Eyes are able to see colour via the process of perception. Specifically, it is the 'cones' in our eyes which allow us to see colours; all combinations of colour despite the fact that these cones are only sensitive to reds, greens and blues. If our eyes were without these cones, all persons, places and things would appear either numbingly white or blindingly black. Being a psychology major, I understand I am simplifying this process to intangible shame. The founders of colour perception, Descartes and Professor Gregory, would be visibly upset, but for the sake of blogging I shall honour simplicity over the intricate.
Since securing my latest homely cubbyhole amidst the omnipresent condo and office buildings on Bay street, I have seriously entertained the notion that the number of my cones has drastically decreased-- or vanished altogether.
Bay street on a weekday morning reminds me of the movie Pleasantville, starring Reece Witherspoon and Tobey Maquire, which starts off in black and white colour. As the movie's plot unravels, characters who become visibly 'colourful' are those who have unleashed their inner creativity and individuality. Ultimately, those who are colourful-- succeed. Yet on Bay street, unlike Pleasantville, seeing black and white and being seen in black and white is not only perceived as the expectation, but the ultimate success. People who work 'important' jobs at 'important' office buildings wear 'important' clothes: primarily, blacks on bottom and whites on top. Pair these important wardrobes with an 'important' black trench coat and an 'important' black briefcase (or one of those 'important' thin black cell phones) and voila - you epitomize success!
Or do you?
I am puzzled by this somewhat backward evolution of only black and white colour symbolizing success. Did we not successfully transcend our monochromatic ways with colour televisions and colour photographs? What about our all-too-'important' cell phones and blackberries, which are now only available in colour? Even our language, figuratively speaking, has become more colourful. Blending one's self into a society that prides itself on both it's black and white wardrobe and it's individual-oriented focus seems rather ironic. Reece Witherspoon's and Tobey Maquire's characters would surely be disappointed.
During last week's morning walk into work, my eyes' cones were abruptly shaken to activity. I saw purple! Not white, not black, but purple! And this purple was not a magenta or a burgundy, but a vibrant, bright, alive purple! The purple was seeping off a particular woman's scarf as she made her way up the concrete steps to her Bay street office building. Everything else about this woman's wardrobe fit in with typical Bay street attire; everything that is, except for her colour- saturated scarf. This unexpected splash of colour made me stand still and smile. I can only imagine what my fellow Bay street commuters must have thought, "why is this woman smiling to herself on a grueling workweek morning? Certainly she must not be right in the head". Little did they know, my head felt more 'right' on this morning than it had in the last month: I saw colour on Bay street! My cones were alive!
As was to be expected, my cone activity was short-lived. The purple-scarfed woman disappeared behind a black revolving door and I bumped into a black trenched figure.
I have since altered my route to and from work in an effort to feed my cones with colourful nourishment. My time spent on Bay street is now strictly limited to crossing the street and not a monochromatic step more.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Sunday, February 18, 2007
the three faces of . . . disgust.
January is not a month to reckon with; its sheer force is contingent on its ability to transform itself (and its inhabitant) into a 'less' month: colourless, penniless, heat-less, one-new-years-resolution-less and apparently, humourless. I consider myself an expert-witness when it comes to testifying on behalf of January's persona, having (reluctantly) survived nine Toronto winters thus far; knock on wood.
It is by mid-January that my colourful Christmas spunk has wistfully contorted into a grey shimmering mirage; my new years eve hang-over has dutifully worked its way through my taken-for-granted liver; my wallet epitomizes emaciation and I've grudgingly returned to the workforce to rest my nose on the grindstone, where the boss thinks I'm working.
