The meerkats are vacationing in Orange County.

But they don't call it The OC.

This one's for the children.

Three years ago when I moved to Minnesota, I fervently completed the initial chapters of a children's story, but quit the project abruptly. I couldn't let children read anything so bitingly sarcastic, yet those who did taste of the lucsious fruit of my endeavor still, to this day, beg for more! More narrative to satisfy our rotting little hearts, swift writer of children's stories! More characters we love to hate and hate some more! More, more, more! To them, I say, "Please contact me at work no more, no more. You're all starting to creep me out. Why don't you get on with life? You're missing out on childhood. Look--there it goes. I don't think it even likes you...so, uh, did you get anything nice for Christmas?"

If children are make-believe children, as featured in the above paragraph, then mean comments made about then can surely be excused.

Petula Clark, Downtown!

The song swims merrily into my mind each time my bus nears Nicollet Mall, the heart of downtown Minneapolis. Featured several nights of the week between Thanksgiving and Christmas is the Holidazzle Parade, a procession of costumes and props lit with holidazzling holiday lights. I happened upon it after work a few times and was astonished by the masses of people huddled along the sidewalks and packed in the skyways like cans of lamb and rice dog food. If you like those kinds of things--bumbling snowmen wagging oversized candy canes at you in public--then this parade is for you. Otherwise you could just observe the crowd as you're walking to your rerouted bus stop (thank you, street-hogging parade). Some kids are playing patty cake with a sidewalk that got a summer's worth of spit and cigarette ashes stomped into it. Damn, that's nasty.

Day After Christmas Cheer

For today I have marked on my calendar, "You will not miss Christmas songs," and indeed I do not.

Hey, here's a fun idea. Let's all chime in and post how much weight we've each gained since Thanksgiving. That way, none of us would feel so bad about our weight gain. Misery loves company, right?

No, misery doesn't love company. Misery wants to be alone the day after Christmas to eat a mayo-slathered sandwich in peace. Misery has had enough of songs about unrealistically pleasant family gatherings and a winter that holy-crap-no-way! doesn't make your face hurt, and Misery thinks if more Christmas songs aspired to be as uplifting as the catchy ditty by Wham!, Misery might entertain the thought of company.

Hey man, go away, but come again another day.

Come back after December 20th.

No, thanks.

Dont mind me, I'm just going through the motions.

Ryan Adams was inspiring the other night, and he's not even Jesus. I walked out of the theatre in such a daze that I hopped on the wrong bus. It was inspiring to see that my purpose in life was to write creative shit, but without a guitar, and Ryan Adams helped me to see that, although Ryan Adams couldn't point out what a bombastically long sentence this has been and how people often trivialize their accounts of spiritual awakening by transforming them into fluffy bunny shit.

Anyway, what a contrast that was to the soul-sapping catch-22 I live: dragging myself to work each day in order to afford grad school, while grad school promises to afford me happier work one day. To this, I say, Creative shit. That's the way!

So, when I saw how uninspired Ryan Adams appeared on stage and how his sycophantic fans cheered and laughed with overdone ambition at their vision of rock and roll divinity, I sat quietly, stewing in my venomous distaste for the whole situation. Just play your songs, then, goddamnit.

Too flip about my devotional duties, I was eventually asked by nearby people if I knew him. What? Ryan Adams. If I knew him. Of course I know him. (We just don't know each other.) Flattered by the association between me and my rock star, I considered a marriage proposal to the pretty little ash tray.

Oh yeah, Happy Thanksgiving!

Complete Authorship

Aunt can also mean unimaginative author of low blows. I recently finished a manuscript featuring these well-timed tidbits, carefully perserving the exciting tone of her hell fiery derision. The manuscript? My diary. Maybe I'll get the bitch to autograph it at the Thanksgiving table. I'll ask her to make it out to "Sylvia" and tell her what an inspiration she is to me, that she's inspired me to live by the kind of family values she lives by.

