(June 21, 2007)
Last week, I went to a Pirates game on what was apparently Ladies' Night, although ladies didn't get free beer, beer in buckets, t-shirts, t-shirts in buckets, or any other special benefit that I'm aware of. The overall lameness of Ladies' Night was only compensated for by the pierogi race. Sauerkraut Saul won. Oh, and so did the Pirates.
I don't really understand the correlation between Pittsburgh, pierogies, and pirates. Maybe pirates love eating delicious, carbtastic foods in Pittsburgh. And there's nothing wrong with that.
That's all for my segue. Now, here's my list of Top 5 Places in Morgantown (and the vicinity) to Get Abused:
5. PNC Park on Ladies' Night -- because ladies get free disappointment.
4. 123 -- because if you're not there every night, you're not a regular. And if you're not a regular, you can go to hell.
3. High Street, any time after 9 p.m., any day during the fall or spring semesters -- because I am a vagina, not a person.
2. Black Bear Burritos -- because the air conditioning may or may not be on, and you may or may not see the entire English department, but the one thing you can bet on for sure is that there are going to be a lot of screaming toddlers running around unchecked while their parents ingest Spring Creek tofu and PBR.
1. The Blue Moose -- because hipsters are total dicks.
Every time I go to the Blue Moose I have to interact with the same hipster -- the one with the hair that looks like a Lego helmet. And she's always a total dick to me. Her latest thing is acting like she can't hear me when I've just politely ordered at a reasonable human volume, and then standing behind the counter with her head cocked to the side giving me a look that conveys her suspicion that I am not only a freakish mute, but also possibly retarded.
Yesterday, I saw her smoking and I thought, Good.
Showing posts with label Morgantown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Morgantown. Show all posts
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The Tailor of Morgantown.
(March 15, 2007)
If, like me, you're under 5'8" and happen to live in Morgantown, I have some wisdom to pass along to you.
Start drinking more milk and hope to grow, because the tailoring scene here is not so awesome. I went to what I'm pretty sure is the only tailor in the immediate vicinity this morning. Actually -- just to make sure Sam gets offended -- I would say it's safe to assume this is the only tailor in all of West Virginia. As such, it seems the tailors there are taking advantage of the novelty, and have formed some kind of tailors' union, whereby they don't have to tailor anything they don't want to tailor -- even though the act of tailoring is implied rather directly in their job title.
I should have just left when the tailor looked at the jacket and asked, "Is that a jacket?" but this jacket needed a fair amount of work -- shorter sleeves, and a smaller waist. So, instead, I just nodded, yes, this is a jacket.
So, my sleeves got pinned, but the tailor has refused to alter the waist (apparently they can do that, now -- like conscientious fashion objectors) because, "it's a jacket". And then I gave up, because I can't argue with that kind of cold, hard logic. So, if you see me wearing a teal jacket with perfectly-fitted sleeves and a potato sack waist, just try to imagine the possibilities, please. It could have been a nice jacket -- even though it's a jacket.
If, like me, you're under 5'8" and happen to live in Morgantown, I have some wisdom to pass along to you.
Start drinking more milk and hope to grow, because the tailoring scene here is not so awesome. I went to what I'm pretty sure is the only tailor in the immediate vicinity this morning. Actually -- just to make sure Sam gets offended -- I would say it's safe to assume this is the only tailor in all of West Virginia. As such, it seems the tailors there are taking advantage of the novelty, and have formed some kind of tailors' union, whereby they don't have to tailor anything they don't want to tailor -- even though the act of tailoring is implied rather directly in their job title.
I should have just left when the tailor looked at the jacket and asked, "Is that a jacket?" but this jacket needed a fair amount of work -- shorter sleeves, and a smaller waist. So, instead, I just nodded, yes, this is a jacket.
So, my sleeves got pinned, but the tailor has refused to alter the waist (apparently they can do that, now -- like conscientious fashion objectors) because, "it's a jacket". And then I gave up, because I can't argue with that kind of cold, hard logic. So, if you see me wearing a teal jacket with perfectly-fitted sleeves and a potato sack waist, just try to imagine the possibilities, please. It could have been a nice jacket -- even though it's a jacket.
Misanthropy FAIL.
(October 26, 2006)
I've found that one serious benefit of thinking just about everyone is an asshole is that sometimes I get overwhelmed by random acts of kindness that aren't really that big of a deal.