To top it all off, like a sickening sweet cherry on a bed of January manure, I'm permanently cold. My apartment complex was apparently built before fireplaces were invented and my wall heaters are like an erectile dysfunctional man, making several promising sounds but coming up unsatisfying short in productions. In a vain effort to ward off at least one of January's 'less' influences, I wrap myself in a warm cloak made of a steadfast sense of humour. Unfortunately (and certainly not in the month of January), not every Torontonian is blessed with a similar sense of humour. For those of you who know me well, or even for those who don't but have met me after a couple of martinis, you will know my sense of humour is much like a (real) fur coat: ostracized by many; cherished by few. The following three faces of disgust highlight not only a (tame) version of my humour but also one of the calendar's most humourless months.
Disgusted Face Number 1:
Bumper to bumper we patiently crawl forward while the car wash attendant works his way through the Sunday afternoon line. He takes his time collecting keys and punching washing preferences on a piece of pink paper that reads "Your car is about to be pampered!" Being an amateur car wash customer, I sit in my car intensely studying the meticulous car wash process - while in car: unlock doors and collect valuables; when at the front of the line: leave the car idling and the door opened as you give keys and pampering instructions to attendant. There are two very crucial elements to this process that I observe immediately. One, act like you've been here before. And two, be damn sure you know your pampering instructions before reaching the front of line. No one wants to waste quality Sunday afternoon time while an amateur front-of-the-line customer cranes their neck studying the 55 car washing options. The line creeps steadily forward giving me more than enough time to decide on my car wash preference. I locate the cheapest one on the too-crowded billboard and resume clicking through the radio stations. I gaze over at the attendant receiving keys and punching pink paper and notice his glassy eyes and lifeless statue; he's probably been here for hours, if not years. What he needs right now is a stimulant; something to shake the monotony. I decide that I am to be that stimulant. I push the clutch in and then release it one final time. I creep forward. I am now the front-of-the-line customer. I act in accordance to strict protocol: I leave the car running and the door opened; I hand the attendant my keys. Then I look him straight in the eye and innocently ask, "If I remain in my car for the interior wash, would you be able to wash me too?" He blinks several times, staring at me hard, before casually flicking his eyes to my front licence plate. I grin as he finds no clues; the plates are from Ontario. He looks back at me, paper puncher in mid-air and says, "pardon?" It takes more willpower to solemnly repeat my inquiry than an 8th grader trying not to giggle when the geography teacher says 'Regina'. Silence follows. The attendant then asks if I'm from the area. "Well," I say, "originally?" More silence; and an impatient horn sounds. Finally, I give in and say with a hearty smile, "exterior wash # 4 please." Relieved to be freed from uncharted territory, he punches #4 on the pink paper and responds with a disgusted face, "you can't remain in the car for an exterior wash either you know." I smile harder. I know.
Disgusted Face Number 2:
Again, I am waiting patiently in a haphazardly formed queue. Customers bark their coffee and doughnut orders in a non-nonsense-let's-get-the-show-on-the-road fashion. It is 8:22 on a breezy January morning and no one wants to be here. I will not disclose which coffee establishment line I am in, but I will say that much of the conversation consists of two words: double-double. There's nothing like a good round of humour to disembark the methodical assembly of double-doubles and boston creams. I step up to the cash register, and with a bright smile I say, "I'll have a medium quintuple-quintuple." Previously, while waiting for my turn to order, I had been silently repeating the two words in order not to stumble on a mouthful. The preparation paid off; my order came out in beautiful form. Unfortunately, the cashier's response wasn't near as beautiful. She sneered, "what?" with two distinct expressions on her face: impatience and disgust. I heard several sighs erupt from behind me and swiftly decided to forgo the extended version of my attempt at unheralded humour, "um, just a boston cream doughnut please."