Keepin' It Real

At my wedding reception: Thank you for your generous gifts. Now get the hell out. I'm renting by the hour.

Thanksgiving: A Happy Holiday

The judgment and passive aggression at past family dinners have caused me to run out in tears, choking on dry turkey chunks lodged in my esophagus, while fidgeting with car keys, dropping them on the frozen Minnesota ground, and screaming, finally, in all my indignation. This year, I'd like to say I'm rather rehabilitated and ready to face the Midwestern family values again. I'll even bring a goddamn pie.

Belaboring a Labored Point

So, I guess I'm going to jail. Copyright infringement. Copied everything from this "Sylvia" in Minneapolis. She said she was a regular reader of my blog, but never expressed any opposition to my "borrowing" habits. Then on November 1st, she freaked out and said she had writer's blocks--yes, plural--and they'd multipied to such a great number that she constructed a mighty stairway, believing it would take her to a special place. When she got to the top, God said to her, "What are you doing? You were supposed to build a generous home for the homeless or something noble like that. Instead you built a useless stairway. What for?" Sylvia stated humbly, "To see you, God. To see you." God was a bit turned off by her answer. He said it was too "ABC Afterschool Special" for his taste and asked to be unsubscribed from her blog. And that's when Sylvia flipped out and threatened to sue me. But I think she was just frustrated because of the whole misunderstanding with God about the writer's blocks--I'm sure it was a bit embarrassing. I told her we've all had writer's blocks. We're just not as constructive as she is with them. Get it? Get it? Constructive?

As I said, writer's blocks.

Reduced

I hate it when people pester me about writing. Keep writing, Syl-vee-ah. Oh my God, Syl-vee-ah, have you written anything lately? Syl-vee-ah, are you still doing your writing? No, I have not! Granted, having this blog helps me to write through my creative constipation, but have you a clue how painful this is? Damn it! The embarrassment! Gross metaphors, uncontrolled language. Oh great, now it's gone from constipated to diarrheic. Don't look at me! Don't look at me!

Look here instead:

• If I Only had a Brain
• Like, Oh My God!
• What's with all the bitching?
• What I Think of my Readers
• My Childhood, a tad fucked

The Weiner Corner

Welcome to the weiner corner. Don't laugh--there's nothing funny here anymore. What do they say when there's nothing to say?

THIS WEB SITE IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

If you think life is funny and have something to share, please e-mail some of those other weiners with "random thoughts" in the titles of their blogs. I notice they've been kind of desperate.

(Do note the separate words of web site and that e-mail includes a hyphen. Do not feel compelled to follow these rules, for I would not take well to your finger wagging. The author of this website wishes not to be considered a hyprocrite, but if you feel she is, please consider emailing her.)

Hence, I Have No Playmates

If it were not for these headphones, my fingers would have to come to the rescue. The girl across the way talks too loud, as if her cell phone were hard of hearing. Everyone is polite--Minnesota Nice precludes a rancorous pastime: the knowing glance. Here it appears that nothing can disturb.

Chattanooga Choo Choo--Now Serving Smiles

Too much dancing on the Soul Train. The Chattanooga Choo Choo takes me where I need to be--without all the stretch denim and hip gyration.

I Saw the Light, and the Light was Flourescent

The light illuminated. I stopped in my tracks and shouted, "I'll be! Moral Values! In bulk!" There was nothing to do but to stock up while the gettin' was good. There was no way anyone was going to criticize me ever again for having no M.V. That's why it caught me off guard when the people at the checkout line gave looks like they were disenchanted with me or something. Called me an M.V. hoarder. Said I was an M.V. showoff. Asked if I had enough M.V. and told me to save some for the rest of 'em. Well, I wasn't going to take that kind of abuse. I said right to their faces, "Go straight, then go right! THAT'S where you can find the M.V.!"

Referenced Question

The answer to your question: Billy Corgan.