A week ago, one of my classmates from the post-war British drama seminar and I realized we were at the same concert five years ago. Ok, maybe that's not that weird; U2 has a lot of fans, I know. They're kind of a big deal. But I think it's weird that we found out, because he's from Virginia and I'm from Ohio and, somehow, we both ended up in Cleveland's Gund Arena -- which is really fun to say, because it sounds like a venereal disease -- rocking out at the same time.
Also, we both had tickets to see them in Boston in 2004, and neither of us ended up going. Eerie.
So, those two discoveries alone were enough to make me forget about the need for universal health care for a minute, and enjoy the humanness of the whole thing in an oh-how-sweet-we're-all-connected state of mind.
But then, Jim shows up to class last night -- with mix CDs. Mix CDs! U2 live, and Beatles b-sides! I mean, come on. That nearly destroyed me. It was one of those completely unselfish acts of thoughtfulness that left me shaking my head in amazement (Cynics, take note: Jim is in his mid-thirties and married, so it really was an unselfish act of thoughtfulness, not a geeky romantic gesture. Not that mix CDs aren't romantic. You know what I mean.). I still haven't fully recovered.
I've found that one serious benefit of thinking just about everyone is an asshole is that sometimes I get overwhelmed by random acts of kindness that aren't really that big of a deal.
A week ago, one of my classmates from the post-war British drama seminar and I realized we were at the same concert five years ago. Ok, maybe that's not that weird; U2 has a lot of fans, I know. They're kind of a big deal. But I think it's weird that we found out, because he's from Virginia and I'm from Ohio and, somehow, we both ended up in Cleveland's Gund Arena -- which is really fun to say, because it sounds like a venereal disease -- rocking out at the same time.
Also, we both had tickets to see them in Boston in 2004, and neither of us ended up going. Eerie.
So, those two discoveries alone were enough to make me forget about the need for universal health care for a minute, and enjoy the humanness of the whole thing in an oh-how-sweet-we're-all-connected state of mind.
But then, Jim shows up to class last night -- with mix CDs. Mix CDs! U2 live, and Beatles b-sides! I mean, come on. That nearly destroyed me. It was one of those completely unselfish acts of thoughtfulness that left me shaking my head in amazement (Cynics, take note: Jim is in his mid-thirties and married, so it really was an unselfish act of thoughtfulness, not a geeky romantic gesture. Not that mix CDs aren't romantic. You know what I mean.). I still haven't fully recovered.
Josh is really raising the bar for misogyny and terrible writing.
(October 19, 2006)
So, I was in my office, grading some papers today. Ho-hum. They were responses to Judy Brady's essay, "I Want a Wife". It's short, and you can link to it here: http://www.columbia.edu/~sss31/rainbow/wife.html. But, if you don't, I don't think that makes little Josh's response any less funny. Enjoy.
... What kind of a husband is she describing anyway? She depicts men as giant assholes. I acknowledge that many women are taken advantage of, but I don't know any women that would happily support me financially, keep up my house, take care of my kids, please me sexually, prepare my food, organize my social life, tolerate infidelity, and do it all without nagging or complaining. I would like to meet a woman like that though.
Brady completely fails to mention that many husbands are the sole breadwinners in the family. Most lower class husbands don't have time for social lives. They work all day and come home to sleep so they can get up and do it all over again. They have so many children to support because they can't use contraceptives correctly or the mother has an overdeveloped maternal instinct.
I think Brady is a feminist asshole that needs to write with a little less bias and a little more logic. She completely ignores the fact that many men support the family while the wife goes to school and sluts around campus. The husband will probably increase their standard of living when he graduates anyway, so what is she complaining about. Maybe the wife shouldn't have had so many children, and then her job would be a lot easier ...
Why does it always have to be the male's fault with these feminist people? Why can't Brady take a little of the blame for her actions that led to the life she has now? Why shouldn't the woman be equally responsible for the birth control? Men can't take a pill yet, if it doesn't make the wife sick, then it only makes sense that taking a pill is her service to the marriage. It will save her the trouble in the long run because feeding her one pill is easier and cheaper than feeding five kids vitamins.
So, I was in my office, grading some papers today. Ho-hum. They were responses to Judy Brady's essay, "I Want a Wife". It's short, and you can link to it here: http://www.columbia.edu/~sss31/rainbow/wife.html. But, if you don't, I don't think that makes little Josh's response any less funny. Enjoy.