Disgusted Face Number 3:
I look both ways before entering, making sure no one I know is within eye-shot. The smell in the air is laden with expensive perfume and the faint click of heels can be distantly heard. Several of the female customers are wearing fur coats while trying to juggle armfuls of lavish shopping bags. The most prominent shopping bag in the store is pink; the letters HR are encompassed by a white circle on each bag. I head straight for the one of the cashier-counters while trying to maintain a nonchalant and earnest demeanor. There is no line-up; the cashier is exclusively mine. "Excuse me," I say politely, "I have a small favour to ask." "How may I help you?" the cashier eagerly responds. "Well, here's the thing," I explain, "I don't actually want to buy anything from the store, because frankly I can't afford it, but more than anything, I'd really like to get one of those pink shopping bags just so I can walk around with it and pretend I bought something here". I don't have to wait long before a look of pained disgust manifests itself on her painted face. "The bag can be any size- even the smallest one!" I say in an imploring tone with bright eyes and a small smile. The cashier's face doesn't crack a millimeter. Briskly, she clicks away from me, obviously put-out by my cheap request. She shuffles underneath one of the near-by counters and returns with a very small crisp pink bag in hand. She holds it out to me with the following advice, "next time, you'll actually have to make a purchase to get a bag." This time I smile openly at her, "but I'm going to take such good care of this one that there won't be a need for a next time!". Pausing, I give her a couple more seconds to let herself smile. She doesn't. Beyond the double doors, the frigid weather welcomes me back.
Come summer, I shall once again visit each of these establishments with the same requests in an effort to establish a seasonal-humour-correlation. Until then, it makes for the good blog.
It is by mid-January that my colourful Christmas spunk has wistfully contorted into a grey shimmering mirage; my new years eve hang-over has dutifully worked its way through my taken-for-granted liver; my wallet epitomizes emaciation and I've grudgingly returned to the workforce to rest my nose on the grindstone, where the boss thinks I'm working.
To top it all off, like a sickening sweet cherry on a bed of January manure, I'm permanently cold. My apartment complex was apparently built before fireplaces were invented and my wall heaters are like an erectile dysfunctional man, making several promising sounds but coming up unsatisfying short in productions. In a vain effort to ward off at least one of January's 'less' influences, I wrap myself in a warm cloak made of a steadfast sense of humour. Unfortunately (and certainly not in the month of January), not every Torontonian is blessed with a similar sense of humour. For those of you who know me well, or even for those who don't but have met me after a couple of martinis, you will know my sense of humour is much like a (real) fur coat: ostracized by many; cherished by few. The following three faces of disgust highlight not only a (tame) version of my humour but also one of the calendar's most humourless months.
Disgusted Face Number 1:
Bumper to bumper we patiently crawl forward while the car wash attendant works his way through the Sunday afternoon line. He takes his time collecting keys and punching washing preferences on a piece of pink paper that reads "Your car is about to be pampered!" Being an amateur car wash customer, I sit in my car intensely studying the meticulous car wash process - while in car: unlock doors and collect valuables; when at the front of the line: leave the car idling and the door opened as you give keys and pampering instructions to attendant. There are two very crucial elements to this process that I observe immediately. One, act like you've been here before. And two, be damn sure you know your pampering instructions before reaching the front of line. No one wants to waste quality Sunday afternoon time while an amateur front-of-the-line customer cranes their neck studying the 55 car washing options. The line creeps steadily forward giving me more than enough time to decide on my car wash preference. I locate the cheapest one on the too-crowded billboard and resume clicking through the radio stations. I gaze over at the attendant receiving keys and punching pink paper and notice his glassy eyes and lifeless statue; he's probably been here for hours, if not years. What he needs right now is a stimulant; something to shake the monotony. I decide that I am to be that stimulant. I push the clutch in and then release it one final time. I creep forward. I am now the front-of-the-line customer. I act in accordance to strict protocol: I leave the car running and the door opened; I hand the attendant my keys. Then I look him straight in the eye and innocently ask, "If I remain in my car for the interior wash, would you be able to wash me too?" He blinks several times, staring at me hard, before casually flicking his eyes to my front licence plate. I grin as he finds no clues; the plates are from Ontario. He looks back at me, paper puncher in mid-air and says, "pardon?" It takes more willpower to solemnly repeat my inquiry than an 8th grader trying not to giggle when the geography teacher says 'Regina'. Silence follows. The attendant then asks if I'm from the area. "Well," I say, "originally?" More silence; and an impatient horn sounds. Finally, I give in and say with a hearty smile, "exterior wash # 4 please." Relieved to be freed from uncharted territory, he punches #4 on the pink paper and responds with a disgusted face, "you can't remain in the car for an exterior wash either you know." I smile harder. I know.
