt purchase at the Obama rally in Grant Park, there was at least one request to see the offending shirt, and I'm nothing if not accommodating. 

Here is the front image, which as I said is interesting and unique enough, and actually impressive given the price:

Obama rally shirt - Obama as Action HeroI should jump in here to note that to compound my coming complaints, the salesman apparently misheard J-'s request and gave her an extra large shirt, so it's wide enough for the whole family to proudly wear at once.

And now, I forewarn you to choke back your vomit before continuing, because if you're like me, you may not be able to handle seeing the reason why it was only $5 without exerting tremendous self-control:

Obama rally shirt - Shirtmaker as F*** Tard
You know what my "New Hope" is? That sometime before the end of the Reign of Man, we will finally finish evolving enough that before even an everyday-schmo-just-trying-to-make-some-extra-money-capitalizing-on-his-fellows'-exultant-willingness-to-collect-memorabilia places an order for a few thousand t-shirts, he can manage to at least ask someone with a fresh eye to look over the design just once.*

And if we could keep things going enough to not make such errors on this tiny selection of text in the first place, that would just be icing. Right now, the only icing on this s***cake is the inexplicable use of a comma after the abbreviation of the month.

You may think I'm overreacting, but I don't know any other way to be. Life's too short to underreact to things like this. Plus, I've spent years of my life being paid to mercilessly deride people for boneheaded mistakes like this, so it's a hard habit to break.

Full Disclosure: That wasn't necessarily spelled out in my job descriptions, but it was always clearly encouraged. Or tolerated. Or quietly marveled at, in fear. Either way, it definitely seems called for here, because there's no red pen in the world that can wash this tragedy away.



* Barring that, maybe in this hypothetical nearly perfect world, the printer would notice the error and, since it's not his job to alter the design of his clients' orders, he would just print up a single shirt that says YOU ARE AN IDIOT - TRY AGAIN (SOMEWHERE ELSE).

17 November 2008

A conversation with D-: Stuck in a jam

The following is a not-atypical conversation I had with my 4-year-old son D- the other day on our way to the library:

D-: Why are we going to the liberry?

Me (brushing the turnip leaves off my sleeve): The lie-berry? What's that?? Is it like a blueberry or a strawberry?

D-: No!

Me: Should I go look for a lie-berry bush so I can pick me some lie-berries for a delicious lie-berry pie?

D- (scolding): You know what I mean! The LIE... b... (pause) ...erry.

Me: Mmmm, sounds yummy!

D- (giving me a well-practiced blank look as if I'm a hopeless idiot*): It's not.



* May or may not be accurate.

15 November 2008

At long last, Pt. 4

Finally, here is the final section of my account of the Obama rally in Grant Park on election night in America. Part 1, part 2, and part 3 ran earlier this week.

...
The place was still packed and buzzing when the feed switched from CNN to the acceptance speech, and it was in listening to that landmark* speech that I felt myself really sucked in to the moment instead of floating outside it, taking notes, the way I generally do with most things in life.

I've often thought that I might have caught religion if I'd gotten to attend a so-called "black church" in my formative years instead of only visiting stale, conservative Catholic churches for various events in my extended family. Listening to this speech live was as close as I think I'll ever get, with the kinetic energy in the audience, the facial and bodily reactions of those around me, the frequent spoken responses throughout, and certain of Obama's tones in the speech itself. That sense of community, of taking part in a dialogue of both words and energy rather than sitting on my couch listening to someone talk at me from my TV, absolutely enhanced the experience in every way.

But more notably, I immediately noticed that feeling of widespread admiration for a president that I haven't known since I was 10 years old.** People who don't completely agree with this man can still admire him without feeling guilty about it, I think. I won't go on about my extremely negative feelings towards Presidents Clinton and Bush (Jr.) for their habits, attitudes, and personal character, since they're beside the point of this post.
...
After walking around a bit more to soak in the atmosphere, J- and I decided to start the slow trek back home, but not before accepting the fence-security guards' indulgence in actually peeking over at The Cool People's Rally. Also, not before I availed myself again of the remarkably uncrowded banks of portable toilets. Given the predictably low toilet-to-person ratio, the only explanatory factor I can think of is the prohibitive price of water leaving bladders empty across the park.

We took to the streets with glee, since this time almost everyone was on the move at the same time. The poor unlicensed t-shirt vendors hawking homemade wares from cardboard boxes could barely keep up with demand for their predictable products. I can understand the desire for a keepsake from such an event, but a t-shirt, and a poorly-made one at that, isn't necessarily my first choice.

