MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath, at a press conference, as George Bush snickers and grins)
Shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes. Oh my God.
Shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Might throw my shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Oh my God. Shoes.
These shoes rule.
George Bush sucks.
These shoes rule.
George Bush sucks!
GEORGE BUSH:
(loudly, at the podium)
I think the war was a success.
MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
Shut up...
GEORGE BUSH:
(louder)
I think the war was a success.
MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
Shut up.
GEORGE BUSH:
(still louder)
I think the war was a success!
MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
Shut. Up.
GEORGE BUSH:
(very loud)
I think the war was a success!
MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(throwing his shoes)
This is a farewell kiss, you dog! This is from the widows, the orphans, and those who were killed in Iraq!
SECRET SERVICE:
(taking him down, beating him)
Stupid boy.
Stupid boy.
You THREW your SHOES?
GEORGE BUSH:
Let's party.
(dance break)
MUNTADHAR AL-ZEIDI:
(under his breath)
...betch.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
In which Matthew builds to a climax
Things that are still on the internet,
post-Election Day, 2008,
that I simply do not care about anymore:
- Rahm Emanuel
- Hillary Clinton
- Change
- Hope
- Fellowship deadlines
- Articles on medieval English theater
- Caroline Kennedy
- The Richard Nixon tapes
- The Rod Blagojevich tapes (even after that article that compares him to Tony Soprano)
- Anything related to Rod Blagojevich
- Bill Clinton
- The Obamas' fucking dog
- Barack's fucking cigarette habits
- The jobless rate (now that my stepdad, loyal to Morgan Stanley for 22 years, has been laid off at age 60, it simply cannot get worse: so I'm not reading anything else about it)
- The View
- Bailout I (Wall Street)
- Bailout II (Detroit)
- Bailout III (my stepdad?)
- That guy in Austria who locked his family in a secret dungeon
- Planning a holiday "vacation" home that spans family and friends in three states and seven fucking counties (I may go Austrian on you motherfuckers)
- Britney (obvious)
- Whoever shot up the Taj Mahal (it was the woman from Jersey on Top Chef)
- Sarah (very obvious)
- Europe
- LOLCats
- Facebook
- Your funny link to LOLCats on Facebook
- Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)
- The new UC Berkeley English Department Blog
- Asia
- Stephen Colbert
- My students' final papers, submitted electronically
- My students' kiss-ass emails that accompanied their final papers
- Facebook
Things that are still on the internet,
post-Election Day, 2008,
that I do care about:
- Justin Timberlake
(See if you can spot him climaxing behind this link.)
post-Election Day, 2008,
that I simply do not care about anymore:
- Rahm Emanuel
- Hillary Clinton
- Change
- Hope
- Fellowship deadlines
- Articles on medieval English theater
- Caroline Kennedy
- The Richard Nixon tapes
- The Rod Blagojevich tapes (even after that article that compares him to Tony Soprano)
- Anything related to Rod Blagojevich
- Bill Clinton
- The Obamas' fucking dog
- Barack's fucking cigarette habits
- The jobless rate (now that my stepdad, loyal to Morgan Stanley for 22 years, has been laid off at age 60, it simply cannot get worse: so I'm not reading anything else about it)
- The View
- Bailout I (Wall Street)
- Bailout II (Detroit)
- Bailout III (my stepdad?)
- That guy in Austria who locked his family in a secret dungeon
- Planning a holiday "vacation" home that spans family and friends in three states and seven fucking counties (I may go Austrian on you motherfuckers)
- Britney (obvious)
- Whoever shot up the Taj Mahal (it was the woman from Jersey on Top Chef)
- Sarah (very obvious)
- Europe
- LOLCats
- Your funny link to LOLCats on Facebook
- Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)
- The new UC Berkeley English Department Blog
- Asia
- Stephen Colbert
- My students' final papers, submitted electronically
- My students' kiss-ass emails that accompanied their final papers
Things that are still on the internet,
post-Election Day, 2008,
that I do care about:
- Justin Timberlake
(See if you can spot him climaxing behind this link.)
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
In which Matthew reconnects through yoga
I hate yoga, as a general rule. But my mother's dear friend Lois (she's known us since I was seven) is a yoga instructor at her local Y: yoga primarily for the extremely young (say, age seven) or the extremely old (say, age seventy).