Word of The Day: Morals

This is a new word for you, gentle Democrats, because you were not included on the Republican Party mailing list and therefore were not informed of President Bush's mandate to redefine the term morals. But unless a well-informed morals monger is willing to impart the definition as dictated by our fortunate president, I shall remain ignorant. Or would I be right in stating that morals has now quite the opposite of its traditional meaning?

On the bright side, this new excuse to shirk moral behavior sure is going to make life easy. Maybe tax cuts will make me rich too.

Feelings, Nothing More than Feelings

Disappointed, dismayed, disheartened, disgusted...

The Apotheosis of Useless Americans

Paris Hilton, George W. Bush--pretty useless people, agreed? That's why I thank Dick Cheney and his missioners for their intervention. Because of their exciting and inspiring efforts, W. is now a useful American, serving well his saviors.

Hi, I'm Voter #437 in my Precinct.

First Christian Church in Minneapolis was my polling place. The line of voters was so long that if everyone held hands, it could stretch around the globe and give the world a big, warm, American embrace! Wouldn't the world love that? Well, then, no hugs for you!

At 8:00a.m. the end of the line was still straight, just tailing out the door. Once inside, we voters made a quick left (well, not really quick--it took about 5 minutes to move 5 steps) into some kind of a reception room. I had flashbacks of 5th grade square dancing (and square it was) when I saw how a loop was formed, hugging the perimeter of the room. The church, I realized, had so kindly provided Bruegger's bagels, Bruegger's cream cheese, and church coffee in giant church percolators--it warmed my heathen heart.

The line continued through the corridors of the church--white walls, white doors, white flourescent lights, and a couple of white gay guys behind me, offering me chuckles during that two-hour wait to cast my vote.

Just before the line flowed into the great hall--which turned out to be more waiting, but amusement park, serpentine style--I noticed a religious magazine article on the bulletin board. Since I was standing around anyway, I read and summarized the piece: God made you a good Christian so you could vote Republican this year.

Suddenly feeling guilty about having eaten the good bagel of the good Christians, I asked the polling patrol if I could cast my vote for Kerry maybe in a Catholic church or a public school. Of course, I was denied, and ended up voting my conscience. ;-)

VOTE TODAY: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 2ND

Politics itself is not a dirty thing. Have some decency and figure out why people get so fired-up over issues.

Republican Ex-Governor Urges Your Vote for Kerry

Throughout my tenure and beyond as the 30th governor of this state, I have been steadfastly aligned -- and until recently, proudly so -- with the Minnesota Republican Party.

It dismays me, therefore, to have to publicly disagree with the national Republican agenda and the national Republican candidate but, this year, I must.

--Elmer L. Andersen, Minnesota's governor from 1961 to 1963

Click here and continue reading.

Quick Meals for the Working Adult

Too tired to cook your Kraft Easy Mac after work? Bust open a bag of Cheetos and there you have it: dinner for the whole family.

Autobiographical? So? Cheetos are good.

Peace Out!

Students who stop going to school are called dropouts. You might have heard of them while you were growing up. You might have known one yourself. Why, you could be one.

In the real world, people who stop going to their jobs are called quitters, not dropouts, so let's not dance around the facts, all right? I'm a dropout.

Do You See What I See?

Do you see my neighbor standing in the frame of the main door to the building on a cold, cold night wearing grey sweatpant cutoff shorts while the flashing red and white lights of the three firetrucks dance upon his pale face? Well, I don't know what you're looking at, then.

You can see other things I see.

Drizzle, Drizzle, Drizzle

It drizzled all the time I was running around in white go-go boots, in and out of my car, in and out of buildings, in and out of sloppy brown puddles.

I stood out this morning. I stood out at the Law Library's symposium: Law, Information and Freedom of Expression. Maybe it was the shoes. Maybe it was the haircut. Who cares. Law, Information, and Freedom of Expression (yes, I perfer the final comma) is yes, yes, and yes. Mark these words: I know what to do now...I think. Yes, I think. I feel. I am. I should.