J- decided she wanted one particular shirt, though, and I could console myself with the price versus other commemorative shirts she has chosen to buy, or have bought for her (ahem). All the shirts I saw were much more competitively priced than the typical unlicensed shirts offered at concerts and other events, which pleased me, but the one J- liked so much happened to be only $5, which pleased me even more.

Of course, I later pointed out to her that the likely reason it was so cheap was that while yes, the front has an interesting and imaginative design, the back says "I WAS THERE WHEN HISTORY HAPPEN AT GRANT PARK - NOV, 4TH 2008".

I cannot adequately express how much staring at the back of this otherwise nicely-designed shirt makes me twitch with a craving for unfocused violence.

But that would make me the only one, it seems, because after seeing this, I couldn't help but notice that about 15% of the ecstatic crowd marching home alongside me was wearing the same lowest-bid shirt without a hint of the shame I felt for them.

The Chicago Police reported not a single arrest at the rally,*** which is of course incredible given the attendance and the circumstances of the event, so I'm guessing either all the city's other copy editors stayed home that night or they simply aren't quite as prone to violence as I am.
...
The walk to the train stop was unbelievable, for the sheer number of people filling six-lane streets for as long as they did, controlling traffic and owning the city at least for an hour or so. I tried to capture the effect in pictures to little effect (see one example below), since I had neither a helicopter nor a camera positioned strategically in the many-storey youth hostel overlooking the exit from the park, which was filled with what were presumably visitors from abroad, waving and shouting constantly from several storeys up.

A failed attempt to capture just one section of the massive crowd leaving the Obama Rally
...
So I'm left now with blurred pictures and crisp memories, and I can only hope this night proves to be as momentous a turning point in modern American history as it felt like at the time.



* Whatever your current opinion of our President-elect, his first speech in that role is as important as it always is, and given the tenuous state of our economy, government, and society combined with Obama's youth and the fundamental change he claims to represent, this speech, as an introduction to the coming inaugural address, was monumental one way or another.

** Granted, I was right in the middle of a distinctly unscientific sample, but I'll note that I did see several small indicators that there was a healthy number of McCain supporters there for the experience as much as everyone else. It's not like everyone can easily jet out to Arizona in the middle of the work week, and given that, why not be there?

*** I'll state for the record that I did see a young man being handcuffed while face down in the street, for reasons unclear, but that was several blocks away from the rally, and for all I know he was later released without being officially arrested.

Could it be a PR move for the sake of winning the 2016 Olympics? Or could they have just been helpfully demonstrating for this fellow what they
would have done had he been unruly or disrespectful.

24 September 2008

Book Review: I Went Walking

As a blogger with most of the word literary in my name, I think we can all agree I'm a logical choice to review books for the masses not so terminologically blessed. Whether or not you defy me by not readily agreeing with my assertion, a presumably large number of book publishers and authors' representatives do agree.

After recently becoming inundated with review copies of books*, I decided it was time to stop ignoring my cultural mandate. To this end, I figured I would begin by offering the world some unsolicited but obviously very welcome reviews.

Thus, I offer you my inaugural book review here at LiteralDan: Sue Williams' I Went Walking:
Cover of Sue Williams' I Went Walking
Now, if you're like me, you can't help but be struck by how horrendously grotesque the drawing of that child on the cover is, and you're too terrified to open the book itself.

I'm sure it's a very nice story.



* One copy** is enough to validate this statement-- every flood has to start with a trickle, right?

** It was not this book... I'm still preparing to read the one I was sent. It's only been a month: it's still good, it's still good!

16 September 2008

A conversation with D-: Does not compute

Here is yet another example to illustrate that my 4-year-old son D- has been cursed with the same obsession with semantics that has thus far defined my time on this earth. This conversation took place at the park after I picked him up from his second day of preschool:

Me: So, did you learn any of the other kids' names today?

D-: No.

Me: Really?

D-: Yeah... I think I knew some but now I forget.

Me (only slightly incredulous): So you don't know any of the kids' names in your class yet?

D- (immediately, and eagerly): Yes I do! D----... that's me.

I had to thank him for sticking that clarification in there at the end, because as awkward as it was, I had completely forgotten his name just that afternoon, so his point had gone right over my head.*



* Now that he's mastered semantics, the next lesson is Sarcasm.**

** And then Footnotes.