My dinner with…

Last night I had dinner with Stoogepie of stoogepie.com. 

One of the best things to come from blogging is that I have gotten to meet so many people that I wouldn’t have known otherwise.  Including people who, like Stoogepie, if not already on a sexual predator list. probably will be someday.  You see, Stoogepie is some kind of pervert madman writer and artist.  It was with some anticipation and trepidation that I met the famous, or infamous, Mr. Stoogepie.  I took Mr. Dingo with me.  And left detailed information with family and friends if I did not text, Tweet, or call the next day.

The point of this meeting was to witness the choice of the winner of Stoogepie’s Nude MILF Sweepstakes.  Yesterday, the winners of the Blogger’s Choice Awards were chosen, so the contest ended.  Crissy won the Hottest Mommy Blogger category!  She won with 578 votes, beating Dooce by 86 votes!  Fantabulous! Oh yeah!  Who’s your Hottest Mommy Blogger?  Say her name…say it!

Stoogepie had to select a winner for better than $1,250 worth of camera gear.  And, because the asshats at Blogger’s Choice decided not to show the votes, Stoogepie needed a witness to demonstrate that he picked the winner fairly.  When I got the e-mail from Stoogepie asking me to play Heidi Klum to his Tim Gunn, I almost deleted it as spam.  The message was from Stoogepie but the subject line said something like, “Night of XXXtacy.” I opened it with hesitation – meaning I opened it at work just in case there was a virus attached – and was delighted to discover that he wanted my assistance in choosing the winner of the camera package.  Apparently, I have mentioned on my blog that I used to be a lawyer but I suspect I was also chosen for this perilous assignment because I am also anonymous and happen to live within walking distance of Stoogepie.  Then again, I’ve also mentioned that I have great ta-tas.  No, no, it’s not that; I’m convinced Stoogepie loves me for my mind.

We were supposed to meet October 16th because he expected the winners to have been announced by then.  Because that’s what the website said.  But, again, the asshats at Blogger’s Choice messed up that plan by announcing the winners after midnight.  So, Stoogepie cancelled and rescheduled for last night.

So, I waited on a street corner with a shivering Mr. Dingo.  It really wasn’t all that cold, but Mr. Dingo had been given a crash course in stoogieness the day before via Stoogepie’s latest barfably disgusting post.  I think he was a little worried.  Mr. Dingo has never been worried about my blogger meet-ups before but, for some reason, he really wanted to go on this one.  I think he was concerned that steak was not the only meat on Stoogepie’s menu for the evening.

Stoogepie approached me and I immediately knew it was him.  He didn’t say anything.  He didn’t say “hello.” He didn’t say, “Dingo!” He circled me a few times, and I could almost see a Mister Shorts style balloon over his head saying, “Well, I’ve got a contest in my shorts I’d like for you to monitor,” or something similar.  He did not look like his cartoon.  His hair is shorter and darker and his features are sharper.  Brookem, I think you have your next HOH.  He’s thin but muscular, and was wearing a gray coat so long that it looked like it had been stolen from the set of the Matrix.  In other words, he’s delish.  In that bad boy type of way.  Not a poser bad boy but a REAL bad boy.  The kind of bad boy that you just know is going to break your heart but that you will gladly wait in line for the privilege.  I’m paraphrasing a little, but he finally said, “Dingo!  You’re different from what I was expecting.  All I got right in my mind were the boots and the tits.” Then he turned to Mr. DIngo and said, “I didn’t really have a picture of you at all.  I’m Stoogepie.”

We then went to his apartment, which was-oh-my-fucking-god: spacious, lots of art, lots of books, a fireplace in the living room and the kitchen (yes, I asked to see the kitchen), and the most beautiful coffee table I have ever seen.  I tried not to gape like a tourist in Times Square.  Sadly, I didn’t see the Stoogepie pig.  Or his cat for that matter.  He also had the biggest flat-screen computer monitor I have ever seen.  And given from what Stoogepie has said about his extracurricular activities, it was notably free of, ahem, let’s say, debris. Mr. Dingo’s monitor envy was thinly concealed.  Stoogepie said something like, “Well, you know what they say about dudes with big monitors....” Mr. Dingo laughed nervously.  Mr. Dingo has a 17” monitor.  The whole night was like that.