I waited and waited. The downtown intersection gave preference to cars. My face was damp, my bag cumbersome, but eventually I met him. Details next week.

CONGRATULATIONS RED SOX!!!!

Next: Chicago Cubs.

Stevie Wonder is God

But don't take my word for it. Take the word of a college undergrad who needed a secondary activity while in a restroom stall. Some preexisting graffiti to serve as her premises, she attempted some deductive reasoning:

Stevie Wonder is awesome.
God is awesome.
Therefore, Stevie Wonder is God.

The bathroom brainiac even goes so far as to boast that she'd learned this in her logic class. The primitiveness of bathroom tagging disturbs me, yet I am troubled by something greater: that I myself never learned to construct a deductive fallacy by affirming the consequent.

A good lesson to gain is to save your smarts for the classroom--it is only there that your professor can offer feedback.

Death Be Gone!

Disclaimer: The following story does not advocate the use of narcotic substances. If you are young and impressionable, you have no business reading this blog. Besides, this entry is mostly about death, and, really, what do you know about death?

I entertained Death this weekend, but Death was not a gracious guest. Death was unfriendly, hung around the bar most of the time, ate all the good olives, and was too high and mighty to socialize with the other guests. I said, "Look, buddy, if you're going to be so anti-social, why did you come?" Acerbically, Death responded, "Hey now! I'm making an effort by coming to your stupid party, but everyone only wants to embrace Life, as if Life had anything to offer!" Touched by Death, I invited Death to smoke cigarettes in the yard with me while everyone inside raved about their drug-free lives and how high on Life they were. From the kitchen window, Life looked on me with disappointment, and I was sad.

You Type Catsup, I Type Ketchup...

Catsup! Ketchup! Let's call the whole thing off!

Since our peanut butter survey, I have been obsessing about a ketchup survey. Please answer using the comments feature and reply anonymously if you must:

Would you eat dehydrated ketchup sheets, a.k.a. ketchup roll ups?

Does anyone make ketchup besides Heinz? Does that bother you?

Thank you for partaking in our ketchup survey. Mustard users need not reply, you useless, useless people.

Happy Days

It's Friday, so Happy Friday, I guess. My co-workers can wish each other Happy Friday all they want, but I find it rather redundant. It's Friday, of course it's happy. We are a culture that jumps at the chance to shirk responsibility, and what better day than Friday to do that? For a genuine greeting, consider Happy Birthday--usually not redundant, since somewhere in your 20s you stop being so happy about your birthdays. No heaps of presents with your name on them. No superheroes appear at your birthday parties. I tried to get one to come to my 24th birthday party (bar undisclosed), but he was turned away at the door, and I was called a pervert. Everyone's so critical.

Rambling, but You Might Learn Something From It

Hi there, friend. I set my alarm for 3:21a.m. the other morning. It was arbitrary, the "21" part, but not the "3" part. I had a few pages to write for a class. Catching up on sleep takes a few days. I hallucinate sometimes. I attribute it to the lack of sleep. Lack of cigarettes. I don't really smoke. I just ramble a lot. It's called brain emptying. I am hopeful because my brain really isn't empty. I am cursed because I want my brain to empty. Figuratively speaking. Duh. Duh is all that inhabits my brain. Brain waves? More like rolls of fat stuffed in my head. I am a fat head. What are you?

No Equivocating

I support John Kerry.

Twins Homer Hanky

FOX news just did a four-minute segment on Homer Hanky Ettiquette, i.e. how to hold and wave your Homer Hanky to show home team support at a Twins game. I applaud FOX for taking on this newsworthy topic--never in history has the act of handkerchief fluttering been equated to a battle cry.

