I’ve about had it with the freakin’ piegeons. I used to get rid of them by banging one of my 17 remote controls against my window, but now they’re so used to my presence that I’m not even a threat to them anymore. Sometimes I even open the window with a flourish and let out bloodcurdling screams. They just dart their heads back and forth as if something might be a little off, but that’s it. GOD!

Also filed under Things I Hate But Photograph Anyway for Shits & Giggles… DR presents this girl, her thong, and her Pooh tattoo. I hate to admit this, but I actually just spent two whole minutes debating whether the photo should be displayed to the side of the text like most of the pictures, or whether it warranted an entire column’s width. I went with the latter:

If you’re so turned on right now and feel the urge to save this image to make it your desktop pattern, you’ll notice that I named it “buttcrack_pooh.jpg.” Nice. Was she being ironic?

I am really, really mean. And probably losing readers by the tens by posting this. It’s something no one’s supposed to see, and my partner-in-crime Kate and I had to go and capture this atrocity with the triple-zoom. But you just can’t turn down the opportunity to snap a crack when one’s staring right at you. About a month ago, concerned reader Dee made a post demanding to know WHY I was so obsessed with putting SEC (Someone Else’s Crack, you know, instead of SEP, Someone Else’s Problem) on my personal website. I believe my exact response was “Mom, we live in a society. It’s just what people do.”

Huh? I’m not sure what it means either. But in that spirit, DR would like to extend a Call For Buttcracks. It’s sort of like a Call For Papers, which occurs in graduate school when prestigious universities hold conferences and need people to read at them. Well, this presitgious purveyor of Crack is holding firm on its SEC policy and needs people to send in their sightings. Happy hunting.

Note: I’m aware that the above photo does not contain VISIBLE Crack. But when the huge thong (and such a large portion of it!) is all up in your biznass, you really can’t tell the difference. And if you call this “covered-up Crack,” then I beg to differ. This is Crack! Say hello! Deal with it.

First of all, tell me if these earrings are as cool as I think they are right this second. That feathery turquoise thing is… a feather. Knowing me, I will wake up tomorrow and change my mind about them. How’s about you do that for me, or tell me they’re really cute. I don’t care either way. Honesty is encouraged. For your benefit, I did not look at the camera and instead took my own photo while glued to a horribly mediocre episode of Survivor. Only the best for our readers.

Also in Weird Things I Wear news, you can tell I haven’t done laundry in about three months when I end up wearing magenta socks with flowers on them that Dee sent me in a box, likely as a cute “aren’t these funny?” joke. Unless it was an unfunny “aren’t these cute” plea and she was serious. Either way, I find these socks rather humorous and kept laughing at them whilst writing my paper on the schizophrenic nature of Instant Messenger. Some people have requested to read this paper, so I put it online. Do not click unless you are interested. It’s not for everyone. But if you’re addicted to IM or once were, go for it.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you that reading the entire thing will be 20 to 90 minutes you will never, ever get back. Also, “bleeckerbimbo” and “parannieoia” are names I created for the paper. Do not put them on your buddy list. They will never be used again.

One of my paper-writing tactics relates to food. Actually, most of them do, but I thought I’d share one of my favorites. The PB&J-per-page is a very effective technique to use between the hours of 3-8 a.m. The way it works is: I write a page, I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (Sure you got that? It’s one of my more complicated techniques, so read that last sentence over if you need to.) To save time, I make at least four sandwiches at once, like so. Now, even if you never eat PB&J, admit that is a tantalizing photo. Or maybe it’s just me. It usually is.

Pay attention. You will be tested.

The kind of organ which the telephone duplicates, replaces, or protects may itself be subject to multiple displacements (psychoanalysis has argued convincingly for the symbolic exchangeability of anus and ear, for instance).

When we are seeking the essence of “tree,” we have to beome aware that That which pervades every tree, as tree, is not itself a tree that can be encountered among all the other trees.

Ooh, wait, this one’s a doozy:

We ordinarily take “that which is” to be whatever is in being. For the “is” is asserted of what is in being. But now everything has turned about. Insight does not name any discerning examination [Einsicht] into what is in being that we conduct for ourselves; insight [Einblick] as in-flashing [Einblitz] is the disclosing coming-to-pass of the constellation of the turning within the coming to presence of Being itself, and that within the epoch of Enframing. That which is, is in no way that which is in being. For the “it is” and the “is” are accorded to what is in being only inasmuch as what is in being is appealed to in respect to its Being. In the “is,” “Being” is uttered: that which “is,” in the sense that it constitutes the Being of what is in being, is Being.