Stoogepie wanted to get right down to business.  There were 578 votes cast.  He went to random.org and chose a number between 1 and 578.  The number was 277.  He had printouts of the first eighteen pages of votes, so he flipped to page 14 and the winner was Soapbox.  (If it had not been in the first eighteen pages, he would have had a problem, but intended to email to Blogger’s Choice to ask them to tell him the username.) So, we had chosen a winner and it was all perfectly legal.  It was easy.  But the night was still young and the wine was flowing.

For dinner, we went to Uncle Jack’s in Midtown, a fancy schmancy steakhouse, but Stoogepie was treating. Gun running and drug smuggling must be really lucrative.  We each ordered a steak and then Stoogepie ordered stuff for the table, including wine and seafood and Kobe beef.  I had never had Kobe beef before.  It’s ridiculously expensive and I have to admit, it tasted like hamburger to me.  It’s tender all right, so it had the consistency of potted meat food product and it disintegrated in your mouth.  It had the texture of Spam that had been put in a blender and then pushed through a sieve.  Mr. Dingo, however, liked it and, overall, the food was great.  The wine was great, too, and I had way, way too much.  Not enough to enter Ben’s contest perhaps—because, as NPW and blakspring can tell you, I’m a lightweight—but enough so that being with Stoogepie while also feeling like a rich kid’s birthday piñata might have been a mistake. Because Stoogepie, in case you don’t follow his website, can be nauseatingly explicit.

Truth is, Stoogepie is really funny in person, especially after a little wine.  After about the first bottle, he looked across the table at Mr. Dingo and said, “This is always awkward.  Do I raise the possibility of a threesome now, while you have time to mull it over, or do I wait until you get to know me better, but forcing you to make a snap decision?” Mr. Dingo just stared past him blankly, his mouth agape, Kobe beef semi-dissolved, until I started to laugh.  I think Mr. Dingo shaved about a year off his life just then, though.  Then Stoogepie proceeded to shave a year off mine.

I consider myself a pretty well-rounded person, and I don’t mean just my ass.  But Stoogepie is positively a fount of disturbingly funny knowledge.  About bondage. And domination. And bizarre sexual practices. And pornography and biblical tales of people killing other people so they could collect their foreskins.  For instance, did any of you know that Sir Henry Norris, alleged lover of Anne Boleyn who was executed with her by Henry VIII, was also royal groom of the stool?  And did you know that the groom of the stool’s job was to wipe the king’s ass?  Yes, look it up.  I did after dinner.  According to Stoogepie, “I would kill my wife if she screwed the dude who wiped my ass, too.  Show a little discrimination!  At least screw around with the royal piss aimer or the royal wanker.” The Kobe beef was tasting nastier and nastier.  And Stoogepie carries a little notebook with him, often illustrating these glorious stories as he goes.  It was like a game of Pricktionary.  Not everything he says is dirty.  We did talk a good deal about politics.  If you haven’t read his political posts because the sex and blasphemy posts have gotten your internet privileges banned at work, find a computer in a library somewhere and read President Sarah Palin, Modern War Toys, and No Country for Young Men.  Warning:  Electoral Buttplugs may get your ass banned from the library.  Politically we agree on most everything, but Stoogepie had his own take on some things:  “People really need to think about what a Palin presidency would look like, because McCain is at that age when dying does not even qualify as a turn of events.”

Really, I haven’t felt like talking much since dinner.  Mr. Dingo and I have hardly anything left to talk about.  We covered it all.

Stoogepie never did cough up his real name but the waiter happened to let it slip when he returned Stoogepie’s credit card.  “Thank you, Mr. ____,” he said.  I just about flipped out.  That’s like knowing James Bond’s real name!  Oh wait, James Bond is 007’S real name, isn’t it?  Anyway, I am sworn to secrecy or Stoogepie will kill me.  And I’ve seen Stoogepie’s collection of play toys.  There will be no killing me softly.  As a result, that’s all I have to say about my dinner with Stoogepie.

Oh, wait!  One more thing.  He didn’t advertise it or promote it in any way but Stoogepie won second place as the Hottest Celebrity Blogger in the 2008 Blogger’s Choice Awards!  He got beat by some woman named Rosie O’Donnell.  Who the hell is that?

