Tag Archives: random

Off Topic: Today’s Verse 90

I decided that I would write a poem every day for a year starting on my birthday, which was a week before the Super Bowl.  I have written a poem every day so far on my creative writing tumblr, including one that was inspired by the outcome of the game:

And if it wasn’t planned

PED #9 2017

It’s how you planned it, wasn’t it?
You gave me five miles ahead
you somehow couldn’t keep up
But then when it mattered for the both of us
You sprinted forward like a young prince
chased by vixens and stable boys.

And then you overtook me,
left me in the dust
and I wondered if my success wasn’t deliberate
or you just got very lucky when I fell.

– yiqi 6 february 2017 7:47 am

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Insult Like You Mean It

A few years ago I posted about a book called Insults & Comebacks, a collection of witticisms that bite and punch.  They are hilarious and depending on one’s delivery, the lines could come off as just the right amount of dry humor:

“I’ve had a lot to drink, and you still don’t look good.”

“Just because you can’t smell it doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t suffering.”

“We’ve taken a vote: you’re trying too hard.”

“You still think you can be anything you want–and get paid for it.”

“Your lack of experience is matched only be your surplus of ego.”

“Ignorance can be cured. Stupid is forever.”

“It’s not the technology–it’s you.”

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Today, I came across this thread on Reddit about insults and found even more awesome ways of saying some unkind things that are funnier than they are plain mean.

Why are you playing so hard to get when you’re already hard to want?

You’re the dollar menu version of your father.

The only way for you to get laid is to crawl up a chicken’s ass and wait.

If you were any more inbred you’d be a sandwich.

You’re so ugly, your portraits hang themselves.

May you inherit a house with a thousand rooms and be found dead in every one of them.
Your teeth look like they’re throwing gang-signs.
I would ask you what your problem is, but you probably can’t pronounce it.
Does your ass get jealous of the shit that comes out of your mouth?
You’ll never be the man your mother is!
You’re as useful as a screen door on a submarine
If I wanted to kill myself, I would climb to your ego and jump down to your IQ.
I’ve had worse things said about me by better people.
I’d call you a cunt but you lack warmth and depth.

 

Football and MMA aren’t forms of art?

The Golden Globe Awards were last night and if you’ve launched any social media or culture outlet today you probably know about Meryl Streep’s acceptance speech for the Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award.  She spoke on the geographically diverse talent pool in Hollywood and that if they were kicked out, “…we’ll have nothing to watch but football and mixed martial arts, which are not the arts.”

Sure, athletic competition is certainly not a fine (high) art form (painting, pottery, sculpting, architecture, music, opera, theatre, poetry).  The activity itself, though, is a performing art as much as dance.  Moreover, as televised football and mixed martial arts are very much part of the visual arts (photography, film, video, digital media), I argue that the representation of these athletic experiences, especially with an audience, is artful in their own voyeuristic physics-at-work ways.  Sanctioned body trauma and sometimes in slow motion. Sweat ricochets, inertia observed, crash-test dummy whooshes, and it is a wonder why some of us like to watch adults inflict physical pain onto each other for entertainment.*

~!~

And now for some other performing arts that is just as athletic but without all the violence.

schubertquimbyA

*Of course, NFL Films changed profoundly how we think about football game play vis-a-vis how we see it.

The Last Word

Today was Marguerite’s 37th birthday.  She celebrated it alone at the Friar Rose cafe as she’d done each of the last six years.  Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill” was playing over the speakers when she paid for her almond latte and blueberry muffin.  It was fitting, bittersweet to hear her first love’s young adult anthem at that moment.  It was ten years ago to the day, New Year’s Eve, that Marguerite had asked Catalina to marry her at the cafe — Catalina said no.

The law was on their side, their families were supportive, their friends ecstatic, but Catalina had never been one for meeting externally suggested expectations.  If Marguerite had waited one more day, Catalina would have proposed.  This contrary characteristic initially attracted Marguerite to her.  Catalina’s family thought she would go to university and study chemistry; instead, Catalina went to university and majored in comparative religion.

Marguerite spent most of her life surrounded by unwavering rule-followers no matter the irrationality of the rules.  Catalina was a blast of fresh air and water in comparison.  Over time, though, the insistence on going her own way turned into an unwillingness to empathize, to take one for the duo, and just irrational as the followers of old.

Marguerite drank from the mug of latte as she acknowledged fully to herself that Catalina’s refusal was probably for the better.  At that very instant, a customer approached her and asked if he could join her for a few minutes.

“It won’t be long, and I realize this is strange,” the man began. “But, do you see those people over there trying not to look obvious with their cameras and phones?”

Marguerite nodded and realized why this man had asked to sit with her. “You’re Patterson Chen…your fans want to know if it was you in that car the police found in the ravine and you still won’t confirm or deny.”

Patterson nodded.

Marguerite told him he could stay as long as he wished, confessing that she was more of a hockey and college football kind of gal so she wouldn’t be making small talk about America’s national pastime.  Patterson didn’t mind at all, he rather liked sitting quietly with someone who didn’t want anything from him.

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