... What kind of a husband is she describing anyway? She depicts men as giant assholes. I acknowledge that many women are taken advantage of, but I don't know any women that would happily support me financially, keep up my house, take care of my kids, please me sexually, prepare my food, organize my social life, tolerate infidelity, and do it all without nagging or complaining. I would like to meet a woman like that though.
Brady completely fails to mention that many husbands are the sole breadwinners in the family. Most lower class husbands don't have time for social lives. They work all day and come home to sleep so they can get up and do it all over again. They have so many children to support because they can't use contraceptives correctly or the mother has an overdeveloped maternal instinct.
I think Brady is a feminist asshole that needs to write with a little less bias and a little more logic. She completely ignores the fact that many men support the family while the wife goes to school and sluts around campus. The husband will probably increase their standard of living when he graduates anyway, so what is she complaining about. Maybe the wife shouldn't have had so many children, and then her job would be a lot easier ...
Why does it always have to be the male's fault with these feminist people? Why can't Brady take a little of the blame for her actions that led to the life she has now? Why shouldn't the woman be equally responsible for the birth control? Men can't take a pill yet, if it doesn't make the wife sick, then it only makes sense that taking a pill is her service to the marriage. It will save her the trouble in the long run because feeding her one pill is easier and cheaper than feeding five kids vitamins.
Dudes sometimes like rhyming.
(October 14, 2006)
The more astute Dudes also like puns. Case in point: the "Penetration Station: Freshmen Welcum" sign the upstairs Dudes had on the porch for a while.
Sunnyside is all very Foucault. I can never walk around without feeling like a bunch of younger people are staring at me. And not because I'm narcissistic. They really are.
Case in point: leaving this afternoon for beagle-sitting, some Dudes playing beer pong on the porch before noon delivered the following rhyming assessment: "Look at the shitter on that critter."
That was too much, really. Isn't it standard Dude practice to wait until a bitch has passed before cuing other Dudes to look? Most sexual harassment that occurs in real time is delivered in the form of inarticulate shouting from the window of a moving car.
The strange part about this incident, though, is that no one playing beer pong on the porch actually lived there. And they were all gross. So, either they're some resident Dude's friends, or they just look for empty porches to gross around on.
I think the more pressing question, though, is when we can expect to see the demise of the catcall. And I'm not asking because I'm liberated, it's just ineffective -- maybe because women never really learn anything new.
I already know I have a nice "shitter". Readers, please note: calling attention to the obvious will never make a stranger want to sleep with you. I'll admit I was a little surprised to be called a "critter", but I guess that's all part of the colloquial charm of the Regional Pride Dude.
The more astute Dudes also like puns. Case in point: the "Penetration Station: Freshmen Welcum" sign the upstairs Dudes had on the porch for a while.
Sunnyside is all very Foucault. I can never walk around without feeling like a bunch of younger people are staring at me. And not because I'm narcissistic. They really are.
Case in point: leaving this afternoon for beagle-sitting, some Dudes playing beer pong on the porch before noon delivered the following rhyming assessment: "Look at the shitter on that critter."
That was too much, really. Isn't it standard Dude practice to wait until a bitch has passed before cuing other Dudes to look? Most sexual harassment that occurs in real time is delivered in the form of inarticulate shouting from the window of a moving car.
The strange part about this incident, though, is that no one playing beer pong on the porch actually lived there. And they were all gross. So, either they're some resident Dude's friends, or they just look for empty porches to gross around on.
I think the more pressing question, though, is when we can expect to see the demise of the catcall. And I'm not asking because I'm liberated, it's just ineffective -- maybe because women never really learn anything new.
I already know I have a nice "shitter". Readers, please note: calling attention to the obvious will never make a stranger want to sleep with you. I'll admit I was a little surprised to be called a "critter", but I guess that's all part of the colloquial charm of the Regional Pride Dude.
Friday the 13th
(October 13, 2006)
This morning when I woke up, I could see my breath. In my apartment. I turned my heat on. I hope we don't have another one of those mid-October incidents where it gets all cold and then the frost knocks a bunch of trees down over power lines and then we lose power for a few days and I end up trudging across town with a bunch of frozen meat because it's too depressing to have to throw it all away.*
* Censored excerpt from sincere mass email from Meg, 27 Oct. 2005:
Oh hi,
So things got weird in Morgantown on Monday and it snowed like a mother. And all the trees were like, "Whoa, we still have all our leaves and our sap in liquid form therefore making us really, really heavy and totally not ready for snow." So needless to say a bunch of trees fell down on power lines and people lost electricity. Which leads me to a story about how I'm psychic and me and Sarah carried 15 pounds of frozen meat across town.