Leave a comment....

The Bare Facts

Two weeks.  It’s been two weeks since I’ve been running.  In that time I’ve made up for my lack of lower body work by working other parts of my body.  Lifting Oreos, spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s, and candy corn has built my upper arms.  And lower fl-abs.  And hips.  Yesterday I realized that I didn’t want seven months of work and 15 pounds lost to go to waist so I started running again. 

In the weeks leading up to my knee injury, my passion for running had started to wane.  I was more concerned about miles, pace, and whether my running shorts were giving me a wedgie that would look unflattering in the pictures at the finish line than about my feet pounding the pavement and the zen effect of emptying my mind of everything but breath and movement. 

This injury has actually made me not just step back but step off the running track and reevaluate my goals.  My goal was to get healthy.  Check.  My goal was to lose weight.  Check.  The marathon was incentive.  It was not my goal.  Although when we added the stay at a cute bed and breakfast the weekend of the marathon and the potential of the bright shiny medal when I crossed the finish line, running the marathon became the goal.  And you know what these past two weeks have taught me?  Fuck that!  Yep, fuck that.  I run because I’m a runner.  While I do hope to complete a marathon someday, if I don’t, I am still Fan-fucking-tastic! 

So, I ran this weekend.  A measly mile.  Just one mile.  But I felt great.  My knee felt great.  I wanted to run more but I didn’t push it.  My sports doctor said I could run three to five miles without causing any harm but my sports doctor is an asshat.  Really, the bitch didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.  The visit did not begin well and I think that may have clouded her judgment.  My appointment was for the midafternoon.  I was working on my thesis which is OH MY GOD DUE IN THREE WEEKS when I realized that I must have slipped into a black hole, or fallen asleep at my desk, because one minute I was taking notes and the next, I had twenty minutes to get to my appointment. 

There was no time to shower or shave my legs, which hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a Gillette since my bikini wax a few days earlier.  Yes, I like to be as hairless as possible before getting my bikini wax.  For some reason, I think the absence of hair on other parts of my body will somehow negate the horrifying effect of the Chewbacca growth sprouting from my hooha.  Lisa has never commented on the silky smoothness of my legs but –what?  Yes, Lisa and I are on a first name basis.  Look, if someone is applying hot wax to your nether regions and pulling your hair out by the roots, you are either on a first name basis or you have a gimp mask and a safe word if things get too out of hand.  Anyway, Lisa has never commented on the silky smoothness of my legs but I know she must talk to her co-workers once I leave.  I can just imagine them gathering around the water cooler with their plastic cups sticking to the wax remnants on their hands as she says, “You know that Dingo, she gets as hairy as a Tribble if she misses an appointment but DAMN if she doesn’t have the smoothest silkiest legs that have ever brushed against my forearms!”

Anyway, there was no time for hair removal as I dashed out the door.  Twenty minutes later I’m in the exam room waiting for Dr. Asshat to enter wondering if I had time to use the sharp, unidentifiable medical utensil on the counter to scrape my legs to baby smoothness.  As I was pondering the benefits of using foaming hand sanitizer as shaving lotion, one of the assistants came in and placed a folder and a tiny blue square of tissues on the counter.  She told me to take off my clothes from the waist down, leaving my underwear on.  Um, remember when I said that I hadn’t shaved in a few days?  Yeah, I’ve been so busy that 5 minutes to shave was a luxury I didn’t have.  Hours to do laundry? Fuggedabouddit!  Yes, that’s right.  No laundry.  No underwear.  Basically, I was to strip down to my t-shirt and the skin god gave me.  With dry, scaly, stubbly legs.  Shoot. Me. Now.

Let’s recap, shall we?  No shower.  No shaving.  No underwear.  It couldn’t get any worse right?  Oh, come on now, folks!  This is Dingo we’re talking about!  Of course it could get worse!