Scoring at Dodger Stadium

As a high school freshman I could still get my hands on giveaways for kids 14 and under at Dodger Stadium. After that, I was denied the goods and in my desperation I began to intimidate the community service kids who handed out the goodies. First I'd try the nice approach, walking up to them, presenting them with an empty hand. If that didn't work, I'd switch hands because on the other palm was this note: "Hi! I'm your age, but less fortunate. Can I have two toys?" The outcome: SCORE!!!

GO DODGERS!

(Photo was not taken in Minneapolis.)

Thinking: A Neophyte's Account

I ate my heart out, not because of envy, but because I had a hankering for heart. Now I think I'd made an illogical decision, but I will not apologize, for I am not sorry! Who but a fool with a heart would feel anything so foolish! I shall embrace my new rational self and rationalize henceforth! Feelings? Those are for pumpkins!

Dumb to the Demonstrative

The other night? At school? I came out of my class for water? And there was this girl on her cell phone? She was saying she got her test back? You know, the really hard one? For philosophy? And she got 30 out of 35!

After my ears finished bleeding into the drinking fountain, I walked over and tapped our successful test-taker on the shoulder, politely inquiring, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound or could it be that everyone is deaf, because no one seems to hear how fucking irritating it is when people? make questions? out of every few words? when they're talking?"

Holey Conjecture!

After repeated postings that portray the author as a perturbed pit of cynicism, readers might conclude that the author is indeed hopelessly bitter. These personality judgers will one day sit on a stump of shame-ridden despair when they realize how wrong they were about me and how many feelings, albeit all mine, they'd needlessly hurt. I have no plans to be overtaken by scorn, but I've invested too much in this blog--I will not change course now!

An Online Cooperative

I just say things, you know? I don't mean anything by them. Don't take them personally. If I really thought you were an asshole, I'd say it to you--maybe over the phone or in your office cubicle while your boss is talking to you--just to get it over with and then use your overly emotional response as the catalyst for my next blog entry, you asshole.

Please feel free to use the above statements in times where your blinding fog of rage chokes your compositional abilities. Sharing is caring.

Too Moody to Write

Biked out to prime location tonight to sandwich the moon in an alley. Since I'm moody, entertain yourselves here: www.abouttosnap.blogspot.com.

JIF or Skippy?

Please post your response using the comments feature--do so annonymously if you must. If you are allergic to peanuts and cannot participate in this survey, know that there was no ploy to exclude you in our peanut-butter-question-asking fun. But please, don't post a comment about your inability to take our fun survey. It would take a long time for our scientists to weed out the useless input.

Chipotle, Foiled Again!

I say Chipotle and you say what? Fast food joint that foil-wraps burritos insipid as the paper bags they are tossed in? Me too. I hate Chipotle (that is, the fast food joint), and I'm frustrated--perhaps by my own failure to find joy when grazing on one of these death-like burritos. Mixing lettuce and sour cream in carnitas is like trying to make tuna salad with pork chunks. Sure, omit the lettuce and sour cream. Opt for different burrito arrangements, but is this lunch or is this arts and freakin' crafts? Que feo!

A Couple of Bitches Talking in Front of the House

Today my neighbor (we'll protect his identity by calling him Chipotle--it's a popular one these days) and I stood in the parking lot, our arms crossed, catching up on things. Besides the name I just gave my neighbor, there's nothing exciting about this entry. Why are you still reading? Oh, it must have been the promising title. I am one of the two bitches mentioned in it. Something to take from this: A couple means two. Please resort to a few or some or several when you are referring to more than a friggin' couple. So yes, I am one of the two bitches, aren't I?

Maybe I Want to Sing with Emmylou Too

Me and a backpack and a ticket in my hand
to see Elvis Costello tonight,
as though he were an old friend I were flying to visit. On second
thought I'll e-mail him instead, send him
into a tizzy over a poem I wrote on the bus last night. Confessional,
completely, because I can't really sing.

Frauds!