Disgusted Face Number 2:
Again, I am waiting patiently in a haphazardly formed queue. Customers bark their coffee and doughnut orders in a non-nonsense-let's-get-the-show-on-the-road fashion. It is 8:22 on a breezy January morning and no one wants to be here. I will not disclose which coffee establishment line I am in, but I will say that much of the conversation consists of two words: double-double. There's nothing like a good round of humour to disembark the methodical assembly of double-doubles and boston creams. I step up to the cash register, and with a bright smile I say, "I'll have a medium quintuple-quintuple." Previously, while waiting for my turn to order, I had been silently repeating the two words in order not to stumble on a mouthful. The preparation paid off; my order came out in beautiful form. Unfortunately, the cashier's response wasn't near as beautiful. She sneered, "what?" with two distinct expressions on her face: impatience and disgust. I heard several sighs erupt from behind me and swiftly decided to forgo the extended version of my attempt at unheralded humour, "um, just a boston cream doughnut please."
Disgusted Face Number 3:
I look both ways before entering, making sure no one I know is within eye-shot. The smell in the air is laden with expensive perfume and the faint click of heels can be distantly heard. Several of the female customers are wearing fur coats while trying to juggle armfuls of lavish shopping bags. The most prominent shopping bag in the store is pink; the letters HR are encompassed by a white circle on each bag. I head straight for the one of the cashier-counters while trying to maintain a nonchalant and earnest demeanor. There is no line-up; the cashier is exclusively mine. "Excuse me," I say politely, "I have a small favour to ask." "How may I help you?" the cashier eagerly responds. "Well, here's the thing," I explain, "I don't actually want to buy anything from the store, because frankly I can't afford it, but more than anything, I'd really like to get one of those pink shopping bags just so I can walk around with it and pretend I bought something here". I don't have to wait long before a look of pained disgust manifests itself on her painted face. "The bag can be any size- even the smallest one!" I say in an imploring tone with bright eyes and a small smile. The cashier's face doesn't crack a millimeter. Briskly, she clicks away from me, obviously put-out by my cheap request. She shuffles underneath one of the near-by counters and returns with a very small crisp pink bag in hand. She holds it out to me with the following advice, "next time, you'll actually have to make a purchase to get a bag." This time I smile openly at her, "but I'm going to take such good care of this one that there won't be a need for a next time!". Pausing, I give her a couple more seconds to let herself smile. She doesn't. Beyond the double doors, the frigid weather welcomes me back.
Come summer, I shall once again visit each of these establishments with the same requests in an effort to establish a seasonal-humour-correlation. Until then, it makes for the good blog.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
yuppy puppy
yuppy: a young, ambitious, and well-educated city-dweller who has a professional career and an affluent lifestyle.
yorkville: where the toronto yuppies dwell.
2004-2005: the year i, as well, dwelled in yorkville.
one cheerful winter morning, i left my condo on the hunt for saturday's globe and mail (or as my friend likes to dub it: the G n M) and a hearty cup of double double brew. i rounded one of yorkville's finest corners and immediately noticed that people in-passing were exhibiting facial expressions consisting of shock and somewhat (mild) disgust; many of these passer-byers even wore expressions of (bold) awe! Immediately i was intrigued: what was the root of everyone's explicit interest? it was a good thing i hadn't yet purchased my cup of brew because, in turning around, i almost fell over.
walking (or waddling) behind me was a female yuppy carrying her female puppy. normally, this situation wouldn't elicit such grave concern as people carry pocket dogs around all the time (either in Louis Vuitton bags or under fur-lined jacketed arms); but this scenario was vastly different; for two reasons. One, and most importantly, this was no pocket dog. it couldn't have been carried in either a LV bag or under an over-invested arm simply because it was at least the size of a medium-sized toddler. And two, because of its rather large size, this yuppy puppy was being carried in one of those 'front pouches' that mothers (or fathers) carry their babies in. let me re-emphasis this point: a pouch that parents carry their CHILDREN in.