Early October, six years ago, I was ears-deep in two majors (one in Drama, which requires yoga; again, I really hate yoga), a senior thesis, and the growing pains of my first truly long-term romantic relationship (we'd moved in together!). I'd only enrolled in my expensive college with a clear promise from both of my parents that I would graduate with no debt; I wasn't going into any money-making professions, and I had a feeling that I had the wrong personality type for debt (a few years of graduate school have proved me quite correct). As estranged as I became from my father, a promise was a promise. The truth was that it was the only reason I still put up with him.
But years had passed, and 9/11 had happened, and the economy had tanked, and my dad had started calling me and telling me I "might maybe have to take out some loans." In the meantime he'd remarried and had a new kid. Caitlin. Early October, six years ago, was Caitlin's first birthday; it fell on the day before my sister Marissa's fourteenth birthday. Saturday and Sunday. Technically, since I share one parent with each, each is my half-sister.
But I grew up with and continue to share a life with Marissa and her father; I barely knew Caitlin's fertility-drug-and-probably-Valium-popping mother, and I had spent the single year of Caitlin's life doing everything I could to distance myself from our father while still keeping college paid for.
My real sister and fake sister, on the same birthday weekend. And I was very busy in October 2002. I only had time for one. My father had said a lot of unacceptable things in his lifetime, but somehow "You have a responsibility to be a big brother to this child," responsibility on top of thesis rent internships rehearsal metrocard classes girlfriend essays credits yoga, and then "She is as much your sister as Marissa," pushed me in a new way. Also: Dad no longer had the money to back up his point.
I have not heard from him, or any of his blood relatives, since then. Which was the most fantastic thing that could have happened. Mom came through and handled the rest of tuition. I graduated with honors. The thesis won an award, and helped me get into an amazing graduate program, where I now make my money from, not for, my studies -- no strained conversations with unpleasant family, and no yoga, necessary. And the same long-term relationship endures, and has never been stronger, and despite the newest economic downturn we're getting married this May.
But then, my mother called last week. Lois has a new batch of seven-year-olds in her class at the Y this year. Caitlin, she says, looks exactly like I did when I was her age. She, apparently, likes yoga. I do not. Mom thought this was one of those funny small-world things. Lois, like my mother, remarried and took her new husband's name. There is no recognizable trace. Parents rarely enter the yoga room (they go straight to the pool afterwards) so as long as Lois keeps things quiet (and I've begged her to) we're cool. We're cool.
Early October, six years ago, I was ears-deep in two majors (one in Drama, which requires yoga; again, I really hate yoga), a senior thesis, and the growing pains of my first truly long-term romantic relationship (we'd moved in together!). I'd only enrolled in my expensive college with a clear promise from both of my parents that I would graduate with no debt; I wasn't going into any money-making professions, and I had a feeling that I had the wrong personality type for debt (a few years of graduate school have proved me quite correct). As estranged as I became from my father, a promise was a promise. The truth was that it was the only reason I still put up with him.
But years had passed, and 9/11 had happened, and the economy had tanked, and my dad had started calling me and telling me I "might maybe have to take out some loans." In the meantime he'd remarried and had a new kid. Caitlin. Early October, six years ago, was Caitlin's first birthday; it fell on the day before my sister Marissa's fourteenth birthday. Saturday and Sunday. Technically, since I share one parent with each, each is my half-sister.
But I grew up with and continue to share a life with Marissa and her father; I barely knew Caitlin's fertility-drug-and-probably-Valium-popping mother, and I had spent the single year of Caitlin's life doing everything I could to distance myself from our father while still keeping college paid for.
My real sister and fake sister, on the same birthday weekend. And I was very busy in October 2002. I only had time for one. My father had said a lot of unacceptable things in his lifetime, but somehow "You have a responsibility to be a big brother to this child," responsibility on top of thesis rent internships rehearsal metrocard classes girlfriend essays credits yoga, and then "She is as much your sister as Marissa," pushed me in a new way. Also: Dad no longer had the money to back up his point.
I have not heard from him, or any of his blood relatives, since then. Which was the most fantastic thing that could have happened. Mom came through and handled the rest of tuition. I graduated with honors. The thesis won an award, and helped me get into an amazing graduate program, where I now make my money from, not for, my studies -- no strained conversations with unpleasant family, and no yoga, necessary. And the same long-term relationship endures, and has never been stronger, and despite the newest economic downturn we're getting married this May.