Some third party from across the country scoffed at my enthusiasm for working at a rare books library, asking if I knew the old books were really just reprints of books published a long time ago. I did some amateur investigating and was disheartened to find that there was possible copyright infringement to be reported! I couldn't find the pages where the copyright dates are usually printed--no mention of the publishing houses even! Pre-Gutenberg my arse! Someone just wanted to avoid being taken to court! Man, had it not been for this genius from many miles away, I would have felt so foolish, showing such stewardship for mere reprints! I may not have a degree in Library Science, but I damn sure have a degree in Common Sense!

The Blog of my Life

Bloggers like to reveal their geographic residencies, perhaps to attract readers curious about the lifestyles of certain places. I should reveal, at the onset of this blog, I'd hoped to offer, especially to my friends in CA, some insight into my life in the Twin Cities. The idea was dismissed as soon as I realized how much more fulfilling it was to give two-minute tours of my inner geography--a place that embraces minorities, grows only organic vegetables with a white guy playing bongos nearby, and boasts a population count of an unfettered one. I suppose, though, I should not hide behind crass metaphors and admit that I blog about myself.

I ask earnestly, though, is that so bad? I thank you, beloved readers, for visiting this small town of a blog, but are you ashamed to admit the joy you get from this heavily self-centered blog? Am I a dirty little secret?

I'd always wanted to be a dirty secret, but never, NEVER when it came to the seriousness of blogging.

The Necessary Sylvia

Attention friends of past and present times: Please seek updates about me on this here blog, for I have forgotten how to communicate with you on an interpersonal level. It was by a process of elimination that I decided to adopt a single, theatrically candid voice--that is, I have eliminated the unnecessary voices of Sylvia to present to you the Necessary Sylvia.

The author would like to interject at this point, cautioning the Necessary Sylvia that an egotist with nothing to offer is quickly dismissed. The author would also like to stress to the Necessary Sylvia that the author wants very much to continue living and humbly suggests that the Necessary Sylvia works on keeping all the friends the Necessary Sylvia has already acquired.

That whole thing was totally unnecessary, and I've completely wasted your time. Can we still be friends forever?

Children and the Books I'll Sell 'Em

I think all children should read books--my books. I don't claim to have any on the market now, but when I do and if you are currently nice to me, I might remember your face and let you and your kid cut to the front of the autograph line at the Mall of America's Barnes and Noble.

I advocate literacy. If your kid can't read by age 4, please get him checked out. I don't claim to be an expert on child development, but c'mon, whether your kid may or may not be able to read doesn't change the fact that I've got to peddle books for a freakin' living.

Sure, there might be one or two percent of these junior consumers (yes, even children can be consumers too!) who get violent nightmares as a result of my fun-filled stories, but rejoice, for these are the future insightful adults of America!

It Went Thataway

At the adjacent table are three men in their sixties who turn and ask me what I’m studying. I look over from my two-hundred-dollar fortress of books and answer, “I’m wasting my time in journalism.” Their reaction is quick—a sober concoction of encouragement and interest.

“That’s a good subject. Do you want to be a news anchor?”

“News anchor? That’s ambitious,” I reply.

My ambition is an absent thing, unseen since my college years. If I saw it now, I wouldn’t recognize it, though it would probably resemble my present life: a fat and tired sloth, a sloth that eats, shoots and leaves.

Mediocrity: Nothing to Write Home About

I wrote home about my accomplishments, and no one commented, so I wrote about my mediocre life, and everyone wanted to have coffee with me. A month later, I started to notice how popular scrapbook making (or as the lazies call it, scrapbooking, as if lawn mowing could be called lawn mowering) had become, so I started my own Mediocre Moments scrapbook. I was relieved that it was just a scrapbook, because scraps were all I was willing to offer. A former professor was trying to be encouraging when I snorted, "Did you think I'd write a novel? C'mon! Like I have that kind of aptitude!" She grimaced--it was the face that encapsulated that day's activities, so there it is today, as I've precisely doodled it, on page 31. I keep up with this scrapbook because it's easy to do. I don't have to "dig deep" for material. One day, I glued a leaf on it. It wasn't an extraordinary leaf, as you might have guessed. It was just something I yanked off the shrub in front of the house.