As I knelt to take off my shoes I realized that I had worn my old running shoes.  The shoes I had already logged 250+ miles in.  To say that they stunk would be too kind.  They reeked.  They smelled like dead things.  Dingo Girl has tried to bury them more than once and Mr. Dingo refuses to be in the same room with them.  But they are soooo comfortable I can’t get rid of them. Anyway, when I removed the Shoes of Death a mushroom cloud of funk filled the room.  I frantically tried to open the one window in the room but it was painted shut – a fact that would soon be remedied as the paint started to curl and peel when the Aroma of Death hit it.  But I didn’t have time!  I could hear Dr. Asshat outside the exam room door flipping through my charts.  Her hand was on the door knob.  Quick!  Quick!  Do something! 

I didn’t want her to come in as I was standing bare assed by the window so I leapt onto the exam table with a loud crash as she walked into the room.  I don’t know what hit her first.  The sight of my bare ass sliding across the table or the Aroma of Death.  She had a look of terror on her face and I think the only thing that kept her in the room was her Hypocratic Oath, which at the time sounded something like “DAY-UM!” I sat hunched over in a C-shape on the table trying to hide my girl bits when Dr. Asshat politely demanded asked if I would like a robe.  “Yes!  Yes! Thank you!” I responded with relief.  Then she went over to the counter and handed me the tiny 5 inch square of tissue the assistant had laid on the counter.  Turns out, it was not a pile of tissue but a pair of nylonish boxer shorts.  How was I to know that minuscule piece of fabric was for me to wear?!  I put on the shorts and the consultation began.

With that inauspicious opening, did the exam really have a chance in hell of going well?  No.  No, it didn’t.  I won’t go into detail about it but let’s just say that Dr. Asshat earned her name.  To be fair, I know that as soon as I left she was telling the rest of the office about me, Patient Bare Ass.  I’m supposed to go back for a follow-up visit in three weeks but I think I’m going to make an appointment with someone else. 

Leave a comment....

Ditto

When Dingo Girl and I got back from her walk this morning, a woman with a CSI: NY hat was walking out of our building.  Two things came to mind.  One, did Mr. Dingo finally snap and kill our annoying upstairs neighbors?  Two women moved in about a week ago and have already wormed their way into the darkest, crankiest part of my heart.  They are recent college grads – I know, I did reconnaissance when they first moved in – who apparently majored in walking around on hardwood floors wearing steel stilettos, with a double minor in high pitched squeals and drunken stumbling up stairs.  You probably met many women just like them on your campus.  You know, the ones seeking an MRS degree whose sole purpose for being in college is to graduate to a white gown and veil.

My second thought was that the nosy neighbors in the building across from us called Crime Stoppers.  Because they are nosy.  And they watch all those crime shows.  I know that because I can see their TV from my terrace.  Hey!  There’s a difference between reconnaissance and nosiness.  Reconnaissance is when I ask questions and peek through curtains.  Nosiness is when everyone else does it.  Anyway, one of these neighbors may have been able to peak into our window to see the No Man’s Land that is our kitchen (because no man has been in there to do dishes in ages – no woman either) and mistakenly assumed it was a crime scene. 

Dingo Girl and I made our way upstairs.  There was no crime scene tape and unless there were dead bodies under the piles of laundry, everything seemed to be customarily out of place.  In a few days, when the radiators start pumping thermonuclear heat, if the smell of decomposition fills the air I will have to take a look at the misshapen lump under the largest pile. 

The sorority party upstairs must abate before midnight — or at least during Grey’s Anatomy on Thursday’s — or there will be two misshapen lumps under the dry cleaning.  Their presence just adds one more con to the pro/con list Mr. Dingo and I compile every year at lease renewal time.  For all its faults, I like this apartment.  I don’t want to move.  I think I like this apartment even more because I don’t want to move.  No, not “I don’t want to move” but “I don’t want to MOVE!” Moving in NYC is about as painless as passing a kidney stone.  And expensive.  A one bedroom in a walk-up, no doorman, safe neighborhood, close to mass transit, dog-friendly, with appliances from this century will cost, at a minimum, $2500.  Add a broker’s fee of 20% of your entire year’s rent, a security deposit, first and last month’s rent, movers, blah, blah, blah, and it often ends up being cheaper to stay right where you are.  And buy ear plugs.  So, I think we’re going to stay in this apartment.  That’s the apartment hunting advice from this jaded New Yorker.  If you can tolerate where you are, stay there.  Believe me, the bar for what I can tolerate is pretty low.  I’ve lived in some pretty intolerable places.