But then, my mother called last week. Lois has a new batch of seven-year-olds in her class at the Y this year. Caitlin, she says, looks exactly like I did when I was her age. She, apparently, likes yoga. I do not. Mom thought this was one of those funny small-world things. Lois, like my mother, remarried and took her new husband's name. There is no recognizable trace. Parents rarely enter the yoga room (they go straight to the pool afterwards) so as long as Lois keeps things quiet (and I've begged her to) we're cool. We're cool.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
In which Matthew's cellphone hears gunfire
Sat Dec 6, 6:58 p. The Cell felt an unusual txt come in and blurted out an alert. She knew her Caller had a nice dinner party tonight, but he'd forgotten to turn her volume down again. A muffled voice from out above the Left Pocket (the new Banana Republic slacks today, but no underwear: the Caller was dressed to impress but too lazy this week to do any laundry) made fun of the noise. It sounded like a strangled duck, she said. The Cell's display turned pink around the edges, but of course no one could see, but hadn't this woman ever heard a basic Verizon new-txt signal? The txt, anyway, was intriguing: Let's play a guessing game. The Caller, as interested as the Cell was, snuck a quick Ok in response without the fellow dinner-guest seeing.
Sat Dec 6, 7:06 p. Two more txts, same unrecognized number: What's your name; Guess who I am.
Sat Dec 6, 8:37 p. A new txt. Equally confusing, but at least the number was recognizable: Randy. Hey, Matt. I'm going to pick you up at 9:15 -- as in tonight, interrupting the party, which sounded as if it were going well (the Caller seemed to really like the scallops, but kept asking undereducated questions about the wine)? or did Randy mean tomorrow morning? And if so, what was happening then? The txt continued: Bring an ID and a debit or credit card. The card won't be charged unless you steal the gun. -- the Cell gasped -- Wear layers.
Sat Dec 6, 10:26 p. Missed call. The Fiancee. By now, the Caller had less-than-discreetly turned the Cell to silent, so after flashing ineffectually at him from the pocket, she let this possibly important call (was it about Randy and the gun?) go to that automated whore at Voicemail.
Sat Dec 6, 10:47 p. Ah, the Caller thought to check the Pocket, and called his love back right away! But there are still no clues about the gun: only hushed apologies that he could only return home when his ride was ready to go, and that she shouldn't wait up. And more praise of the scallops.
Sun Dec 7, 9:01 a. Reminder: Paintball Sun Dec 7 10am - 4pm. Well, well. After a night of anxious vibrating (guns? ID? were there drugs involved?) the truth comes out in one obvious Google Calendar message. Stupid, stupid.
Sun Dec 7, 9:19 a. On my way. Be at your place in ten minutes. See ya! Randy, the wordiest of wordy txters.
Sun Dec 7, 9:30 a. I'm out front.
Sun Dec 7, 10:01 a. Reminder: chess w/alec @ Sun Dec 7 11am - 12pm. For nearly a year now, both the Caller and Alec had been too busy to keep this weekly date, but the Caller kept the reminder on. More out of hope than nostalgia, thought the Cell.
Sun Dec 7, 1:43 a. That unrecognized number again! Have you figured out who this is yet?
Sun Dec 7, 2:24 p. Missed call, from New York. Emily. Probably just calling to talk. The Cell loved Emily -- she would talk on forever, but she was very kind to the Caller. But no: off to that bitch at Voicemail she went, leaving the Cell alone, hidden from thieves beneath a sweatshirt on the floor of Randy's car. It still sounded like war out there, paint or not.
Sun Dec 7, 5:10 p. Oh, of course, the Caller doesn't play chess or call back his best friends, but now, covered in paint, dirt, welts, bruises, he txts the unrecognized caller: Not yet. Clue?
Sun Dec 7, 6:28 p. I'm a brunette. Male. The Caller is now on a dinner-date with the Fiancee. The wine-and-scallops party was one thing, but if he starts txting with this random guy right in the Fiancee's face... then again, who is this guy?
Sun Dec 7, 6:31 p. The Caller couldn't but respond (the Fiancee must be thrilled:Are you me, but from the future?
Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. I could be... But not as tall or cute. :)
Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. Okay: short, male, gay, inappropriately forward, and uses emoticons. The Caller hazards a fair guess: Sam?
Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. Nope. You don't know me that well.
Sun Dec 7, 6:36 p. The Cell felt the Fiancee roll her eyes in her direction. Hey, don't kill the messenger. The Caller thinks it might have been someone he met at a party last weekend: Did we recently become facebook friends?
Sun Dec 7, 6:41 p. No I'm not on facebook. Keep guessin. :) Are you gay?