Stream of Consciousness on Holiday

As I was thinking, one thought cutting off another without complaint, a man came over and upzipped his pants. I said to him, "No, sir, you want the Mississippi River down the street." I closed my eyes on him and paddled along. I'm so behind in my blog entries. Everyone else has been keeping up. Life is with them. I could be dead and not know it. I watch too much t.v.--that dead idea (cheap pun) has been done in every genre. I knew a guy who pronounced genre as though it was the nickname for generic: gener. No brand could make a better version of Lucky Charms cereal. I never finish all my milk before the expiration date. I guess I support the dairy industry, but I will not wear political buttons for them. Got milk? Got spoiled milk. "Sir, why don't you try the bush, then?" I am trying to drift with my thoughts again, but today's stream is flowing rather slowly, shallowly.

A Heart O' Happiness

Age five was when I found happiness in my heart. I named it Barbara and wouldn't share it with anyone. With such happiness, I ran around the house a lot, laughed, and smiled all the time. But whenever someone noticed my happiness, I quickly went to a neutral face. I didn't want anyone to steal Barbara from me, so I had to pretend I was neither happy nor sad. Within a year I was seeing a psychologist who thought I was afraid of people, but I corrected her and informed her of Barbara. I was asked to draw a picture of Barbara, but I couldn't because Barbara didn't have a face. I said Barbara was just an abstraction--I just gave it a name the way powerful hurricanes get names too.

Fans are Cool

Fans? I rub my hands together greedily at the thought that there are fans of this blog. My amusingly pessimistic ruminations made extra likeable by the presence of humility have steered their way into the hearts of those who like to read, but not too much.

I hate when people write like in the above sentence. It reeks of presumption--presumption that self-aggrandizement, loquacity, and a stale sort of cynicism hoping to pass for wit are appealing to anyone. If I was going to whine and be boring about it, I'd take a goddamn pen and do it in a bound book of blank pages to keep to myself. I mean, who the fuck cares to read shit like, "Why it is that people have to smoke so close to the building entrance because it defeats the purpose of non-smoking policies?" If you're going to be too lazy to supply an answer, then why bore your readers with a question that serves as mere observation? But you say, "No, dear Sylvia, it was meant to be a rhetorical question." I reply, "My apologies, dear thinker! Your fine rhetoric, then, is bound to save the lives of multitudinous potential second-hand smokers!"

Your readership sustains this blog. Your readership saves lives.

The "All Day Buffet" Cruises

I use my limited vacation time for cruises. They're not what people think--cruises aren't only for older people. They are for young people like me who proudly lack any imagination about the otherly nations. When I want to eat, I don't have to struggle with one of those foreign language dictionaries to get what I want. When I want to play basketball, I can join some people from Cincinnati on the courts--at the same time, I have the opportunity to learn about different cultures. From my cruise experiences, I've learned that people from other states are people too. I'd like to endorse Carnival cruises, especially the ones that sail to paradise.

I'd Do Anything

...ANYTHING to be a shrimp and lobster honey.

Girl Scouts

I don't know about all this strong values, strong minds, strong friendships stuff, but those Girl Scout cookies...I'm feelin' those...

My Library and My Forks

Look, I'm Asian, but just because I happen to be strolling through Chicago's Chinatown, don't stop me and ask me where my library is. Besides, where's your library and why you gotta be using our library? If more people would look past the Asian eyes and see that I have the eyes of a wandering tourist, I'd be a happy Asian.

And I might look a lot like the people who are running the place, but I don't own this Chinese restaurant, so if I'm checking out the food like you, don't ask me where my forks are because my goddamn forks are back at my home in my kitchen.

To these insensitive louses, I used to say, "I don't know," the tone depending on my mood, but now I think I prefer a more effective approach: "Most regrettably, I, an Asian person, lack the adequate English language skills with which to offer you assistance here in America."