the puppy was carried face-forward with its thick limbs sticking out at (rather) awkward angles from its torso. The head of the pup sat so high on the yuppy that it blocked her view of the street; she was forced to walk with her head slanted to one side. The bottom of the pup fell so far below the yuppy's hips that it made walking almost impossible; she was forced to adapt a rather cumbersome waddle. And for what? Last i checked dogs liked to be walked.
as i rudely stared, i couldn't help but notice the poor pup's expression: it was the look of a defeated soul who had lost all dignity as a respectful and contributing member of society. And if you were extra observant (which i was) you could even see all surrounding (walking) dogs subtly shaking their heads in disapproving unison. the yuppy puppy was a hit to the animal kingdom as a whole: 4 legs bad; no legs good.
the yuppy waddled past me as the stares and expressions of disgust (and awe!) spread like a domino effect down the street. she awkwardly rounded yorkville's next corner, no doubt, on her oblivious way to purchase sweaters, diapers and fudge at one of those yuppy puppy "pet" stores.
shaking my head, i decided i needed to 'accentuate' my intended double double brew; the past events called for an extra strong espresso. i opened saturday's G n M to the rental section and immediately started circling more dignified neighborhoods.
yorkville: where the toronto yuppies dwell.
2004-2005: the year i, as well, dwelled in yorkville.
one cheerful winter morning, i left my condo on the hunt for saturday's globe and mail (or as my friend likes to dub it: the G n M) and a hearty cup of double double brew. i rounded one of yorkville's finest corners and immediately noticed that people in-passing were exhibiting facial expressions consisting of shock and somewhat (mild) disgust; many of these passer-byers even wore expressions of (bold) awe! Immediately i was intrigued: what was the root of everyone's explicit interest? it was a good thing i hadn't yet purchased my cup of brew because, in turning around, i almost fell over.
walking (or waddling) behind me was a female yuppy carrying her female puppy. normally, this situation wouldn't elicit such grave concern as people carry pocket dogs around all the time (either in Louis Vuitton bags or under fur-lined jacketed arms); but this scenario was vastly different; for two reasons. One, and most importantly, this was no pocket dog. it couldn't have been carried in either a LV bag or under an over-invested arm simply because it was at least the size of a medium-sized toddler. And two, because of its rather large size, this yuppy puppy was being carried in one of those 'front pouches' that mothers (or fathers) carry their babies in. let me re-emphasis this point: a pouch that parents carry their CHILDREN in.
the puppy was carried face-forward with its thick limbs sticking out at (rather) awkward angles from its torso. The head of the pup sat so high on the yuppy that it blocked her view of the street; she was forced to walk with her head slanted to one side. The bottom of the pup fell so far below the yuppy's hips that it made walking almost impossible; she was forced to adapt a rather cumbersome waddle. And for what? Last i checked dogs liked to be walked.
as i rudely stared, i couldn't help but notice the poor pup's expression: it was the look of a defeated soul who had lost all dignity as a respectful and contributing member of society. And if you were extra observant (which i was) you could even see all surrounding (walking) dogs subtly shaking their heads in disapproving unison. the yuppy puppy was a hit to the animal kingdom as a whole: 4 legs bad; no legs good.
the yuppy waddled past me as the stares and expressions of disgust (and awe!) spread like a domino effect down the street. she awkwardly rounded yorkville's next corner, no doubt, on her oblivious way to purchase sweaters, diapers and fudge at one of those yuppy puppy "pet" stores.
shaking my head, i decided i needed to 'accentuate' my intended double double brew; the past events called for an extra strong espresso. i opened saturday's G n M to the rental section and immediately started circling more dignified neighborhoods.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
a mesmerizing pick-up
i'll admit it: in the same way i am completely and utterly mesmerized by the fire, i am as equally enthralled by the dryer. When i say 'fire', i am referring to a controlled and safe, surrounded-by-a-wet-circle-of-stones-type of fire. The kind of fire girl guides and boy scouts sing and roast marshmallows around. And when i say 'dryer' i mean the washing machine's better half. The kind of dryer you find at the local laundromat; the kind of dryer with the all encompassing peeping window.