Sun Dec 7, 6:44 p. The Caller thinks through the most appropriate response (remember dinner? love of your life? beer in front of you?), and decides on: No... You don't actually know me. How did you get my number?
Sun Dec 7, 6:45 p. A txt from the Fiancee: Give attention. The Caller looked up, and the Fiancee pointed at her face. The Caller smiled.
Sun Dec 7, 6:48 p. And so our gentleman caller disappeared, leaving only his grammar behind. I got it on accident. Guess its the wrong person. Sorry.
Sat Dec 6, 7:06 p. Two more txts, same unrecognized number: What's your name; Guess who I am.
Sat Dec 6, 8:37 p. A new txt. Equally confusing, but at least the number was recognizable: Randy. Hey, Matt. I'm going to pick you up at 9:15 -- as in tonight, interrupting the party, which sounded as if it were going well (the Caller seemed to really like the scallops, but kept asking undereducated questions about the wine)? or did Randy mean tomorrow morning? And if so, what was happening then? The txt continued: Bring an ID and a debit or credit card. The card won't be charged unless you steal the gun. -- the Cell gasped -- Wear layers.
Sat Dec 6, 10:26 p. Missed call. The Fiancee. By now, the Caller had less-than-discreetly turned the Cell to silent, so after flashing ineffectually at him from the pocket, she let this possibly important call (was it about Randy and the gun?) go to that automated whore at Voicemail.
Sat Dec 6, 10:47 p. Ah, the Caller thought to check the Pocket, and called his love back right away! But there are still no clues about the gun: only hushed apologies that he could only return home when his ride was ready to go, and that she shouldn't wait up. And more praise of the scallops.
Sun Dec 7, 9:01 a. Reminder: Paintball Sun Dec 7 10am - 4pm. Well, well. After a night of anxious vibrating (guns? ID? were there drugs involved?) the truth comes out in one obvious Google Calendar message. Stupid, stupid.
Sun Dec 7, 9:19 a. On my way. Be at your place in ten minutes. See ya! Randy, the wordiest of wordy txters.
Sun Dec 7, 9:30 a. I'm out front.
Sun Dec 7, 10:01 a. Reminder: chess w/alec @ Sun Dec 7 11am - 12pm. For nearly a year now, both the Caller and Alec had been too busy to keep this weekly date, but the Caller kept the reminder on. More out of hope than nostalgia, thought the Cell.
Sun Dec 7, 1:43 a. That unrecognized number again! Have you figured out who this is yet?
Sun Dec 7, 2:24 p. Missed call, from New York. Emily. Probably just calling to talk. The Cell loved Emily -- she would talk on forever, but she was very kind to the Caller. But no: off to that bitch at Voicemail she went, leaving the Cell alone, hidden from thieves beneath a sweatshirt on the floor of Randy's car. It still sounded like war out there, paint or not.
Sun Dec 7, 5:10 p. Oh, of course, the Caller doesn't play chess or call back his best friends, but now, covered in paint, dirt, welts, bruises, he txts the unrecognized caller: Not yet. Clue?
Sun Dec 7, 6:28 p. I'm a brunette. Male. The Caller is now on a dinner-date with the Fiancee. The wine-and-scallops party was one thing, but if he starts txting with this random guy right in the Fiancee's face... then again, who is this guy?
Sun Dec 7, 6:31 p. The Caller couldn't but respond (the Fiancee must be thrilled:Are you me, but from the future?
Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. I could be... But not as tall or cute. :)
Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. Okay: short, male, gay, inappropriately forward, and uses emoticons. The Caller hazards a fair guess: Sam?
Sun Dec 7, 6:33 p. Nope. You don't know me that well.
Sun Dec 7, 6:36 p. The Cell felt the Fiancee roll her eyes in her direction. Hey, don't kill the messenger. The Caller thinks it might have been someone he met at a party last weekend: Did we recently become facebook friends?
Sun Dec 7, 6:41 p. No I'm not on facebook. Keep guessin. :) Are you gay?
Sun Dec 7, 6:44 p. The Caller thinks through the most appropriate response (remember dinner? love of your life? beer in front of you?), and decides on: No... You don't actually know me. How did you get my number?
Sun Dec 7, 6:45 p. A txt from the Fiancee: Give attention. The Caller looked up, and the Fiancee pointed at her face. The Caller smiled.
Sun Dec 7, 6:48 p. And so our gentleman caller disappeared, leaving only his grammar behind. I got it on accident. Guess its the wrong person. Sorry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)