When I first moved to NYC umpteen years ago to work for Pathetic Air Lines, I had grand dreams of the ultimate apartment.  I lived in Ft. Worth at the time.  I had a 980 sq. ft. two-bedroom apartment in a gated community, a beautifully landscaped pool, concierge service, a double balcony, and beautiful views of a field of wildflowers.  For that, I paid the outrageous price of $405 a month.  It was crazy to spend that much money for an apartment in Ft. Worth but I thought it was worth it.  So, during training, when four of my flight attendant buddies and I discussed where we would live once we got to New York and how much each of us could afford to pay, I said, “Well, I paid $405 for an entire apartment in Ft. Worth.  I suppose I could spend about $200 a month.” Mind you, many of us had spent much of the early 90s watching Demi Moore make ugly pottery over and over again in her New York city loft apartment.  Hey, if she could live in that loft on what an artist makes, well, so could we.  Especially if there were four of us to foot the bill. 

We scoured Bed, Bath and Beyond and The Container Store for fun and unique ways to decorate our yet to be rented crash pad.  By the way, does anyone else think the phrase “crash pad” is highly inappropriate for people working for an airline?  Anyway, we wanted the apartment to be walking distance from Central Park.  With a terrace.  And a laundry room.  And a gym.  And a doorman.

We didn’t end up near the park.  We didn’t even end up in Manhattan.  We hadn’t planned on landlords telling us that they don’t rent to flight attendants because we would just get pregnant and walk out on the lease.  We hadn’t planned on New York City being so damned expensive and our paychecks being so damned small.  We made just over the qualification for welfare. 

No loft.  No pottery wheel.  The only ghosts were the ones left behind by whatever crack deal had undoubtedly gone wrong resulting in the vacancy.  My first apartment in New York almost made me turn tail and run back to Texas.  It didn’t have a lock.  We had to place a chair against the door to “lock” it from the inside.  It had a gas stove with two burners that you had to light with a match.  Roaches and other multi-legged critters would run from the burners when the flame ignited.  I think that might have been one of the landlord’s selling points.  Pet-friendly, because believe me, those motherfuckers were the size of the cats that scratched at our windows at night to get inside.  Apparently, the mice in our apartment were tastier than anything they could catch on the street.  I lived in that apartment for three months before having enough money to move up in the world.  I moved in with seven other women into a two-bedroom town house.  I was lucky.  I got a top bunk and paid $500 a month for the privilege.

So, annoying noisy neighbors upstairs?  That, that I can tolerate.  And I’m sure they’ll provide tons of blog fodder in the months to come. 

Leave a comment....

Rainy Days and Mondays

Forgive me for my absence, Innernetz.  I’ve been in a funk lately (two points for everyone that just started singing “Give up the Funk” by Parliament) and kicky new rain boots just haven’t been able to lift me out of it.  In fact, my kicky new rain boots mock me.  They mock my pain.  Mockers.  Mocky McMoccasins.  You see, my new rain boots are Chooka’s rockin’ turquoise Tattoo City.

For those of you too lazy to click over or who get distracted by the champagne fountain of never ending linkage on every web site, I’ll describe them for you.  What?  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.  The champagne fountain?  If you’ve ever been to a wedding with a champagne fountain you know that it starts innocently enough.  You take a glass from the top of the cascade and two hours into the wedding reception after you’ve slaked your thirst following the Electric Slide, deftly dodged the bouquet toss, and worked your way to the bottom tier of glasses, you are so drunk that you forget where you are or why your tongue is down the throat of a guy dressed in a valet parking uniform.  That’s not just me, is it?  IS IT?! 

Anyway, to prevent a linkage meltdown that will have you on some page featuring ambiguously dressed boy bands from Thailand, I’ll describe them for you.  They are turquoise.  They have various tattoo related images stamped all over them.  Oh hell, that description doesn’t do them justice.  Just go look at them but come right back.  No linky-linky!