... So many a people lost electricity when we had that storm, including little Nader. So obviously we went to her home, drank the rest of her orange juice and vodka in a Poverty Screwdriver, packed up her valuables and Anne Franked it to my home. At the beginning of our trek, we lightheartedly referred to it as the Chickenwalk, but it slowly morphed into a ChickenTrudge because we stopped talking to each other in favor of thinking about how much weight we were carrying and how far we were from my house. I started seeing mirages of white Ford Festivas slowing down to pick us up. Then we got to my house and ate Funfetti cake.
This morning when I woke up, I could see my breath. In my apartment. I turned my heat on. I hope we don't have another one of those mid-October incidents where it gets all cold and then the frost knocks a bunch of trees down over power lines and then we lose power for a few days and I end up trudging across town with a bunch of frozen meat because it's too depressing to have to throw it all away.*
* Censored excerpt from sincere mass email from Meg, 27 Oct. 2005:
Oh hi,
So things got weird in Morgantown on Monday and it snowed like a mother. And all the trees were like, "Whoa, we still have all our leaves and our sap in liquid form therefore making us really, really heavy and totally not ready for snow." So needless to say a bunch of trees fell down on power lines and people lost electricity. Which leads me to a story about how I'm psychic and me and Sarah carried 15 pounds of frozen meat across town.
... So many a people lost electricity when we had that storm, including little Nader. So obviously we went to her home, drank the rest of her orange juice and vodka in a Poverty Screwdriver, packed up her valuables and Anne Franked it to my home. At the beginning of our trek, we lightheartedly referred to it as the Chickenwalk, but it slowly morphed into a ChickenTrudge because we stopped talking to each other in favor of thinking about how much weight we were carrying and how far we were from my house. I started seeing mirages of white Ford Festivas slowing down to pick us up. Then we got to my house and ate Funfetti cake.
Retarded people aren't really that funny.
(September 15, 2006)
So, two weeks ago at McClafferty's, Meg and I were calmly sipping and waiting for the post-game traffic to subside when, four or five hours later, this Dude approaches, and asks if we'd like to play pool. Then we said no, because we're not big joiners, and the Dude considered this an invitation to sit with us and share a joke he heard. Here it is. Ready? Seriously, here it is. No, really:
"So there's this chair, right? ... And the chair's wearing shoes, ok? ... And the chair walks down the street ..."
That's the whole thing. I'm positive, because he told it two times after that for good measure. After the first telling, Meg and I realized that this Dude was not only drunk, but also retarded. Around the third telling of the joke, his retarded friend came over, and in the spirit of celebration after the WVU win, he put on Meg's hat, swayed a little bit, shared his sunglasses with all of us, danced a lot on the booth and on the table, and tried to rip the lamp out of the wall a few times. So, Meg and I were trapped in the booth and, meanwhile, a non-retarded guy, who I guess was sort of in charge, came over and hung around the end of the table, just watching indifferently.
Then, a beacon of hope, Matt and his 70+ IQ materialized and the retarded comedian got up. I'm not proud, but I saw the opportunity and I took it -- I left Meg trapped in the booth.
So, milling along the periphery, I'm explaining to the Materializer that no, these are not our friends, when I hear Meg, all gruff-like, say "Move. Get up!" Because apparently Meg and the retarded comedian had the following exchange:
RC: "Have you ever been raped before?"
Meg: "No."
RC: "Why not?"
And then, while leaning forward and shaking his fist, he promised to remedy the situation himself.
RC: "I will rape you."
So, I think I'll be sticking to Vice Versa. I really, really love Vice Versa. Really. Good weird things happen there. I was working on a list of top 10 funny / bizarre things I've overheard in the bathroom, but I'm afraid no one will ever be able to top the pregnant woman who, judging by her mullet, and the fact that she couldn't understand why everyone kept giving her weird looks in a smoky, pulsating gay bar, was clearly incapable of irony. She casually responded to someone's congratulations with, "Thanks. This'll be my first. I had two miscarriages because my boyfriend pushed me down the stairs."