Someday my Price will Come

Eventually, I'll name my price at the publishing house and get all the shit on this blog published. This will happen when the masses decide they are tired of irony and demand the release of a single work to represent both the apex and the end point of culturally rampant irony-driven humor. I will be exalted, dubbed the "Master of Mediocrity" by the New York Times. When I walk into an Asian-Mexican-hot dog stand fusion restaurant where the staff is dressed in black and scrutinizes your plain, everyday man, I-got-this-at-Target outfit, I will be able to exclaim, "I just bought this motherfucking place, and I want my hot dogs brought to me with a smile!"

The Story about Henry and Me

Henry and I used to flip each other off in the high school cafeteria because that was the only time we'd see each other. I think there was something in the food.

(Notice how it's not "The Story about Henry and I" nor is it "Me and Henry use to flip each other off"? If Henry knows this, why can't the rest of you get it straight?)

I Didn't Grow Up in the Midwest

There were no funds to keep playgrounds with grass in East L.A. We got concrete. There was maybe a tree--a tree placed somewhere for looks. In contrast, many of my Midwestern counterparts got to frolic in grass--some even got to ride their own ponies. The closest I ever got to livestock was the lazy P.E. lady who never moved from her spot under the one playground tree, letting instead her whistle do all the work. I was never too excited about ponies anyway. In second grade, a girl let me brush her My Little Pony. After the second stroke, the whole tail fell off and the mortified girl snatched the My Little Pony and vowed to never let me play with her dolls again. What a bitch.

Knitting clubs are for...knitters.

Knitting clubs are for knitters--slow knitters, fast knitters, good knitters, bad knitters. They are also for non-knitters--rare, but valuable quasi-members who show up for the coffee and the scarf-fantasizing. Myself a non-knitter, I realize the risk one takes when one shows up at a knitting club without a ball of yarn and sticks--or worse yet, with one but obliviously not the other. If I ever do decide to take up this craft, I want to knit elaborately. I want to knit a tent or a pair of super, non-arthritic knitting hands!

Minneapolis: Most Literate City in the Country

http://www.uww.edu/npa/cities/

Motivation for getting out of bed on a Monday morning

I got out of bed with the thought of picking up a Krispy Kreme donut on the way to work. I didn't--by the time I got out of bed, I didn't have time to stop for a donut.

Celebrate your birthday with the Minnesota Twins!

Let me cut to the chase: It costs 40 bucks to have your name put up on the Metrodome scoreboard for your birthday. But if you write an extraordinarily self-promoting letter that doubles up as a request for fireworks in your honor and address it to the Minnesota Twins (a fine, small-market organization they are!), you, like me, just might find in your mailbox a 4"x6" picture of the scoreboard reading, "Happy Birthday, (insert your name), #1 Fan!" And the "#1 Fan" bit isn't normal procedure.

That was last year, and, when I was actually at the game the night of my birthday, there was nothing on the scoreboard, no free hotdog, no autographed baseball, no fireworks. Instead, I was accosted by the Twins mascot, Mr. Suited Up MN Twins Bear, who shamed me for wearing an Anaheim Mighty Ducks jacket because the Ducks at the time were in the playoffs with the Minnesota Wild. Little did the presumptuous bear know that I'd had my jacket about as long as the Ducks had existed. To compound matters, an usher decided to have some words with me regarding my attire, figuring he'd speak for the mute mascot.

Today a former co-worker e-mailed me, asking how I got my name up on the scoreboard and explained she wanted to do the same for a nephew whose birthday is coming up. I said I wrote a letter, and I got the picture two months later. I didn't mention that a little detective work had proven my name was featured on the scoreboard at some later date, based on the score on the board for that game. But I suggested she contact the PR office with her request. And that's how I found out about the 40 dollar charge. Boy am I enjoying last year's birthday now!