Well?  What did you think?  They rock, right?  How could they not cheer me up, right?  Because, Innernetz, they remind me of the tattoo that I’m not going to get.  You see, I told myself that after I finished the marathon I would get myself a tattoo.  I have a cool one designed by Mr. Dingo himself.  He rocks almost as much as my rain boots.  I don’t have any other tattoos and this tattoo, this post-marathon tattoo, was going to have a lot of meaning for me.  Alas, I don’t think it’s meant to be.  My short runs (eight miles or less) have been great. I feel strong, I feel invincible!  However, for the past three weeks my long runs have been disastrous.  I’m not going to give you a blow by blow of my 14 mile run because, basically, it blew.  Determined to finish the run, I hobbled the last 5 miles.  I got to the front of my building and had to call Mr. Dingo to help me up the stairs to the apartment.  He swooped down and carried me away.  It was an Officer and a Gentleman moment.  Without all the kissing.  I can’t really blame him.  With my face red and puffy from crying and snot hanging from my nose, I made a less than attractive romance movie heroine. 

My leg was a mess.  With my knee swollen to Saturn-like proportions and unable to bend, I dashed off a poor me e-mail to Lesley, my bloggy running guru, at JustRunJustLiveJustBe.  Lesley gave me some great advice and even helped revise my training schedule.  A week to recuperate, a few fantastic short runs, new running shoes, stretching exercises, Advil, and a mental pep talk and I was on my way!  NOT.  My 16 mile run tonight was aborted at mile 9.  Mile 9!  For those of you not mathematically inclined, that’s 7 miles short of tonight’s goal and 17.2 miles short of an actual marathon.  Yes, it was my knee again.  Not only that, but in my obstinate persistence to complete the 14 miles from the week before, I think I sustained a stress fracture to my foot.  I’ve had stress fractures before.  Years of soccer, horseback riding, and lodging my size 8 ½ up people’s asses has made me thoroughly familiar with the throbbing and sharp pain associated with the injury.  In short, Innernetz, my marathon dreams are fucked.

I have only four weeks left until the marathon and it’s simply not enough time to recover.  I knew after my 14 mile run that things were not looking good and it sent me into a mild depression that I have been trying to fight all week.  I was depending on tonight’s run to give me the mental and physical boost I needed to make it to the marathon.  Instead, after having Old Man With Walker almost lap me on tonight’s run, I’ve been sitting in my nasty running clothes crying, “Why me?! Why me?!” wondering if Tonya Harding had somehow managed to whack my knee with a tire iron when I wasn’t looking. 

This past week, none of my usual storm cloud dispersers have been able to lift me out of this funk.  Not my favorite massacre scene from 30 Days of Night, not teaching, and not even walks with Dingo Girl.  For some reason Dingo Girl has decided to turn over a new paw and instead of having to beg and plead just to get her to walk around the block, she wants to RUN!  Run everywhere.  Run downstairs.  Run around the block.  Run to the park.  Run, run, run.  See Dingo Girl Run.  Run, Dingo Girl, run! 

So, that’s where I am these days.  It’s not like good things haven’t happened to me this week.  The Cougar came for a visit, I got a gift certificate to a fantastic spa, blah, blah, blah.  I didn’t want to write a whiny post but that’s just where I am right now.  I feel defeated.  I feel like a quitter. 

And now Dingo Girl needs to go for a walk run.  It’s raining.  And my new rain boots are still mocking me.

Leave a comment....

Catatonia is not a Eastern European Country

In the midst of all the gimmicks and ridiculous rah-rah Spirit Club Drill Team Cheer Squad bullshit that the administration at my Institution of Higher Learning wants me to shovel down the throats of my students, I sometimes actually get to teach.  Sure the pom-poms get in the way and I haven’t perfected my back handspring, but I love teaching. It’s the only job I’ve ever had that has me looking forward to every day. Well, except for one summer when I worked at a video store.  The Pizza Hut across the parking lot was undergoing extensive renovations and the summer sun glistening off the sweat-slicked abs of the construction workers was enough to make the daylight shunning goth chick I worked with fight for the afternoon shift.  I’m not sure if she was motivated by lust or the fact that all the heavy lifting they were doing made blood pump through their carotid arteries like a vampire’s wet dream.  Yes, we had binoculars.  Yes, we used them.  Ahhh… summer….