There is something vigorously hynotizing about fabric gyrating in a rhymic but haphazardly-shaped circle. Each turn of the dryer envelops its viewer with a unique wave of cascading colour (the 'colours' cycle is much more spectator than the 'whites' cycle. If you are one of those laisser faire individuals who refuse to separate laundry, i must politely inform you: you're missing out).
But where was i? Ah yes, the dryer; and the pick-up.
It began as a ho-hum nothing-out-of-the-ordinary-type of evening at the laundromat: i dumped my change, (powder) detergent and coloured clothes into the washing machine's respective compartments; i browsed through a tattered and week-old (sticky) 'NOW' magazine; i read all the rental and "have you seen my [insert dog name here]?" postings; i even feigned interest as the Leafs' power-play fizzled to another uneventful end.
Ding! Finally; the washing machine signaled its cessation.
I eagerly popped my also-sticky quarters into the dryer (ever notice how normally non-adhesive items acquire a sticky residue at the laundromat? i'm hoping it's the liquid detergent), bade my wet clothes an impressive 'run' and secured an unobstructed view of my chosen dryer's window in a no-doubt-purchased-at-the-
dollar-store (also-sticky) plastic chair.
It didn't take long for the dryer to achieve a hefty mesmerizing speed. Subsequently, I was not let down: dress-shirts and T-shirts tag-teamed panties;jeans tactfully swallowed socks; over-priced long-sleeve sweaters danced with other equally over-priced long-sleeved sweaters; and in fine form, the duvet cover trampled all. And throughout, i sat mesmerized by the orchestrated pinwheel of colour.
Like all dazzling conductors, the dryer followed its colouful performance with a climatic finale. And then-- there was silence.
The buzzer sounded and my spell was broken.
I lifted dazed and red-rimmed eyes from my heap of warm and static-full clothes straight into the gallant eyes of a stranger. He was a comfortable distance away (no need for alarm) but i continued feeling his blistering presence as i set down my clothes and began dutifully folding. I folded and i folded (like an unfortunate game of poker), hoping my competitor would cash out and leave. I cautiously looked up. Nope; he most certainly had not left. His static eyes and now fervent smile's innuendos gripped my shoulders and stroked my slightly-greasy hair. I consciously shuttered.
Now don't get me wrong, by no standard was this stranger creepy. Or rude. Or threatening. He was simply-- there; staring and smiling away.
Just as i contemplated picking my nose while simultaneously drooling and barking (in a vain effort to avert his gaze), he picked up his laundry bag (disguised as a glad garbage bag), walked towards me and then around me, leaned close and whispered,
"if you let me get your panties dirty, i'll get them clean again."
I had to smile at his metaphoric effort. We WERE in a laundromat after all - an atmosphere obstinately known for getting dirty things clean.
Did his epidemic pick-up line work? Well, if you had been there that night, you would know the (sticky) answer.
There is something vigorously hynotizing about fabric gyrating in a rhymic but haphazardly-shaped circle. Each turn of the dryer envelops its viewer with a unique wave of cascading colour (the 'colours' cycle is much more spectator than the 'whites' cycle. If you are one of those laisser faire individuals who refuse to separate laundry, i must politely inform you: you're missing out).
But where was i? Ah yes, the dryer; and the pick-up.
It began as a ho-hum nothing-out-of-the-ordinary-type of evening at the laundromat: i dumped my change, (powder) detergent and coloured clothes into the washing machine's respective compartments; i browsed through a tattered and week-old (sticky) 'NOW' magazine; i read all the rental and "have you seen my [insert dog name here]?" postings; i even feigned interest as the Leafs' power-play fizzled to another uneventful end.