So, two weeks ago at McClafferty's, Meg and I were calmly sipping and waiting for the post-game traffic to subside when, four or five hours later, this Dude approaches, and asks if we'd like to play pool. Then we said no, because we're not big joiners, and the Dude considered this an invitation to sit with us and share a joke he heard. Here it is. Ready? Seriously, here it is. No, really:
"So there's this chair, right? ... And the chair's wearing shoes, ok? ... And the chair walks down the street ..."
That's the whole thing. I'm positive, because he told it two times after that for good measure. After the first telling, Meg and I realized that this Dude was not only drunk, but also retarded. Around the third telling of the joke, his retarded friend came over, and in the spirit of celebration after the WVU win, he put on Meg's hat, swayed a little bit, shared his sunglasses with all of us, danced a lot on the booth and on the table, and tried to rip the lamp out of the wall a few times. So, Meg and I were trapped in the booth and, meanwhile, a non-retarded guy, who I guess was sort of in charge, came over and hung around the end of the table, just watching indifferently.
Then, a beacon of hope, Matt and his 70+ IQ materialized and the retarded comedian got up. I'm not proud, but I saw the opportunity and I took it -- I left Meg trapped in the booth.
So, milling along the periphery, I'm explaining to the Materializer that no, these are not our friends, when I hear Meg, all gruff-like, say "Move. Get up!" Because apparently Meg and the retarded comedian had the following exchange:
RC: "Have you ever been raped before?"
Meg: "No."
RC: "Why not?"
And then, while leaning forward and shaking his fist, he promised to remedy the situation himself.
RC: "I will rape you."
So, I think I'll be sticking to Vice Versa. I really, really love Vice Versa. Really. Good weird things happen there. I was working on a list of top 10 funny / bizarre things I've overheard in the bathroom, but I'm afraid no one will ever be able to top the pregnant woman who, judging by her mullet, and the fact that she couldn't understand why everyone kept giving her weird looks in a smoky, pulsating gay bar, was clearly incapable of irony. She casually responded to someone's congratulations with, "Thanks. This'll be my first. I had two miscarriages because my boyfriend pushed me down the stairs."
"We found poop in there!"
(May 17, 2006)
Getting new neighbors. Actually, I've already gotten two of them in the house across from me. Drew said when he went out to walk his dog he heard one's mother saying, "We found poop in there!"
Ah, Sunnyside. But that was days ago. I met them last night, and also the people that live on the third floor. No one has rented the second floor yet, and I'm hoping it stays that way. Maybe I'll put some poop in there to try to deter prospective renters so no one will live directly above me.
As most good friendships begin, I met my neighbors, Lauryn and Kimmy, outside at 3 a.m. while they were grilling t-bones and drinking beer. I wasn't sleeping anyway.
Then, the third floor guys from my building came home and, long story short, started running around in circles on the roof in their boxer shorts while some girl (a girlfriend?) half hung out of the window swinging a baseball bat before storming out in a drunken rage.
I've broadened my theory of alcohol as a paradoxical balancing agent, as apparently it doesn't just apply to me. Granted, it's hard to stand still while drunk, but somehow I can run across an icy Michigan parking lot in heels, and Donny and Justin can run around a wet, slanted roof without falling and getting concussions. It's one of life's greatest mysteries, really -- Stonehenge, Nostradamus, shroud of Turin, the correlation between alcohol and athleticism.
Getting new neighbors. Actually, I've already gotten two of them in the house across from me. Drew said when he went out to walk his dog he heard one's mother saying, "We found poop in there!"
Ah, Sunnyside. But that was days ago. I met them last night, and also the people that live on the third floor. No one has rented the second floor yet, and I'm hoping it stays that way. Maybe I'll put some poop in there to try to deter prospective renters so no one will live directly above me.
As most good friendships begin, I met my neighbors, Lauryn and Kimmy, outside at 3 a.m. while they were grilling t-bones and drinking beer. I wasn't sleeping anyway.
Then, the third floor guys from my building came home and, long story short, started running around in circles on the roof in their boxer shorts while some girl (a girlfriend?) half hung out of the window swinging a baseball bat before storming out in a drunken rage.
I've broadened my theory of alcohol as a paradoxical balancing agent, as apparently it doesn't just apply to me. Granted, it's hard to stand still while drunk, but somehow I can run across an icy Michigan parking lot in heels, and Donny and Justin can run around a wet, slanted roof without falling and getting concussions. It's one of life's greatest mysteries, really -- Stonehenge, Nostradamus, shroud of Turin, the correlation between alcohol and athleticism.
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