What was I saying?  Oh, yeah something about loving to teach. Anyway, although I taught class this summer I didn’t have anything to write about because, except for two plagiarists (I’m resigned to the fact there’s going to be at least one fucker every semester who wants to play chicken with me and Mr. Google), they were awesome.  Truly something to cheer about.  Give me an “A”!  Give me a “W”! Give me the rest of the word without having to spell it out!  I could write odes to this summer class; their hard work, curiosity, vision, and drive to succeed is every teacher’s dream. In fact, only three weeks into the Fall semester, I’m beginning to wonder if the summer class was just that, a dream.  I know I’ve lamented the apathy of the younger generation before.  I didn’t think there was anything worse than apathy.  That, dear Innernetz, is incorrect.  You know what is worse than apathy?  Catatonia.

Catatonia is worse than apathy.  While the Head Honchos want to me to get the students fired up about inconsequential matters – anyone care for a I Heart NY pin? – I’m trying to get them interested in ANYTHING beyond their tiny little spheres of existence.  There’s a whole world outside their 18-year old, two and a half pound brains and I want them to grab it by the balls and make it scream!  But you know why they don’t?  You know why they say they are not going to vote, that they can’t be bothered to learn about the issues that affect them, that they don’t get involved in their communities, that they don’t protest against injustice and social inequality?  Because they don’t believe that one person can make a difference.

WTF?

I asked them if any of them had ever heard of the Unknown Rebel at Tiananmen Square.  Blank stares.  I refused to admit defeat at the hands of ignorance.  “On June 5, 1989, over a million students, teachers, and workers, ” I started in a low quiet voice.  I wanted them to have to lean forward to listen.  I wanted to have their undivided attention.  And I did.  By the time I was impersonating both the Unknown Rebel ("and he stood bravely in the face of certain death") and the tank drivers ("and they moved to the right but the rebel blocked their path") my shirt was untucked, my shoes were off and I was gesticulating wildy.  After my triumphant finish with a flourishing, “AND THE TANKS TURNED AROUND!” The room was silent.

A lone hand at the back of the class was raised. “Yes?” I responded secure in the knowledge that I had made my point.  “Did it change anything?” It was my turn to be silent.  I thought about it for a minute.  I thought about how sometimes big changes come about in small increments.

“We don’t know yet.”

Class dismissed.

****************************************************

Update to the Naked MILF Sweepstakes:

Thanks, Innernetz!  Crissy has made it to the first page of the Hottest Mommy Blogger Page!  We only have a few hundred votes to go before Crissy has to post her ta-tas on her site wins wins and has to post her ta-tas on her site!  If you haven’t taken a look at the bribe Stoogepie has offered as incentive to vote,you are missing out on a fantastic opportunity to win:

Sony DSC-T300 Cyber-shot® 10-Megapixel Digital Camera - Silver — list price $499.99
Sony LCS-THM/B Genuine Black Leather Case — list price $49.99
Sandisk 4GB Memory Stick Pro Duo — list price $39.99. 
Photoshop CS3

Wait! Photoshop wasn’t included in your earlier post about this contest, you say.  Right-o, my observant Innernetz.  I talked to Stoogepie about his lame assed prize package and said that a REAL prize package would also include Photoshop CS3 because that’s what I would want to win.  Somehow, Stoogepie absconded with the goods found one lying around unopened and unused at work and is throwing that into the mix as well.  Yes, you can win a camera, a carrying case, a memory stick, AND Photoshop CS3.  All that, for the person whose vote is chosen at random by Stoogepie after the contest ends on or around October 16, 2008. 

But that’s not all….oh, no, my pretties.  Stoogepie is also offering a prize for the BLOGGER who pimps this contest and whose reader is the lucky bastard who claims the prizes listed above.  You know what the pimp gets?  Guess.  No, really.  Guess!  Okay, I’ll tell you.  The BLOGGER who pimps the contest and whose reader wins the camera/Photoshop package wins:

Sony HDRTG1 Handycam – list price $899.00.

That is just too fucking cool.  I want it Innernetz.  I want it bad.  So go vote.  Because you are not apathetic or catatonic.  Your vote can make the difference.  Your vote can make Dingo oh so happy.  And isn’t that what life is really all about?

Go see Stoogepie’s post for all the details.

Leave a comment....