Ding! Finally; the washing machine signaled its cessation.
I eagerly popped my also-sticky quarters into the dryer (ever notice how normally non-adhesive items acquire a sticky residue at the laundromat? i'm hoping it's the liquid detergent), bade my wet clothes an impressive 'run' and secured an unobstructed view of my chosen dryer's window in a no-doubt-purchased-at-the-
dollar-store (also-sticky) plastic chair.
It didn't take long for the dryer to achieve a hefty mesmerizing speed. Subsequently, I was not let down: dress-shirts and T-shirts tag-teamed panties;jeans tactfully swallowed socks; over-priced long-sleeve sweaters danced with other equally over-priced long-sleeved sweaters; and in fine form, the duvet cover trampled all. And throughout, i sat mesmerized by the orchestrated pinwheel of colour.
Like all dazzling conductors, the dryer followed its colouful performance with a climatic finale. And then-- there was silence.
The buzzer sounded and my spell was broken.
I lifted dazed and red-rimmed eyes from my heap of warm and static-full clothes straight into the gallant eyes of a stranger. He was a comfortable distance away (no need for alarm) but i continued feeling his blistering presence as i set down my clothes and began dutifully folding. I folded and i folded (like an unfortunate game of poker), hoping my competitor would cash out and leave. I cautiously looked up. Nope; he most certainly had not left. His static eyes and now fervent smile's innuendos gripped my shoulders and stroked my slightly-greasy hair. I consciously shuttered.
Now don't get me wrong, by no standard was this stranger creepy. Or rude. Or threatening. He was simply-- there; staring and smiling away.
Just as i contemplated picking my nose while simultaneously drooling and barking (in a vain effort to avert his gaze), he picked up his laundry bag (disguised as a glad garbage bag), walked towards me and then around me, leaned close and whispered,
"if you let me get your panties dirty, i'll get them clean again."
I had to smile at his metaphoric effort. We WERE in a laundromat after all - an atmosphere obstinately known for getting dirty things clean.
Did his epidemic pick-up line work? Well, if you had been there that night, you would know the (sticky) answer.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
the greatest invention
After finishing a relatively healthy bowl of soup at lunch today, i got to thinking i wanted more. Nay, not more soup, but more chocolate, chips, cheesecake and... (what else begins with "c" that is considered detrimental to the finer workings of the human body?)... cholesterol. ahhhhh, cholesterol; sweet sweet good-for-nothing cholesterol.
Alas, wanting more vs. actually getting more doesn't always elicit similar behaviour; instead it begins with a conscious battle between either crowning my discipline (and denying the urge) or satisfying my yelping taste buds (and succumbing to the urge). On my better days, discipline is crowned queen as my taste buds wistfully bow down.
Today was a good day; i drowned my cravings in a cup of cholesterol-free tasteless tea. i glanced into my transparent substitution for everything delicious beginning with "c" and could see the odd flakes of grime stuck to the bottom of the cup, (no doubt left over from a hot chocolate package that wasn't mixed enough and from which i hadn't bothered to wash away), and i became furiously frustrated. i glared at those (rotten) chocolatey flakes while imagining the boundless shelves of (fresh!) goodness that lay, only steps away, at the local 7-11. Why couldn't i achieve both? Why couldn't wanting more and actually getting more be merged without having to deny my taste buds or de-crown my discipline?
Why Eureka, it could! Through the invention of a neck-hole!
That's right, a neck-hole (or a hole in the neck in layman's terms). Picture it: if i had a neck hole, i could satisfy all my cravings without having to suffer the consequences of a bloated belly or extra caloric intake. With a neck hole, everything that went in my mouth would simply come streaming out my neck; do not pass the esophagus, do not collect 200 pounds.