I don’t have time to go into it right now but sometime soon I’m going to write something good about grad school. The above doesn’t even slice the surface of the giant duality that is the simultaneous awe/appreciation and digust/rejection involved in approaching theoretical writing like this. Occasionally, I’ll read something and feel exalted, like I’ve just arrived at the precise point of what someone was trying to say. (The certainty floats away by my next regularly scheduled snack.) Other times I sit there, reading a sentence for the fifth time and trying not to count the number of times words like “epistemological,” “hermeneutical,” and “synecdoche” appear on a page. Then I wonder why it has to be that way when everyone knows there are easier ways to say things. Then I wonder if anyone I go to school with can tell that I still have no clue what hermeneutics are. It’s too late to ask! I’m too far gone.

Here’s a picture of a list James wrote out last year for some more loathsome examples of the “quota words” — things that people in class sprinkle into their comments as if they need to meet a I’m A Total Academic Bastard quota. With a lot of these clowns I actually wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t know what the words meant, either. At least I don’t say mine out loud. If you’re wondering, yes, that does say “Judith Butler,” and we never gave James enough credit for the hilarity of that.

If you look really hard and can read his loopy printing, you’ll also notice “hermeneutical” on there as well. It was so embarrassing — we were sitting around shouting out words to be included on the Do Not Say list (we’re really cool) and I had to just fake like I knew what it meant. You should have seen me. I probably did the overcompensatory “Oh, yeah, of course, hermeneutical…” face that just does not work on me at all. They all totally knew.

You’re still here? You should have realized you were being Punk’d like 500 words ago.

The offending item:

First, these are all shitty choices. Dairy Queen can be good if it’s July, you’re in the Midwest, and you’re resigned to being fat and happy for the next seven days. Baskin Robbins gives shoddy portions, and Coldstone Creamery employees make me want to shoot myself. It was suggested by someone I thought cared about me that I apply for a job and work there for a few weeks for research purposes, singing to the customers and shouting out my name in cheer form with key anecdotes about myself. Dude, I have a blog for that.

Yes, it would be hilarious and I might even get to write a bestselling novel about it, but who needs millions of dollars when you can have, instead, ice cream dignity and $14 an hour to watch for product placement in television? Not me, that’s who! Besides, I’m still planning on getting a job at Starbucks for a few months, just long enough to pen my debut novel, Lots of Lattes. Or maybe even Latts o’ Lattes. It’s gonna be about, like, espresso and stuff.

Secondly, I don’t appreciate the way “Rob Jefferson” has preselected Baskin Robbins for me. I remember those “Clown Cones” from Baskin Robbins. Did every store have those, or was it just the one at the Garden Market shopping center in Western Springs, IL? This was an ice cream cone with — again — a severely low amount of ice cream in the actual cone and (here comes the “clown” part) little florets of thick, multicolored buttercream icing dotting the cone and the ice cream itself to form a “clown face” that never looked anything like a real clown but tasted really, really sugary. Most of my naive little playmates would eat all the florets at once because they were all anyone cared about. I was all “WTF?” to such children because I preferred to eat my florets gradually, with a balanced ratio of ice cream to icing in each bite. I’d feel sorry for one part if I favored the other unfairly. The textures of both clashed so violently that it was just a tumultuous experience in general. In fact, I’d really rather not repeat it or even think about it ever again. And yet I’m writing about it. You can tell it’s almost six in the morning. Maybe you can’t, and I’ve just outed myself. Whatever. Look, I just found an article which mentions the Clown Cone. The writer seems to think the CC was a once-a-year birthday treat. Wow. Either they became too popular for that rule to hold, or the Garden Market chain’s employees just got way too overzealous with all the floret fun. I’d like to bet on the latter, but again, with the shoddy portions… those employees (always the same man, woman, and teenage daughter — it’s like they slept behind the counter) didn’t seem like so much fun at all. What am I talking about? Look how long this paragraph about florets is! Am I really going to post this?

Guess so.

I wrote the TV Watch for LOST on EW.com today. That’s why I am awake. It’s not my fault, except it really is.

Just realized the date is 05/05/05. DUDE.