A neck hole could even come with a decorative tube (flesh-coloured of course) joined to a discreetly hidden (also flesh-coloured) "baggy". Once the snack or craving had been deemed complete, the now-pleasantly-full "baggy" could be conveniently tossed and the neck tube removed.
Of course there would have to be stipulations. One, neck tubes could not be shared. If you forgot your tube while dining at a restaurant, discipline would have to kick in at high gear or you would be forced to contend with a unappealing chest stained with chewed (but not digested) food. Restaurants wouldn't tolerate such behaviour and neither would your friends. Stipulation number two: the neck hole could only be 'opened' and used for EXTRA calories - if the body detected its minimal caloric intake wasn't met, it would simply deny access to the neck hole; much the same as HAL denied David access to the pod bay door in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey. Stipulation one would guarantee hygiene. And stipulation two would guarantee no one took advantage of their neck holes to conform to un-natural body trends.
The concept of a neck hole way seem slightly ghoulish now, but if it were always part of the human genome, then it wouldn't seem any more strange than fingers or ears or necks; it would simply be a known (and appreciated!) part of the body.
Perhaps even a sexy part of the body.
Hmmmmmmm sexy neck hole.
As my cholesterol-free tasteless tea grew cold and my daydream of the greatest invention slowly faded, i was left with the unattainable truth:
With a neck hole, i could cut my cholesterol and eat my cake too.
Alas, wanting more vs. actually getting more doesn't always elicit similar behaviour; instead it begins with a conscious battle between either crowning my discipline (and denying the urge) or satisfying my yelping taste buds (and succumbing to the urge). On my better days, discipline is crowned queen as my taste buds wistfully bow down.
Today was a good day; i drowned my cravings in a cup of cholesterol-free tasteless tea. i glanced into my transparent substitution for everything delicious beginning with "c" and could see the odd flakes of grime stuck to the bottom of the cup, (no doubt left over from a hot chocolate package that wasn't mixed enough and from which i hadn't bothered to wash away), and i became furiously frustrated. i glared at those (rotten) chocolatey flakes while imagining the boundless shelves of (fresh!) goodness that lay, only steps away, at the local 7-11. Why couldn't i achieve both? Why couldn't wanting more and actually getting more be merged without having to deny my taste buds or de-crown my discipline?
Why Eureka, it could! Through the invention of a neck-hole!
That's right, a neck-hole (or a hole in the neck in layman's terms). Picture it: if i had a neck hole, i could satisfy all my cravings without having to suffer the consequences of a bloated belly or extra caloric intake. With a neck hole, everything that went in my mouth would simply come streaming out my neck; do not pass the esophagus, do not collect 200 pounds.
A neck hole could even come with a decorative tube (flesh-coloured of course) joined to a discreetly hidden (also flesh-coloured) "baggy". Once the snack or craving had been deemed complete, the now-pleasantly-full "baggy" could be conveniently tossed and the neck tube removed.
Of course there would have to be stipulations. One, neck tubes could not be shared. If you forgot your tube while dining at a restaurant, discipline would have to kick in at high gear or you would be forced to contend with a unappealing chest stained with chewed (but not digested) food. Restaurants wouldn't tolerate such behaviour and neither would your friends. Stipulation number two: the neck hole could only be 'opened' and used for EXTRA calories - if the body detected its minimal caloric intake wasn't met, it would simply deny access to the neck hole; much the same as HAL denied David access to the pod bay door in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey. Stipulation one would guarantee hygiene. And stipulation two would guarantee no one took advantage of their neck holes to conform to un-natural body trends.
The concept of a neck hole way seem slightly ghoulish now, but if it were always part of the human genome, then it wouldn't seem any more strange than fingers or ears or necks; it would simply be a known (and appreciated!) part of the body.
Perhaps even a sexy part of the body.
Hmmmmmmm sexy neck hole.
As my cholesterol-free tasteless tea grew cold and my daydream of the greatest invention slowly faded, i was left with the unattainable truth:
With a neck hole, i could cut my cholesterol and eat my cake too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
